elfryn

[elfryn]

[For Hire] SFW/NSFW Creative Writing/Fanfic Writer Commissions

SFW narrative fiction: from fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort, I can do it. 

NSFW narrative fiction: cuckold/hotwife; incest and pseudocest; cheating/affairs; monsterfuckers or furries; public sex; voyeurism, etc. From a nice and savoury kink to a deep and dark fantasy, nothing is too fucked up I can't do.

Fanfiction: OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, rare pairs, incredible popular pairs, CLIF (Characters I'd Like To Fuck) etc. The sky is the limit. 

In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though. 

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Explore my portfolio here: https://thorul.wordpress.com/

[elfryn]

Hi there! 

I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago. Although my professional work is not as extensive as my personal work, the years I’ve spent as a fanfic writer have been instrumental in my development and improvement as a writer.

Writing Services 

SFW narrative fiction: from fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort, I can do it. 

NSFW narrative fiction: cuckold/hotwife; incest and pseudocest; cheating/affairs; monsterfuckers or furries; public sex; voyeurism, etc. From a nice and savoury kink to a deep and dark fantasy, everything short to minor/adult, I can do it. 

Fanfiction: OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, rare pairs, incredible popular pairs, CLIF (Characters I'd Like To Fuck) etc. The sky is the limit. 

In case of it being a fandom and/or characters I'm not familiar with, I'll not charge extra for additional research. I'll have some questions, though. 

[elfryn]

Commission. Title: Nee-Chan Word count: 3914. Ratings: Explicit. Fandom: Blue Archive/Shiroko Terror. Request: Seiya (OC) gets cuck by Shiroko and his bully, Buu (OC). Warnings: explicit sexual content, age-gap [17/12], shotacon, cuckold/bull, fingering, masturbation, bullying, non-con/dubious con, mind control/hypnotism, pseudo-incest [adopt siblings], voyerism, oral sex, underage sex, public sex, unprotected sex. Links: tips! Commissions info here!

Seiya doesn't know much about the world. But he is only eleven, so he has an excuse for that. What he does know is that he doesn't like Buu. 

Buu is a bully, Seiya's bully. He is loud and obnoxious, an idiot and as ugly as a testicle with teeth. The twelve-year-old bully is also fat and bulky and has an annoying habit of sitting on top of Seiya — like he is doing right now.

Seiya tries to get rid of the burly boy on top of him. He tries to scratch and grab, to push and punch and kick, but Buu is much larger and infinitely heavier than Seiya.

Defeated and struggling to breathe, Seiya resorts to his last resort and starts screaming. He cries for help, praying that someone will hear his wailing.

No one comes to his rescue. No one hears Seiya's sobs echoing through the dark, dirty alley.

Buu bursts out laughing. His roar is deep and ugly and oozes viciousness. Buu revels in Seiya's pain, he relishes in his despair. He delights in being the cause of so much distress.

Seiya is tired and terrified. His breathing is more ragged, and he feels the panic attack creeping to the surface. Seiya is about to faint, he's sure of it. He's going to lose consciousness in that dark alley and his unprotected form will be at the mercy of none other than Buu, and that thought alone makes the rising panic that Seiya is trying to control increase a hundredfold.

“Shiroko…” he whimpers once more.

Breathe in.

Blinking is harder than usual.

Exhale.

His vision is getting dark.

Inhale.

Buu's cruel bark mingles with the ringing in his ears, becoming indescribable.

Exhale.

The putrid smell of the alley burns your nostrils.

Inhale.

His lungs scream, each breath like glass dust, cutting him from the inside.

Breathe out.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Seiya's sight returns to him in a mixture of blurry shapes and white dots. The boy doesn't know for sure how long it's been since he lost consciousness, and it frightens him more than he wants to admit. One of the closest figures leans over him, making dread crawl up his spine. Seiya tries to pull away, but the sudden movement makes a jolt of pain spark over his body, causing him to realise how heavy and sore his body is. Seiya has to bite the inside of his mouth to stop a grunt.

One thing Seiya learnt a long time ago was never to give Buu the satisfaction of looking in pain. The bully is always more excited when he can make him cry.

“It's all right,” the figure hovering over him says. The blurred figure has a sweet, caring voice, it places a gentle hand on Seiya's shoulder and helps him sit up against the wall. Seiya recognises both the voice and the gentle touch. The white dots and dark corners slowly fade from Seiya's vision, allowing the boy to finally focus on the figure of his sister crouched in front of him, creating a protective barrier between Seiya and Buu. Her hair is tied up in a high ponytail, her navy blue sweatshirt is draped around Seiya's shoulders, leaving her in just her white shirt and her blue buruma with white sidelines.

“Onee-san,” he wails. Seiya's crying is ugly and raw, with snot and tears mixing and soiling Shiroko's t-shirt. It's a desperate cry that echoes off the walls of the dirty, smelly alley where minutes ago Seiya thought Buu might actually kill him. He throws himself into his sister's arms, holding onto her tightly.

“It's okay, Seiya,” Shiroko says. She hugs her brother back and draws circles on his back using one of her hands in an attempt to calm him down. “I'm sorry it took so long. It won't happen again, okay? Your onee-san is here now. I'll protect you, and nothing bad will ever happen to you again.”

“Oh, you'll protect him?” Buu asks from his place at the mouth of the alley, standing between them and the exit of the alley.

Seiya squeezes Shiroko closer, trembling in her arms.

“Shh...” Shiroko says in an affable voice. She holds Seiya's face between her hands and makes the boy look at her. With gentle, brotherly movements, she uses her thumbs to carefully wipe away his tears. “It'll be alright,” she promises. “I'm the big sister, I'll take care of you until the end, okay? Do you trust me?”

Seiya nods, his eyes glued to Shiroko and his mind doing its best to ignore the fat, terrifying figure of Buu looming behind Shiroko like an ogre.

“Yes, I believe you,” he says in a small, almost inaudible voice.

“Good,” Shiroko smiles. She rises and faces Buu. Her hair blows with the current flowing down the alley, her shoulders are stiff, and she looks at the bully who almost killed Seiya straight in the eyes without flinching. Looking back over her shoulder, she turns to Seiya once more with a smile on her lips. Her smile is so beautiful, pure and calm. Seiya feels something warm spreading through his chest. “Close your eyes,” she orders.

Seiya clenches his eyes shut so tightly that he gets a headache. The sound of fighting echoes through the air immediately afterwards. Punches, kicks, shouts. Shiroko tries to reason with Buu and tries to make him realize that fighting is a waste of time, but the bully doesn't listen. The altercation continues. Cries and moans blend into the air, something falls and something else is thrown. 

Shiroko let out an exceptionally loud moan, her breathing laboured and her voice weak.

With his heart pounding in his mouth, Seiya slowly opens his eyes. The image before him is not what the boy expected. Shiroko is strong and invincible, she is Seiya's onee-san, his protector and saviour. Then why? Why is Shiroko on the ground, subjugated by a crude, vile wretch like Buu? She struggles to escape, but the force of Buu's weight directly on her prevents her from breaking free.

Clamping her arms over her head, Buu reclines over her, bringing his lips to her ear. “You said you were going to win,” he laughs mockingly. “You said you were going to protect him. Say, Shiro-nee-chan, who's going to protect you now?” Buu speaks maliciously, looking directly at Seiya, who is still standing in the same place in the corner of the alley, paralysed in fear.

Seiya feels a pit in his stomach. Shiroko is his sister, his only family. Strong or not, Seiya is the man, he should be protecting her, not the other way around. But he's a coward, always has been. Buu just watches him, paralysed and pathetic, unable to do anything to help. 

“Pathetic.” The bully laughs louder, delighting in having the two siblings under his power. Buu licks the tears running down Shiroko's delicate face. Pulling away without leaving her, he squeezes her cheeks. “For a waste of space, you're so lucky, you know that, Seiya? If I had a nee-chan like yours, I'd be such a good boy.”

Shiroko, still trying to escape, wriggled underneath him, creating friction between their centres. Buu lets out a moan that makes Seiya's stomach turn and Shiroko freezes.

“Please,” Buu stresses the word sickeningly. “Don't stop. Keep up with the wriggling and squirming and rocking,” his lips quirk up in a yellow smile. “There's no need to stop when things are just getting good.” 

“You're sick, Buu!” Seiya yells, finally finding his voice. 

“Stay out of this, Seiya!” Shiroko orders.

“But onee-san!” Seiya tries to get up on shaky legs, but he can't take two steps without falling back to the ground.

“You should listen to your onee-san, Seiya,” Buu grins. “We don't want a little pussy like you getting hurt, do we?” 

“I'm going to kill you, Buu!” Seiya screams.

The pendant that Buu carries around his neck on a silver chain begins to glow, and a gust of wind throws Seiya against the nearest brick wall. The eleven-year-old screams in pain, sliding to the ground with a limp body.

“Seiya!” Shiroko cries out. She tries with more conviction to break free from the prostrate body on top of her, but Buu's pendant glows brighter and Shiroko feels her body grow heavier.

“He should have stayed quiet!”

“What did you do to him?” Shiroko asks desperately.

“You should worry about what I'm going to do to you.” Buu's voice is cold and calculating, and Shiroko feels dread settling in her bones. She stares at him, swallowing. “Don't worry, Shiro-nee-chan,” his smile sends shivers down her spine. “I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to.”

His pendant glows brighter. Shiroko feels her mind becoming cloudy, and the weight of her worries being washed away. Her body is still practically paralysed under Buu's fat frame, but she feels strangely light.

Buu leans over her one more time, rubbing the tip of his nose against the bare skin of her neck. 

“It was really nice to play with you, Shiro-nee-chan,” Buu purr in her ear. “Can't wait for the next time.” 

The bully then gets up and walks away, leaving Seiya unconscious on the dirty floor and Shiroko with a strangely vacant expression and the flicker of a smile on her lips.

**

Shiroko refuses to tell Seiya what happened between Buu and her after he lost consciousness. No matter how many times he asks, she just waves him off, telling him to not worry, and saying that the problem has been solved. Seiya thinks about shouting back and saying: “no, the problem hasn't been solved.” Buu keeps hunting him down, chasing him through streets and alleys, cornering him again and again, and she knows it. Shiroko knows it because she saves him every day, and then she ends up fighting Buu, and she loses. Over and over, Shiroko loses. Buu consistently finds ways to subdue her, making a show of pinning her under him. He laughs himself off every single time, making comments on how she must love rocking against him.

Buu enjoys talking about Shiroko and commenting about her body. The shape of her breasts, the softness of her skin, and the silk-like texture of her hair. He fantasises out loud about her, talking about the make-believe scenarios he creates in his mind as if they're real-life occurrences. Buu also speaks about things he was not supposed to know, like the half-moon-shaped spot in her back and how much her ears are sensitive to touch. Buu should not know that Shiroko purrs or how soft and tiny her voice is when she moans.

“You have such a beautiful body, Shiro-nee-chan,” Buu compliments. They are in the same alley from their first fight all those weeks ago, and once again, he has the upper hand. His bulky body pressed Shiroko hard against the wall. She tries to wiggle her way out of his grasp, but he just puts more weight on her, forcing his knee between her legs and holding her hands beside her body. He looks up at her, being only tall enough to reach her breasts. “Shiro-nee-chan, you're so feisty.”

“Let me go, Buu!” She demands.

“But Shiro-nee-chan, we're having fun,” he smiles. Buu presses his knee deep between her legs, drawing a moan out of her. His smiles grow big, and he licks his lips. “So much fun.”

Silently, Seiya observes their interaction from the shadows, hiding behind piles of abandoned boxes. He hadn't planned on ending up there, he hadn't planned on lurking in the dark. Seiya is just worried and needs an answer because Shiroko has been acting very strangely since that day in the alley, and his sister's erratic behaviour plus Buu's bold comments and facts the horrid boy should not know, left Seiya with a wretch gutting feeling. 

“What are you going to do, Buu?”

“I am going to do exactly what you want, Shiro-nee-chan.” Buu squeezes her hard in his hold, his knee deep in between her legs.

“Oh, Buucchan, do you really think you can do that?” Shiroko asks, her tone sweet and defiant. There's a gleam in her eyes, dark and wistful, something Seiya has never seen before, and it makes something inside him turn.

“Oh, Shiro-nee-chan,” he laughs louder. With his long, rough tongue, Buu licks Shiroko's fingers one by one, smearing them with his spit. Placing her fingers one by one in his mouth, he sucks them voraciously. Buu is obnoxious, making unnecessary slurping sounds. He's as noisy as a child sucking on a popsicle on a summer's afternoon. But none of the sounds Buu makes come close to the screams that escape Shiroko's mouth, vulgar moans that reverberate off the brick walls of the alley. Seiya had never heard his sister make this kind of sound before, he didn't even know it was possible.

The young brother wants to run up to them and push Buu out of the way, he wants to grab his sister and run. Seiya wants her to stop making those vile, obscene sounds that make something inside him burn and turn over. But his feet are stuck to the ground and his throat is dry, and his words are too far away for him to shout like he wants to.

Unable to run or shout or do anything to stop them, Seiya stands still at the entrance to the alley, hidden in the shadows and unnoticeable to the alley's inhabitants.

Using his other hand, Buu makes his way under Shiroko's shirt to her breasts. Once Seiya's attention is on Shiroko's breasts, he notices how her sister's nipples are hard and erect, peeking through the semi-transparent shirt she's wearing. Buu gropes her, squeezing her right breast and massaging her nipple with his thumb. The sounds she makes triple, her legs tremble, and Seiya knows that the only reason she hasn't fallen yet is that Buu still has her pressed against the wall.

Pulling her fingers out of his mouth, the bully guides her hand to the middle of her legs, pressing her wet fingers against her core. Shiroko screams. With deliberate movements, as if he were putting on a show, Buu pushes the tip of her shorts aside. Seiya realizes that Shiroko is not only without a bra, but also without pants.

Slowly rubbing his fingers up and down her entrance, Buu takes his time to tease Shiroko, to make her cry out louder.

“Please,” she begs in a trembling voice.

“Please, what, Shiro-nee-chan,” he teases.

“Please.” That's all she manages to say.

Gently, Buu inserts two of her fingers inside Shiroko, slowly slipping them inside her, careful not to hurt her. He is merciful to her cries and gentle with his touch, in a way that makes Seiya want to scream and punch him in the face, a way that makes something warm spread through Seiya's middle and his insides churn and a disgusting feeling rise in his chest.

Shiroko's screams are too loud and hurt Seiya's ears, but he can't force himself to cover his ears. He doesn't have the mind to bring his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to drown out his sister's clamour.

Buu inserts two more of her fingers inside her, making the scream louder. For a moment, he does nothing, just lets Shiroko get used to the foreign bodies inside her. Shiroko takes a deep breath once, twice, resting her head against the brick wall she's still pressed against. In the meantime, Buu continues to rub her boobs, stimulating her even more with his touches and squeezes. At one point, he slides his hand down Shiroko's torso, pulling it out of her shirt and bringing his hand up to her neck, he grips her neck tightly and forces her to look into his eyes. With a smile, he pulls her to him, forcing the fingers to slide inside her. The moan Shiroko lets out is broken as if she doesn't have enough air in her lungs to scream.

Forcefully, Buu continues to pull Shiroko towards him, moving her fingers inside her. He's not graceful about it, but he's not brusque either. Shiroko's fingers slide deep inside her, with a firm pace and consistent rhythm, drawing more and more moans and gasps from her. As her cries intensify, Buu increases the speed of the thrusts.

Shiroko climaxes with a shriek that spreads through the air, hitting the walls of the alley and ringing out loudly. Withdrawing the fingers from inside her, Buu eases the pressure against Shiroko's body, removing the only support she has to stand and causing her to fall to her knees on the ground. Buu then guides her cum-soaked fingers into her mouth.

“Suck it,” he orders.

Shiroko gulps down her fingers with hunger in her eyes, sucking and licking every drop of the white, viscous liquid. She licks both her own fingers that have been inserted inside her and Buu's fingers that hold his hand out to her. He pulls his hand out of her, which makes her whimper and Buu starts laughing.

“You're such a slut, Shiro-nee-chan,” Buu says with amusement. Reaching for his zipper, he unzips his pants, showing his growing cock throbbing violently. Shiroko tries to grab his penis, but Buu slaps her hand away. “No, Shiro-nee-chan. You're in too much of a hurry, you know that? You've got to learn to wait your turn.”

Using the hand that a few moments ago was in Shiroko's mouth, Buu grabs his shaft and starts stroking himself. The sounds Buu makes are the same as Shiroko's in nature, but infinitely different. Shiroko's moans are loud but delicate, vulgar, but in an acceptable way. Shiroko's cries made something warm spread through Seiya, captivated him in a way that he would never say out loud and hypnotized him, making the mere thought of trying to run away or cover his ears so as not to hear them leave a feeling of wrongness deep in his core. The sounds Buu makes are animalistic, despicable in their essence, sounds that no one should ever be forced to listen to. Noises that make Seiya's stomach twist with disgust and bile rise into his throat. It's not just his moans that are wrong, but also the sound of his hand moving up and down his dick that causes a feeling of revulsion in Seiya.

Buu's scream is shrill, coming from the depths of his being, from a sick, maniacal place. His cum gushes down Shiroko's face, smearing it all over her. Unconcerned, Shiroko licks some of the drops that fall onto her lips, enjoying them as if she were drinking nectar. Buu watches her, kneeling at her feet, face dirty with cum, licking her equally dirty lips. He laughs out loud, crude and filthy as ever.

Grabbing Shiroko by the hair, he pulls her to him, fucking her mouth with his erect penis. Shiroko moans against his cock, choking on her saliva. He pulls her firmly and aggressively, moving his hips to make her swallow his dick even more. Shiroko holds onto his waist, helping him to fuck her more vigorously. Buu's moans mingle with Shiroko's muffled sounds, resonating around them and carrying over to Seiya.

Shiroko sucks Buu like a fucking lollipop, stuffing his entire length into her mouth. She licks the tip of his penis, traces its size with her tongue, nuzzles his balls, and circles his head. Using her soft lips, she trails kisses down his cock, and sucks it whole. It isn't long before Buu lets out another primal scream, louder and coarser than the last. Buu holds Shiroko in place, his cock shoved deep into her mouth. Seiya can see the come dripping down the side of her mouth, he can hear the sound she makes as she chokes on the cum of the boy who has spent the last few months making his life a living hell. He sees how her throat throbs as she swallows his cum.

The disgusting, burning feeling in Seiya's gut returns, along with the bile that rises more violently. Desperate, Seiya runs. Putting space between himself and the alley, rushing away from the screams and moans and the sound of Buu against Shiroko.

Running blindly, Seiya bumps into people, not bothering to apologize. He goes through the door of the house he shares with Shiroko and runs into the bathroom, falling to the floor with trembling knees, he empties his stomach. On shaky legs, Seiya tries to get up, supporting himself on the washbasin. His reflection stares back at him, pale and weak. A gut-wrenching scream escapes Seiya's throat, and within seconds the bathroom is destroyed. Letting his body slide to the floor, Seiya rests his head on the cold tile of the bathroom, on the floor at his feet is Shiroko's blouse, white just like the one she was wearing in the alley.

Seiya takes the shirt in his hands and brings it up to his nose, breathing deeply and letting himself be intoxicated by Shiroko's sweet, floral scent. With unconscious movements, Seiya brings one of his hands down to his slacks, slipping it inside his shorts and underwear, holding his developing penis, he begins to stroke himself. It's a simple, delicate, childlike movement, something he's done hundreds of times since he entered puberty. With his face sunk into Shiroko's shirt, Seiya can't help but think of his sister, how she screams, how she moans, the way she writhes and begs for more, the way she looks so beautiful when she's all dirty. Seiya lets the scenes he has just witnessed replay in his mind and lets the symphony of sounds produced by Shiroko blend with the sounds coming out of his mouth. He allows himself to exclude Buu completely from the equation and to imagine himself in his place, imagining that it's not his hand that's squeezing and rubbing and stimulating his penis but hers. Seiya imagined what it would be like to have her stroking him, to have her mouth with its soft lips and warm breath engulfing him. It's by allowing himself to imagine all this that Seiya soils himself, getting his clothes and the bathroom floor dirty.

Taking a deep breath, he let his body relax on the bathroom floor. Shiroko's shirt lying beside him. Seiya takes a deep breath, allowing his body temperature to drop, and letting himself remain motionless in the filthy, destroyed bathroom. For a moment, for a tenth of a second, Seiya feels good, drunk on post-orgasm ecstasy, then the reality of the situation hits him and Seiya realizes what he has just done, what he was imagining while he was doing it. Shiroko is his sister, she is his sweet, lovely sister, and he has just masturbated thinking of her not as his sister, but as a woman. An ugly, nameless feeling twisted his insides for the thousandth time, and dragging himself to the toilet, he puked again. Expelling all indecent thoughts from his body. Using Shiroko's abandoned shirt, he cleans himself abruptly and violently, desperately trying to erase the evidence of his transgression. Disgusted with himself, Seiya curls up on the bathroom floor and cries. He weeps for what he's forced himself to watch, wails for what he's done, Seiya mourns for what he's going to do — because he's going to do it again, and he's going to feel terrible, but he's still going to do it again.

[elfryn]

Commission. Title: Forgive me, Father. Word count: 2326. Ratings: Explicit. Relationship: Corto Maltese/Rasputin Request:  Corto gives Father Rasputin a blow job. Warnings: praise kink, priest kink, catholic imaginary, religion, heresy, semi-public sex, oral sex, plot what plot/porn without plot, porn with feelings. Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Corto observes the man looking down at him from his mockery of a throne, pursing his thin lips in a lascivious smile, eating him with his eyes and pleasing himself in the image of Corto on his knees by his feet.

“It has been too long since my last confession.” That is a lie, and the smirk on the priest's face tells he knows that much. Never before in his life has Corto ever confessed. He doesn't believe in God enough for that.

“I have never been one for religion.” Still on his knees, the sailor leans forward, pressing his hand against the thief's chest and pushing him further against the chair. Taking advantage of the five centimetres of height difference between them, Corto towers over Rasputin. “I never thought there was much in it for me.” With a mischievous smile on his lips, Corto caresses the priest's torso through his clothes, cherishing the ravishing vision that the man before him is — the black cassock falls nicely on the thief, in a sinful and perfidious way that makes something buried deep inside Corto crawl and ripple and twist, screaming and begging for attention.

“Maybe I was wrong,” Corto continues with a lopsided smile. “Maybe I should have given religion a chance.” Corto slides his hands under the Father's soutane, making his way to his sensitive areas and electing a faint moan from him. It is a nice sound — small and shy and nothing like Rasputin at all. “I mean, if all the priests are like you, maybe there is something for me in it, after all.”

Bending over, Corto kisses the Russian's exposed neck. His skin tastes salty, and he smells of cigarette ash, cheap wine and wood polish. The sailor smiles against the thief's skin, he can see Rasputin clear as day breaking into the cupboard where the wine for Mass is kept, and taking as many bottles as he can before sneaking out to smoke and get drunk away from the prying eyes of the religious portraits scattered around the small church.

Father or not, Rasputin is still Rasputin, and that man is a bastard — Corto's bastard.

“Perhaps,” Rasputin says with a strangled breath. His vocal cords vibrate against Corto's lips. Swallowing dryly and taking a deep breath, the so-called priest digs his nails into the armrest of his pulpit chair, using all his willpower to keep his composure. Once his breathing is under control, he tries again, “Perhaps this would be easier if you told me what you've done.”

Leaning back minimally, Corto allows himself to observe the scene as a whole. Rasputin is tense and rigid with his hands clenched at his sides; his face is red, his chest rises and falls in long, deep breaths, and sweat drips down his throat, falling onto the collar of his messy, crumpled cassock.

Corto drags his fingers down Rasputin's jawline, enjoying the way the thief tenses even further under his touch. The man laughs to himself, no matter what, his dear friend will always be headstrong. Not that it matters, Corto has proven more than once that he can be as stubborn as Rasputin, if not worse.

If Rasputin wants to play hard, all Corto needs to do is play harder.

Corto meets Rasputin's gaze, a crooked smile on his face. In a deep silky voice, with lust and arousal dripping from his every word like poison, he declares, “I'm not seeking penance for what I've done, Father.”

Rasputin gulps dryly, his Adam's apple bobbing. The Russian's dark eyes shine fiercely in the pale candlelight, broadcasting his raw emotions to anyone who knows the man well enough to read them — malice, lust, desire, hunger, passion, and possession.

“I'm asking forgiveness for what I'm about to do.”

As the Angel of Death had descended to Earth once before on an Egyptian night, Corte descends on Rasputin taking what has long been rightfully marked as his. The Russian's lips are thin and parched, and his mouth has the same cigarette ash and cheap wine as his skin. Rasputin moans into Corto's mouth, losing the one-sided battle against his urges. Parting his lips, he allows Corto to fully savour his mouth. Corto lets his tongue become reacquainted with Rasputin's mouth, relearning everything that may have been forgotten during all the time the Russian was playing dead.

Once the inconvenience of needing to breathe becomes sufficiently inconvenient that neither of them can ignore it any longer, Corto pulls away, much to the annoyance of Rasputin, who whimpers at the loss of the sailor's lips.

Corto grins openly at Rasputin's indignation, savouring the way the thief's defences are falling one by one.

With a swift movement that could be considered offensive, Corto rips the priest's cassock, exposing his hairy, sweaty chest and causing a few buttons to fly away — not that any of them care.

Rasputin's chest is marred by scars, small and large, conspicuous or faded, every corner of his skin is marked by a memento of an encounter gone wrong, a lie that has been caught, or a friend turned foe. Every scar is a reminder that not even the thief of thieves can go through life without bearing the consequences of his actions. They are also a testament to the fact that Rasputin survived, and will continue to do so.

On Rasputin's right side, just below his ribs, there is a mark larger than the others, with deformed, red skin. Corto swallows dryly at the sight of the burn that could easily be bigger than his hand. Logically, Corto knows that the possibility of Rasputin coming out unscathed from the explosion that caused his near-death was almost nil, but Corto had also spent a long time believing that Rasputin had died only to find him again in a godforsaken village in Mexico of all places, so perhaps the logical part of his brain hasn't put two and two together yet.

Rasputin stirs slightly in his chair, and Corto realizes that his staring contest with Rasputin's exposed torso is making the man uncomfortable.

With a thoroughness that doesn't quite belong to him, Corto trails his fingers along the burn scar; studying its edges, feeling the bruised skin against the calluses on his fingers. Rasputin breathed sharply, waiting for his companion's next move.

Corto kisses the scarred skin. It's a sweet, almost innocent gesture, but above all, it's a declaration of acceptance.

Rasputin is Rasputin no matter what, and Corto accepts every bit of him — stellar personality and charred skin included.

“Perhaps,” Corto starts, his voice uncharacteristically soft. Leaning back, Corto rests on his knees. From his place at the Father's feet, Rasputin looks way too big. Bigger than life and death itself. The candles’ light shines upon him, surrounding the priest with a regal aura. The thief looks almost ethereal. “I should pray to God, after all.”

“Yeah, what for?”

“To thank him, of course,” Corto continued in the same soft tone.

Thank him for this absurdity of a man, this thief that stole Corto's heart and has yet to give it back — not that Corto will ever take it back. He should say his graces for Rasputin, for this man who is half of his life, half of his soul. God, real or not, is responsible for creating this outrageous man down to his atrocious personality, kleptomaniac tendencies, pathological lies, and all the other little things that make Corto's heart beat harder. For all that, for all the little pieces that make Rasputin nothing else but Rasputin himself, God should get some prayers and even some praise, too. Because once one creates the epitome of man, a being so perfectly imperfect that he breathtakingly captures the essence of humanity, one definitely deserves some congratulations.

Rasputin is God's most grotesque creation, and Corto is very thankful for His work. And maybe someday he will say that to Rasputin's face. Not that he needs to, since the look on Rasputin's face when the gazes meet tells Corto his dear had caught the words he doesn't dare to say out loud yet.

“Well,” Rasputin begins, using the tone he adopts when speaking to parishioners — cocky and condensed. “If you really want to strengthen your ties with God, you can always start with a good relationship with His most faithful servants.”

“And that would be you, I assume?”

“Of course,” the bastard says with a smirk. “Who else but me?”

Corto laughs.

Indeed, who else but him?

“Tell me, Father, what do you have in mind?”

“I believe it was the Bible that says that to please a man of God is to please God Himself.”

“The Bible says that?”

“Of course,” Rasputin says nonchalantly. “Maybe. Probably. I never read the damn thing.”

Corto chuckles.

“Oh, Father, what would your parishioners say if they heard you talk like that?”

“I think they'd be too scandalized by what we're doing to pay attention to what I'm saying.”

“And what are we're doing, Father?”

“Sinning, of course.”

“Do you think this is a sin?”

“Tell me, pretty boy, when have we done anything other than sinning?” Rasputin caresses Corto's face. “Besides, I'm pretty sure it says somewhere that a man shouldn't lie down with another man.”

“Good thing we're not lying down, then.”

Corto grins maniacally, and Rasputin laughs loudly

“You, my dearest, are nothing but an incorrigible bastard walking down the dark path.” Rasputin pulls Corto by the collar, forcing the sailor to meet him on his level. “But fear not, Father Rasputin will make sure to wash away all your sins.”

The following kiss is initiated by Rasputin, and for once in a long time, Corto lets him have all the control. Rasputin's kisses are fierce and hungry, filled with pent-up tension mixed with passion and possession. Rasputin is taking what is rightfully his, and for a brief moment, Corto allows him to. But that is not the game they're playing, and so Corto pulls away.

“Now, Father, I believe I was the one supposed to please you.” Corto wipes the corner of Rasputin's mouth with his thumb. “This is my confession, after all.”

Pushing Rasputin against the chair once more, Corto busies himself with untying the sash that rests lazily on the Russian's waist. Swallowing hard, Corto takes a moment to bathe in the image before him.

Rasputin is hard, so fucking hard.

Corto is not a merciful man. With long, deliberate movements, he teases and arouses Rasputin, trailing a path of kisses down his inner thigh and slowly making his way to his erection.

Rasputin moans beneath him, shaking under his touch — so helpless, so defenceless, so desperate.

“God!” Rasputin screams.

“Now, Father,” Corto says against his burning skin, “you cannot say God’s name in vain.”

“Fuck you, Corto!” He bites.

“No.” Corto licks Rasputin's inner thighs. “I'll fuck you.”

God's name is not the only thing Rasputin says in vain once Corto finally touches his hard erection with his mouth. Kissing the base of the so-called priest's penis, the sailor makes his way up from the base to the tip with long, deliberate licks. Rasputin's hands find their way to Corto's hair, and the thief's fingers pull it violently; his legs wrap themselves around Corto unconsciously, locking him in place and making it almost impossible to pull back — not that Corto wants to. Sliding up and down slowly, Corto uses his tongue to rub the length of Rasputin's cock, sucking hard and playing with the head of his penis. Rasputin's breath is harsh and weak, and Corto is not sure whether he can understand the things his lover is saying anymore — he is pretty sure Rasputin isn't talking in English any longer.

Never being the one to voluntarily get down on his knees, Corto can't remember the last time he's had Rasputin in his mouth, but the pleasure of having his man in his mouth, with his legs spread around him and his long, calluses fingers deep in his hair makes Corto question if he's as clever as he believes himself to be since anyone with half a brain would do anything to be in that prestigious position at any given moment.

Rasputin howls, screaming Corto's name as if it was God's. Corto takes it as the incentive to intensify the rhythm, adding his hands to mix and causing Rasputin to scream even louder. The thief's body shakes, his legs twitch, he arches his back and his breath shortens.

The Father is loud, obscene and vulgar, he says Corto's name repeatedly, along with a mix of expletives and profanities. He screams for God while begging Corto to go deeper; he asks for mercy but doesn't allow Corto to pull back. He is the one sitting on the throne, but he's actually the slave.

Corto plays with Rasputin like a tiger plays with its prey. He toys with him, bringing the thief to the edge only to stop. He tests Rasputin's limits, his patience, his wits, and, above all, his pride. Corto enjoys being a bastard and enjoys making Rasputin whimper and beg. He loves to see this insufferable man so irrefutably under his control.

Torture would be kinder.

Rasputin's cum drips down the side of Corto's mouth. Wiping the corner of his mouth with his thumb, Corto licks the cum off his finger and leans back, giving Rasputin space to recover.

His hair, his beard and even his chest hair are frizzy and matted, and sweat drips down his forehead, neck and chest, making his skin glisten in an angelic way. The thief's muscles tremble with exhaustion, and his breathing is laboured and shallow. The beautiful cassock was reduced to nothing but rags.

Faced with such a magnanimous display, Corto can't help but smile proudly.

This is beautiful, Rasputin is beautiful.

Corto may not believe in Heaven, but he's sure he's never been closer to the Gates of Paradise before.

[elfryn]

[For Hire] SFW/NSFW Creative Writing/Fanfic Writer Commissions

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I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago. Although my professional work is not as extensive as my personal work, the years I’ve spent as a fanfic writer have been instrumental in my development and improvement as a writer.

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[elfryn]

Fanfiction Title: Running Up The Hill. Words: 965. Ratings: General Audiences. Relationship: Kaminari & Kirishima, Kaminari & Midoriya. Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply. Summary: Denki questions his luck and even his sanity. Why are all the schools in Japan on hilltops? And those that rarely aren't on top of a stupidly high hill are inside a geography depression, which is the same thing in the blond's opinion. One way or another, students have to walk up or down a hill to get to and from school. And that doesn't even count as an extra point in PE lessons, which Denki thinks is criminal. Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

He faces the hill. It's a long and big and high hill, so, so high. Sighing defeatedly, he walks with heavy steps to the pavement. Sliding down to the ground and making himself comfortable there. Watching the thousands of people climbing the hill as if it wasn't just too absurdly tall.

Denki questions his luck and even his sanity. Why are all the schools in Japan on hilltops? And those that rarely aren't on top of a stupidly high hill are inside a geography depression, which is the same thing in the blond's opinion. One way or another, students have to walk up or down a hill to get to and from school. And that doesn't even count as an extra point in PE lessons, which Denki thinks is criminal.

Of the three schools Denki attended during his time in Japan, all were on hilltops. Every day, he had to climb them with the ponderous, tired steps of someone who wasn't getting enough sleep to get to a place he didn't even like, full of people who made nasty, dubious comments every time they thought he wasn't listening.

As much as everyone thinks otherwise, Denki isn't the most sociable person in the world. Although his hair and clothes are eye-catching, his voice is loud, and he speaks to anyone who speaks to him in an informal, light-hearted way, Denki is not a person of many friends. To be quite honest, he'd say he only has one friend, and it's not even someone from his school, but a boy he met online who's a fan of a certain slightly older hero, Crimson Red.

Red Riot is a good friend. He's fun and kind and likes to spend hours chatting to Denki about old heroes and listens when he complains about school and the people in his class without saying he's a crybaby about it. And, most importantly of all, he doesn't think Denki is an idiot for having a learning disability. He encourages Denki to keep going, to be better and to push forward whenever he encounters a challenge that leaves him feeling lost, anxious or unmotivated. And it's because of him that Denki is facing yet another hill. Because this is the school that Red Riot said he was going to. This is his friend's dream school, and if Denki is honest with himself for a moment, he might even admit that this is his dream school, too.

Ansty and frightened, he tries to calm his heart, which is beating violently in his chest. Denki hates hills, and passing the entrance exam means three more years of hills ahead of him. It also means the chance to be in the same school as his only friend, and even though they end up in different classes, they can still see each other during lunchtime and study together for exams since the curriculum is the same for all classes. Climbing that hill means meeting people like him, meeting people with the same dream who might not laugh at him. It means the possibility of joining a school that understands the difficulties Denki has and can help him with them because Denki knows that this school is good for people like him. Because he researched the subject tirelessly, afraid that everything would be the same as the last three schools. But, as it turns out, this school is different and Denki wants to be a student here so badly. He wants so badly to be treated the same as everyone else for the first time in his life. Denki needs a place where no one will laugh at him because he's not the fastest intellectually, where no one will laugh if he short-circuits. Where no one will call him an idiot just because he can't read or write or express himself properly

Denki needs a place where the teachers will pay attention and do something, and if this school of all schools isn't everything he expects, then no school will be. For if the number one school in Japan isn't good at keeping its students in line, no other school is.

"Katsudon," a voice to Denki's right says. The blond follows the voice to find a green-haired boy standing a few metres away from him. The boy holds the straps of his obnoxious yellow backpack with such a firm grip that his knuckles turn white. His gaze drifts down to his red, worn-out trainers. Denki recognized the trainers, there was a boy at his second school with trainers like that, and he was transferred before the second half of the year. The green-haired boy stares at his Primordial shoes as if he wishes he were wearing something else. And he probably is, Denki reckons.

"I really want to get into this school," the boy mutters quietly. "Very much. This is my dream school, it always has been, and I've worked hard to get here," he continues quietly. Denki can see that the boy's statement is true. His muscles are big enough that he can see them through his uniform. Taking a deep breath, the boy turns his gaze to the top of the hill. Determination coursing through his body and shining in his eyes. "I'm going to pass this exam. I'm going to get into this school. And then I'm going to eat katsudon to celebrate," he says, as if writing the future in steel.

With long, firm strides, the green-haired boy walks up the hill without looking back.

Denki feels something in his chest, something burning hot that turns his anxiety to ashes.

Determined and inspired, Denki runs up the hill. Ready to grab his place at this school and, with luck, maybe end up in the same class as his best friend and the green-haired boy.

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: Match-Point. Word count: 457. Ratings: General Audiences. Relationship: Kara Danvers/Lena Luthor. Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply. Summary: Kara wants to punch someone. Hard. Maybe even pull their hair and knock out some teeth. Kick them in the shin. She really, really wants to punch someone right now and that someone is none other than Lena Luthor. Links: ao3, tips!

Commissions info here!

Kara wants to punch someone. Hard. Maybe even pull their hair and knock out some teeth. Kick them in the shin. She really, really wants to punch someone right now and that someone is none other than Lena Luthor.

Taking a deep breath, she concentrates on the task before her. It's the women's intercollegiate volleyball final. Kara has the serve. Her team has the second match point of the time break. The opposing team is two points behind. Kara has to make a clean shot, she has to get that ball into the opponent's court. If it were any other team, any other school, she wouldn't doubt her ability to make an ace point. But she's playing Cadmus Academy, against the only team with Lena Luthor as their libero. And Lena Luthor is annoyingly good at her job.

The buzzer sounds, and Kara prepares for her serve. It's a fast, strong ball that goes exactly where she aimed. Lena is there in seconds, she dives, and her small hand with its long, slender fingers prevents the ball from hitting the floor. Her teammates prepare for the counter-attack, running from all directions in a synchronised attack. Kara watches as her team tenses up, spreads out and joins in, trying to cover as much of the court as possible. The blocker waits and jumps at the right moment, but the ball rebounds and goes up.

Nia dives and saves the ball, Alex lifts it and Kara smashes it. Lena handles it again. Kelly sets it up, and Andrea cuts it back. Kate saves. And on they go, for forty long, painful seconds, the ball doesn't hit the ground. For forty torturous seconds, the ball flies across the court defying the laws of gravity at an almost imperceptible speed. Until, finally, it falls. The last serve of the day is made by Kara who hits the ball centimetres from Lena's foot, cementing her team's victory in the intercollegiate. Marking Kara's first victory against Lena since they met for the first time two and a half years ago.

A primal scream from deep within Kara forces itself down her throat and echoes through the gym. Nia, Alex, Iris and Kate and all the others join her in screaming.

While one side of the court erupts in joy and victory and pride, the other mourns the defeat they accept with resignation.

"Luthor!" Kara shouts from the other side of the court.

"Danvers," Lena replies in a not-so-loud tone.

"I won." She speaks proudly, her smile as bright as the sun.

"I lost."

"Will you go out with me now?

Lena holds Kara's gaze for a long moment, then amid the tears of defeat, she allows herself a small smile.

"Yes, I will."

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: Canary. Word count: 3769. Ratings: Explicit. Relationship: Hyuuga Hinata/Inuzuka Kiba; Aburame Shino/Hyuuga Hinata; Darui/Hyuuga Hinata; Hyuuga Hinata/Omoi; Hyuuga Hinata/Original Male Character(s); Hyuuga Hinata/Uzumaki Naruto (mentioned). Warnings: cheating, gangbang, anal sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, rough sex, semi-public sex, rough oral sex, penis in vagina sex, unprotected sex, cum slut hyuuga hinata, son-cuckold, pov uzumaki boruto, implied/referenced incest, cuckolding, incest (but not really unless watching counts as incest), bakunyuu, netorare, kink, plot what plot/porn without plot, shameless smut. Summary: It's like the nightmares he's been having while travelling, but it's real. Boruto knows it's real because he has pinched himself and bitten himself and scratched himself and hit himself and done all those things they say you have to do to know if something is a dream or not. He even counted his fingers, all twenty of them, and tried the genjutsu dispersal technique, but nothing worked. The image in front of him hasn't changed. No matter what he does, his mother is still being passed around between these guys.  Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

Boruto leaps between the trees. It's been over two days since his mother left on a mission, and he needs to catch up with her. Honestly, he doesn't know what his father has in mind sometimes. Sure, his mother is a great ninja who can handle herself. But she's also a woman! A woman who went on a mission alone with eleven different guys. Boruto trusts his mother's teammates to protect her, but it's still two guys against nine. Darui and Omoi are also reliable people, but they're from another village, and Boruto wouldn't put his hand on the fire for them, especially when his mother is involved. 

It's not as if Boruto expected any of them to try to force his mother into anything, far from it. Boruto trusts Kiba and Shino and trusts his father enough to know that he wouldn't send his mother on a mission if he is not sure that she would be safe with the team he sent with her. The point is that Boruto isn't an idiot. Even less innocent. He has two eyes and ears and notices how all the ninjas look at his mother. Both men and women. The whispers, the lingering glances, the way some have to fix themselves or sit still. He notices the marked trousers, the mischievous smiles, the random trips to the toilet. No one is too blatant about it. They can't be. Naruto is an idiot, but even an idiot can tell when everyone around him is trying to get luck behind his back. However, a week away from the watchful eyes of the Hokage can make some people lose their fear of danger and even death. Boruto doesn't need a bunch of men flirting and drooling shamelessly over his mother or trying their luck with her.

So he runs as fast as he can. Jumping between the branches, tracing the path he hopes his mother and her companions have taken. For the tenth time in the last hour, Boruto thinks that Naruto is an idiot. Perhaps his mother really should let herself be taken by one of the many people waiting in line to have her, just so Naruto can learn not to leave his wife alone with eleven men. 

**

Boruto stands among the trees, watching from the shadows. He doesn't want his mother to know he's there. He doesn't want her to think that he doesn't trust his ability to protect himself. 

It's the fourth day of their journey, and it's only a few hours since Boruto caught up with them. The boy is exhausted, but he can't rest. Fighting sleep and tiredness, he keeps his eyes peeled, following every step of nine out of eleven men. The teenager senses that some of them know he's there, but that doesn't matter. It's good that they know he's there, it's good that they know Boruto won't let any of them try anything with his mother. 

His mother is too kind. She looks after them, makes them food, asks them how they are, and smiles at them. Hinata is like a mother, like a wife. And maybe that's what she is at the end of the day. But she's also beautiful. Her hair is a deep shade of blue, her eyes milky, her lips pink. Her full, voluminous breasts, her big, plump ass. She is a complete delight, not just for the eyes, but also for the soul. Hinata is the kind of person you want waiting for you at home at the end of the day. Boruto has never thought about getting married, but he understands why someone would choose to get married, especially if the bride is like his mother. 

**

Boruto's sleep is disturbed by a loud sound. The fright almost causes him to fall out of the tree where he is perched. Looking around to see who caused the noise, he finds a vision straight out of a nightmare.

It's nighttime, which means he's slept for most of the afternoon. The camp is still in the same place, with the campfire in the middle now lit. Halfway to the right, at an angle too perfect to have been a coincidence, nine of the eleven men stand in a semicircle. All are positioned perfectly in Boruto's line of sight. Their trousers unzipped, their big, hard dicks dangling inches from Boruto's mother's face. 

Hinata is tied up. Her hands are tied to her feet with a white rope with thick knots. She is not wearing a top, her breasts marked by the binding as well as her ass. Her face is smeared with the cum of all those men. The men masturbate in sync, spurting into Boruto's mother's mouth. 

One of them pulls her to him, fucking her mouth hard. Feeding her straight from the source. 

Boruto tries to stop them, but he's tied to the tree trunk. The men look at Boruto and laugh and point, and Hinata looks straight at him and she laughs too. She says something that Boruto doesn't quite hear, but she doesn't seem unhappy. Boruto would say that he has never seen his mother so happy. 

The man with the cock in her mouth laughs louder than everyone else, pulling her towards him faster. He's tall and strong and muscular, and he dirties Boruto's mother more than anyone else. 

A strong wind knocks Boruto from his place in the tree and the boy wakes up. The camp is no longer there. His mother is no longer there. It was all a dream. Just a dream. 

**

Boruto grits his teeth. It's the last day of the journey, and nothing has happened in the three and a half days that Boruto has been hiding in the shadows. It's precisely because nothing has happened that he thinks he can relax a little. Konoha is just over five hours away, but it's evening, and they've been running all afternoon and decided it would be better to reach the village in the morning than to exhaust themselves for the rest of the night trying to get there. Boruto silently thanked his mother when she made the suggestion. Staying in the shadows is tiresome, trying to keep pace with twelve elite ninjas with long, agile legs is even worse. Boruto leans back against the branch of the tree where he has made his improvised camp. He eats some of the food he stole from Darui's rucksack when he wasn't looking, and drinks the drink he took from Omoi's bag when he was laughing at Darui for being robbed. 

It's a clear night, with the moon high in the sky and the stars twinkling merrily. Naruto and Hinata often talk about how there were more stars when they were children. There, in the middle of the untouched wilderness and miles from the nearest populated centre, Boruto feels envious of them. It would be nice to be able to look up and see all those stars from the village, with Himawari on one side and her mother on the other, and Naruto could have a place in the picture too if he showed up for real instead of sending a clone. 

Boruto yawns. His eyes are heavy. The sound of the fire crackling in the bonfire mixed with the voices of the ninjas is like a lullaby, making him drowsy. It's the last night, he remembers, and nothing has happened. Feeling satisfied with his job as watchman so far, he allows himself to close his eyes. His mother can take care of herself, he reaffirms. She's a strong, intelligent ninja and can kill anyone who tries to get funny with her without permission. With these happy thoughts, Boruto allows himself to rest his eyes and maybe even fall asleep for the moment. 

**

Maybe he shouldn't have slept. It's like the nightmares he's been having while travelling, but it's real. Boruto knows it's real because he has pinched himself and bitten himself and scratched himself and hit himself and done all those things they say you have to do to know if something is a dream or not. He even counted his fingers, all twenty of them, and tried the genjutsu dispersal technique, but nothing worked. The image in front of him hasn't changed. 

No matter what he does, his mother is still being passed around between these guys. 

One of the men holds his mother by the neck. Boruto doesn't know his name, but he feels like he could blow the guy away, but he's paralysed. He has spent days chasing after these people just to interfere in case something like this happened, and now that it is happening, he doesn't feel in control of his own body to stop them and can't do anything but watch. The nameless ninja is rough and violent. He pulls Boruto's mother towards him with a possession that doesn't belong to him. Tearing her blouse, and pulling her hair. Boruto wants to do something, needs to do something, but right now he's just a scared little boy. 

Hinata makes a sound that Boruto has never heard her make. It's a mixture of something between a howl and a moan. A high-pitched, throaty sound that makes something turn in Boruto's stomach. The ninja holding his mother laughs. A second ninja takes her for himself. His big, strong hands wrapping around her thin, fragile neck, he pulls her head back, showing off her smooth, unmarked skin. A third ninja approaches Boruto's mother from behind and nuzzles his face into the curve of her neck, and this draws another sound from Boruto's mother. This one is most definitely a moan. 

Boruto isn't dumb, stupid or innocent. He knows his mother and the sounds she makes when she doesn't realise she's being too loud with his father. He knows the face she makes when something pleases her or makes her happy.

Hinata may be being used by these men, but she is not being abused. 

Before he realises it, Boruto can breathe again. His mother is as fine as a woman being taken by so many men could be. 

These men continue to trade her from hand to hand. Each one tore off a piece of her clothing. Pulling her hair and leaving marks that would be hard to explain if they hadn't just finished a dangerous mission. Hinata makes sounds that make Boruto go from a scared little boy to an extremely confused, hormonal young adult. When his mother and father do things, Boruto feels nothing but disgust and revulsion. But now, watching her with all these men, he feels something different. It's a nameless feeling that burns deep inside him, begging to come out. But Boruto represses this feeling. The disgust and revulsion are still there, but it's something driven towards himself, something created in fear of what would happen if someone saw inside his mind. Something deep-seated in the shame and guilt he's feeling for being so turned on by seeing his mother having sex with another man. Other men. Boruto won't admit these feelings. He can't, he mustn't. 

He continues to watch from the shadows as the men kiss and grope and use his mother. One of them slips his hand under what's left of her skirt, another shoves his cock into her mouth. Yet another takes her from behind. They slap her plump ass, bite her full breasts, mark her thighs. Devouring Hinata whole as if she were prey, and they were savages without manners. 

Darui forces Boruto's mother to her knees in front of him. The cloud ninja is just as violent as his colleagues. Hinata tries to touch him, but the man slaps her. He denies it with his head and calls her things that make the problem in Boruto's trousers bigger and more painful. The ninjas make a semicircle, just like in the teenager's dream. With a synchronisation that could have been rehearsed, they undress, letting their trousers fall to their ankles. Hinata tries to reach Darui again, and once more he hits her hand, calling her worse things than before. 

Half naked, the men begin to play with their erections. They masturbate and slap her across the face with their boners. Two share her mouth, going as far as they can without it being uncomfortable for them or her. The nine men groan and moan. The two inside her mouth are the loudest, their cries making Boruto feel things that turn his stomach in a way he doesn't know if it's good or bad. 

Darui pushes the two men sharing the boy's mother apart and fucks her mouth eagerly. He manages to be even rougher than the previous men. Pulling her head towards himself and putting himself inside her as far as he could. Boruto can see everything. He can see how these men's cocks grow and expand and moisten and spurt and dirty his mother. Hinata is like flaky ice cream with icing. Her new marks are like chocolate chips, and the enjoyment of all these men is like the condensed milk she loves so much. 

Omoi takes Hinata for himself. Kissing her in an animalistic way. He manages to be even more violent. Boruto watches as he forces his way inside her mouth, his long tongue taking up all the space. When he separates, a long thread of saliva connects the two. Just like Darui, he brings Boruto's mother to her knees. But his orders are different: he wants her on all fours. Hinata accepts his orders like a trained dog. 

Omoi surrounds Hinata, tracing a path down her back with his nails from her neck to the valley between her ass cheeks. He kneels behind her, opening her arse with his hands and using his tongue on her entrance. Boruto's mother moans louder than before. The cloud ninja to whom he entrusted his wife plays with the Hokage's wife's asshole. 

While Omoi occupies himself with Hinata's ass, another ninja fucks her mouth while yet another position himself close enough to finger her pussy. They work as if Hinata were meat in need of tenderising. Boruto's mother's cries are loud even when they are muffled by the cock of one of the ninjas. When Omoi puts three fingers inside her at once, Hinata screams so loudly that Boruto is afraid his father might hear from the Hokage's Tower (it would never happen, after all, they're kilometres apart). Unlike before, Omoi is delicate with his fingers. Taking care not to cause discomfort. When the ninja being sucked off by Hinata cums in her mouth, a second one takes his place. The teen's mother doesn't even have time to swallow one guy's cum properly before another takes his place. The man fingering her pulls her close enough for her to sit on his face. 

Boruto watches with his aching erection as Hinata sucks off one man, gets sucked off by another and gets fucked by the fingers of a third. 

Kiba and Shino, who weren't taking part in any of this, appear from between the trees. The men are paralysed. The two of them stride over to the scene and pull the men off Hinata. They shout something and say a few swear words. The two call Hinata things that Boruto never imagined they would say to his mother. Darui tries to get in the middle and say something, but Kiba punches him in the face. Omoi tries to help, but Shino gets between them. 

Boruto has a bad feeling. He feels guilty for not having stopped it before. But he was paralysed by something he would never say out loud. 

Hinata doesn't seem bothered by the situation. She crawls over to Kiba. Her breasts, soiled with the cum of nine men, sway with her movements. Boruto's mother kneels in front of Kiba and looks at him in a way that Boruto could only compare to a puppy begging for attention. Hinata unbuttons Kiba's trousers, who doesn't protest. With her calloused hands and long, agile fingers, she takes hold of his cock and begins to make long, lingering strokes. 

Boruto holds onto the branch he's occupying. If he uses any more force, he might break it, but that doesn't matter. With ragged breathing, he continues to watch as his mother masturbates one of her teammates. When Kiba's penis is hard, Hinata guides him towards her mouth. She kisses the entire length of the dog-taming ninja. Licking him, she brings her tongue to a very special spot that makes Kiba hold back a moan, biting his lip until it bleeds. Thanks to the sex education lessons he receives against his will, Boruto knows exactly what his mother did to make Kiba scream like that. 

The blond feels the discomfort in his groin area getting worse.

(A little voice in the back of Boruto's mind tells him that he could scream like that too if he'd stop being such a coward and just grab his aching cock).

Using her thumb to stimulate Kiba's special spot, Hinata sets about sucking off one of her oldest friends. The other ninjas watch, their erections glistening. Envy flashes across their faces. Shino stands between them all. No one can get in the way of Kiba's fun. The scream that Kiba lets out as he reaches orgasm is just as outrageous as Hinata's minutes before. The sound resounds through the clearing, scaring away some birds sleeping in neighbouring trees. She swallows every drop of her teammate's juice. Kiba's legs give way, and he falls to the ground, his breathing as heavy as everyone else's. She looks back over her shoulder. Looking over her shoulder, she faces Shino. There is a dispute between the two, one that Hinata seems to be winning when the insect ninja walks up to her. 

Shino has always been calm and cool-headed. He is methodical, as every ninja should be. A role model. At least that's what Boruto's parents always said. 

Shino takes Hinata by the hand. He guides her to one of the sleeping bags forgotten by the fire. Shino gently lays Boruto's mother down. He traces a path down her body. Kissing and marking. Following it to Hinata's centre. Unceremoniously, Shino rips off what's left of her clothes. He spreads her legs, giving Boruto a privileged view of his mother's wet, pink pussy. The blond whimpers as his erection grows even more painful. 

He breathes in her intimacy. Boruto watches it all. Of all the trees he had to choose from, he chose the one that gave him a view that not even the men below with his hand had. 

Speaking of them, they gather around Shino and Hinata. Hungry and desperate. Eager for their turn. But Shino is not a hurried man. He's a quiet, calm ninja who knows how to do his job. 

He sucks Hinata's breasts, making Boruto's mother moan more. Not only that, but he bites, pinches, and blows. Shino plays with her, kisses her, and teases her. The leaf ninja uses his long tongue to penetrate Hinata's pussy. Causing reactions that Boruto is sure his father never caused. His mother writhes and twists, and she seems to be in heaven. Her screams are so loud, causing envy in everyone present (Boruto included). 

Boruto tries not to think about how seeing his mother being fucked by so many men gives him so much pleasure. He tries not to think about how he's no longer paralysed and could stop all this, but he won't for another reason. He doesn't because he wants to see more. Furthermore, he wants to see his mother taken by all these men. 

Shino continues to cause absurd reactions in Hinata and to make everyone jealous. Hinata comes in his mouth. The man with the stoic expression wipes her off with his tongue. He says nothing, as if making Hinata moan his name was an ordinary deal. 

Shino takes a step back, observing his work. With his long, slender fingers, he unbuttons his trousers. Hinata has already had her moment of pleasure, now it's his turn. He turns her onto all fours. Omoi has prepared Boruto's mother well enough so that Shino doesn't have to worry about anything. Firm but gentle, the brunette ninja inserts himself inside Boruto's mother. Shino isn't desperate or hungry, but he isn't calm either. His thrusts are energetic and strong and constant and perhaps a little too loud because Boruto can hear the sound of their flesh slapping together, but Hinata's screams mixed with Shino's moans drown out all the other sounds made in the night. There are only the two of them. There is only Shino inside Hinata, making her scream and squirm. Eventually, Shino comes inside Boruto's mother. But he doesn't stop. He keeps fucking her until he makes her cum a second time.

The men revel in the image of post-cum Hinata, but the lull doesn't last long. They fight over who will be next. Who will take her, who will make her scream. 

Boruto's mother laughs at their desperation.  

The men take her by the pussy and from behind. By themselves and in pairs. They fuck her mouth, her pussy, her ass. They suck her and get sucked. They shout her name, they make her shout their name. Boruto has never heard so many dirty words in his life. Some he didn't even know existed. 

Boruto can't connect names to faces, he's too busy committing his mother's every expression to memory to worry about it. But he knows he'll never forget those names.

At one point, Kiba fucks Hinata from behind while Shino fucks her from the front and Darui and Omoi take turns with her mouth. The five ninjas are as noisy as Konohagakure's most populous commercial centre. 

When the four men finish, another four take their place, and so they take turns making Boruto's mother sing like a canary. 

Boruto's mother is like a toy being passed around between these men. The best toy of these ninjas' lives. Hinata doesn't complain. Delighting in her role. She is used, abused, broken and mistreated and begs for more every time. All the slaps and pulls and hickeys and marks left on her body were hidden in parts that no one could see. Marks that could be excused as a mission gone wrong. Marks that no one will ever know the real reason behind. Nobody but Boruto and all those men. 

All these men come inside her. Hinata drinks their juices and lets herself be filled by them. She's sweaty, sticky, and dirty. So, so dirty. 

And so is Boruto. 

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: To: You, From: Me. Word count: 1466. Ratings: Teen And Up Audiences. Relationship: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan. Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Implied Sexual Content. Summary: If this night never happens again, the Doctor wants to make sure that just this once she didn't run. Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

Older doesn't mean wiser. The Doctor is proof of that. Over two thousand years and she's still an idiot. But Yaz is different. She always has been. The Doctor doesn't know exactly the difference between this Yaz and her Yaz. She's just as bad as her previous face when it comes to perceiving things based purely on physical appearance. Such a concept makes no sense where she comes from. But she knows that this Yaz is not the same Yaz she left in Sheffield three hours ago. This Yasmin Khan has something different about her. Her shoulders are curvier, her dark hair has grey strands. Her skin is stained and faded. She speaks slowly and walks slowly. Her voice is hoarse as if it has been overused. But she is still Yaz. Her smile is still the same, her eyes are still the same. And she seems so happy. So absurdly happy. The Doctor thinks she has never seen Yaz so happy.

Yaz smiles and chatters, and the Doctor listens. Because she loves to hear Yaz talk, she loves to hear all her humans talk. It's her favourite part of having them around. Yaz tells us about her life. A long, happy life full of encounters and people. She tells the Doctor about Ryan and Graham and about Liverpool. The Doctor didn't realise that Yaz liked Liverpool so much, maybe she should take her Yaz there one day. She talks about her children, her grandchildren, and her wife. Yaz has got married! The Doctor is so happy, so absurdly happy. She married and had children and grandchildren who visit her every summer. Her wife, Yaz tells her, died just over ten years ago. Doctor feels her pain. She understands better than most the sorrow of outliving those you love. Yaz's smile doesn't falter as she talks about her wife, telling how they met, what their first date was like, and how wonderful the years they spent together were. Her gaze is sad and wistful, and she lets a few tears fall, but Yaz is happy to have found someone to love and who has loved her back.

The Doctor and Yaz sit side by side on the settee. They are covered by a heavy blanket. The fire in the fireplace crackles quietly, warming the room. They drink tea and chat for hours on end. Yaz's smile is so beautiful and her voice is so sweet. The Doctor lets her gaze wander around the living room of the small cottage, noticing the dozens of photographs. She thinks about her Yaz, about how she has a beautiful life ahead of her. About how she has travelled through space and time and countless planets and seen countless things and still finds more excitement and fun in a story about her youngest grandson getting the whole family together one spring afternoon to give a PowerPoint presentation on why they should let him learn archery at the tender age of eight.

‘Was it worth it?’ The Doctor asks. Her voice is a whisper. ‘Travelling with me, getting to know me, was it worth it?’

The smile Yaz gives the Doctor is a sad one, apologetic even. She holds the Doctor's face in her hands and uses her thumbs to caress her features, catching a solitary tear on the way.

‘I love my family, and I loved my wife very much,’ Yaz is sincere. ‘But there's someone else I've also loved very much. Someone who showed me that living was more than just existing. Who showed me the stars and put time and space in the palm of my hand, literally.’ Yaz reaches for the chain around her neck with one hand. She pulls on the chain, revealing the pendant. It's a key. A key that the Doctor remembers giving her just a few weeks ago.

‘Do you still have that old thing?’ The Doctor comments incredulously. In the corner of the room, a certain blue box makes an unhappy noise.

‘That old thing, as you call it, was proof that you recognised me as your companion all those years ago,’ Yaz puts it simply. ‘It's proof that everything we lived through was real. And that it was all worth it.’

The Doctor doesn't usually cry. They swallow their emotions and do everything they can to remain empty and void. The Doctor also doesn't like crying in front of people, not because of some idiotic idea that it's a sign of weakness. No, the reason is much worse. The reason the Doctor avoids crying in company is because their crying is never pretty. It's something angry and visceral, something that comes after losing someone, after failing. Something that destroys everything around them, whether it's an object or a person. And it's always sad. Absurdly sad. That's why, when they cry, they typically do it alone. Lost in some corner of the TARDIS, or in their bedroom that exists just for the sake of existing.

However, at this moment, the Doctor allows herself to cry in the presence of Yaz. It's a sad cry, like all the others. But also happy, like no other.

The Doctor holds Yaz's hands as if they were an anchor, keeping her stuck in reality. She sinks her face into Yaz's hands and cries.

‘I loved you too,’ Doctor confesses.

‘I know.’

‘I don't think you know,’ the Doctor takes a deep breath. ‘I loved you, I loved all of you, and it always hurts when it's time to leave because my life is so long and yours passes in the blink of an eye. But you're giants, you know? Giants! And I love you, each and every one of you. In different ways, I admit. But never one more than the other, just differently. And you, Yaz, you're different. You're like them. Like her. And I love you, Yaz.’

‘I've waited so long to hear you say that,’ Yaz smiles. It's almost happy but immensely sad.

‘I'm sorry it took me so long.’

‘It wouldn't be you if you did things on time, would it?’

‘Oi!’

The two laugh, happy with the familiarity they still have. Outside Yaz's little cottage, the stars turn into snowflakes. It's the first snow of the year. It's the first snow in a long time. Winters aren't like they used to be, nor are summers or autumns or springs. Some things have changed for the better, others Yaz tries not to think about. She lets her head rest against the Doctor's shoulder and the two of them use each other's warmth to stay warm under the blanket.

‘You knew, didn't you?’ Yaz asks after a long period of silence.

‘Maybe,’ Doctor rubs her neck. ‘Timelines are complicated, they're not straight lines, they're more like--’

‘A big ball of wibbly wobbly, timey wimey stuff,’ Yaz interrupts.

‘Jeremy Bearimy,’ the Doctor finishes her sentence.

‘Doctor, you've got to stop making up words,’ Yaz teases.

‘All words have been invented at some point,’ she laughs. ‘But anyway. Perhaps I knew, or maybe I didn't. It really depends on whether this is the first time we've been here together in this room, or whether it's a constant occurrence. At the end of the day, time can always be rewritten.’

‘I hope not,’ Yaz says. ‘I hope that even if you didn't know, and this becomes something fixed. Something of ours. Time can be rewritten, sure, but that doesn't mean that some things should be.’

‘I once met someone who said almost the same thing,’ says the Doctor sadly.

‘That person sounds very wise.’

‘She was amazing.’

The silence between the two is comfortable. The warmth of their bodies is pleasant. The Doctor holds Yaz's hands between hers, tracing the marks of time that her Yaz still doesn't have. Their long-abandoned mugs sit empty side by side on the coffee table.

‘If this were a one-off event,’ Yaz's voice is loud in the silence. ‘If this night were never to be repeated, what would you do?’

The Doctor kisses Yaz. It's a sweet, soft kiss that tastes like tea and biscuits. The sofa is wide and big and comfortable enough for the Doctor to lean over Yaz on it. She runs her hands over Yaz's body, touching every corner of her. Their clothes are lost in the turmoil. The Doctor kisses every part of Yaz. Her wrinkles and marks and blemishes and folds. She caresses and massages and stimulates, and draws out such delicious and luscious sounds from Yaz. They dance into the night, turning a cold winter's evening into something hot and sweaty. The Doctor savours every bit of Yaz, drinking from her and tasting her flavour.

If this night never happens again, the Doctor wants to make sure that just this once she didn't run.

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: Lucky. Word count: 1679. Ratings: Explicit. Relationship: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Lois Lane/Bruce Wayne Warnings: cheating, alcohol consumption, sex between women, bisexuality, threesome [f/f/m], fingering, masturbation, multiple orgasms, oral sex, anal sex, vaginal sex, p-in-v sex Summary: Bruce goes to a charity event and has more fun than he expected. Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

Diana Prince is a big woman. On her own, she's a tall woman. But her high-heeled shoes make her a head taller than most people in the room. Her broad shoulders, her shapely arms, her full breasts. She's a vision to mere mortals, like a goddess, or in this case, a demigoddess. Come to the world of men to capture hearts and trample them with her stiletto heels. Diana is elegant in a way that many are not. Happy is the man who walks side by side with her, who can call her his own. Happy is Steve Trevor with his silly, champion smile and his arm entwined with hers, walking beside her like the king of men. 

Bruce brings his whisky, it's the third of the night. He watches from his seat at the bar as Diana smiles and chats with people who don't deserve her attention — strolling among the masses, carrying her little dog with her. Bruce doesn't hate Steve, far from it. He's a decent bloke. But he's too lucky. After all, any man who can say he slept with Diana Prince is too lucky. Bruce wants to be lucky, too. Every man and woman in this ballroom wants to be lucky, too.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Clark Kent. The slender, fumbling journalist who is just a front for something even more irritating. If Bruce doesn't hate Steve, Clark is someone he can't stand. Not because he's tall or strong or handsome, even though he hides behind those hideous framed glasses. No. Bruce hates Clark because he is lucky. Any man who can say he's dating Lois Lane is lucky. 

Bruce hates lucky men. Even more so now that Selina has broken up with him. So he drinks. Bruce Wayne is a womaniser. Bruce Wayne is a playboy. Bruce Wayne is a drunk. Bruce Wayne is a pitiful creature. Tonight, all these things are real. 

From his fixed spot by the bar, he observes and watches and drinks. 

Lois and Diana chat like old friends. They laugh, brush up against each other, and exchange glances. They have fun amid so many unfortunate souls. Lois' black dress is tight and matches perfectly with Diana's equally tight red dress.

Noticing Bruce's gaze fixed on them, they nod and smile. He doesn't do much more than nod back. And that's all they need to do to acknowledge each other's existence. 

The seconds drag into minutes and turn into hours. Eventually, Bruce loses sight of them both and with nothing else to do, he decides there's a limit to how long he can sit around feeling sorry for himself. Looking around one last time, he contemplates the idea of picking up a woman at random and taking her with him. But he decides against it. Even though he's a millionaire playboy, he's still a vigilante and certain marks on his body are hard to explain. 

Walking through the corridors with heavy steps, he passes a multitude of doors. Many rooms are closed or occupied. Bruce can hear the sound of people screwing everywhere. Rich people are like that, he thinks. All they care about is drinking and shagging. Maybe if he were a normal rich guy like everyone else, he'd be like that too. 

Without paying much attention to his steps, he stumbles over an abandoned shoe in the corridor. If Dick or Jason saw him, they would laugh at how the great Batman nearly broke his neck over a high heel dropped in the middle of the road. Muttering a swear word, he notices that the nearest door is ajar. Most likely, the owner of the shoe ran into the room without caring about nearly causing someone's broken neck. Grunting, he throws the heel inside the room. That's when he notices who's in the room.

Diana and Lois. 

Diana Prince is kissing Lois Lane. 

Clark Kent's girlfriend has her hand up Steve Trevor's girlfriend's dress. 

The redhead's hair is cascading around her face. The brunette's bun is messy and loose. Their dresses crumpled. A red lace bra lying on the floor. Her heels are lost in the partially lit room. 

Bruce lets out a laugh. It's something half mad, half incredulous. It's a sound that comes from deep in his throat and reaches the ears of the two women, who move apart immediately. The three of them stare at each other for a long second. 

“Don't let me interrupt you, ladies,” he says eventually. 

”As if you could interrupt us,” Lois retorts. She always has an answer on the tip of her tongue. 

“I couldn't if I wanted to,” Bruce agrees. 

“And what are you going to do?” Diana asks in a defiant voice. 

“I could walk away and pretend I didn't see anything,” he replies.

“Or…?” Diana begins but doesn't finish. 

Bruce finishes Diana's sentence wordlessly by closing the door behind him. The three of them face each other again. The silence is longer and more tense, and the surrounding air is hot and heavy. Diana and Lois exchange glances that Bruce could only describe as mischievous. 

With long, seductive strides, they walk up to him. Pulling him by the tie, they lead him to an armchair and drop him unceremoniously into it. The place they are in is like an office. There's a two-seater sofa and two armchairs facing the sofa. A large desk in one corner. A bookcase to one side and large windows covered by heavy velvet curtains. 

Bruce accepts the seat they have chosen for him and watches as they make their way to the sofa opposite him. 

Diana pulls Lois into a long, wet kiss. Her tongue roamed through her mouth. The brunette throws the redhead's head back, regaining access to her neck. She trails a path of kisses down to the tips of her full breasts that peek out over the top of Lane's dress. Using her long, slender fingers, Diana gropes for the zip of the dress, finding it in seconds. The sound of the zip being opened fills the room. She lets the straps of the dress fall, and Lois' breasts practically jump out. Diana uses her calloused hands from years of sword training to massage and stimulate Lois' breasts, and Lane moans loudly. 

Bruce feels his erection growing against the unflattering fabric of his trousers. He slips his hand inside his trousers and runs his fingers along his shaft. 

Diana realises what he's doing and laughs. 

As the princess of the Amazons, Diana Prince can be a very cruel woman when she wants to be, but she also knows how to treat a lady. She runs her fingers down Lois's body, causing her to spasm and make sounds as one of her hands continues to work on her breasts. Diana trails a hand down to the hem of her dress, and her hand disappears under Lane's dress. Lois moans loudly. Diana's movements are provocative, she plays with Lois. She plays with Bruce. Diana Prince is a cruel monarch. Her thrusts pick up speed as Bruce's movements on himself get faster. Bruce and Lois are breathing hard, gasping and moaning and howling, and they both scream together. They reach orgasm. 

Diana takes the fingers she used on Lois into her mouth and sucks them eagerly. 

Prince stands up with careful movements. Without difficulty, she discards her dress, letting it fall to the floor. Without hesitation, she marches over to Bruce wearing nothing but a pair of black lace panties. Bruce realises how wet the material is. Diana kneels in front of Wayne and spreads his legs. She pulls down his trousers, which are now stained, and his underwear comes off with them.

Without much thought, she grabs his cock. Her thin, long, warm fingers work on his member. Diana takes the head of his cock into her mouth and moistens it. Bruce moans against her warm, soft mouth. 

Diana sucks and blows and goes all the way. She bites and nips and scratches him with her teeth in a way he didn't even know he could enjoy. 

Bruce can see Lois open on the sofa, playing by herself as she watches them. With Diana sucking him off and Lois masturbating in front of him, it doesn't take Bruce long to cum. Prince swallows every drop of his juice. The air around them gets hotter. The smell of sweat and cum is strong.

Diana is not satisfied. She gets rid of her last piece of clothing and sits on Bruce's cock. She rocks and rides, and Bruce moans louder. Perhaps, were it not for the deliberately loud music in the ballroom, people would hear him screaming. Bruce pulls Diana to him, kissing her and tasting his taste mixed with Lois. He massages her breasts, making her wail louder against his mouth. They use each other and Bruce comes inside her. When Diana gets off him, Bruce notices Lois leaning over the table. She's waiting. Bruce may be many things, but he's not a man to keep a woman waiting. The brunette takes the redhead from behind, thrusting hard into her hole. Clark Kent may be Super, but it's Bruce who makes Lois roll her eyes and scream obscenities and call his name. He fucks her until she forgets who the alien is and when he's finished, he comes inside her, just like he did with Diana. 

Diana licks Bruce's cum off Lois's leg, turning her around on the table and sitting her face towards herself. She takes the redhead's hole with her tongue and makes her scream without having time to catch her breath. Prince penetrates Lois with her tongue and fingers, she touches a special place that makes her scream. Lois holds onto the table, arching her back and hooking her legs around Diana's shoulders.

Lois is like a divine vision. Diana is like a sinful vision. Bruce feels as if he has died and gone to heaven. Or maybe hell. 

He doesn't care which is which, he just knows he's a very lucky man.

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: Of Shirts Shenanigans and Long Overdue Apologies. Word count: 1073. Ratings: Teen And Up Audiences. Relationship: Bakugou & Midoriya, Todoroki & Midoriya. Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply. Summary: It all started two months ago with a shirt. A simple shirt, with no details other than a phrase, like all the different items of clothing in Midoriya's wardrobe that don't have a hero printed on them. A white shirt with black sleeves in the style of the baseball shirts from the films Shouto used to watch as a child, with the words: “Yelling is NOT communication!” in large bold letters. Bakugou didn't take long to shred it. The following week he turned up with a shirt of his own saying: “Muttering IS NOT communication EITHER!” Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

“Do you see what I see?” Iida asks quietly.

“I do,” Shouto replies in the same tone.

The two watch in amazement as Midoriya and Bakugou prepare Sunday lunch. It's a dormitory rule not to get in their way or the consequences could be drastic (like the time Uraraka distracted the green-haired one, and he accidentally put too much hot sauce in the regular lunch instead of the separate portion he was preparing for Bakugou and him). But such a feat was becoming extremely difficult as the weeks went by.

It all started two months ago with a shirt. A simple shirt, with no details other than a phrase, like all the different items of clothing in Midoriya's wardrobe that don't have a hero printed on them. A white shirt with black sleeves in the style of the baseball shirts from the films Shouto used to watch as a child, with the words: “Yelling is NOT communication!” in large bold letters. Bakugou didn't take long to shred it. The following week he turned up with a shirt of his own saying: “Muttering IS NOT communication EITHER!”

Since then, other shirts have appeared. Some were pretty daft, others no one frankly understood. Their latent hostility and animosity evolved into passive aggression, for which the school's reform funds and Cementoss-sensei were very grateful. The only comment Aizawa-sensei made was that if a pair of odd T-shirts made them stop breaking the rules by trying to smash each other's faces in the early hours of the morning, he wouldn't interfere.

Sunday T-shirts have become weekly T-shirts. Some days, they turn up in new shirts. On other days, they repeat a point that irritates them deeply. Shouto admits that he lent his father's credit card to Midoriya to buy most of his shirts and even placed an order for nineteen shirts similar to the first one that started it all for his whole class to wear when Bakugou is being particularly loud. Other students have other models with their complaints for other people. Kamimari, for example, spent a week wearing a shirt saying he was not an idiot. Jirou stopped calling him that on the first day. Mineta, on the other hand, was expelled from school when all the girls in his class along with the girls in class B staged a protest with several T-shirts on the front showing a drawing of all the places they had been touched by him without permission and on the back all the things he had said to them or near them (the teachers held an assembly afterwards to publicly apologise to the students for having allowed him in school for so long and talked about new policies which ended with thirty more students expelled or suspended). Shouto paid for all those T-shirts. And he did it for a reason beyond just spending his father's money. Personally, Shouto believes that his father's money has never been better spent.

When everyone decided to go to the shopping centre for the first time since the last fiasco where Shigaraki almost killed Midoriya (again), the whole gang decided to wear a shirt with the villain's face on it, where his name became known as “Shiggy, the Crispy”. Unfortunately, because Midoriya was with them and the real superpower of the class's ray of sunshine was to make use of Murphy's Law, they bumped into the villain again, who didn't like their shirts one bit. Dabi and Toga, on the other hand, asked where they could get one (Shouto said he was going to leave a shirt for each League member at the not-so-secret secret place Natsuo uses to exchange letters with Touya-nii).

All these shirts were funny. They were all jokes. They fight about the shirts sometimes, but it's nothing serious, nothing bad. Nothing lasts longer than the time it takes to cook a meal with the force of hatred. But the shirt Midoriya is wearing now is different. Because Bakugou is crying.

It's a simple shirt, like all the others. All it has is the outline of a swan. Nothing else. Just a swan. And Bakugou is crying.

Midoriya is hugging him, apologising. Saying that this, that the shirt has nothing to do with it. Shouto doesn't know what it is, but this makes Bakugou cry all the more. Because Midoriya doesn't seem to have noticed something absurdly important to both of them, something so monumentally significant that the blond is bursting into tears. Sobbing and choking and begging for forgiveness. Shouto doesn't know what to do. Midoriya and he are friends, and the green one knows everything he needs to know about him from the first moment Shouto dumped all his trauma on him. But Midoriya is different, he keeps his problems to himself. He keeps everything to himself until the last moment, and he only opens up when there is no other option because, as Shouto has come to realise, Izuku thinks that everything about him is a burden and the less he can do to be a burden, the better (or worse in most cases). But now Bakugou of all people is hugging the most joyful and merry boy in the class, the same he tried to attack on the first day of school and almost killed on the second day, the one he spent the last school year antagonising and the last few months in a silent battle with personalised shirts, and he's apologising as if his life depended on it.

And the most terrifying part of it all is that Midoriya isn't crying. Midoriya Izuku, the boy who cries about everything, isn't shedding a tear while Bakugou's face is filled with tears, drool and snot.

Midoriya is smiling. It's not an evil or smug smile or something to gloat over the situation. It's the smile of someone who has been surprised. The smile of someone who has received something they never thought they would. The smile of someone who has spent years coming to terms with something that shouldn't have happened, but is now seeing its almost happy ending. Midoriya's smile is the smile that Shouto imagines having on the day that Endeavor finally gets what he deserves and he and his family can live in peace.

Shouto doesn't know what Bakugou has done and won't ask. If Midoriya ever wants to talk about it, he will. But he is happy that his friend has received an apology.

[elfryn]

Commission to Clyn. Title: Once in a Moon. Request: Drunken confession, Larissa finds out and happy ending. Words: 5648. Ratings/Warnings: General Audiences/No Archive Warnings Apply. Relationships: Marilyn Thornhill | Laurel Gates/Larissa Weems. Summary: She feels a lump in her throat, a heaviness in her stomach, and discomfort in her eyes. Larissa is using all her strength not to scream, not to cry, yet, as the other's diminutive figure seems even smaller and more fragile cowering in the centre of her bed, it makes everything difficult. Silently, Larissa Weems wishes she could go back to before, when she was still ignorant, to a time when she did not know the sleeping being in front of her. She wishes she could go back to the days long gone when she had yet to lose her heart to Laurel Gates. Links: ao3, tips! Commissions info here!

“Why do you want to work at Nevermore, Mrs. Thornhill?" Larissa uses her most professional voice. 

“Miss," the redhead corrects. “Nevermore is one of the best schools in the country and I..." she proceeds to say a decorated speech. Larissa is well aware of her school's reputation, both the good and the bad, she doesn't need people to remind her of that. Weems admits that she has stopped paying attention between one word and another. After several boring interviews, it is normal to lose interest past a certain point. Everything she needs to know about the candidates is in the curriculums anyway. She studies the resume she has in hand. Exceptional track record, flowery references, no complaints or disgusted notes.

On paper, Marilyn Thornhill looks practically perfect in every way. 

“And what did you say your skill is?" Not that it will change her final decision at all, but Weems likes to keep track of what kind of person she's dealing with. 

“I didn't say," Thornhill smiles yellow, almost nervously, “I don't have one," she reveals. This catches Larissa's attention as she carries her gaze to her with a quickness that makes her dizzy.

“Are you a normie?" Larissa thinks she's put too much poison in the word, considering how Marilyn shrinks back in her chair. “Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you." 

“No, it's okay, that's kind of my fault for omitting information." Again with the fake smile and nervousness.

“It's not like you're obligated to put that on your resume," the blonde tries to soften the damage she's caused. Weems looks at Marilyn and notices her, really notices her. The long red hair, the fringes married to the giant glasses that help hide her face, the simple clothes and nothing flashy. She looks like a low-budget red-headed version of some Zooey Deschanel character. There is absolutely nothing over-the-top about her. Marilyn Thornhill is ordinary, forgettable. One of those people who stand in the back of the room and nobody notices, as if they have a perception filter over them, deflecting away all eyes. Had Larissa not known better, she would never have married Marilyn Thornhill's resume to the person of Marilyn Thornhill. “Why do you want to work here?" Larissa asks again, this time genuinely interested. 

Marilyn holds Weems' gaze, defiant. “I used to live in Jericho years ago as a child. I observed first-hand how the townspeople treated Nevermore students. Even as a kid, the aloofness, anger and ostracism never felt right to me.

“When my family left, I thought it would be different, better, however, the sad reality is that the situation away from these walls, from this town, manages to be infinitely worse. Admittedly, the citizens of Jericho are not receptive and can even cause problems for the institution and its students. However, the young people who inhabit these dark halls are not alone in the world, and as long as they have someone like you, Principal Weems, to pray for them, they are safe.

“Which, disgracefully, cannot be said about thousands of people who have their lives cowardly cut short just for being different. Like..." She interrupts herself, her eyes glistening with tears that she refuses to let fall. Taking a deep breath, Thornhill continues, “My reason for wanting to work at this very prestigious institution is not because of professional relevance, the fat salary or anything else. I stand before you today out of an extremely selfish personal desire, just that and nothing more."

“What would that be?" 

“I want to protect those children, or at least try to." All the redhead's nervousness and discomfort are washed away, and suddenly Marilyn Thornhill no longer looks like someone dull who is lost in the landscape. She emanates a glow of her own, capable of blinding anyone who dares to look at her directly. The shy woman at the beginning of the interview and the woman who gave the touching speech are two completely different people. Larissa gets a glimpse of something she can't name but wants to see again. “I know I'm not much and that it's very preposterous to think that some random person with no powers can achieve something so great, or even that you need the help of someone like me, but if I can do anything to help, I need to try. 

“That, Larissa Weems, is the real reason I want to work at your school."

**

Weems searches Thornhill around the room with her eyes, knowing exactly where the woman will be. The months following Marilyn's hiring have passed smoothly, and the school year follows its routine cycle without end. The students keep on giving work to the same extent as in all the other years, the faculty goes on as usual. As far as the eye can see, everything is normal, everything is fine. However, Larissa is neither stupid nor ignorant, she knows how to look beyond appearances, beyond the surface. She notices how the botany teacher has a little more difficulty in her classes than the other teachers, she perceives how the shorter one is almost always isolated in the corner and on the rare occasions she saw her talking to a student or another teacher it was for something related to her classes. 

In staff meetings, Thornhill is in the corner, standing by the wall, blending into the environment. In those situations, she is only noticed by those who are looking for her, otherwise, it is as if no one is there. Weems remembers her first impression of her, of finding her ordinary, forgettable. She also remembers her words, her heart-warming speech and the small glimpse of something magical she saw that day.

“Miss Thornhill," the headmistress calls out once the meeting is over and the room begins to empty, “will you come with me? There is something I need to discuss with you." 

“Of course," she agrees with a shy smile. 

The walk to Weems' office never seemed so long, the atmosphere between the two similar to a burial. Corridor after corridor, Weems feels the prying eyes on them, students and staff who are probably thinking the teacher is in some kind of pickle. Glancing around, she notices a smile here and a giggle there. Something uncomfortable stirs inside her, but the tall woman just ignores it. 

“Am I in trouble?” Thornhill asks once they reach the blonde's office. She sounds like a child afraid of being scolded. 

“I don't know, do you have reason to be in trouble, miss?” Weems heads straight for the bar, she studies her options carefully. Checking the hours, she sighs defeatedly. “Tea?” She offers, smiling. 

“Yes?”

“Are you accepting the tea or admitting you committed a crime?" the Principal asks, amused. “You don't have to be nervous.”

“Are you sure? Because I kind of feel like I should be terrified.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” She assures. “Please sit down,” she indicates one of the armchairs near the fireplace. Looking a little more relaxed, yet still nervous, Thornhill accepts the invitation to sit down. Between heating water in the electric kettle and choosing tea, they fall into an almost comfortable silence. Weems feels the redhead's eyes following her every move. 

“I was about to ask you that before, but I didn't find an opportunity,” the blonde breaks the silence. “How have you been? Is your adjustment going well?”

Thornhill doesn't answer immediately. For a moment she looks confused, surprised by the question, then her countenance changes to thoughtful. “Everything is fine,” she answers finally. 

“Are you sure?" She insists. Weems put a few spoonfuls of tea leaves into a previously scalded French press, then pours the water in circular motions until the container is almost full. “You can tell me if something's not going well, you know that, don't you? Whether it's a student causing too much trouble or some inside difficulty, you can tell me anything.”

“I appreciate the concern, but it's not necessary," she assures. “Everything is fine.”

The headmistress turns to face the teacher, her concern stamped in her eyes. Weems needs to know if everything really is fine or if the woman is just being strong. Larissa cares about her staff as much as she cares about her students. Everything and everyone related to this school is important to her (admittedly, some more than others). She analyses the little redhead, looking for anything that would give away the lie in her words, however, she finds nothing. 

“Either she's a great actress and a first-rate liar or she's telling the truth,” the blonde thinks to herself. 

“Well,” the woman settles for saying. She approaches Thornhill, bringing with her a tray with the French press, two mugs and other things she needs to serve the tea. Depositing the tray on the small coffee table between the two armchairs, she sets about serving. “Sugar or honey?”

“Sugar.” Weems hands the cup with the blue liquid lightly sweetened with a sugar cube to Thornhill, who takes a sip of the drink before adding another four sugar cubes. “What?” she asks innocently when she notices how Larissa stares at her.

“You're a criminal,” the blonde replies. 

“Pardon?”

“There is no pardon for someone who puts five sugar cubes in their tea.”

“I like sweet things,” the redhead defends herself. 

“That's not sweet, that's diabetes in a cup,” she jokes. “Next time, I'll offer you just the sugar cubes right away.”

“Do so, and I'll gladly accept,” Marilyn replies with a smile.

**

Larissa tries to steal some of Marilyn's popcorn once hers is finished. They are in the headmistress' quarters, watching a film of dubious quality that the teacher has chosen. It's about a brain that won't die, however, Larissa believes the title is misleading as it's about a whole head and not just the brain. She also thinks the film is nonsensical, more than once she has commented on how a head cannot remain not only alive but also conscious without a body. In Weems' opinion, the brain surviving alone would make much more sense than the whole head. Thornhill just told her to be quiet and watch the film, which she did, even though she is itching to point out every absurd thing happening on the screen. Larissa doesn't know why she still lets Marilyn pick the movies, it's more than proven that the redhead has terrible taste in movies. The week before she picked a movie about a wormy woman, and the week before that she made the blonde watch Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, because, according to her, the fact that Larissa had never seen the movie until then was a crime. 

Weems lets her eyes wander from the screen to the person sitting next to her. Marilyn is sitting with her legs folded under her on the sofa, the bucket of popcorn, her inseparable companion, resting on her lap, her eyes glued to the screen, she hardly blinks, absolutely engrossed in the plot. She wears grey sweatpants and a pastel pink shirt with a kitten on it, her hair tied up in messy braids and her glasses forgotten on the coffee table. Larissa can't help but notice how Marilyn seems to belong in the room as if she's the person who actually lives there. 

“You're staring at me again,” Thornhill says, and only then does Larissa realize that the film is over. 

“No, I'm not.” She doesn't even bother to stop staring. 

“Yes, you are!”

“I'm not, but if I was, you can't blame me if you're so much more interesting than these bad movies you pick.”

“My movies aren't bad.” 

“Oh, but they are, honey. They're terrible.”

“If you think the movies I pick are so bad, why do you keep letting me pick the movies?”

“Because you look very pretty while you're watching bad movies, and I like that very much.” Marilyn stares at Weems wide-eyed in surprise for half a second before quickly turning her face away. 

“Idiot,” the redhead says in a low voice. Larissa can see the slight blush on her cheeks and can't help but smile.

**

They walk side by side through the city streets, their fingers intertwined and their shoulders rubbing lightly with each step. It is their first official date outside of school since until then they have reserved themselves for movie nights of dubious quality, idle Wednesdays drinking fancy teas, and one particularly disastrous Friday when Larissa decided to cook and ended up exploding the casserole (in her defence, Marilyn said the sauce was fine, even if it was sticking to the wall). 

Marilyn talks about her passion for carnivorous and poisonous plants, the main reason she chose botany in the first place, citing some of the types they have at the Nevermore Conservatory. Weems listens intently, confused by all the scientific names that the little woman throws at her — the principal's knowledge of botany is limited to which plants she can make tea with. There aren't many people on the street, but the few they do meet give them a tail-eyed stare, with each new encounter, Larissa feels she's very close to punching someone. Realizing this, Thornhill gently squeezes her hand, calming her down and telling her it's all right. 

When a group of teenagers dressed as pilgrims approach them, laughing and pointing brazenly, Larissa moves towards them, but Marilyn pulls her to the other side. 

“This way, I know a shortcut.”

“This isn't a shortcut,” the blonde says, acknowledging where they are. “This is the opposite of a shortcut, it will take us at least another half hour to get to the school grounds.”

“Good,” the teacher smiles, "so I have you all to myself for another half hour.”

Larissa feels her ears burn and the blood rises to her cheeks, she thanks the moonless night for hiding the blush that she is sure has taken over her face (mentally, she imagines her head being replaced by a tomato). She slips her arm around Marilyn's shoulder, who in turn slips her arm around Weems' waist. And so they continued walking, in each other's arms, to the gates of Nevermore. 

**

Weems wakes up with a sound similar to a cry. Marilyn is curled up on her side of the bed, looking even smaller than usual, her eyes closed, her fists clenched, her countenance contorted in pain. Lightly bathed in the moonlight streaming through the half-closed curtains, she looks like a wounded animal.

“Mar...” Larissa calls out, concerned. “Marilyn!” She shakes the woman when she gets no answer. 

Marilyn wakes up in a jump, frightened and bewildered, she attacks Weems, her hands going straight for the woman's neck. Larissa doesn't move, doesn't fight back, just waits until the mist in the redhead's eyes dissipates and she understands where she is and what is happening, which doesn't take long. Quickly, Thornhill pulls her hands back and turns away from Larissa, terrified by her actions. 

“I'm sorry,” she asks in a low, weak voice. Larissa hates it when she uses that voice. Throughout their time together, the blonde has noticed that Marilyn has a lot of nightmares. Occasionally, they tend to get worse, as if they have a seasonal trigger that makes everything go downhill. A trigger that Larissa has yet to figure out what it is to protect Marilyn from it. 

“It's okay,” Weems says hoarsely. She smiles, trying to lessen the weight of the situation. They fall silent, feeling the atmosphere weigh on them. “You... you were calling for your brother...” Larissa says small, uncertain. Marilyn rarely talks about her nightmares, and Larissa respects that, though she thinks talking about it might help her. “I didn't know you had a brother."

“I don't!” She bites, her voice a thunderclap in the night. Marilyn's harsh words echo acidly in the darkness. The silence that consumes them this time is heavier, more suffocating. Larissa feels guilty, the small voice in the back of her mind telling her that she messed up. Screaming that she should have stayed quiet like all the other times. She falls into a spiral of self-deprecating thoughts. “Not anymore...” Marilyn's voice is so low that Larissa almost doesn't realize she's said anything. 

“I... I'm sorry for bringing it up.”

“It's okay, I know you were concerned... and curious.” Marilyn shakes her head. She attempts a smile, but she has no strength or will, all she can manage is the shadow of something listless, lifeless. “It's just that I don't usually talk about my brother.”

“And you don't have to if you don't want to.”

“But I want to!” It's a cry for help. "I want to...”

“And I want to listen.” 

For a third time, silence devours them. The anticipation of what Marilyn is going to say fills the air with statistics. Weems holds her hands and squeezes them lightly in a comforting gesture. Assuring her that it is safe to continue, safe to share whatever it is with her. 

“My brother was an amazing person..." she begins, her voice so low and yet so high at the same time. “I followed him everywhere, his friends used to say I was his second shadow, and even though he was ten years older, he never treated me like the annoying little sister... I love... loved him so much... He was my best friend and the best person in the world, and he... He was taken from me...” Marilyn's voice dies. She feels Larissa wiping away her tears, and only then does she realize she is crying. Larissa hugs her and lets her girlfriend cry on her chest, she uses one of her hands to draw imaginary patterns on the redhead's back, something she knows calms her. When Marilyn finally stops crying, the first rays of sunlight can be seen through the window. 

“Do you want to get up and get ready, or call in and say you're sick?” Larissa asks. 

“Call who? You're my boss.”

“It's going to be a strange call, but I think I can convince myself to give us the day off.”

“ʽUsʼ?”

“If you're going to stay home and eat ice cream all day, so am I.”

**

Larissa walks through the green maze that is the corridors of the conservatory. Marilyn has missed another staff meeting. Although Weems is mature enough to admit that a part of her is relieved not to have to spend three hours locked in a room with her ex-girlfriend and all the other teachers looking at her funny, she's still the principal and Thornhill is still a teacher who needs to shoulder her responsibilities. 

Aisle after aisle, the blonde makes her way to the farthest and most private part of the room. It has been a few weeks since she and Marilyn broke up, or rather, since the other woman ended it all with no explanation or apparent reason. Larissa still feels sad, empty and bitter, and potentially angry. She let the redhead have her time, and her space and waited for her to come back on her decision to break up, but it didn't happen. To make matters worse, Marilyn's performance has declined greatly, causing even more friction in the relationship between the two, who meet only to have the headmistress scold her. 

Larissa goes over the conversation she intends to have with Thornhill in her head again, she needs things to work out. She doesn't want to keep fighting with the redhead every time they see each other. Marilyn was the best thing that ever happened to Weems, and if the redhead no longer wants to be her girlfriend, she understands and hopes that they can at least be friends — because Larissa can't go back to an empty and insignificant life where Marilyn Thornhill isn't part of it. The blonde takes a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She needs everything to work out, or at least not be a total disaster. The principal still feels bad about her last encounter with the teacher, where a professional discussion turned into a person and she said things that weren't true just to hurt Marilyn as her anger and frustration got the better of her. Larissa has not seen Marilyn since that day. 

Turning down the last corridor, the scene Larissa encounters makes all her speech disappear from her mind in a matter of seconds. Marilyn is lying on the floor, liquor bottles were thrown around her, and a syringe with a blue liquid is near her hand. Larissa feels desperation grow in her chest, and she screams the woman's name, or so she thinks she does, but she couldn't tell since she can't hear her voice. She shakes the small body, looking for signs of life, takes her in her arms and runs out. At some point, someone appears and she believes she has given orders for the doctor to be sent to her quarters, for when she reaches her room with Marilyn in her arms, the middle-aged woman in charge of the infirmary is waiting for her at the door. 

“She's fine,” the doctor says after what seemed an eternity to Weems. 

“What do you mean ‘she's fineʼ, she's unconscious!” Larissa screams. She feels bad about that, but she can't afford to care at the moment. “There was a syringe on the side of her body! She tried to kill herself!”

“She has no sting marks, so I don't believe the syringe was for that.” The doctor says calmly, used to dealing with people on the edge of their emotions. “She drank a bit too much and ended up sleeping halfway through whatever she was working on.”

“She's just sleeping?” She asks, discredited and relieved. 

“Exactly.”

“I'm going to kill her.”

**

When Marilyn wakes up, Larissa barely gives her time to find her way around before saying that they need to talk. 

“We don't need anything.” The redhead replies dryly and dismissively. Larissa feels terrible for being used to this kind of hostility coming from the woman. Precariously and keeping herself upright by some miracle, Marilyn stands up and begins to walk towards the exit. Weems is faster than her and uses her body to barricade the door. 

“You're not going anywhere until you talk to me.”

“Is that an order from my superior?”

“It's a friend's request.”

“We're not friends,” she yells. 

“No, we are more than that, but you for some reason decided to ignore that fact and start acting like you don't know me!" Larissa returns in the same tone. She doesn't like shouting, even less so when the other person is not in a good place, however, she can't keep it all bottled up inside anymore. Weems knew she would explode one time or another and it seems that time has come. 

“If that's not an order, then I don't need to answer." Thornhill ignores Larissa's words. She tries to walk past the blonde, but the woman's tall body doesn't even move. Right now, she is like a stake fixed into the ground with concrete. 

“Please, can't you see that I'm trying here?”

“I didn't ask you to try,” she hisses. 

“That's the point, you don't have to ask!” Exasperates. “I'm trying hard to give you the space you need to sort your shit out, but every second you seem more distant and lost and it's hurting you and me. To make it worse, I found you lying on the conservatory floor with a syringe full of poison thrown beside you. I thought... 

“I thought you were dead... I thought I'd lost you again, only now for good.” Her voice is choked with emotion. “I can't go on like this anymore, I can't go on watching you sink deeper and deeper. When you give someone too much rope, they end up hanging themselves and I'm not going to lose you. Not like this.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I love you, you moron! That's why I care!”

“Don't say that.”

“I. Love. You. And no matter how hard you try to push me away, my feelings for you won't change.”

“You can't love me.” Marilyn sounds like a hurt and frightened child. 

“Why not?”

“Because you don't know me!" She screams with tears in her eyes. “My past, the things I've done, the things I plan to do. The real reason I came to this school in the first place. You know absolutely nothing about me, that's why you can't love me. Because if you knew anything, you would hate me...”

“I could never hate you, Marilyn.”

“I am not Marilyn! My name is Laurel. I'm Garrett Gates' sister! And I hate you. You and all these freaks in this goddamn school. Every student, every teacher, every outcast, I hate them all.” Her eyes burn with the tears she refuses to let fall. “Your kind is the reason my brother is dead. The reason I lost my entire family, and because of that I want all of you destroyed, dead! Every freak, every abnormal, every outcast, you all deserve death. All of you. 

“Or at least I thought it should be that way until you showed up...” Between the few stubborn tears that managed to escape, she gives a sad, pained smile. “You who are so serious and yet kind and cheerful and perfect. You lured me in with your warm smiles and fancy teas and soft laughter and beautiful personality. What mortal could resist the charms of Larissa Weems? None, I tell you. Before I could do anything to stop it, I caught myself completely in love with you. My revenge no longer mattered as long as I could be with you. But...

“Every time you call me Marilyn, I feel my heart being torn apart. All the things you say you love about me are lies. You love a lie. That's why you can't love me, Larissa. Marilyn Thornhill, the person you love, it's not me. So, I'm the one who's begging you now, because I can't keep pretending to be someone I'm not anymore, and more importantly, I can't keep hurting you any longer. Please, let me go.”

Weems doesn't understand what is going on. She knows that she has heard everything that Mar-- Laurel has said. She feels a suffocating pain in her chest, the air, or lack of it in this case. Her head feels heavy, and she is sure she is crying, and even though everything indicates that Larissa is just seconds away from falling, it is not her body that crashes dramatically onto the ground. 

**

Larissa watches over the sleeping woman in her bed. The small body curled up into a ball, her face swollen from crying. She wants to hold her in her arms and protect her from the rest of the world, to promise that everything will be all right and nothing and no one will ever hurt her again. However, she can do neither, so, with a tightness in her chest, she settles for slowly brushing her fingers across the woman's soft skin, up her exposed arms and into the fair redhead's relaxed face, taking the opportunity to brush a strand of hair from her face.

She feels a lump in her throat, a heaviness in her stomach, and discomfort in her eyes. Larissa is using all her strength not to scream, not to cry, yet, as the other's diminutive figure seems even smaller and more fragile cowering in the centre of her bed, it makes everything difficult. 

Silently, Larissa Weems wishes she could go back to before, when she was still ignorant, to a time when she did not know the sleeping being in front of her. She wishes she could go back to the days long gone when she had yet to lose her heart to Laurel Gates. 

**

In the morning, Larissa wakes up in her empty bed. It doesn't take long for her to discover that Marilyn, Laurel, or whatever the redhead's name is, has left the school in the dead of night. Weems notices the stares at her, the tension of the questions that no one dares to ask, she ignores everything and everyone. She ignores her feelings and the desire to scream that grows inside her chest. The redhead's words echoed in her ears, burning in her mind, repeating endlessly. She knows that everything that was said is true, Laurel's hatred was perceptible in each of her words, dripping like venom. Larissa cannot understand how Marilyn, so sweet and kind, could be Laurel, so bitter and sick. However, thinking about it wouldn't change anything, because Laurel ran away and took Marilyn with her, and that's the part Larissa can't forgive. 

**

When the police show up asking questions and hinting that the botany teacher had a connection to the strange deaths that had been happening in the woods on the edge of town, Weems said nothing beyond what was public knowledge (or the public imagination).

“Yes, we had a relationship,” she replies coldly. “No, I don't know anything about the possibility of her being a serial killer,” she thus ends the interview, practically throwing the sheriff out of her office. 

**

Larissa walks around the old cottage, opening the windows and airing out the place. She still remembers the last time she visited her family's cottage. Of the picnic, she and her mother had near the lake, the boat rides with her father, and how her brothers fought over the last s'more around the campfire. The old Weems Family Cottage was once a place of great joy, but now, it is just a pile of rotten wood falling to pieces. 

Since her mother passed away almost ten years ago, neither Larissa nor her brothers, nor her father has dared to set foot near the place. All the good memories created in this place have been transformed into daggers that pierce the soul overnight. The blonde walks slowly and carefully through the place, parts of the floorboards look like they will give way at any moment. She wonders how she let herself be dragged to that place, but now that she was there, she had no reason to dwell on her life choices. 

She sees her mother at the kitchen island cutting vegetables. Her father is by the fireplace reading the newspaper. She hears her brothers' footsteps running upstairs. Between one memory and another, she finds herself making a list of everything that needs to be fixed or replaced, or demolished. Immersed in nostalgia, in pain and longing, she hardly hears the knocks on the door. 

As she opens the door, she is confronted with the reason she is there, to begin with. Laurel Gates, better known as Marilyn Thornhill, stares at her uncertainly.

“Hi...” her voice is only a whisper. 

“What took you so long?” Larissa asks with a big smile that makes all of Laurel's nervousness disappear. 

“The traffic was horrible.” She replies with a smile as big as the blonde. “But I promise I'll make it up to you.”

“You can be sure of that.”

**

Larissa places her cell phone on top of the mantelpiece, and the soft melody of the music she has chosen gradually begins to fill the room. She offers her hand to the person who dragged her to that place. “Will you grant me this dance?” She asks with a smile on her face. 

“Of course.”

Weems takes Laurel in her arms, fitting her into her body. They follow the quiet rhythm of the music. Laurel rests her head on Larissa's chest, listening to the slightly accelerated heartbeat of the blonde. It is like a scene from a musical. 

The moon shines on them like a spotlight, the damp, dusty atmosphere giving way to the cozy warmth created by the fire crackling in the hearth. The feeling of detachment and strangeness slowly went away. The world around them darkens and loses focus, and all that is left is the two of them nestled in each other's arms and Neil Young's voice echoing through the air. 

“I missed you,” Larissa admits, her voice a whisper in the night. 

“I missed you too,” Laurel replies in the same tone. They continue to dance together, neither daring to say anything more, unable to break the little bubble of happiness they find themselves in. They are not naive and know they need to talk about everything, but not now. Right now, what they need is music and each other's embrace. 

As the music ends, Larissa stops and stands aside just enough to admire the woman with her. The new haircut, the spectacles with a different frame, the extra holes in her ears. Visually, so distinct from the last time the blonde had seen her, yet still the same person. Weems rubs her fingers slowly across Laurel's face, gently caressing her cheek. Laurel closes her eyes and lets herself be carried away by the touch, basking in the thrill of being touched by Larissa again. 

“I really want to kiss you.” Softly, Larissa runs her finger along the outline of Laurel's lips.

Laurel opens her eyes and stares into Larissa's deep blue eyes that flicker in the half-light of the fireplace. There is no doubt in the blonde's eyes. “Please do so.” It is a plea. 

Larissa leans in and ends the distance between them. Their first kiss after all these months apart is salted by tears that the two have not bothered to stop. Laurel's lips are the perfect match for Larissa's, just as Marilyn's were. As the kiss intensifies, Larissa feels something in her chest. She feels the hole that opened when Marilyn ran away being closed. Marilyn Thornhill may no longer be there, but Laurel Gates is, and Larissa loves her with all her being, and she will never let her disappear from her life again. 

“I love you, Laurel Gates,” Larissa utters. 

“I love you, Larissa Weems.” She replies with a smile and tears.

[elfryn]

Fanfiction. Title: Under The Moonlight. Word count: 1831. Ratings: Explicit. Relationship: Marilyn Thornhill | Laurel Gates/Larissa Weems Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex, vaginal sex, lesbian sex. Summary: Under the moonlight, Larissa contemplates the vision that is Marilyn. She is wearing a dress in a dark shade of green. The gown is long enough to skim the ground and has inlaid stones on the collar, sleeves and hem, as well as black details alongside the stones. It's closed at the front with a row of buttons and open at the legs — every step is torture for Larissa, who does her best not to stare at the redhead's legs.  Links: ao3, tips!. Commissions info here!

Larissa doesn't know why she's so nervous, but she can't help wiping her sweaty palms on her trousers. With a trembling hand and lingering movements, she presses her knuckles to the wood of the door and knocks twice. 

She takes a deep breath. She fiddles with her fingers, bites her lips, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Waits and waits. The silence that follows the knocks consumes the night and suffocates the blonde, who feels her entrails turning inside her. 

Larissa begins to wonder if there's anyone at home if she's got the place or the day right, if she has time to leave and pretend that none of this has happened. Her mind is a whirlwind and time passes faster inside her head than outside — milliseconds become seconds and seconds become minutes and minutes become hours and nothing happens. 

Then a miracle happens and Larissa's demons are silenced by the divine vision of Marilyn opening the door.

“You look beautiful,” Larissa says, smiling, all her anxiety melting away at the image of Marilyn standing in front of her.

“And you look marvellous,” Marilyn contemplates. Larissa is wearing a SHINee's colour three-piece suit with big black buttons. 

“This old thing?” 

“Old thing, huh?” Marilyn asks, reaching out to pull something from the sleeve of Larissa's blazer — it's a price tag.

“Maybe not that old,” Larissa smiles sheepishly.

Marilyn doesn't hold back and lets out a laugh. It's a sweet sound that spreads through the night and sounds like music to Larissa's ears. 

“Shall we?” Larissa asks, offering her arm to the other woman. 

“Yes, we shall,” Marilyn says, taking the blonde's arm.

It's their sixth date, but it's the first time they've been out in public together. Although relationships between employees are not forbidden, both Larissa and Marilyn wanted to make sure that their casual encounters in the principal's study and their conversations over glasses of wine would lead somewhere before they put themselves in the public eye. 

The place Larissa has chosen for dinner is not far from Marilyn's flat, so they decide to take advantage of the calm evening air and walk to the place. Under the moonlight, Larissa contemplates the vision that is Marilyn. She is wearing a dress in a dark shade of green. The gown is long enough to skim the ground and has inlaid stones on the collar, sleeves and hem, as well as black details alongside the stones. It's closed at the front with a row of buttons and open at the legs — every step is torture for Larissa, who does her best not to stare at the redhead's legs. 

For a Friday night, the restaurant was quieter than expected. They sit at a table away from the door but near one of the windows. 

Throughout the dinner, they talk about many different topics. It starts with Marilyn talking about her adjustment to school and about her favourite students and those who are a bit more trouble but are still good people. Eventually, the topic of conversation changes, and they talk about life before working at the school. Larissa talks a little about her family, about her years as a student, mentioning some stories about the crazy things Wednesday's father got up to in high school (Marilyn laughs at these stories and Larissa finds herself falling even more in love with the sound of her laughter). Over dessert (which they share), Marilyn talks about the future, about wanting to retire to a small chalet in the mountains and watch the sunset from her balcony every afternoon. Larissa admits that she can't see her life away from the school, since she has spent so much of her life at Nevermore (as a student, a teacher and now principal). Marilyn says that, if Larissa wants, they can share the redhead's plans for the future (Larissa accepts without a second thought). 

The walk home is filled with stories from Marilyn's adolescence and childhood - when she broke her arm, when she punched a boy in class, when she ran away from home and only got as far as the corner before running back into her mum's arms. Step after step, they fall into pleasant conversation. Marilyn talks more than Larissa, who is content to just listen. 

The interior of the flat is cozy. The wallpaper is a pastel colour and the walls are covered in photos. Larissa realizes that most of them feature a tall, dark-haired young man.

“That's my brother,” Marilyn says as she catches her examining one of the photos. “This picture was taken on my fifteenth birthday. My parents were fighting a lot at the time and could barely stay in the same place, so my brother took the money he earned working in the local café and took me out. We spent the day away from home, it was my best birthday,” she says. 

“Your brother sounds like an amazing guy,” Larissa contemplates. 

“He is,” Marilyn smiles. “Here.” She offers Larissa a glass of wine. 

“Thanks.”

Their fingers brush as Larissa takes the glass. Marilyn swallows dryly, her eyes fixed on Larissa's crimson-coloured lips. She desperately wants to kiss her. Larissa seems to want to do the same, as she slowly leans in. Marilyn stands on tiptoe. Their lips almost meet. 

“May I?”

“Please.”

At first, the kiss is as calm and sweet as a spring day. Marilyn puts her hands on Larissa's waist, who brings one of her hands up to the redhead's hair. This is their first kiss, and they can't think of a more perfect kiss.

The second kiss is the complete opposite. It's not pretty or delicate at all. It's heated and passionate and hungry, a kiss that carries all the repressed desires of both of them. It's like a sudden summer rain that destroys everything in its path. 

The way to the bedroom is marked by the clothes Larissa leaves behind. Marilyn unceremoniously shoves the blonde onto the bed. Larissa pulls Marilyn onto her lap, and the redhead doesn't resist. 

Provocatively, Larissa reaches for the buttons of Marilyn's dress and slowly unbuttons them one by one. She then runs her hands over the redhead's exposed skin, taking them down to the band of her bra. With one hand, she draws small patterns on the other's nipples before turning them into a stimulus that makes the teacher gasp. Larissa then takes her mouth to the other breast and starts sucking on it. Marilyn moans. 

Marilyn makes a simple movement of her hips, provoking a reaction in Larissa that the blonde doesn't have time to describe. The little twist makes Larissa take her hands to the waistband of her trousers (her penultimate item of clothing) and get rid of it. 

She lays Larissa on the bed, climbing on top of her. Maliciously, she teases the blonde again by running the tip of her nose along her soft skin, trailing a path down to her thighs. Under her touch, Larissa lets out little gasps of excitement. The redhead moves slowly down and up the blonde's bare chest, leaving small kisses along the way that cause more moans. Finally, she approaches the lying woman, kissing her intensely while one of her hands travels to the middle of Larissa's thighs, creating nothing more but a friction that makes the principal bite her lip in disapproval.

“Please…” Larissa begs. 

A snort of laughter escapes Marilyn's lips as she retraces her path to the other woman's centre. She squeezes Larissa's naked thighs. Marilyn places kisses and bites on the inside of Larissa's thigh, who lets out little whimpers at her actions. 

With her teeth, Marilyn pulls Larissa's panties out of the way, which makes Larissa exclaim. Excited and satisfied with the state of affairs, she decides to end the torture. She runs the tip of her tongue around Larissa's clitoris, making the blonde's body stiffen at the sensation - the gasp of air coming from the taller woman's lips is the perfect incentive for Marilyn to get down to sucking the place.

Larissa feels her whole body tremble, Marilyn's lips between her legs are enough to make the blonde let out uncontrollable little moans. The little squeeze her thighs make is unconscious, as is her body making a little arch under the bed. Marilyn, for her part, has total control over the situation, taking her time to smile contentedly as she worries about repeating the movements that cause the most interesting spasms.

Marilyn continues to stimulate Larissa's clitoris when she inserts a finger into the blonde, whose body reacts by begging for more. With sinuous movements, she gently fucks the woman, introducing a second finger when she feels Larissa's nails digging into her shoulders. 

Taking pity on her prey, Marilyn increases the speed of her actions, receiving the most delicious reaction from Larissa, who screams her name into the night. The air in the room changes, getting hotter and making the women sweat. Marilyn slides her free hand nimbly down Larissa's body — squeezing her legs, pulling her hips, leaving little pinches on her thighs — while her tongue and her other hand continue to work to elicit moans from the blonde and make her legs tingle and her muscles contract.

The loudest moan is like the main act of the night, echoing through the room and shaking the walls.

Silence follows the orgasm.

Marilyn makes her way to the top of Larissa and places a kiss on her lips. They just stand there, exchanging kisses and caresses for a while, until Larissa looks up at her with a mischievous glint in her eyes. 

With a swift movement, the taller woman changes the position of the two. 

Larissa kisses Marilyn intensely while her hands play with the woman's breasts. She brings her lips to the redhead's neck and takes her time marking her territory. When Marilyn's moans get louder, Larissa smiles against the other woman's exposed skin. Unlike Marilyn, the blonde is charitable and takes pity on her partner. She makes her way between the legs of the redhead, who shudders at Larissa's breath so close to her centre. 

She stimulates the redhead's clitoris with her thumb while running the tip of her tongue along the other woman's entrance, enjoying every little reaction she gets out of Marilyn. Larissa's tongue slides into just the right place, causing the redhead's hips to buck so violently that Larissa has to hold her in place. She swipes her tongue and then sucks, and the pressure Marilyn feels is so good. It's as if the blonde has found a magic button.

Marilyn screams louder and louder until the room falls into post-orgasm silence again.

Larissa lies down next to Marilyn. They both gasped for breath. They intertwine their fingers and enjoy the calm after the storm. 

Under the moonlight coming through the window, Marilyn admires Larissa. She is sweaty and dishevelled and has red marks all over her body, but to the redhead, she has never looked so beautiful. 

[elfryn]

Anonymous Commission Title: A Piece of You. Word count: 3859. Request: Hinata being fucked by two Kumo ninjas. Warnings: Explicit sexual content, cheating, masturbation, multiple orgasms, oral sex, anal sex, p-in-v sex, double penetration. Commissions info here!

Kuma is drunk. Not drunk enough to fall over or start puking, but drunk enough for his vision to get a little blurry and his head to get dizzy and for that little voice in the back of his mind that keeps him from doing anything stupid to shut up for a while. He's inebriated just enough to feel good and enjoy the atmosphere, even if the atmosphere is a crowded, noisy bar smelling of cheap alcohol and perspiration. Kuma laughs loudly and calls out for another drink. It's the first time in weeks that he can afford to drink without worrying about a hangover the next day. His mission is over, and he's back in his home village, and he will get a week off as a reward for a job well done. His team-mate, Shin, is already on his fifth bottle of sake, ready to finish another. Kuma is loose and free. He has no outstanding obligations, no emergencies around the corner, not a worry in the world, and if he did, he wouldn't care about any of them at the moment.

All that matters to Kuma is getting his fill and finding someone to spend the night with.

On the other side of the pub, sitting alone on one of the stools by the bar is a woman with hair as blue as the night and a shapely bottom so big it won't even fit on the seat. Kuma watches her from afar. The glasses scattered around her indicate that she's been there for a while. The barman brings her another drink, and she throws her head back and swallows it all in one go. Her tits, fat and plump, sway with the movement. Some of the drink drips down the corner of her mouth, making its way down her neck, and disappearing into the valley of her breasts.

Kuma elbows Shin, drawing his friend's attention back to the woman. Shin whistles, understanding perfectly how Kuma feels.

Without wasting any time, they call for a hostess and send the woman a drink. When the drink arrives, the mysterious, bulky woman searches them with her eyes as the waitress explains the situation. She stares at them for a long moment before nodding and raising her drink towards them before swallowing it down. They both mirror her actions. A short while later, the three of them are sitting side by side, laughing and drinking.

The woman, Hinata, tells them that she is a Konoha kunoichi on an official mission and that by morning she will be on her way back home. Where her children and husband are waiting for her. In all honesty, Kuma would admit that the information about her being married was a bit of a cold shower, but then she started talking about her husband and Kuma saw a glimmer of hope. Hinata is the kind of honest drunk, Kuma can see. The kind who says everything she can't say when she's sober to avoid fatigue and a headache. She's a tired wife, with a husband who only knows how to work and hasn't fulfilled his marital duties for far too long. Hinata is a mother who loves her children but needs a break from them because she is the only one and there are two of them. She's also an unappreciated ninja, who has to listen to bullshit from the people she works with because she's decided to only take really important jobs since she can't spend so much time away from home. For Kuma, Hinata is, above all, a woman who deserves to be treated well and appreciated and to have someone look after her from time to time. Which is perfect, because he's more than willing to look after her.

The thing about Hinata, Kuma soon realises, is that she's a good and decent person. She is a good wife who would probably never think of cheating on her husband, no matter how flawed he may be. Kuma wants to give her a break, he wants to make her feel good. He wants to make her scream his name and beg for more, make her have to postpone her journey home because she won't be able to walk properly in the morning. But Hinata doesn't seem interested in that, or perhaps, she doesn't even know that's an option. To Hinata, Kuma and Shin are just two kind strangers willing to buy her a drink and listen to her rant about her life. Shin doesn't mind just listening, Kuma knows his friend and knows that he likes to hear about other people's lives. Shin is single and lives alone, so he doesn't have much going on in his life. Any distraction is a good distraction, Shin once said. Kuma doesn't care much either, he has done it many times and will do it many more times in the future. However, Hinata is different. Kuma can't stop imagining what it would be like to take her by surprise, to make her fall to her knees in front of him, to have her on all fours waiting for him. Kuma wants Hinata in a way he's never wanted anyone before. But he won't force her. Kuma would never forgive himself if he did.

The three of them drink and drink and close the pub. Dissatisfied with the evening ending like this, they decide to go somewhere else. Shin's flat is the nearest, and he has some beer at home. Hinata climbs the stairs leaning on Shin, who in turn is leaning on Kuma who is leaning on the stair railing. Neither of them remembers how to walk in a straight line.

Hinata collapses on the sofa. Smiling and at ease, without a single worry in the world. Shin fetches his drink from the kitchen, stumbling on the way. Kuma sits next to Hinata. He watches her. Her luscious boobs swaying as she breathes, her big arse taking up two cushions at once. Her clothes are short and tight, and Kuma can see her panties. She's so hot, Kuma wants to have her.

Kuma doesn't realise what he's doing, doesn't notice how his hand slips inside his trousers or how he squeezes his already hard cock. He isn't even aware of how his breathing is starting to fail and his body is going tight or how he's almost there. Kuma only grasps what's happening when he notices Hinata's gaze on his trousers. When he looks away from her for the first time in a long time, he notices that his fly is open and his cock is sticking out hard and begging him to continue.

"I'm sorry," he says somewhat self-consciously. He usually has more self-control. Under normal circumstances, he'd go to the bathroom or wait until he got home. Or he'd ask first before doing it in front of another person. Kuma swallows dryly, certain that he has spoiled the evening, and ruined any chance he had with Hinata. He's sure she'll scream and slap him and run out the door.

Yet Hinata does no such thing. She stirs on the sofa and Kuma notices something else that has gone completely unnoticed by his mind. The hem of Hinata's skirt is up, her underwear is pulled to the side and Hinata's fingers are working frantically as her breathing becomes shallower and shallower. Out of the corner of his eye, Kuma notices Shin standing at the kitchen door, no beer in sight and his hands working rapidly on his arousal. Hinata and Shin's loud moans fill the small flat. Kuma feels hot and burning, his throbbing erection begging him to finish what he started. And so he does. Kuma grabs his cock and with firm, strong movements continue to masturbate, his panting moans loud, mingling with those of the other two. But Hinata's cries are louder, more pleasurable. Hinata is outrageous. With a cacophony, the three of them climax at the same time.

Kuma lies back on the sofa, catching his breath. Shin slides down the wall to the floor and hides his face between his legs, as tired as he is. Hinata lets her body sink into the sofa. Her skirt was still up, her thighs dirty and sticky. She gasps, her breasts rising and falling. Her forehead is sweaty, her hair sticky.

"I want to fuck you." Kuma is honest and direct. He wants to know what it's like to go down on her, and what her screams are like when someone else makes her scream. Kuma wants to know if she's as tight and delicious as she looks. "I want to fuck you, I want to make you scream, I want to give you pleasure. I want to feel pleasure. You can deny it and walk away, I won't stop you." He lays his cards on the table.

Hinata stares at him, but answers. She won't leave either, and that's all the permission Kuma needs.

Kuma moves from his place on the sofa and kneels in front of her. Without hesitation, he spreads her legs and pulls down her wet, honeyed underwear. Kuma inhales the scent of Hinata impregnated in the item of clothing. He gropes her, running his hands up and down her broad, thick thighs. He runs his tongue through the remnants of her cum, savouring the taste of her. Hinata shudders under his touch. Kuma goes to her centre, running his tongue along Hinata's slit. Her taste is strongest there. With gentle movements, he makes her shiver at his kiss. Penetrating her lightly with his tongue, he makes her moan. Kuma likes to think of himself as a good shinobi, someone who knows how to pay attention to detail and who does his job practically and meticulously, always aiming for the best result. He also applies his work habits to his personal life, which doesn't always work out, but sometimes the result is better than he expects. Like now, when he takes the time to explore every corner of Hinata's intimacy with his tongue and feels how her body twitches in pleasure. Kuma focuses his mouth on her clitoris, sucking on it like a popsicle about to melt in the summer heat. Her moan is muffled. He lifts his gaze to Hinata and realises why. Her mouth is occupied with Shin's dick.

Kuma is envious. He can see how skilful Hinata is. How she uses her hands to massage his balls and the tip of her tongue to play with the tip of his cock as she makes him moan louder and louder. Kuma wants her mouth on his dick too. He intensifies his work, venting his envy and frustration at not being in Shin's place. Kuma inserts two fingers inside her, making her squeal louder. Not even his friend's cock in her mouth can silence her moans. That makes him happy. Stroking her hard, he continues to suck her clitoris, nibbling and licking to cause different reactions. Her cries get louder and her whole body reacts as she comes in his mouth. Hinata's nectar tastes much better straight from the source. Kuma swallows every drop of it.

He sits on the floor, leaning on his hands. Kuma watches as Hinata works on Shin. His screams are as intense as her seconds ago. When Shin cums, Hinata doesn't miss a drop.

Kuma sits still, facing Hinata for a while. The sight of her is perfect. Sweaty, messy, dirty with cum. Her tits are sticking out of her blouse, her nipples hard. Kuma seeks Shin out with his eyes, his friend is in a deplorable state. His trousers are down around his ankles, his cum-soaked briefs are stuck to his knees, his hair is stuck to his forehead, and his shirt is soaked with sweat. His cock sprung free, throbbing and begging for more. Shin returns Kuma's gaze, smiling in a way that tells Kuma that he's not much better off than his friend either. They hold each other's gaze for a long second. Kuma laughs back.

Turning to Hinata, Kuma pushes her back against the sofa. He kneels on the couch, putting his legs on either side of her, restraining her. Kuma kisses her. It's something hungry, and needy. He invades her mouth with his tongue. Biting her lips, he makes her moan against his mouth. Kuma uses his hands to grope her breasts, massaging them. He pinches her hard nipples, drawing a delicious reaction from her. Hinata grabs his waist, pulling him to her. Making him sit on her lap, his penis rubbing against her belly. The friction makes him harder. Kuma hears footsteps rushing through the house, something falling in the distance, and Shin lets out a swear word. He doesn't care about any of it. He's too busy sucking on one of Hinata's tits to care about any of it.

Kuma thinks of nothing but Hinata's moans or how her skin is as velvety smooth beneath his touch. He feels Hinata's hands leave his waist and work their way down to his penis. She takes his dick in both hands and squeezes it, making him grunt. Pleased, Hinata smiles. Using long, prolonged strokes, she stimulates him. Kuma feels his breathing start to falter again, but he doesn't stop. He continues his work on Hinata's breasts. Sucking and massaging her. He can feel another orgasm coming on. But it doesn't come, because Shin interrupts them.

Kuma wants to kill Shin. But he changes his mind when he realises why there is so much noise in the bedroom. Without moving, Kuma takes a condom from his friend's hand and puts it on. He slips it under Hinata's skirt. She screams in such a delicious way that it makes his cock ache. Hinata is as tight as Kuma imagined. He can imagine the damage his cock will do to her pussy. Hinata rocks underneath him, doing the work for both of them because Kuma chooses such a bad position. But he wouldn't trade the sight of Hinata all rumpled and dishevelled underneath him for anything. She looks like a fucking whore, with her tits out and her eyes begging for his cock. Kuma steadies his body on his knees and uses his arms to support himself on the back of the sofa. Following the rhythm of Hinata's hips, he thrusts hard into her. Hinata moans and howls and screams. She's a fucking show-off. Hinata runs her hands down his neck, pulling him closer and taking his mouth. Between wet kisses and rhythmic rocking and heavy thrusting, they moan and scream and howl. Kuma and Hinata reach their climax again.

Kuma lets his body relax, his heart returns to normal. He allows his lungs to remember how to work. Kuma collapses on the sofa next to Hinata. Tired. He disposes of the condom by throwing it on the floor, this is a problem for the Shin of the future to deal with. Kuma watches his friend pull Hinata off. He sees how Shin goes to the trouble of undressing her. Shin positions Hinata leaning over against the edge of the sofa, her plump ass sticking out and her voluminous breasts sprawled on the cushions.

Shin is a rash guy with no patience. He always does what's best for him, regardless of whether it inconveniences anyone else. But occasionally he has lapses of empathy. Where he thinks about what's best for someone else and not for himself. When Shin inserts his fingers inside Hinata first, to get her tight, pink hole used to it, instead of just thrusting into her, Kuma knows that this is one of the rare moments when Shin seeks someone else's satisfaction before his own.

Hinata moans at Shin's stroke. She thrusts her bum out, begging for more. He puts in another finger and then another. Using all three fingers, he makes simple back-and-forth movements. Kuma observes how Hinata is sprawled on the sofa, supporting her body with her elbows. One of her tits is leaking out, as big as it is. Shin slaps her bottom, her flesh bouncing. Hinata lets out a sound of surprise. She's adorable.

Kuma repositions himself on the sofa, leaving his member in her face. He lets his cock slap against her face. She moistens her lips, eager. Kuma does not waste any time, he wants to feel the same pleasure as his friend. He fucks her mouth with pleasure. Her lips are soft, her tongue is smooth to the touch, her saliva is warm and her teeth brush slowly against his length, sending shivers through his body. Hinata licks him, sliding her tongue from the tip to the root. She cries out against his cock and Kuma sees that Shin is fully inside her. His friend thrusts into her as if he had never fucked anyone in his life, pulling her towards him. Hinata is swept away from Kuma's cock. Disgruntled, Kuma grabs Hinata by the neck, pulling her towards him. He shoves his entire member into her mouth, making her choke. Shin and Kuma engage in a tug-of-war with Hinata, each pulling her towards him. Hinata doesn't seem to care if her moans are any indication. She engulfs Kuma's balls, sucking on them. He feels waves of pleasure.

She plays with his length, working with her hands and mouth in a coordination that must have taken her years to perfect. The moans she lets out against his member as Shin eats her from behind make the experience even better.

The screams of the three of them get louder, the neighbours must probably have noticed what they're doing. The thought makes Kuma hornier. He wants to cum again, but he has already seen what Hinata is like when she swallows everything. Now he wants to know what she's like when she gets dirty. Kuma pulls away. Hinata whimpers. She is so fucking hot doing it. Using his hands, he works quickly. His loud wails mingle with Shin's, showing that they've both come at the same time. Shin inside Hinata, Kuma on her face. Hinata is so perfect when she is nasty.

All three of them are worn out. The flat is hot, stinking of cum and sweat. But they haven't finished yet. Kuma exchanges a look with Shin, who smiles as if reading his mind. Kuma vacates the sofa, he pulls Hinata with him. Kuma knows Shin's flat off the top of his head, so he has no problem finding his way to his friend's room. He throws Hinata onto the bed, and she falls on her back. Hinata looks him up and down, she bites her lip and tilts her head. Her eyes beg for more, her expression dares him to try and deny what she wants. Extremely conscious of every piece of clothing he's wearing, Kuma discards his sweat-soaked shirt and semen-stained trousers. Using his hands he asks her to climb further onto the bed. Hinata is quick to fulfil his request. Kuma gets on the bed with her. Hinata is underneath him, so ready. She is hungry for more, for someone to lie on top of her, to have someone else's body crash into hers, to be fucked again. And that's what Kuma is going to do.

Using one hand and all the strength he had acquired in years of training, Kuma turned her over on the bed. Ever since he saw her in the pub, all Kuma could think about was how good it would feel to fuck her big, fat bottom. How it would feel to have her riding his cock. Kuma pulls Hinata onto his lap. With the protection in place and the lube ready, Kuma fucks Hinata. Her scream is like a song Kuma never thought he needed to hear, but he doesn't know how he lived so many years without it. Thanks to Shin, Hinata is already hot and eager for him, so Kuma doesn't have to be careful. Hinata rolls onto his cock, riding him as if competing for first place in a mounted contest. Kuma rests his forehead against her bare, sweaty back. He lets his hands roam her body, making their way to Hinata's breasts. Kuma plays with her breasts, giving the woman even more pleasure.

He knows that Shin is watching everything. He knows that his friend is hard, with a new lubricated condom in place and ready to fuck her again. But Kuma won't budge, he won't give up Hinata's asshole. Except he doesn't have to, because Kuma and Shin are best friends and best friends share everything. Even the sluts they've picked up in the pub.

Together, like the good team-mates they are, Kuma and Shin fuck Hinata together. Kuma had to give up having Hinata riding his cock for this to happen, but the way her screams become louder and more intelligible makes it all worthwhile. Shin is lying down. Hinata is on top of him, leaning on her arms. Kuma is behind Hinata, holding her tight around the waist, moving inside her at the same pace she uses to pleasure his friend. Kuma understands why Shin slapped her. It's impossible to find yourself in that position, with her ass devouring his cock and the sound of their bodies colliding filling the room along with her moans, and not feel an insatiable urge to slam into that big, fat, luscious arse. He squeezes her plump cheeks, his cock disappearing completely between them. Hinata is so hot, that every part of her makes Kuma want to bite her and mark her. He continues his work and continues to make her scream.

The three of them tangle with each other. Their cries, their bodies, their fluids. Nothing is individual anymore, nothing is singular. The pleasure is on a level that none of them has ever felt before. On a level, they fear they will never feel again. They moan in the night, screaming profanities, grunting and howling. There is no logic, no reason. There is only the carnal desire that keeps their bodies moving despite their tiredness. Kuma comes first, it's a full-body orgasm that robs him of the rest of his strength, but he can't stop. Because the others haven't stopped yet. So he continues. Every atom of him is begging him to stop, but he keeps going. Shin comes in second. His final moan is loud and vulgar, like everything else he does. But Shin doesn't stop either. They both continue, waiting for Hinata. They can't be satisfied if she doesn't feel the same pleasure as them. So the two continue. Their bodies cry for mercy. But they continue. Time passes differently when you're tired, when your body is heavy and rigid and all you want to do is collapse. Time drags on and tortures you and a second lasts an eternity. However, the moment Hinata's moan cuts through the air and she lets her body give in, falling on top of Shin and breathing heavily against his neck, Kuma feels a satisfaction he has never felt in his life.

Kuma is so, so happy that he let his best friend drag him out to drink today. He is even more happy for Hinata's husband, he has a really hot and delicious wife.

[elfryn]

Anonymous Commission Title: Unravel. Words: 6032. Request: Cuckold/Hotwife. The couple invites over the wife's ex for an intimate evening. Warnings: Humiliation, voyeurism, consensual cheating, dirty talk, objectification, degradation, fingering, masturbation, multiple orgasms, orgasms denial, big black cock, “forced-bi”, slaps, rough sex, oral sex, anal sex, p-in-v sex. Commissions info here!

Andre is tall. Maybe a head and a half taller than him. His shoulders are broad, giving him a somewhat square frame. His skin is a dark brown that reminds him of his wife's favourite dark chocolate, the one Joe doesn't know why she likes so much. Maybe that's the reason. Nicole smiles at him, the way you do when you find that favourite piece of clothing you thought you'd lost forever. Perhaps it's wrong to compare a person to a piece of clothing, but Joe remembers how his wife almost burst into tears when she found an old, worn-out blouse that she kept since she was fifteen. She sleeps in it every day. Nicole loves that blouse.

"Nic," his voice is husky and thick. His tone is affectionate and longing. Andre smiles back, his teeth white and perfect. He could star in a toothpaste commercial.

His wife hugs him. Andre's arms are big and bulky, and his wife looks like a little doll in them. Her head barely reaches his chin. She looks fragile, delicate and breakable. For a moment, he wonders how Andre hasn't broken Nicole in the years they've been married. Joe shakes his head, dispelling such thoughts. He'll have time to think about it later.

"It's so good to see you," Nicole says in a sweet, excited tone, she sounds like a schoolgirl talking to her crush. She slips out of Andre's arms and turns to him, "This is my husband, Joe."

"Nice to finally meet you," Joe says, holding his hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

Andre's gaze is calculating and cold, inspecting him from top to bottom, judging him. A beat passes until the man smiles at him, pleased with whatever he has found in his scrutiny. He accepts his shake. His hands are large and calloused, and his fingers are long. His grip is almost painful.

"The pleasure is all mine," he replies amiably. "It's great to finally meet the man who's been taking such good care of my Nic." His tone is almost possessive, but not in an unhealthy way. It's just factual. His wife, his Nicole, will always be his Nic. There's no escaping that fact. Before she was his, she was Andre's.

"Let's go inside," Nicole says. "There's no point in standing in the entrance all night."

Nicole takes charge of the situation. This is about her, after all. She asked for it. Admittedly, he's not as comfortable as he'd like to be, but the nervousness he feels is more about the anxiety of not knowing what's going to happen than disgust at the idea of what they're doing. So he prefers to stay in his corner.

The night's events happen methodically. Every move is telegraphed, every word well thought out. Everyone is nervous and anxious.

First, they chat in the living room while they wait for dinner to finish roasting. Andre is pleasant company. He's intelligent, funny and a great storyteller. Nicole laughs out loud at the things he says, touching his arms over and over again. They are sharing the sofa, sitting so close that their knees are touching.

Joe, from his seat in the armchair facing the couch, just watches. His wife is wearing a short, tight black dress. Her breasts pop out over the dress, a silver necklace with a thick chain and a large pendant that gets lost in the valley of her breasts, drawing the attention of anyone who looks in her direction. Her thick, plump thighs, squeezed into a pair of thigh-high fishnet stockings. The high-heeled leather boots. Her lips painted blood red, her eyes dark as night. She looks like something out of an erotic vampire fiction book from the 90s. Joe has never seen Nicole wearing any of these things, he didn't even know she had them. But Andre doesn't seem surprised.

Andre is more formal than he expected. His black linen trousers make his features stand out, just as his white button-down shirt emphasises his muscles. He wears a satin waistcoat that matches his navy blue tie. Andre has an air of sophistication, of control. He blends into the environment as if he were the true inhabitant.

They chat and joke and laugh, and Joe watches. Because this night isn't about him.

Dinner is as enjoyable as the conversation before it. Nicole serves Andre first. They exchange glances, gestures, and teasing. Joe feels his feet moving under the table. He notices his wife's reaction when their guest stretches out his leg and gropes with his foot under the skirt of her dress. Joe notices how her breathing becomes ragged as dinner passes, how the table shakes discreetly, how Andre smiles cheekily when Nicole clings to the edge of the table as if she's going to fall over when a long, choked moan escapes her lips.

Joe watches it all. He memorises his wife's every reaction. The way she holds herself, the way she gasps, the way she shudders with such a simple, inconspicuous act. Her face is red, her chest rises and falls as she tries to catch her breath, and sweat trickles down her neck and onto her breasts. Behind the thin fabric, he notices the silhouette of her hard nipples. Joe reaches for his glass of wine and takes a long sip, his chest burning. The air around them has a specific fragrance, a heaviness that makes breathing difficult. His jeans, tight and uncomfortable, rub against him. Out of the corner of his eye, Joe notices how Andre's erection marks his trousers.

Dinner is over. Nicole stands up on wobbly legs, a sticky white fluid running down her legs. No one mentions it. Andre is helpful, he offers to help her collect the plates. They clear the table with impeccable teamwork. They walk together to the kitchen. Nicole bends over the kitchen island, depositing the plates in the island sink. It's the hardest way to do such a task since she could just walk away. Her voluptuous bottom puffs out invitingly, and the hem of her dress rides up, showing her black lace panties that do a poor job of covering her length. She's so wet. But it's not a bad sight. Andre agrees, Joe realises. He approaches her from behind, rubbing his covered cock against her. She gasps slightly and drops a plate. No one minds.

Nicole falls onto the island with an audible thud. Her arse rubbed against his erection. Andre holds her hips tightly, pressing her against him. Nicole moans. He lies on top of her. Swallowing her from sight. Joe can only see her trembling legs, stretched out to give her the height she needs to lean over the island at just the right angle to rub against him. Neither of them cares about the layers of clothing between them. Neither of them cares that Joe is still there, watching everything. His wife rocks against another man's dick. A stranger massages his wife's boobs. The air is hot, the smell of sweat is strong. Their moans are loud. A cacophony. Joe watches Andre's strong hands roaming her body, reaching down to her centre. Joe hears the ripping of fabric being torn. He sees Andre's hand disappearing under her dress and hears the screams of absurdity that his wife lets out into the night. She melts at his touch. The two of them reach ecstasy without having to take off more than a single item of clothing. For the second time in the night, Joe witnesses Nicole cumming for another man.

They lean over the kitchen island for a while, panting and sweaty. Andre is the first to recover. He stretches his back and straightens his shirt. Andre turns to Joe and smiles. Joe swallows dryly, a chill running down his spine. He knows, knows that so far Andre has only been kidding. None of this has anything to do with the main act, this is just one man's fun. The burning in Joe's chest gets stronger, and the discomfort in his trousers grows.

With slow, rehearsed motions, Andre brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks on them as if they were his favourite lollipop, moaning loudly and vulgarly. He positions Nicole on the island, sitting facing Joe. Andre kneels in front of her, spreading her legs, licking her thighs until he finds a place between her legs.

"You know," his voice is deep. "I've missed your taste so much." He breathes against Nicole's womb, making her squirm. Then Andre does something that makes her let out a scream. When he pulls away, she whimpers. "You don't care, do you?" Andre looks directly at Joe, daring him to say no.

Joe says nothing, he doesn't react to the provocation. All he does is move his hips slightly, adjusting his stupidly tight trousers. Andre notices this, notices his erection. He laughs a loud thunderous roar.

"Look, the cunt's horny," he sneers. "Do you want to borrow my little toy? She's so good at doing things. Her lips are so soft, and she goes all the way too. It's like being sucked off by an angel. But her mouth, oh, her mouth is so dirty. It's like having sex with a street bitch. Of course, you know that, after all, she's your wife. But not tonight. Tonight she's mine and I'm the only one who gets to use her." His smile is malicious.

Joe's heart is pounding in his chest. It's so, so hard to breathe. The tightness in his jeans is growing by the second. His hands are sweaty, and his legs are shaking. The ache in his chest grows stronger. His throat is closed, and his mouth is dry. Joe looks at his wife. Her dress is wrinkled, the strap is falling, and the tip of her bra lace is peeking out. Her hair is a mess. She's hot and sweaty, her skin glowing under the kitchen light. Her legs are wide open, Joe sees the damage Andre has done to her panties and stockings. Her pink pussy twitching in anticipation. Waiting for someone, waiting for him. For Andre. For both of them. She glances at him, gulping dryly, moistening her plump lips.

Nicole looks down at his erection. She's drooling. She wants it as much as he does. Joe turns to Andre, his impeccable appearance betrayed only by the stain on his trousers. His cock is highlighted in its linen prison. Probably throbbing as violently as Joe's. Andre's smile is mocking, evil. He wants Joe to grovel, to beg. He wants Joe to fight against his dominance and wants to see Joe lose. Joe has never considered himself a proud man. He's someone who knows how to admit when something is beyond his reach. Joe knows how to ask for help and accept it. But right now, pride is all he has. Joe raises his head, holding Andre's gaze. He's not going to cave in.

Andre's smile doesn't falter. His eyes sparkle. He licks his lips, using too much tongue. It's a provocation, a proof of what he can do. Andre's tongue is as big as the rest of him.

Without any ceremonies or caution, Andre strips off her boots and what's left of her ruined stockings. Using his mouth, he pulls down her panties to her knees, letting the gravity take over as they fall to the floor. Andre sucks Nicole, making her scream at the mere touch of his tongue. Joe can't see precisely what he's doing, but the results are clear. Andre is giving Joe's wife a pleasure he's never achieved. Nicole moans in a way that is so unique, so special. In a way that Joe doesn't think he's ever heard before. Her cries intensify, and she grabs his shoulders. Her manicured nails cut into his dark skin. Joe thinks he sees blood, but it doesn't matter. Andre doesn't mind, Nicole doesn't realise. Her ex-husband continues his impeccable work, making Joe's wife find a paradise he never made her visit. Nicole has a full-body orgasm. Her back arches, and her flesh trembles. She leans on Andre, breathing so precariously. Andre doesn't move, forcing Nicole's legs open, and tucking himself between them. It gives Joe a view of what he's doing, letting him watch as Andre drinks his wife's sweet nectar. Cleaning every bit of her with his tongue, nothing is wasted.

Satisfied with his work, he stands up again. Tall and imposing. Andre locks gazes with Joe, and smirks. Joe doesn't know how he looks, but if he's as bad as he feels, Andre's amusement is guaranteed. Joe takes a deep breath, he's hot and sweaty. His shirt is clinging to his body, as uncomfortable as his tight jeans. Joe should have worn something else, a pair of trousers with a bit more room, one whose seam didn't chafe violently against his crotch, torturing him. Joe feels something gooey in his pants, around the head of his cock. Pre-cum, his mind tells him. It is very uncomfortable.

With rehearsed steps, Andre walks over to Joe. Facing him, Andre bends over. One hand on each back of the chair, trapping Joe. He brings his face close, just enough for Joe to feel his wine breath and hot breath as he speaks.

"You know, Pretty Boy," his tone is venomous. "You may think you're important or whatever, but I'm going to bring you to your knees by the end of the night." It's a promise.

Andre walks away. He pulls out the chair he was sitting in during dinner and positions it in front of Joe. Andre sits down with his legs spread.

"Doll." That's all he needs to say.

Nicole jumps up from her place at the kitchen island and runs to his side. She drops to her knees in front of him. With her nimble fingers, she unbuttons her trousers. Andre isn't wearing any underwear. Once, while still in high school, Joe read one of those romance books for middle-aged women that he found in a box in the attic of his house. The story was rubbish and was more pornography than literature, but he was fifteen and that was as close as he could get to sex at the time. He remembers how the men were described, all manly, strong, and with big, thick dicks described as flagpoles. Cocks that would pop out of their trousers as soon as their fly was opened. Joe had always thought that such a description was an exaggeration, believing that no person could have such a monstrous size. Faced with Andre, however, he realised how wrong he had been.

If at the beginning of the evening, Joe was resigned to the fact that everything about Andre was bigger than him, now he was put to shame. Andre's cock is long and wide, with bulging veins. Joe can only compare Andre's size to the forgotten bottle of wine on the kitchen island. His balls are proportional to his manhood. He's shaved, Joe can see. His skin appears soft and smooth. Joe knows that no one has ever felt uncomfortable with Andre thrusting against them.

Nicole grabs his cock, her tiny hands not enough to cover the entire length of his hard shaft. She starts slowly, creating familiarity. Reminiscing. Nicole goes up and down, twists and pulls. Joe knows her techniques well and knows how pleasurable her touch is. Andre lets out a groan. His posture is relaxed, unlike Joe who stiffens more and more in the uncomfortable chair. She increases the pace, and the sounds Andre makes grow louder. Joe's ignored boner hurts more and more. Andre is almost there, Joe recognises the screams of absolute pleasure. Joe can see how his chest rises and falls, he can see the sweat dripping down his neck, he can see his shirt clinging to him, so wet it's transparent. Joe can see the sparkle in his wife's eyes, the way she's ravenous. But she's greedy, Joe knows that. She likes to play with you and enjoys making you scream for her. Nicole is just as malicious as Andre. Andre's body shudders, and his moans grow louder. The smell in the air becomes more pungent. His second orgasm is just around the corner, but nothing happens. Nicole squeezes the head of his penis, cutting off the climax.

"Fuck!" Andre screams, throwing his head back. He takes a few deep breaths, controlling himself. Joe also needs to catch his breath, but he doesn't hide his smile. Andre notices him smiling. "You think that's funny, don't you?" Joe doesn't answer. "Let's see if you think this is funny."

Andre pulls Nicole towards him. It's a violent gesture, to show his dominance, but it's also gentle. He doesn't hurt her, Joe knows he would never truly harm her. Andre fucks her mouth, shoving his length all the way in. Nicole gags. This seems to make him happy.

"Don't tell me you've lost your touch, Doll?" he sneers. "Is your hubby's cock so small that you can't take a real cock anymore?" Andre shakes his head as if genuinely pitied.

He pulls her back, letting her breathe. A thin line of drool connects her crimson lips with his hard cock.

"Don't worry, before the night is over, you'll remember how to be a good Little Doll."

Andre is not a merciful man. He holds Nicole's hair as if he were holding a bitch's leash. Pulling every time she tries to escape. Forcing himself into her mouth deeper and deeper. Andre lets her pull away just enough not to hurt, then drags her back in. Time and time again, he continues. His panting fills the house. Nicole whimpers with his cock in her mouth, but not from pain. No, Joe knows his wife. She's desperate. She wants more, wants everything that Joe is incapable of giving her. Joe can picture what Andre is feeling. The soft touch of her lips, the warmth of her saliva. The way she scratches her tooth against you, not to hurt, but to tease. When Andre screams even louder, Joe knows she's done that trick with her tongue. Joe knows everything that's going on with Andre just by watching his and his wife's bodies. Inexplicably, or perhaps not, Joe feels the same pleasure as both of them, despite the fact that there's no one to touch him, even though his dick is throbbing unnoticed inside his skin-tight and cramped jeans.

"I'm going to cum," Andre announces loudly. He lets go of her hair, giving her the choice. Nicole doesn't stop, she carries on. Deeper than before, faster, more pleasurable. Andre's body convulses, and he cries so loudly that Joe knows the neighbours two houses down can hear him. Nicole doesn't waste a drop of Andre.

Nicole gets up from her place between Andre's legs, making a point of thrusting her arse at Joe and rubbing her breasts against Andre's torso. With delicate steps, she bounces out of the dining room. Joe doesn't move, he's glued to the chair. Andre doesn't move either, lost in the post-orgasm ecstasy. Husband and ex-husband just stand there, breathing heavily in that air reeking of cum and sweat.

Two or three minutes later, Nicole returns.

"Oh," Andre says, noticing what she has in her hands. "You really are a slut, aren't you?" His smile is as depraved as his words. Nicole doesn't answer, she just hands him the tube of lube and a packet of condoms.

Andre vacates the chair. Joe doesn't know how he manages to stand up so easily. Without anyone doing anything to him, Joe can already feel his legs wobbling, he can only imagine how Andre must be feeling. He places the tube of lubricant and the condoms on the table. Turning to Nicole, he pulls her to him. His big hands wrap around her neck. Andre kisses her with a ferocity similar to that of a predator. Like a lion devouring a gazelle. He makes her groan against his lips. Andre pulls them apart, giving her a chance to catch her breath. He trails a path down her jaw to her earlobe. He sucks and bites and tugs. She wails. Andre moves down to her neck, he meets Joe's gaze. With that mischievous smile, he marks her fair skin. My property, his eyes scream.

With quick hands, he reaches for the zip of her dress. Within seconds, Nicole is wearing nothing but her bra and boots. Andre stands back, admiring how beautiful Joe's wife is. His smile is lascivious, greedy, and hungry.

"Table." He orders. It was Joe who chose the dining table. A solid piece of wood, big enough for eight people. He bought it when they got married, the first thing in the house that belonged to the two of them together. Joe remembers how he once tried to persuade her to have sex on this very table, but she said no. Now, however, she doesn't even protest.

Nicole climbs onto the table from the smallest corner, creating plenty of space for two people to lie on top of each other. She has her back to Joe. Andre picks up Nicole's presents.

"Four." She doesn't argue, simply does as she's told. Nicole gets on all fours in the centre of the table, staring straight at Joe.

Andre slicks his fingers with lubricant. He circles the entrance to Nicole's arsehole with one finger. The cold liquid draws a reaction from her. He smoothes her entrance, lubricating her tight hole. Nicole glares at Joe. She doesn't break eye contact. Neither does he. When Andre inserts the first finger, she bites her lip, stifling a moan.

"No," Andre says. "I want to hear you scream." He inserts his second finger and she whimpers loudly. Andre's fingers, long and rough, cause sensations that Joe never could. Three fingers are enough to make her scream obscenities that Joe has never heard her utter.

Joe bites the inside of his mouth until he tastes blood. His aching boner crying for attention. His wife is on all fours for another man, her breasts swaying in front of him as someone else makes her scream. He wants to touch her and take his taste out of her mouth. He wants to show Andre that he too can make her scream. Joe does none of this. He just watches.

Andre takes his fingers out of her. He puts on a condom and puts lubricant on Joe's wife's hot opening. Andre positions himself and inserts the head of his dick inside her, Nicole screams.

"Calm down," he says in a soft voice. He rubs his hand along her back, caressing her. Easing her pain. When he feels she can take it, he thrusts deeper inside her. Nicole yells again. Andre does nothing. He waits patiently while her breathing regulates and her limbs stop trembling.

"May I?" He's so gentle.

"Yes." Her answer is almost a whisper, so breathless is she.

Andre moves slowly, with soft and deliberate movements. He lets her get used to it and lets her feel pleasure instead of pain. Nicole's face contorts. Someone else might say she's not enjoying it, but Joe knows her. Joe knows what she can take.

"Quickly," Nicole asks, and Andre delivers.

He changes the rhythm seamlessly, with firm, strong thrusts. The sound of his flesh slapping against hers is too loud. Joe knows he's going to hear this melody for the rest of his life. Nicole is outrageous and foul-mouthed. Joe is grateful that they live in a house and not an apartment or the neighbours would be knocking on the door asking if anyone has died.

She cries and wails and groans. Her eyes are glued to Joe. She smiles at him between moans, smiles as a man fucks her on the dining table he bought to celebrate their marriage. Andre is also mouthy, saying things that Joe would be ashamed to think. Leaning over his wife, he also looks directly at Joe.

With a final stroke that rattles the table, Andre comes to. He throws his weight on Nicole, who does a good job of supporting them both. Andre breathes heavily. Nicole lets her head hang. Joe doesn't move.

Andre climbs off and inside Nicole, who whimpers. She hasn't come, Joe realises.

"Relax," Andre says between gasps. "On your back." He commands. Nicole wastes no time.

Andre takes out the used condom, filled with his juice. He ties it in a knot and unceremoniously throws it on the floor. Andre admires Nicole, lying on the table, her voluminous breasts still trapped in her bra, her chunky thighs, and her pale and unmarked skin. He devours her with his eyes, ready to screw her again. Andre pulls at his tie with seductive movements, captivating Nicole. Taking her hands in his, he ties her wrists together using the tie. She attempts to free herself from the makeshift bondage, and he slaps her thigh. The sound of flesh being beaten cuts through the air. Joe looks at them in astonishment.

"No." It's a different order from the others. His voice is like thunder, deep and strong. Andre looks at him once more, daring him to say something about the slap. Joe's heart races even more. They hold each other's gaze for a long moment, until Joe looks away, defeated. Andre laughs, loud and unhinged.

"Your husband's an absolute cunt," he sneers. "So weak and small, no wonder you came running to me. Anyone would feel cheated with a husband like that. But don't worry, I'm here now." André runs his hands down the gap in his shirt created by the open buttons, rubbing his chest. Drawing attention to his exposed flesh.

Andre is still dressed, Joe realises. He notices Joe staring at his clothes and grins yet again.

"Is that what you want to see?" Andre opens the buttons of his shirt completely, leaving his chest exposed. He's sweaty after so much activity and his skin is glowing. His pecs are big and full and hard. Joe swallows dryly. Andre makes a show of removing his clothes. Sliding his shirt off along with his vest, leaving his shapely arms and ripped abdomen exposed. Nicole tries to help him out of his pants, but he slaps her again.

"I said no, bitch." He growls. For a man kneeling on a table, Andre has no problem taking off his clothes without help. He stands there for a while, showing off. Andre is big and muscular and manly. He wants Joe to commit it to memory.

Andre makes his way from top to bottom. First, he gets rid of the last of her clothes, tossing the bra to Joe. The lace piece falls into his lap, Joe doesn't try to pick it up. With one hand, he holds Nicole's restrained hands above her head. With the other, he massages her tits, pinching her hard nipples. He kisses her, making sure to show Joe his tongue sliding inside her mouth. His body clinging to hers, skin on skin. His hard shaft honed against her belly. His knee, bony and pointed, in between her legs, pressing in all the right places. When she needs air, he lets go of her lips and sucks on one of her breasts.

"Ahh," she moans. Andre sucks her as if to feed himself. He circles her areola with his tongue and nibbles her nipple. He switches breasts, doing the same thing with the other and freeing his hand. Andre works carefully.

He runs his fingernails along her skin, leaving a trail of red, irritated skin. Andre brings his hand to her slit. Joe can see how he adjusts his body to give him a privileged view of everything he's doing. He smooths a finger over her hole.

"You slut," he breathes against her ear. "You're so wet for a man who isn't even your husband. It's not right, you know." Andre is happy, pleased to make her body react like this. "But I understand, after all, your husband is a loser, isn't he?" He laughs. "That's why you called me.

Because he's a piece of shit who can't fuck you properly." His fingers slide inside her, making her gasp. Joe can see most of his fingers on the outside, he's just teasing. Putting in the minimum necessary to torture her. Andre uses his thumb to pinch something and it sends a visible wave of pleasure through her body. Her clit, Joe assumes. "But don't worry, I'm here now."

"Please..." She whimpered. Nicole looks so small beneath the monumental figure that is Andre. She does look like a little doll.

"Please, what?" Andre continues to tease her.

"I want you."

"Ah," he inserts two fingers fully inside her.

"Oh, yeah..." She arches her back, rocking against his fingers.

"Say you missed me," he demands. His strokes are fast and violent. "Tell me how your pissant hubby is a weakling who can't satisfy you like I can."

"He's so weak and insufficient," Nicole says what he wants to hear. "I need more than he can give me. I need you."

Andre revels in her words. He rubs his thumb against her clitoris with more intensity. Nicole howls. Joe takes a deep breath. He rocks in his chair, her brassiere moving in his lap, brushing against the bulk of his pants. Andre doesn't miss his movements. He smirks.

"So precious," Andre says with his gaze fixed on Joe. "So needy. Your husband really is good for nothing, isn't he?"

“Good for nothing,” she says breathlessly. Her words are lost in her moans. "Just you... I've missed you... so much... Please..." Nicole cries like a desperate soul.

"Oh, my Little Doll. You're suffering, aren't you? All these years without me, you must have felt so unfulfilled. So needy. You must have felt so empty. But don't worry, I'm here. I'll take care of you."

"So... fuck..." Nicole cries. "I need... I want you... Inside me... Please..."

Andre pulls his fingers out of her. Nicole pleads. He puts on another condom. Andre slides into her, and Nicole screams. Her legs try to close, but he holds them open.

"You're so tight," he laments. "You weren't like this before. You could take it before. Back then, you didn't need to cry. See what a small dick does? Your poor hubby made you unused to it. But don't worry, I'll fuck you back into shape." Andre moves backwards, taking his cock as far as he can without leaving her tight pussy. He lubricates his length, then thrusts himself inside her once more. Nicole doesn't complain as much as she did the first time.

Both of them are exhibitionists. They're performing, creating a spectacle just for Joe. Nicole is scandalous, and Andre is vulgar. She screams Andre's name, says how she missed him inside her, and idolizes his cock, acting like she's never been fucked in her life. Andre attacks him, calling him small and fragile and incapable, saying he's not a man. Because a man feeds and fucks and satiates and is satiated, and Joe isn't doing any of that. Joe is watching, observing, and listening. Joe is panting without having left his seat all night. He's suffering from his hard-on throbbing against his pants and sending jolts throughout his body. Joe is watching as Andre ravages his wife, as he claims her back for himself. Because, as Andre said, when he finishes she'll be in the shape of his cock. And Joe won't be able to fill that.

The taste of blood in Joe's mouth is strong, but he can't stop biting the inside of his cheek. He won't stop, because if he does, he'll start screaming with them. Andre said he'd make him get on his knees, Joe is starting to believe it. Joe tries to control his breathing, he's as dirty and out of breath as the other two.

Joe wants to lose himself to his senses, to the sounds, to the tastes he can feel through the pores of his skin. But he stands firm and keeps his eyes on the two of them fucking on the dining table that rocks violently with each thrust.

Nicole has her legs around Andre's waist, her tied hands placed around his neck. Andre is practically lying on top of her, his trembling arms the only thing stopping him from crushing her. They're both exhausted. But neither of them is going to give up before it's time. Andre continues, hard and fierce and violent at a pace that makes Joe's breath catch. Nicole hides her face in the crook of his neck, muffling her less rehearsed cries. Joe sees their orgasm coming before they do. He sees how Andre's arms give way slightly, how Nicole's back arches and she rocks harder against the other man's dick. How they pull at each other because they're not close enough yet. Joe bites his mouth even harder, but that's not enough to stop the shriek he lets out. And so the three of them reach ecstasy at the same time.

Joe with his dry orgasm. Andre and Nicole for fucking each other like there's no tomorrow.

Andre falls into her. His body concealing hers. They both lie still, almost dead. The ticking of the kitchen clock is too loud. Joe throws his head back, breathing as best as he can. He closes his eyes. Fatigued.

After a long time, he hears the table creaking and footsteps. Someone towers over him, blocking out the light. Joe tries to raise his head to see who it is but feels a soft cloth covering his eyes. He opens his eyes and sees blue. It's Andre's tie. Whoever was looming over him leaves. He hears a noise next to him. The zipper of his pants is yanked open. His attention-starved limb throbs in anticipation. A large, callused hand with strong, long fingers closes around his cock. Joe sucks in a deep breath. This is not what he expected. Andre doesn't do anything, he just holds his dick. He's waiting for permission. Joe moves his hips closer to his hand, that's all the permission Andre needs.

Joe has been with a fair number of women in his life, all with a soft, delicate touch. His wife's smooth touch is unlike any woman Joe has ever had. She works in a way he's never seen anyone else do. Nicole manages to make Joe lose his mind with ease and movements so simple. Movements that Andre is using against him. It makes sense that Andre would know how to make Joe weep the way Nicole does. It doesn't seem fair, but life isn't fair. The texture of his hand is something else. A different but enjoyable sensation that adds a layer of pleasure that Joe has never felt before.

Andre is a methodical and patient lover, Joe discovers. He works with you. He wants you to like it as much as he does.

Joe can't hold back any longer. His limit is near. André feels it too, because he stops. Tearfully, Joe whimpers.

"Say it." He feels Andre's warm breath on his ear. Even though he can't see him, Joe knows he's smirking. "Say it." He demands.

Joe doesn't want to say what the man wants to hear. But Joe's boner throbs against Andre's grip. He's almost there, just a little more. Joe could do it alone, he knows he could, but it wouldn't be the same. There's something here, something new and old at the same time. Joe knows that if he does it alone, it won't be as good. Pulling back now will be humiliating, but not as humiliating as caving in.

"Please..." he begs. “I... need... it...”

"Good boy," Andre laughs. He resumes his work, more eagerly than before. Joe doesn't last long.

The roar he lets out is primal. Joe was wrong. That night was also about him.

When all is done and their needs are fed, Joe puts his arm around his wife and they both wave to Andre as he gets into his car and drives off with the promise to come back for dinner more often.

[elfryn]

Anonymous Commission Title: Honeymoon Fades. Words: 5613. Warnings: Manipulation, violence, explicit sexual content. Paring: Aaron Davis [Spiderverse]/Britney Evans [OC]. Request: Aaron approaches Britney with not-so-good intentions in order to use her as a pawn for a job, but things don't go according to plan. Commissions info here!

He watches her from afar. It's a balmy evening. The moon is high in the sky, and the few stars that defy the city's light pollution show their tenacity by shining through the clouds. There are few people in this part of the town, and the occasional ones cross the streets at a brisk pace, hurried and lost in their heads. She is alone, standing at the entrance to the cinema. Playing with a lollipop between her lips while lazily scrolling her phone. She's pretty, he thinks. Her long hair is as golden as the morning sun. Her skin has a healthy colour. He doesn't know much about women's fashion, but the pastel-coloured dress with strawberry embroidery and the bows that adorn her hairdo do her justice.

She wouldn't even notice if someone tried to approach her. One false move, and she'd be finished. In seconds, she could become nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

With soft steps that barely make a sound against the tarmac, he emerges from his hiding place in the shadows and strolls towards her. The handful of pedestrians in the street either don't notice his presence or hardly care enough about an extra person walking through the dirty city streets. Stopping a few metres from her, he doesn't announce his presence. The seconds tick by, and she remains ignorant of the world around her. Killing the last couple of steps between them, he extends his hand towards her.

"You know," he begins. His voice is deep and husky, and it startles her. "You're beautiful when you're distracted." He tucks the lock of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes behind her ear.

For half a second, she stares at him with wide eyes that scream terror, but it fades the moment recognition flickers across her eyes. Her expression changes from fear to affection, and she offers him a smile that could make a man go blind.

"Aaron!" Her tone is both sweet and affectionate.

"Sorry I took so long," he offers her a smile.

"It's okay, I just got here too." That's a lie. It's at least half an hour since she arrived.

"Shall we?" He offers her an arm. Her smile gets bigger.

"Let's go!"

--

His head tilts back, bumping against the sofa's backrest. Through the ajar curtains, street light floods into the living room. At the right angle, he can see the moon swimming among the clouds. The hustle and bustle of the city mingled with the faint sound of the television, turning it into nothing more than white noise. The sound of her breathing, however, is loud. Like an annoying, ever-present distortion, eating up space and impossible to tune out.

Tired, he rubs his face. Letting his gaze fall to his lap, where a head of golden locks rests. She fell asleep halfway through the film, curled up next to him like a ball, hugging tightly the sheep plush he got for her at a street carnival.

It was one of the first times they'd been out together, he recalls. It was a summer afternoon. They walked between the stalls, lost a lot of money on rigged games, and went on almost every ride. She ate five cotton candies and had the wonderful idea of going on the rollercoaster afterwards. He thinks it is a bad idea, but she refuses to admit the flaw in her lapse of judgement. As the night wore on, the breeze got colder, and he gave her his jacket, which swallowed her whole. They watched the fireworks, and he used his hands to protect her ears from the noise and the cold. In the end, he walked her home and kissed her goodnight on the threshold.

Once again he focuses on her, so small, fragile and defenceless. As delicate as a porcelain doll. It doesn't take much to mark her, even the slightest pressure would leave a trail of bruises and purples on her fair skin. Tracing the outline of her body with his fingertips, he brushes his fingernails against the exposed skin of her arm. The simplest nick would turn her skin as red as wildfire. A primitive instinct in the depths of his mind tells him he should do this, should mark her. To show possession, and dominance. Make a public claim on her as his prey.

“Hey,” he calls in a whisper, “Hey, sleepyhead.” She wriggles in his lap, grumbling at being disturbed. He pokes her cheek and calls her a few more times.

Like a grumpy cat, she lets out an annoyed noise, showing her displeasure at being woken up. Without leaving his lap, she meets his gaze with her tired, sleepy eyes staring at him from behind her golden locks. “What?” she grunted, her voice husky and slurred.

“You fell asleep.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” She replied crankily, rubbing her drowsy eyes.

“I'd forgotten that you have an attitude when you're sleepy,” he teases.

"You're the one with the attitude, baldy.”

“Hey, shaving my head by choice doesn't make me bald,” he feigns offence.

‘Tell that to your entrances, baldy.”

“I can't believe you said that,” he said in disbelief. “You know, my plan was just to take you to sleep in the bedroom, but since you've seen fit to spout such barbarity, I have no choice but to punish you.”

“And what are you going to do, spank me?”

“Oh, you wish,” he smiles mischievously. “What I'm going to do is going to be a lot worse.”

In one swift, precise movement, he moves on the sofa, lifting her off his lap and positioning her underneath him. He traps her between his body and the sofa, his hands flanking her tiny body and his legs pressed against her bare thighs. He moves closer, their bodies rubbing together, their lips softly grazing. Supporting himself with his left hand, he allows his right hand to rest in the millimetre gap between their bodies. Brushing his lips up to her ear, he says in a velvety, husky voice, “Are you going to apologise?’

She gulps loudly. Her heart is beating fast in her chest, loud enough for him to hear. Her body is hot, he realises. Sweaty. Placing her hands against his exposed chest, she pushes him enough so that they both face each other. There's something in her gaze, mischievous and hungry, that would make a lesser man crumble.

“No,” she states adamantly, ready for what's to come.

Holding her gaze for a lingering second, he waits. Her body quivers against his, her breathing grows heavy. Desperation, greed, lust. Hunger. He can see all these emotions reflected in blue eyes as pure and intense as natural diamonds. The slumber? Completely forgotten.

He tsks, a bemused smile on his lips. Placing a soft kiss on her forehead, he climbs off the sofa and holds out his hand.

“Come on, it's late, and you need to sleep for your big day tomorrow.”

--

It's a bad day, he remarks shortly after opening his eyes. Peering out of the window, one can see the scattered clouds swimming in a clear blue vastness. There are a few birds perched on the fire escape, chirping happily. Next to him, there's her. Sleeping calmly as if she didn't have a care in the world. Breathing calmly, messy hair falling over her face. Like a princess from a fairy tale in an ethereal slumber, waiting for someone to break her curse.

He could do that. Could wake her up and make her his own. Make her scream his name and beg for his flesh. Mark every centimetre of her body and declare his ownership. He could make her his, to play with, to abuse, to use until he grew tired.

Resting his head on the pillow, he sighs deeply. A rotten day, indeed.

The day drags on at the same speed as all the others, slowly and painfully. His bones creak with every step, his muscles complain at any movement, his head throbs as if something were drilling into his skull and his lungs ache and refuse to work. He wants to go home, take shelter in his bed and wake up in three months.

At lunch, they eat together. She babbles on and on, and he pretends to listen. Her voice is high-pitched and nagging, and he wants to tell her to shut up, but he scolds himself. It's not her fault it's a lousy day.

When the clock strikes the end of the shift, he breathes out. For the first time all day, he feels as if he can catch a breath, even if only a little.

The drive home is long. The traffic drags on for kilometres. The smell of fuel and the exhaust fumes from the cars make his migraine worse. Every time someone honks, he winces. He wants to get out of the car and leave on foot, it's only a few miles. He could get home by running and jumping off the rooftops. Taking his eyes off the sea of stalled vehicles, he turns to the passenger seat where she is leaning against the glass with her eyes closed, sleeping peacefully. This infuriates him a little, as he wishes he were asleep too.

Once home, he doesn't utter a word. Instead, he just takes a shower and goes to sleep. It's not a nice or pleasant sleep. His limbs are heavy and sore, his chest burns with every breath. His skin burns, but he's so cold. His conscience fights against him, unable to decide whether to let him lose himself to the abyss or not.

There is a voice, he realises after a painfully long time spent in nothingness. Distant, cracked. He can't hear it properly. Can't distinguish what the voice wants. But he doesn't care, he's not strong enough to do so. Eventually, the voice becomes a static hum. So he falls into the abyss again.

Sometime later, he feels pressure on his arm. Someone is touching him. A cold feeling in his chest. A bright light that he can't see but knows is there meets his eyes. A thick, viscous fluid slides painfully down his throat. He wants to scream at them to stop, to tell them that every touch burns. To beg them to have mercy on his poor, decrepit being. But it's impossible. His muscles don't respond, his voice is caged in his chest. His strength is a mere memory of days gone by. Amid his desperation to free himself from the bonds imposed by his mortal flesh, the abyss swallows him up again.

His stomach churns in displeasure. There is a scent in the air, delicious and nauseating. The sound of footsteps pulls him to the threshold, but it's not enough to completely shake him out of his stupor. The door opens and closes, the smell becomes stronger and the steps closer. Something is put down nearby, another thing is dragged in. Someone places a hand on his forehead, but something wet takes its place immediately afterwards. He can feel his body being handled, his head slightly higher, it hurts. There is a whisper in his ears, disjointed and impossible to understand. Something warm touches his lips and a savoury substance slides down his throat over and over again until his stomach complains once more, and he uses all his willpower to deny the next sip. He hears a faint sigh and a soft touch on his cheek, the footsteps return and are gone. Exhaustion consumes his body, and this time he willingly surrenders to the abyss.

Someone is crying, his ill mind tells him. He tries to open his eyes, but they're as heavy as steel curtains. The crying, he realises, is close by. It's quiet and choked, like an involuntary action. Whoever is crying is doing all they can to hold back their tears, to repress their feelings. His confused, cotton-wooled mind doesn't like that. The mysterious person is suffering, and he wants to help them and tell them they can cry. Promise them it will be all right, and kill whoever made them sad. But he doesn't have the energy for that, so the abyss pulls him to its side once more.

Three days, he learnt. Three days he spent navigating between consciousness and darkness. For three days, she stayed by his side, attending to his every need. Crying herself to sleep, worrying about him and ignoring her health altogether. Three days, that's how long he spent looking after her, who had contracted his mysterious virus.

--

He rubs his tired eyes. It's been a long day, too long for his liking. Not only has he had to deal with his on-paper boss being a huge arsehole, he's had to deal with his actual boss being a homicidal maniac. As a result of having to deal with this double crap, all he wants to do is go home and take a long shower, put on some comfy clothes and be swaddled by the sofa cushions as he slowly falls asleep to the sound of the television in the background. It's Wednesday, so she gets to choose the film. It will most likely be another questionable film, which is great for helping him sleep. In the morning, he would wake up with a sore back and her small body curled up on top of him. Over breakfast, she would complain that he always falls asleep when it's her turn to pick the film, and he would tease her that if the movies were good, he wouldn't go to sleep. Which would make her all red and frustrated. She's so easy to annoy, two words are enough. Which is very funny, but can be a problem, like the time he went a bit too far, and she got really cross with him and ignored his calls for a week. It was a long, empty, silent, cold week. Never in history has a week been as dark as that one. But he's learnt his lesson, he knows how far to push her buttons before everything blows up in his face.

The underground's robotic voice snaps him out of his reverie. His train is going to be delayed by ten minutes. He knew he should have stayed in bed and feigned illness. If it hadn't been for his clinically deranged boss, he wouldn't have needed to do fieldwork tonight and could have driven home with her like they always do. The traffic sucks, and it takes him an hour longer to get home by car than it does to take the metro, but it's better to be stuck in traffic with her for three hours than to be crushed in a metal box on rails like sardines with a bunch of stinky, sweaty, unfulfilled people for thirty minutes.

Unhappy with all his life choices, he sends her a quick message to let her know he'll be late. In a city as dangerous as the one they live in, any five-minute delay opens the door to anxiety, despair and unpleasant scenarios. She doesn't need that. To which she replies with kitten pictures. If the old woman standing next to him at the station were to say that he was smiling while looking at his phone, she wouldn't be lying, but he would deny it to the death.

The ride home is as stinky, crowded and uncomfortable as any other day. Perhaps even more so since, thanks to the delay, those who catch the train early and those who catch it late have been forced to squeeze into the giant sardine can together. As he squeezes himself between the door and the support pillar, he thinks of the people who have decided to stay behind and wait for the next train. He envies them with all his soul, but he needs to get home as quickly as possible, so waiting isn't an option. After all, someone is waiting for him.

With bated breath, he drags himself with ponderous steps to the entrance of his flat. Groping around the door for his spare key, as his own is lost somewhere in his bag, and he doesn't want to stress about searching for it. Before long, he finds the false compartment where the emergency key is kept. Unlocking the door, he takes off his shoes, hangs his bag on the coat rack and throws his jacket on the floor. Hearing footsteps, he looks up to see her standing in the kitchen doorway. She's wearing an apron embellished with flowers and frills, her hair is tied up in a messy bun, her face is smeared with flour, and she's holding a spoon covered in something red that's dripping onto the floor. Her smile is bright and sincere and smitten, and he feels all his tiredness fade away.

“I'm home,” he says pleased.

“Welcome,” she replies, beaming like a ray of sunshine.

--

He takes the blows with his head held high. The henchmen don't like that, they want to see him bend, break, cry and beg. He's not going to do that, he will not give them the satisfaction. Even if they kill him, he accepts all the punches and beatings without bowing his head.

Hit after hit, he stands firm. The metallic smell of blood is strong in the air. One of his eyes is swollen, and his lips are split. Breathing hurts as if he'd swallowed a thousand bees, which sucks because it means he's probably broken a few ribs. His arms are twisted into an almost inhuman position and tied behind his back.

Someone is talking. It's the lead thug, he stinks of cigars and booze and expensive perfume that smells like fish. He doesn't understand why people spend so much money on something that only makes you stink more. Rich people are strange. The lackeys laugh at something, he didn't hear anything funny being said, so they must be laughing at their boss's dumb face. One of the servants steps forward. Square glasses, hair full of gel, suit in perfect condition. A salaryman, he concludes. An accountant or some other boring thing that leaves him stuck in a cubicle day after day hating all his life decisions.

The accountant says a few words, then shows his boss something. The leader flashes a yellow, gloating smile. Taking whatever it is from the accountant's hand, the boss strides towards him with heavy footsteps.

“Is this yours?” The gorilla puts the phone to his face. He doesn't answer, it's a stupid question. Whose else would the phone be? The gorilla is too dumb to understand the obvious and is irritated by the lack of an answer. “Answer when your superiors ask you a question,” he says as he punches him in the face.

He holds the brute's gaze for a long second, then spits on the floor next to his shoe. With a bloodstained smile, he replies, “Whose else would it be? Mother Teresa?”

His answer earns him another punch, but he thinks it is worth it.

“Is that your girl?” He turns on the screen and the lock screen where he and she are posing in front of the Ferris wheel appears. “She's quite pretty, isn't she? I mean, of course, you think so, after all, she is your girl. You have good taste, I'll give you that. It would be a shame if something happened to her because you're a stubborn bastard who doesn't know how to cooperate.”

“You know,” he begins in a low voice. The surrounding air appears to drop a few degrees. All of a sudden, the goons feel as if someone has stepped over their graves. “My plan was just to take what I came for and leave without hurting you too much. But now, I'm going to kill every single one of you.”

The avoidable bloodbath that follows the statement doesn't even take half an hour. He retrieves his mobile phone from the crimson-stained floor and sends a message to his boss, telling him they'll need a cleaning crew. Low-life criminals should learn their place.

--

Self-hatred is a familiar face. A presence in the corner of the room that never fades, a shadow in the corner of your eye that you can barely see. A long-time companion who only appears at your worst moments to laugh at you. In short, something common and ordinary that he's learnt to live with. All in all, he manages to stifle his self-hatred and focus on the good things about him. The problem is that he can't see any good in himself. He was once a good brother, but that was a long time ago. He likes to think he's a good uncle, but that's just another lie he tells himself to pretend he's a good person. And he's not a good partner. To begin with, he didn't even want to be a boyfriend. What he wanted to be was a casual fling and a lapse of judgement that in ten or fifteen years she would remember in a passing thought and move on with her life because it didn't mean anything. Maybe, with luck, he could have been the scumbag who never called back or the bastard who took her on three dates just because he wanted to sleep with her. Anything, absolutely anything, would be better than the position he's in now. He'd trade it all to be just another name on the list of crappy men she's kissed and got over. But instead, he's a traitor. He really hates himself.

Months ago, when he took this job, he didn't think it would be like this. All he had to do was approach her, gain access to her personal computer, copy some data and get on with his life without thinking twice about the implications of using her and throwing her away. However, copying a few files became keeping an eye on the project and monitoring the project became stealing the access codes and taking the access codes became breaking into the lab, and it all converges into one line of thought: letting her take the blame for everything.

She's the scapegoat, the sacrificial sheep. Her employer is going to use him to steal from one of the best-guarded laboratories in the country, financed by a homicidal wacko, and she's the one who's going to take the blame. And taking the fall means being kidnapped, locked up, beaten, tortured and eventually killed without anyone even noticing that you disappeared in the first place.

That can't happen. It won't happen. He'll find a way, find a solution. Even if he has to give his life for it, he will protect you until his last breath.

--

He lets his head hang forward. The water beats against his back, failing to wash away his impurities and his problems. He's exhausted, unable to bear the train rack that his life has become. He needs to end it, to end things with her. It's the best thing to do, it's the solution he's found to save her. In a desperate effort to keep her heart beating, he has to break it. He needs to destroy everything they've become and turn all the memories they've created together into something bitter and poisonous.

The creak of the door brings him out of his thoughts. Looking over his shoulder, he sees her stepping into the shower. She smiles in that exquisite way that makes him lose his composure. Circling his body with her arms, she presses her naked breasts against his bare back. Her fingers brush against his exposed skin with touches as soft as the kiss of a feather. Her touch is warm even under the cold water. Moving down to his crotch, she takes them between her fingers, squeezing and massaging them. Ignoring his already sensitive cock. He breathes between his teeth, controlling himself. She wants to provoke him, to make him lose his mind. He's not going to give in that easily.

Seeing that he's not going to give in, she changes tactics. Running one hand up his stomach, she makes her way to his chest. Drawing circles around his areola. Tempting him. Stroking his torso, guiding her fingers over his nipples without actually touching them. Over and over, she repeats the process, testing his self-control. Then, without warning, she pinches one of his nipples, eliciting a groan from him. Her laughter echoes through the bathroom. Pleased to have drawn a reaction from him, she continues. Massaging his balls with one hand and pulling and twisting his nipples with the other. Teasing him without forgiveness.

Two can play this game.

Groping blindly, he leads his hand towards her and grabs her leg, suspending it by his side. In response, she presses her body tighter against his and tumbles her leg against him. With the same pettiness as her, he uses his other hand to tease her. Driving his hand up and down her inner thigh, caressing her inner lips. Using two fingers, he fingers her entrance. Going as deep as possible without penetrating her. With his thumb, he lightly squeezes her clitoris. The movement elicits a moan from her. It's his turn to laugh.

They tease each other and provoke one another. They do everything they can to torment the other in the best possible way. She pinches his nipples, strokes his belly, massages his sack and utterly ignores his growing erection. He scratches her thighs, rubs her labia, teases her slit and flicks her clitoris.

The bathroom is hot, and they're sweaty, the cold water that still falls on them merely an overlooked detail. Against his back, he feels her breathing as uneven as his own. He doesn't know how long it's been since she got in the shower with him, but he knows he'll need another shower when it's over.

She shivers and rests her forehead against him. He can feel her body arching against his, her flesh trembling. She won't last long, and neither will he.

Slowly, her hands stopped roaming his body, taking the long way round to his throbbing member. He tries to regulate his breathing, but it's difficult. He's ready for it, ready for her hands. A long, agonising second passes without anything happening, and when it does, it's not what he expected.

She reaches for his hand, the one playing with her, and pulls him away. Confused, he turns to her. Maybe he did something wrong or hurt her by accident, it's always a possibility. He watches her, but there seems to be nothing wrong. To be safe, he doesn't do anything, just waits.

First, she does nothing. She then lustfully stares at him, devouring him with her ravenous, insatiable eyes. His heart races under her lascivious gaze. He feels like an object, something about to be used and discarded. Maybe, if he's lucky and does a good job, he can be reused, but that doesn't change the fact that he's nothing more than a tool to satisfy her appetite. With that same smile as when she entered the shower, she shoves him against the wall. His back hits the shower damper, shutting off the water that they both forgot was still falling.

She stands on tiptoe to kiss him. It's something carnal, animalistic. She devours him whole. With her hands roaming his body, her breasts pressed against his torso, her leg positioned between his and her thigh rubbing against his arousal. Her tongue dominating his mouth. She has control of the situation, control over him. He is her toy to use and break. One of her hands slowly trails down his body, burning his skin along the way, stopping only when she finds what she wants. With her thumb, she presses his perineum. It's as if he's been struck by lightning. An inhuman sound escapes from his throat. Primitive and incoherent. His legs falter and he has to steady himself against the wall to keep from collapsing.

Not satisfied, she pulls his hair, eliciting more incoherent sounds from him. Bringing her lips to his neck, she bites down. It hurts, but it's a pain that makes him ache and yearn for more. She's marking him, declaring her possession. He is hers.

Drawing a path of kisses down his jaw and to the edge of his ear, she nibbles his earlobe. Sucking on it and playing with it with her tongue. He lets out a moan. Her breath in his ear sends a shiver through his body. He closes his eyes, letting himself be used by her. He's on the edge of sanity. On the edge of his humanity.

His body burns, begging for more. He wants to be touched, bitten, marked, scratched, played with. But there's nothing. The touches, the bites, the pressure of her body against his have all stopped. Desperate, he opens his eyes to see her leaving. With one last glance over her shoulder, she smiles at him before disappearing out the door.

Disbelieving, he remains stunned in his stupor. His heart in his mouth, his skin chastised and burning. His needs left neglected. He's been used, as he knew he would be. But that doesn't make it any better. Defeated, he let his legs give way. Switching on the water again, he lets his body mourn the loss of hers.

--

“You're leaving.”

He was trying not to wake her. Was trying not to let her notice his absence until it was too late. He thought of everything, every second, every detail. He was meticulous, strategic, and calculated. All the decisions were made so that this wouldn't happen so that he wouldn't have to look directly at her while breaking her heart.

“An emergency came up,” he lies. His eyes wander around the space, focusing on the crack in the left wall, the stain on the kitchen cabinet, and the torn carpet from moving the coffee table around so much. Anything but her. “I'll be back before you wake up.”

“You know, I always knew you were a liar.” Her words catch him off guard. He searches for her with his eyes and immediately regrets it. Her eyes are red and her face is swollen. She's crying. “I just didn't think you were a coward, too.” Her voice carries a mixture of anger, hurt, and disappointment.

He stares at her blankly. A small part of his brain tells him that now is the time to say something, but he can't process the situation properly. He just opens and closes his mouth a few times like a fish on land.

“I--”

“I'm not an idiot, you know.” She interrupts him before he can begin. “I may seem childish and immature and even naive to some people, but I'm not an idiot. So don't insult my intelligence. If you ever really liked me, don't lie to me, not when you're about to walk out on me without saying anything.”

There's a fire in her eyes, a glint beyond tears. She holds his gaze firmly, defying him.

“Indeed,” he begins with a smile, “you're not an idiot. You're incredible, just incredible. That's why I can't tell you the truth.” He chuckles. A melancholy sound, that of a ruined and decayed man. “But I didn't lie to you when I said I'd be back soon, I lied to myself. Because right now all I want is to come back. To come back to you, to come back to us. To all the plans we've made and the dreams we've dreamt together. And yes, I'm a liar and a coward, but please don't ever question how I feel about you. Regardless of how our relationship began, I want you to know that you are the girl who made my dead heart beat again. And if I could, I'd like to spend the rest of my life waking up next to you, because it was with you that I discovered what it is to live rather than survive. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

“I love you, Britney Evans,” he confesses. His voice broken, his face marked with tears, and his smile sorrowful but sincere.

--

With idle steps, she walks between the museum's galleries. The sound of her heels against the floor echoed off the ornate walls and mixed with the cacophony caused by the other patrons. Stopping occasionally to gaze at certain pieces that catch her eye, killing time until the main exhibition opens to the public.

On her left, there's a couple. They laugh loudly, oblivious to the noise they make. Their fingers intertwined, their shoulders rubbing as they walk. They both seem to be in love. It causes her heart to ache.

She turns her gaze back to the painting in front of her, trying to ignore the couple. Her treacherous memory brings back flashes of a warm smile and long arms wrapped around her. Of nimble fingers playing with her hair and a husky voice whispering her name.

Even after two years, thinking about him still hurts.

“Nice, huh?” A voice to her right asks, pulling her from her memories.

It's a beautiful painting of a countryside landscape. She would like to visit a place like that and get out of the city for a while. Find peace far away from that heartless place.

“Yes.”

“I have a house in the country with a view almost like that,” the mysterious stranger remarks. “Would you like to go there with me?”

She turns to the stranger, ready to cut off their pathetic attempt to hit on her and make it clear that she's not interested until she crosses eyes with them and sees him.

“Yeah, I would love to.”

[elfryn]

Greetings, clan!

I have been a fanfic writer for almost a decade, and started working on commissioned work about two to three years ago.

Writing Services 

SFW narrative fiction: from fluffy to domestic to a day out in the park or even from whump to hurt/comfort or hurt/no comfort, I can do it. 

NSFW narrative fiction: cuckold/hotwife; incest and pseudocest; cheating/affairs; monsterfuckers or furries; public sex; voyeurism, etc. From a nice and savoury kink to a deep and dark fantasy, everything short of minor/adult, I can do it. 

Fanfiction: OCs, self-insert, comfort characters, rare pairs, incredible popular pairs, CLIF (Characters I'd Like To Fuck) etc. The sky is the limit. 

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