#<- pulling out the classic tags for this one

[starry-fame]

18+ Mercy [Sylus x Gender Neutral!Reader/MC]

Summary:

He’s addicting. The way his eyes look up at you, the way his lips curl, the latent hunger in his eyes.

You’re sure he wants to devour you completely.

You fear you may like it.

Tags: Smut, Porn with feelings, Dom/Sub Undertones, Overstimulation, Complicated Relationship, Penetration, Rough Sex, Size Difference, Ambiguous Genitalia!reader/MC, Gender Neutral!reader/MC

Word Count: 6,167

Author's Notes: My No Defense Zone fic I took forever on when I wrote it lol, love this man. Meant to take place as an alternative - 'what if they fucked' ending lmao

Ao3 Check out Linkon Lounge, an 18+ Lads Themed Otome Discord Server! We stream otome/anime/movies, have lads boys rp/text bots (+Caleb ofc), and chill!

Frenzied breaths, a deep groan, the rise and fall of his pretty, exposed chest as your grip tightens around his strained erection. A broken noise vibrates against your neck, warm, and his hips jerk as you drag him with each pump of the wrist. Closer, closer—

The scene fades, melting away like warm honey. You groan and curl up further, muddled, disoriented, and almost convince yourself to let your mind fade into sweet serenity. It was good, felt so good, and-

…What the hell were you thinking? You jolt, startle yourself out of your spiraling thoughts and reorient. A smooth leather couch, the blurry edges of a home that costs more than you’d ever make in a lifetime, and that infuriating silver-haired man sat across the table at the armchair, idly flickering through vinyl records (you know he likes the classics.) Your eyes follow the moment of his fingers before slowly trailing up to his face. His lip quirks into a barely perceptible smirk.

“Were you dreaming?”

“You should’ve woken me up. Or given me a blanket. Hospitality much?” You grumble, properly sitting up and rubbing your bleary eyes. His own crimson ones crinkle at that, and your mind flashes — panting, the hard edges of a flushed chest as you trail your fingers down further and further. “Don’t be shy now,” He retaliates against your featherlight touch. His lip curls, trembling body betraying his collected expression. Your fingers press above his waistband, his hips push into your hand and—

You look away, but somehow, Sylus’s gaze bores into you like he can read every last filthy thought that plagues your mind. You grunt, briefly indulge in the flush-faced Sylus from your dreams overlapping with the amused one in front of you. That image of him so pliant under your touch, the thought that you could potentially work him to that state, bolsters your confidence.

“Mhm. I dreamt of a horse. An annoying one. Refuses to be tamed, tells me I’m bluffing and overreaching,” You say, leveling Sylus with a stare. It’s not the first time you’ve challenged Sylus, but this enigma manages to have you on guard with a single effective look.

“That so? What exactly did you do to him, then?” He muses, playing along. You slowly rise and approach him, pausing to stand at the armchair as his head tilts up at you in curiosity. Neck strained up, a huff of laughter leaving his throat as your hands splay across warm chest and slide down firm muscle to his hips. “Look at me,” you command when his eyes flutter shut, and drag his hips closer. He inhales sharply, and opens his eyelids just enough to see a sliver of red. Your lips drift to his pretty pale neck and bite, pulling a low grunt from him, then—

You roughly grab his chin, observing his stupidly attractive face from various angles as Sylus contentedly lets you, eyes narrowing, but otherwise unbothered. If he still wore that collar of his in the dream, you could yank him the proper way, snatch the air from his throat. But you suppose this will have to do. You finally step closer and tilt his neck up high, so you’re directly above him as you sneer down at him. “A little roughhousing never hurt. What do you think I should’ve done to him?”

Maybe he’s amused, or perhaps impressed, but Sylus laughs, a rich deep sound from the bottom of his throat. The way that sound rings through your ears, the way you enjoy it, pisses you off. You press a firm thumb against his lips to silence him, soft and pink under your touch.

Sylus’ gaze is a strange phenomenon. You only really know two proper emotions from this man: anger, and appeased. There’s always this cocky air to him, not an ounce of humility. So even when he’s staring up at you like this, it’s somehow just as powerful as him looking down on you. His chin is in your hand. You’re the one above him.

Yet, you can’t shake this strange sense of foreboding. You don’t know Sylus well enough to make much of him aside from his eccentricities, and him being a blatant heartless bastard. This sort of mystery, these missing puzzle pieces that create the shell of a man before you, make withstanding his presence feel like you’re subjecting yourself to a lone night in the wilderness with no gear, vulnerable to attack.

‘Do you hate me?’ Your mind flashes back, recalling him in ruby red robe and gimmicky cuffs. His scoff, the aversion of his eyes as he uttered ‘astounding misunderstanding’. He harbors no hate, yet, you can’t help but wonder if he likes you either.

“A little roughhousing, hm?” Sylus chuckles, and before you can even make space for him, he’s lifting from his seat and your hand falls slack to the side, default restored to craning your head up at this man. While you prefer looking from above, you’d be a liar if you tried to argue you hated him looking down at you. In theory, maybe, because you know he thinks everything is beneath him. But in practice, his lower angle is, unfortunately, just as attractive as his upper one.

“Wanna test that theory?”

And just as alarm bells start ringing, acknowledging the impending danger in those words, he’s crowding you back towards the couch. Not even aggressive, rather, a slow approach. A damn predator stalking his prey, and that’s somehow even more harrowing. Before you can slip from his icy gaze, the back of your knees catch against leather and his hand shoves you backwards, an inelegant yelp escaping your lips as you tumble back onto cushion. One leg crams between your own, his hand overlapping yours, pinning it to the backrest.

“Gh—Let go of me!” you gasp, strain your confined hand and lift an arm to shove him away. He snatches that one in the air with a scoff and pins both of your arms firm, hovering over you and face too damn close to think properly. Your heart thunders, somewhere between attracted and terrified. When he’s got you cornered, eyes gleaming in the warm ambiance of the room, the crimson in his gaze penetrates you. The creeping sensation of your soul being laid bare, infiltrated and consumed as he gauges your desires. Your lips quiver and quickly you shut your eyes, shaking your head vehemently.

“Don’t— I won’t let you use your-!”

“Pfft.” A humored breath leaves Sylus’ mouth. One of his hands lets yours free, and you feel those fingers decide to capture your face instead, stroke a large, soft thumb beneath your eye as he murmurs.

“You think I need that to figure out what you’re thinking right now, sweetie?”

Your ears tickle at that nickname, annoyed yet maybe a little… comforted? He uses it halfway between an insult and endearment, mostly the former, but occasionally the later. It’s condescending as hell, but shit, everything this man does is. You grit your teeth and slowly open your eyes to peer into his, and his own seem to twinkle in approval. No glowing, just a piercing red that carries a thousand secrets and the ability to strip your soul bare and destroy it from the inside out.

The color of spider lilies. You wonder how many people breathed their last breath in the midst of this gaze.

You exhale, free hand flexing as you silently debate pushing him away again. You feel small, pinned against the couch so easily. While most people would be no problem, Sylus seemed to love being the exception to every damn rule in the book. You don’t know what hole this powerhouse crawled out of, but being so soundly beaten by this man puts a bigger dent on your ego than you’re willing to admit.

“How long are you gonna stay like this?” You snap, jumping to your usual defense as you glare at him. He raises a brow, naturally, and the hand cradling your face sneaks down to press the pad of his thumb against your parted lips — warm breaths, his moist lips under your thumb as he watches you with eyes that make you lose all sense of reason. You lean down, fervently, and before you can even think, you bring your lips to his—

You try to banish the thought from your mind, let the dream rest, but it plagues you. Every damn look this man gives reminds you of his groans, the way his body is so responsive and trembles when you kiss at his chest and squeeze his cock.

He’s not—you’re not—his thumb swipes over your lips and your brow scrunches as you look him in the eye. He watches you like a puzzle itching to be solved, fingers dipping down to smooth over the front of your throat. Some embarrassing noise, what you’ll tell yourself was merely a sound of surprise, rumbles in your throat and you squirm, pulling your neck away. That man’s hand anywhere near your neck screams death and reminds you of the first time you were not so pleasantly held by it. You try to escape his touch but he stubbornly keeps his hand there, stroking it with a gaze you can only describe as ‘fascination’.

He watches your pulse, enthralled — and that look narrows into something else. Something you refuse to put a name to before his eyes flicker back up to yours. He chuckles, leans real close so his face takes up your entire field of vision.

“Scared, doll?”

Doll. Porcelain. Fragile. Easily manipulated and broken. You might just hate that nickname the most.

“Of—Of course I’m not,” you lie through the skin of your teeth, biting your lip to fight the strange foreboding welling in you. He’s stroking one of the most vulnerable areas of your body so gently and it fills you with a mix of apprehension and something very, very different.

“We can stop. You can ride home on that bike of yours. Word of warning, fuel’s low. Might break down on your way back,” He whispers, no, fucking purrs in your ear and holy shit, what the fuck. Your body trembles to that and of course he notices and snorts. There’s no way in hell, no way you’re gonna let this man press you against the couch and fucking terrify you one minute and arouse you the next. Hell, maybe you’re still both. The hand stroking your neck could easily crush it on its own, let alone Sylus’ evol.

Fuck, this isn’t—this wasn’t—

“You…!” You hiss, his hand goes from your neck to your collarbone, warm, big, and the feeling makes you shudder. You shake your head, almost in denial, and begin stammering.

“You’re a prick..!”

“Oh?” He hums, and the hand enveloping yours begins stroking the back of it

“And cruel. And heartless. And way too damn cocky, you really need to be humbled, and—“

You hear that gorgeous laugh right beside your ear as he leans down, face disappearing into your neck with strands of silk hair brushing your chin. Warm breath lingers, and you gulp but don’t let up.

“Someone really oughta put you in your place, knock you down a peg so you’re not so—mmm!” You can’t swallow down the gasp that leaves you when warm lips press against your pulse. His kisses trail along your neck, like a fire, and your body curls up as your free hand clings to his sweater. Fuck, feels good—and he’s nipping and sucking so sweetly you know it’ll for sure leave marks, that asshole.

“Such a noisy little kitten,” he chuckles, the noise makes you whimper and cling to him tighter, drag him to you. He pleasantly complies, presses his chest against yours and nudges his knee against your open thighs. His fingers sneak in your hair, pulling it back and exposing your neck completely so all you can do is weakly complain as he makes a perfect mess of your throat. Pays special attention to suck where it makes you sputter, soothing with gentle bites, his warm tongue.

“What are you, a vampire?” You hiss, quickly dissipating into a sigh when he knows just the right place to put his lips to make your body tremble. His breath, mouth, lips, so warm, so so warm, and then his kisses are trailing up to your jaw and—

His lips hover. So close and so perfect over yours. There’s a fire in his eyes, a heat that burns in them and makes your entire body feel alight. When you open your lips and they nearly brush his, you feel your face warm and quickly turn your head away to avoid his mouth, lips trembling. You can’t even look him in the eye, fidgeting with his shirt as you purse your lips. It’s not like it’s anything special. Really—but somehow a kiss to the lips feels more embarrassing, more intimate than anything else he could do in that moment.

He laughs at your avoidance, strokes your cheek and places a kiss right where his thumb was seconds ago.

“Aren’t you cute,” he teases, and you wanna glare and refute, but your words always catch in your throat when met with those striking eyes. He turns your head to him, his mouth quirks up, and he’s pressing a featherlight kiss to your lips. Too soft and too sweet for him. It’s so uncharacteristic you can’t even think properly. Foreign, unbeknownst, yet eerily familiar.

There’s no deeper meaning behind his smirk, his lips. He’s just teasing you, getting a rise out of you, yeah, because he’s Sylus and Sylus is an asshole, always. And of course this asshole is kissing your cheeks and your nose and your forehead and you don’t know what to do but quiver in his hold, breathless and mind blank. It feels almost akin to affection but you know the words Sylus and affection can’t exist in the same sentence.

“To think this is all it takes to make you compliant…” he murmurs in your ear, and before you can finally find the words to snap at him, his lips are firm against yours. Bold. Your neck strains against the backrest as he presses deeper and gently coaxes your lips open, warm tongue brushing against yours. He tastes refined, like the wine sitting on the table, and his scent envelops you as you feel him everywhere, hands on your face and your own, body against yours, mouth on yours and the smell of expensive ass cologne — bougie Dior or some shit. You sigh and pull him closer, bite at his lip and groan into his open mouth. He openly accepts, low rumble in his throat as he pushes right back, pauses for a moment of respite before sinking in again and kissing you breathless.

His fingers wander, rough, and release your hand to catch at the hem of your shirt and caress your trembling waist. He watches you, eyes reflecting an unspoken question. It almost infuriates you how pissed you would be if he stopped at this point. You scoff and avert your gaze, lips glued shut even as you cling to his shirt unrelentingly. You hear him laugh, low, and he slowly, achingly lifts your top up and over your shoulders, ensures you’re bare from the waist up in one fell swoop.

The slight chill makes you shudder, while Sylus’s hands take this time to roam your frame. Curl against your waist and thumb at your abdomen, which makes you tense and feel a sweet tingle run down your spine. The warmth in your core, the heat between your thighs bolsters when his lips catch at your collarbone, and kiss a path down to your chest. He’s gentle, a soft pressure and warm tongue as he drags a slew of kisses to your nipple — then he catches it in his teeth and you tense with a bitten back whimper, giving his shoulder a reprimanding push. He has a nasty habit of biting. He merely laughs and spends his time there a moment longer, sucking and holding you as your hips roll against nothing, aching. His fingers dig, as though to punish you for wanting so much so soon — like he wasn’t the reason for it in the first place.

There must be something about Sylus, something about him that just makes you lose your sense of reason. Somewhere between conscious and subconscious. Because it’s almost like a tiny part of your mind — no, even deeper, some fragment of your being buried deep and away, wants to push through and melt beneath him completely. And it’s the complete antithesis to the active part of you that wants to give him a hard time and wish eventual hell on him as retribution for his sins. It’s weird—wrong, and yet you cling to him like he might disappear into stardust if you let go.

“You want me that bad, sweetie?” He murmurs against your chest, shifts down to kiss right below your sternum, and you move your hand to tug on his silver strands in retaliation. A sharp breath leaves his nose, and watching his face scrunch, slightly twist with parted lips, you feel satisfied. He’s addicting, the way his eyes look up at you, the way his lips curl and the latent hunger in his eyes.

You’re sure he wants to devour you completely.

You fear you may like it.

He does everything with intent, a purpose. He doesn’t just touch you to feel, he touches to elicit something, to receive. You jumping into his hands as they cradle you at the pinch of your waist, you throwing your head back when he teases this sensitive bit of skin just above your waistband, some incoherent murmur when he kisses at your navel. He keeps his lips there, presses his thumbs just below and the sweet tingle makes you whine, your body tense as you try to avoid looking too desperate under him.

“Not enough, hunter? Need more?” His voice is deceptively sweet as he mouths above your waistband, dips his thumbs inside. You sigh — you don’t know if it’s from his lips or his voice, and turn your head away as he watches, amused. If he wanted a verbal response, he sure as hell wasn’t getting one. But you think he knew that already. He laughs, pops open the button of your jeans, and you lift your hips as he takes his agonizing time dragging them down.

“Such an eager thing,” he soothes, kissing your temple and not so shyly pressing a hand between your legs. You hiss and your needy hips jerk into his hand, while his deep voice speaks pleasantly into your ears. “What is it? Want my fingers? My mouth?“ His hand strokes, gentle, too damn light, and you’re shamelessly rolling your hips into his touch, dragging him by the shirt and holding him close as you get off with his hand, dizzy.

“Off. Take it off already,” you grumble against him, feeling some module of defeat, but your desire damn well overrides your pride at this point. You tug at his shirt, insistent, and he chuckles before complying and lifting it well and off.

Seeing his nude body shielded only in a towel once before doesn’t make the sight any less novel. Sure, dripping wet is a whole other thing, but just the thought of this man stripping for you and you alone at your request has your mind in shambles. You let out a solid stuttered breath, and immediately lean forward with your hands drawn to his chest, like a magnet.

Fuck he’s ripped, like a statue, feels stupid perfect under your touch. You hear what sounds like a quiet, breathy noise followed by a soundless laugh. You glance up to look at his face, a subtle amused pleasure and it immediately overlaps with the dream that inhabits your mind. You want — you need— your fingers trail down, and he shudders so beautifully, like a work of art, lips parted in a breathless moan. His sculpted abs tense and tremble under your touch and suddenly you wanna do anything, everything to him.

And before your fingers can dip lower, he’s shoving you back, pinning your wrist to the couch and capturing your lips silently. The noise that leaves you is almost as embarrassing as the way your body throbs so bad your mind grows hazy. Not fair. So not fucking fair. This kiss is deep, no, rather, a myriad of kisses over and over. Slow and steady to desperate and raw, always leaving you wondering which he’ll do next. He completely swallows any noises you could make, holds you in place so he can completely dominate. It’s stupid hot and you need him so goddamn bad. You know you’re an aching mess and there’s an embarrassing wet spot staining the underwear he left on you.

“So touchy. This how you tried to tame the horse in your dream, hmm?” He groans into your mouth, handsy all over. The more he kisses you and the more his fingers make you quiver, the more your mind goes blank.

“I-It’s—“ you try to speak, but his lips envelop yours to shut you up. One moment you’re melting against the couch, the second two strong hands hook around your thighs and you gasp as you’re hoisted in the air, automatically wrapping your legs around him to steady yourself.

You try to pull away in pure shock, grab your breath and comment, but his fingers dig into your scalp and hold you as he walks with both your mouths preoccupied. You pathetically rock into his body, seeking any form of stimulation you can manage, he can give. Instead of the bedroom like you expect, he steps back and impressively rummages through his bag on the circle table with one hand, before backing you against the large glass window. It’s cold, you wince and he thumbs your cheek to soothe.

“Sylus—I—“ you paw desperately at him, body trembling as your thoughts border on blank from the way this man kisses you and the way you flutter in response. He presses a soft lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away, watching you with dark eyes, that beautiful ruby leaving you speechless. You pant, heart thundering, and clench at his shoulders for purchase. “I’m… fuck…”

“You’re adorable when you’re like this…” He says, as though it’s a regular occurrence (you suppose it will be from now on.) You gulp and try to steady your breaths and heart that just might burst, and he’s settling you down gently. His thumb tugs at the waistband, hands dipping into your underwear and against your sensitive waist before pulling them down. You try to ignore the way you’re immediately dripping when they’re off. He takes a moment to openly admire you, eyes drinking in the sight of your swollen arousal. His thumb brushes just above and the proximity makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Like this, all for me.” It’s like a praise, and your eyes zero in on the transparent bottle in his hand. So that’s what he grabbed from his bag. He uncaps the bottle and douses his fingers without reserve — eyes flickering up to you. You fight the embarrassment his shameless gaze brings you. The anticipation that makes you throb. When he’s done, he places the bottle aside and leans down to press a light kiss to your lips.

“Relax, sweetie,” he murmurs, half teasing, half… sweet? Before you can think further on it, his hand’s already found its way between your legs and you brace yourself against the window. He bends to mouth at your neck, slow and sweet, while he swirls before pressing a thick digit in. With lube, it slips in smooth, though far thicker and deeper than you’re used to. You sigh as his other hand decides to join in and tease swollen flesh, soft strokes in time with the way he slowly teases his finger in and out.

“Sylus…” you hold yourself steady around his neck, quickly adjusting to the new pressure inside you as the strokes with his other hand ease you in. You rock into his touch, needy, and he meanly moves to pin your hips to the window instead, holding you in place while you whimper from the loss of his touch. For all that you want, Sylus only ever wants to give what he allows you to have.

“So greedy. Don’t you know you shouldn’t ask for too much at once? Lucky for you, I don’t mind indulging you every once in a while,” he chuckles — which is funny, he’ll indulge you any day of the week. Hell, pampers you even. But then he’s slipping in a second finger and your words are gone before they ever had a chance to formulate.

Your hips tingle as he drags them in and out, wet. He moves back to kiss your lips, goes at them again and again like he’s unable to get enough. Sylus is a kisser, you learn. Part of you always thought kissing was deliberately off the table for him. But the way his lips move, how damn sensual he is, and the perfect way he knows to suck on your lower lip is so good you can’t imagine him being anything else. His fingers curl deep inside and you whine, a jolt of pleasure running through your already burning body. Your body naturally rides his fingers, chasing that feeling, the way he can press against your walls so good. Makes you tremble in pleasure as he whispers quiet praises against your lips on how good you’re taking his fingers. They move and stretch, relaxing you, opening you up for him, and you can’t help but wonder how Sylus fucks as you’re hazy. Does he hold you down and pump into you mean and rough? Slow and sensual? Does he like to tease, to give, or to take? All three? Quiet whimpers leave your mouth and he’s adding a third finger the same time he goes back to stroking you.

You try to be good, to keep your hips nice and still for him. You want him firmer, harder, want to feel his touch burn on your skin for days and leave you dizzy at the mere thought. The dual sensation makes your legs tremble and it takes steadying your hands on his shoulders to keep from stumbling as he thrusts and pleasures your swollen flesh in tandem.

“Sylus… I’m… I’ll…” You try to warn him, wrapping your arms around his neck for support as you whine and quiver, his fingers insistent and hand skilled. He chuckles in your ear at your stumbled words, and fuck that makes you even more weak in the knees. The pleasure radiates from your hips all throughout, tingling, building so good and so quick. It almost surprises you how soon you’re desperately squeezing him and letting out quiet whispered noises as the build up finally overflows. Your body trembles, wrapped around him as you pulse around his fingers and against his hand, soothed by quiet praises while he strokes and finger-fucks you all throughout it, leaving you squirming when the feeling borders on unbearable.

He gives you reprieve, kisses your temple while you quiver in his grasp and try to steady your heart that’s thundering so hard you feel it in your throat.

“Knew you’d look just perfect like that,” he says, and you give him a weak squeeze in response. If you let go of his neck, you’re certain you’ll collapse on the spot.

Thankfully, Sylus, if anything, is perceptive. He wastes no time undoing his pants and moving his briefs just enough to release his eager erection, lined just with your abdomen. Naturally, you have to look, and shit. You figured he’d be something considering his damn size, but seeing it against your body makes you wonder if three fingers can even remotely compare. You tremble — maybe anticipation, maybe nerves, and comply when you’re lifted and pressed against the window so your jelly legs are given a break.

His lips mark up your neck beautifully — you can’t imagine what sorts of things you’ll need to wear to cover up the next week or two, and you subconsciously tense when you feel him slide himself between your legs, flesh sensitive and wet. His eyes lock onto yours, hot. Being so scrutinized when so helplessly at this man’s mercy makes your skin burn.

“Hm? What’s with that look? Want something?” Sylus meanly asks, and you hate the way your body responds to those words, throbs, and you watch him with a look of quiet, embarrassed defeat. Maybe you’ll have Sylus at your mercy one day, but today is not that day.

“Why are you so damn big…” you grumble, like you aren’t looking at him with heart eyes. That draws a throaty laugh from him and he leans close, lips settled right at the shell of your ear.

“So it can fit perfectly between those pretty legs of yours,” he says, and right then he uses a hand to steady his erection just where his fingers made you come undone, making you scoff and squeeze him tight.

“Perfectly isn’t how I’d describe your size in proportion to me,” you mumble. Perhaps feigning an attitude can help distract you from your nervous anticipation. Your body’s throbbing, begging, empty from his fingers and aching to be filled even after you just came.

“Really? Guess we’ll just have to see about that,” he whispers, light and teasing. In the same breath, you feel him slowly slide into you, arms supporting your legs as you sink onto his cock. You grip at him with a rushed moan, Sylus letting out a choked groan in response. You tremble, fight the urge to tense as you stretch around his size. Fuck — he’s so damn thick and fills you so much it aches. You whine and grasp at him with the effort to adjust, weakly murmuring curses.

“Dammit—shit, ah…” you choke and squeeze him close, burying one hand in his pale silver hair, and digging your shaky fingers into his shoulder. “S-Sylus…”

“That’s it, sweetie. Just like that. You can handle it,” he murmurs, tone so sweet for such mean actions as he pulls out and pushes in deeper, bottoming out. This position has you exactly where he needs you, makes you accept everything he has to offer. He’s so deep and you can feel him twitch inside, thick, an inferno, makes you sigh with each movement. He watches your face — this asshole, he likes seeing you whine — and let out a weak noise as he grinds, hips flush to you, before starting to thrust at a deep, slow pace. The warmth of his skin contradicts the coolness of the glass behind you, and you vaguely wonder how filthy your combined silhouettes must look in the distance.

It’s hard to explain the well of emotions inside you aside from pure lust. They blend together, a chunky, complicated mix of very degrees of pettiness, anger, mild fondness, and a deep-set longing you can’t pinpoint the origin of. Your body takes this longing and turns it into need, holding him to you, absorbing his warmth inside and out.

For a moment, you want to tilt your head and kiss him. You squeeze him harder instead.

You quiver around his length, each thrust accompanied by deep pleasure and a dull, pleasant ache. Sylus rewards your strain around his cock with his lips on yours, deep and devouring, stealing your already thin air. He guides you so easy, holds you up like it’s nothing while his steady thrusts slowly gain on speed. This position easily lets him slide against you in the perfect way that makes you cry out weakly, back arching. The pleasure is numbing and he brushes that area over and over, adamant on making you lose your sense of reason.

“Look at you. You handle me so well, sweetheart,” he speaks against your swollen lips like a dirty secret, panting against you as his thrusts hit the perfect spot every time. He handles your legs with ease and fucks into you harder, meaner, like he’s trying to bully these pathetic noises out of you. You whimper and claw at him, toes curling, feeling him swell as skin slaps against skin every time. His face is flush, eyes look at you like there’s no one else in the world — the only thing that exists is you a mess from his cock. His thrusts are as dizzying as his gaze you feel you can never escape, eyes half-lidded as he watches you take all of him. Your body’s a beacon of pleasure and your hips roll against his, rocking in time, wanting more, never enough.

“Please… please-fuck, Sylus… ngh…” You gasp, squeeze his hair tighter, and he fits his lips against your brow to murmur, “as you wish, sweetie.”

His hips are relentless, he stuffs you full of his cock every time and rolls his hips just the right way to make you sweetly numb, to fill you with that deep-set pleasure from within. His hair sticks to his brow, pants leave his body as his darkened eyes admire your sheen in sweat, rasping form. Fuck — he’s so — you need — he kisses at your neck and the sensitivity almost makes you sob.

“You’re shaking… you gonna come for me again all pretty?” Sylus breathes in your ear, you groan and clench him tight, making his hips sputter a moment. He smirks and picks back up his usual pace in response. You indeed feel your entire body quiver around him as the feeling grows more and more. Fuck you’ll — you — you can’t even say a word of warning as you’re suddenly letting out a choked sob, unable to control your tremors as you climax, body taut, tense. Sylus fucking you throughout only makes you whine and whimper as the feeling prolongs, white and hot. You’re so beautifully sensitive and rendered completely speechless, thoughtless. Sylus lets out quiet grunts all throughout, his own hips trembling, but pace unbroken.

Even when you come down Sylus doesn’t relent on his thrusts, he’s persistent if anything. At this point tears are pricking your eyes as you squeeze him tight, shame lost. “Please, please Sylus, fuck I can’t — please come,” you beg, sensitive, shaking, swollen, and Sylus laughs softly as his thrusts come in mean, hard, and fast.

“Mmm… How could I refuse such an earnest request?” He hums and holds you firm, his own forehead pressed against the window. It warms your ear and fogs the glass as his hips snap against yours, more erratic, your body bounced along with his rhythm and so damn sensitive you fight the urge to cry. Quiet grunts leave him, he’s more vocal, more open, and his large hands squeeze your thighs as he gasp and twitches. He buries deep and spills, releasing a pleasant groan right into your hot ear. He’s so close, feels so alive under your fingers and inside you, his heart an impossibly fast rhythm that puts yours to shame. You feel every throb, and you moan weakly as you’re held up, body swallowing every last drop. When he pulls out of your swollen hole, you feel the strength leave you and his cum drip down filthily.

“There you are, sweetie. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall,” he soothes, and holds your weak body up with the same ease he had the first time despite the time elapsed. This kindness feels as wrong from him as it does right. When you weakly rest your head on his shoulder to look at him, his sweet eyes return the gaze, appeased. He carries your limp body to the couch and settles you down gently, swiping a thumb across your slick forehead. “You had quite the workout,” he comments. You glare and push his shoulder away, earning a chuckle.

“Aw, don’t pout.”

“Next time…” you hiss, holding a finger up to him. ‘Next time’ implying this will be regular. ‘Next time’ implying Sylus is not only the fearsome Onychinus leader you’ve been made to deal with, but is now a man you fuck (and something… more?) on top of it. “You’ll be the one at my mercy.”

Sylus blinks, tongue lax as he observes you in mild surprise.

Then, his face melts into a soft grin.

You’ve seen so many new expressions from Sylus today, it’s like you’re meeting him again for the first time. He grabs your hand and gently interlocks your fingers, watching you with a look you can only describe as ‘affectionate’.

It makes your face burn.

He adjusts his hand so he’s grasping your palm, and he drags yours to his lips, dropping a soft kiss on your fingertips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

[chiquilines]

I have compeltely lost it🥳

[sugutiva]

❝ TIL’ YOU DROP ! ❞

ᥫ᭡ featuring : gojo s. , geto s. , choso k. , toji f.

synopsis : classic overstimulation with jjk men.

tags : smut, p in v, fingering, squirting ( geto’s ), size kink, dacryphilla, hair pulling, dirty talk, cream pie, unprotected sex, cursing, all lowercase intended !

☆ GOJO SATORU

“ a sight i’ll never get sick of…” gojo snickers to himself. taking in the sight of his sticky cum that he plastered on the display and dips of your back. some ropes of cum trickle from your spine to the crack of your ass.

his cerulean eyes then travel back to your small body; shaking from the aftershock of your orgasm. “ tsk tsk, hope yer’ not too fucked out for me…” his big hand made home on your hip, while his other tapped your swollen mound with his tip.

all senses came crashing back to you when he slowly, but surely stuffs himself back in the expanse of your cunt. “ satoru…” your kiss-bruised lips grunt out. every nerve of your body felt like it was alive and blazing on fire.

sticky fat globs of cum trickles down to the base of your plump ass to your thighs and everytime satoru’s sharp thrust align with your body; a loud sticky ‘ pap’ sound resonates loudly throughout the room and his ears. impossibly turning him on even more.

“ haah, t-turning me on even more. think you can handle five more rounds after tis’?” one of satoru’s legs are propped up, so he’s able to maintain his rhythm and dive into your pussy even further. creating more of an absolute mess out of you.

“ mmph— oh fuuuck! i—it’s too much, s-stop!” your body moves on its own and one of your legs fly up to slap satoru in the ass. but gojo’s firm hand slides down to still your ankle against the bed, while the rocks of his hips doesn’t stop even for a moment. grounding you completely on the bed so you won’t think to run away.

the feeling of him stirring your insides up and leaving your brain a mushy mess is enough to fill your clouded eyes with salty tears. a particularly wet sob catches the man’s attention, and he lets your ankle go to tug at your hair.

“ you crying on me, princess?” his cocky voice booms above you, and through your unintelligible sounds your mouth makes, you beg him to shut up. the bed jostles and creaks with every mind shattering thrust he gives you.

you couldn’t contain yourself any longer, a particular thrust of his has your vision brightening and you cumming on all ten inches of him with a loud scream followed by you collapsing on the bed. despite your body tapping out on him, satoru’s pace didn’t rest for second, but his lips curled down into a faux frown.

“ we gotta fix that stamina of yours, princess.” he pouts at your body twitching from the overstimulation and rocking under him with every push of his hips. despite his expression, he fucking adores the sight of you helped underneath him, and at his will.

his nails dig deep into the fat of your ass, before he rocks you and the headboard forward with a loud moan. satoru comes a lot. if you weren’t on the pill, it would be no doubt that you’d be pregnant with a good handful of his children by now.

“ hey, yer’ not sleep yet? guess we can do another round.”

☆ GETO SUGURU

“ s-stop! suguru, stop. it’s— ’s too much!” you’re words are punctured from your throat with deep gasps and moans. a tight pressure builds in your lower stomach with every electrifying thrust suguru gives with his fingers.

your nerves feels as if they’re on fire and your body desperately screams for a break. but his arm shows no signs of stopping or slowing down; muscles flexing, hair messily sprawled around him, his bottom lip caught in between his teeth.

“ gonna squirt f’me yet?” suguru asks, the evident of your past orgasms trickling down his forearm. every movement of his fingers feels more alive than the last, and every touch against your g-spot has your vision brightening and the coil in your stomach tightening.

his fingers curling and thrusting are the only thing that your mushed brain can comprehend. “ h-haaah, it’s dirty… m’ gonna- gonna piss!” your hips tremble, but suguru’s hand is braced firmly on your waist. his pace doesn’t relent.

his fingers easily glides in and out of your wet, gummy warmth easily. your moans and the uncontrollable actions of your legs increases; still so sensitive of the last orgasms suguru gave you and the ones to come yet.

“ we’ll take a bath and clean the bedsheets. hmm?” he sprinkles the dips of your collarbone in lighthearted kisses. that damned unhinged grin still plastered on his face. you grab desperately onto his hair, eyes fluttering back into your head and mouth hung open.

“ fuh— fuck!” your hips still along with your legs when you feel your pussy spray like an open faucet.

“ there she goes. told you, you could do it.” he eyes the beauty of your fluids going everywhere, your thighs contracting and twitching from your post-orgasm.

your slick arousal is everywhere. his arm, your legs, the bedsheets, everywhere.

he gives your wet cunt a soft spank before licking the rest coating his hand. through your weakened state, you watch him.

“ proud that you can keep up with me, baby.” he removes his now spit coated fingers with a loud wet pop sound. “ think you can still squirt on my cock?”

☆ CHOSO KAMO

“ h-haah. c-choso— baby, don’t think i can do it. ‘s too much!” you hiss out. you both fucked multiple times before, but to say you’re fully used to it, would be a stretch.

“ that’s it, baby. fuuuck, k-keep rocking your hips like that.” choso said, completely ignoring your desperate pleas to stop. his calloused hands traveled down to plant firmly on your hips, holding you in a way in which you can’t escape.

“ jus’ for you, cho.” you mutter out, before the action of you bouncing up and down on his lap increases viciously. the sinful sounds of your skin clashing down against his, all eight inches of him stirring up your insides, and both of your sweet moans combined together, sounded like a erotic song that choso would never get tired of hearing.

“ yea… that’s right,” he occupied his finger with the task of drawing tight circles on your twitching clit. he smiles in realization when you choke out a wet sob. “ just for m-me. all f’me.”

“ cho—mmph, choso!” your mouths hang ajar dumbly, nails planted firmly in his pecs; using him as the only thing holding you upright despite your weak knees. the way how your body trembled and shook, choso could tell you were close to passing out.

“ hm, that won’t do…” choso darkly mutters out before his hands resume their place on your hips. his grip boarding on painfully but your mushed brain can’t dwell on the pain. his feet planted securely on the bed, and his hips thrust up to meet your bounces.

the new depth of his dick molding your insides; kissing your cervix sweetly sent you on the brink of tears. “ ohh fuck! ‘s too much— i can’t, i can’t!” you babble out, salty tears rolling down your cheeks proving your pleading.

despite your desperate cries; you still bounce and down on his cock with his extra help. the wetness from pervious orgasms and his hips jerking up made the process easier yet still so unbearable. “ you can. like you said, it’s just for me.”

your eyes meet in deathly lock and from the way his pace increases you suspect that he’s close. “ squeezing me so tight… shit, ‘m so close, baby.” his hips growing sloppier by the minute. desperate to bring you to the high you deserve.

and with one more mouth watering thrust of his tip that he delivers against your g-spot; you come on him with a choked moan. your body goes slack against his but choso is not too far behind.

“ don’t tap out on me now— oh god.” you feel his dick twitching viscously in your warm walls. you feel a great warmth flood your insides and leak out onto your inner thighs and on his pelvis. your stuffed so silly of him.

☆ TOJI FUSHIGURO

“ toji— m-move! jus’ came!” you gradually panted out before swatting his hand away from your lower body. you feel his dick twitch eagerly inside you.

toji fingers tighten against your throat as a warning, before he manhandles you into a mating press.

you gasp at new feeling of him entering you even deeper. “ f—fuck you! damn… tyrant!” toji leisurely grins above you. and from the new angle; the lighting traces and enchants his sharp features even more. “ you already are,” he begins to snap his lower hips against your thighs.

“ ‘nd from the way this dirty cunt is clenching on me so tightly…” he dips his head down to where his scarred lip brushes against the shell of your ear. “ you fuckin’ love it, sweetheart.” his words sends hot pangs of pleasure to your heat, mostly accompanied by the sharp thrust of his hips.

toji can feel his own dick twitch inside of you. you’re so fucking tight— milking him tight and holding him snug deep inside. the lewd sound of him slamming inside of you resonates in the room, but the fucked out dumb look on your face is obscene.

“ tuh— toooji!” is the only thing your brain can comprehend. with your mouth hung open and eyes rolled so far in the back of your head. “ yer’ close already? tsk, barely broke the bed on this good pussy.” he says, deciding to completely ignore the evidence of your past fluids mixed together on the wrinkled sheets below.

toji’s broad body envelopes your smaller one completely. the sight of your feet on either side of his shoulder is the only sign of life underneath him.

your legs twitch, your wall spasms around toji, sucking him in and in and in. his sharp eye notices the bulge of your belly and with his calloused pressing down on it, is enough to come over the edge with a shrill cry.

“ haah, you seriously came without me fucking your clit?” he barks out a cruel laugh that echoes in your ears. and you desperately want him to shut up.

through your heated gaze you notice his abs contracting and twitching— a signal that he’s coming close. as if the bruising grip on your hips didn’t serve as an reminder either. “ fuck girl… ya’ really drivin’ me crazy…”

his sweaty bangs press against your equally sweaty forehead while he forces himself deeper in your inviting heat. and before you know it, cum trickles deeply inside of your body, the creaking and his groans in your ears are loud and the only things you can focus on before he slots his body on yours with a sigh.

“ take a small break now. ‘m not lying when i say i’m gonna break the bed on this pussy.”

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[jjunberry]

SKZ! while getting head

pairing! skz x reader

genre! smut

synopsis! how i think skz would be while getting head

wc! 600

chan! is more of a giver than a receiver. however every now and then you convince him to just relax and let you take care of him. lays back and lets you be in control. “just relax.” you cooed before taking him in your mouth. he gasped feeling your mouth around him. “mhm oh fuck.” his voice was shaky. you hollowed your cheeks taking him down your throat. his stomach muscles tensed as he shot his load down your throat. you pulled off with a pop and stuck your tongue out. seeing that you swallowed chan let out a deep groan and covered his face blushing.

minho! likes to lay you down and fuck your throat. he does this cause he can go deeper. your head was laid back as he stood above you, his cock at your lips. “open up baby.” he said rubbing his tip along your lips. you opened your mouth and he slipped in. he groaned feeling your mouth around him. “fuck baby.” he grunted before bucking his hips. fucks your mouth until he’s shooting his load down your throat.

changbin! is so into shower head. he likes to come home from the studio or practice and get in the shower with you. with the hot water hitting your back, you’re on your knees bobbing your head. your hand working the part of him that doesn’t fit in your mouth. “fuck i’m close keep going.” he grunted. you moved your head faster, hollowing your cheeks. he pulled out and finished off on your face. “fuck.” he said seeing your face covered in his release.

hyunjin! loves to finish on your tits. he will fuck your mouth until he’s ready to burst. loves the feeling of your mouth but loves the sight of his cum on you even more. “fuck baby let me see.” he moaned. you pulled off him and pushed your tits together. “fuck.” he grunted releasing his load and covering your chest in pearly white. you smiled at him. he swore he felt his dick twitch.

han! definitely guides your head. he guides your head to meet his thrusts. he taught you to tap his thigh twice if you needed air. he’s mainly in control. “mhm yeah baby you like it when i use your mouth.” he groaned speeding his thrusts up. your eyes watered and your lungs burned. “oh fuck.” he moaned filling your mouth up with his cum. when we pulled out some spilled out and he used his fingers to push it back in.

felix! is so whiny. his deep voice gets so high pitched the moment you take him into your mouth. “oh fuck baby, that feels so good.” he cried out as you took him all the way down your throat. “fuck.” he whined as he came. you swallowed his cum and showed him. “you treat me so well.” he grinned. you smiled at the praise.

seungmin! is the silent type. the most noise he makes is small breaths. that doesn’t mean he isn’t enjoying himself. he loves having your mouth wrapped around his cock. his whole body stills as he sucks in a deep breath of hair. you notice his stomach muscles flexing as he cums down your throat. a breathless “fuck.” leaves his lips.

jeongin! is totally down for the classic 69. i mean he’s a guy who isn’t. took a lot of convincing before you eventually agreed to give it a shot. so here you were his cock down your throat and his face buried in your heat. you both definitely cum at the same time. once you laid next to him he rolled to face you grinning. “that was so hot.” he grinned. you groaned pushing his face away. “admit it.” he poked at you. “fine it was hot.” you mumbled. already excited for the next time.

masterlist

author’s note! i just had to make a skz version 🤭 should i do one for p1h?

tag list! @304files @jjunieworld

love, echo ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪

© jjunberry

[elodieunderglass]

Hey bestie whats a narrow boat? I saw you tag that on something you reblogged and I'm pretty curious now!

- Terry Darlington, Narrow Dog to Carcassone

A narrowboat (all one word) is a craft restricted to the British Isles, which are connected all over by a nerve-map of human-made canals. To go up and down hills, the canals are spangled with locks (chambers in which boats can be raised or lowered by filling or emptying them with water.) As Terry says above, the width of the locks was somewhat randomly determined, and as a result, the British Isles have a narrow design of lock - and a narrowboat to fit through them. A classic design was seventy feet long and six feet wide. Starting in the 18th century, and competing directly with trains, canal “barges” were an active means of transport and shipping. They were initially pulled along the towpaths by horses, and you can still see some today!

Later, engines were developed.

Even after the trains won the arms race, it was a fairly viable freight service right up until WW2. It’s slow travel, but uses few resources and requires little human power, with a fairly small crew (of women, in WW2) being capable of shifting two fully laden boats without consuming much fossil fuel.

In those times the barges were designed with small, cramped cabins in which the boaters and their families could live.

During its heyday the narrowboat community developed a style of folk art called “roses and castles” with clear links to fairground art as well as Romani caravan decor. They are historically decorated with different kinds of brass ornaments, and inside the cabins could also be distinctively painted and decorated.

Today, many narrowboats are distinctively decorated and colorful - even if not directly traditional with “roses and castles” they’ll still be bright and offbeat. A quirky name is necessary. All narrowboats, being boats, are female.

After a postwar decline, interest in the waterways was sparked by a leisure movement and collapsing canals were repaired. Today, the towpaths are a convenient walking/biking trail for people, as they connect up a lot of the mainland of the UK, hitting towns and cities. Although the restored canals are concrete-bottomed, they’re attractive to wildlife. Narrowboats from the 1970s onward started being designed for pleasure and long-term living. People enjoy vacationing by hiring a boat and visiting towns for a cuter, comfier, slower version of a campervan life. And a liveaboard community sprang up - people who live full-time on boats. Up until the very restrictive and nasty laws recently passed in the UK to make it harder for travelling peoples (these were aimed nastily at vanlivers and the Romani, and successfully hit everyone) this was one of the few legal ways remaining to be a total nomad in the UK.

Liveaboards can moor up anywhere along the canal for 28 days, but have to keep moving every 28 days. (Although sorting out the toilet and loading up with fresh water means that a lot of people move more frequently than that.) you can also live full-time in a marina if they allow it, or purchase your own mooring. In London, where canal boats are one of the few remaining cheapish ways to live, boats with moorings fetch the same prices as houses. It can be very very hard for families to balance school, parking, work, and all the difficulties of living off-grid- but many make it work. It remains a diverse community and is even growing, due to housing pressures in the UK. Boats can be very comfortable, even when only six feet wide. When faced with spending thousands of pounds on rent OR mooring up on a nice canal, you can see why it seems a romantic proposition for young people, and UK television channels always have slice-of-life documentaries about young folks fixing up their very own quirky solar-powered narrowboat. I don’t hate; I did it myself.

If you’re lucky, you might even meet some of the cool folks who run businesses from their narrowboats: canal-side walkers enjoy bookshops, vegan bakeries, ice-cream boats, restaurants, artists and crafters. There are Floating Markets and narrowboat festivals. It’s generally recognised that boaters contribute quite a lot to the canal - yet there are many tensions between different kinds of boaters (liveaboards vs leisure boaters vs tourists) as well as tensions with local settled people, towpath users like cyclists, and fishermen. I could go on and on explaining this rich culture and dramas, but I won’t.

Phillip Pullman’s Gyptians are a commonly cited example of liveaboards - although they were based on the narrowboat liveaboards that Pullman knew in Oxford, their boats are actually Dutch barges. Dutch barges make good homes but are too wide to access most of the midlands and northern canals, and are usually restricted to the south of the UK. So they’re accurate for Bristol/London/Oxford, and barges are definitely comfier to film on. (Being six feet wide is definitely super awkward for a boat.) but in general Dutch barges are less common, more expensive and can’t navigate the whole system.

However, apart from them, there are few examples of narrowboat depictions that escaped containment. So it’s quite interesting that there is an entire indigenous special class of boat, distinctive and highly specialised and very cute, with an associated culture and heritage and folk art type, known to all and widely celebrated, and ABSOLUTELY UNKNOWN outside of the UK - a nation largely known around the world for inflicting its culture on others. They’re a strange, sweet little secret - and nobody who has ever loved one can resist pointing them out for the rest of their lives, or talking about them when asked to. Thank you for asking me to.

[bun-fish]

The Battle Falcon Arc continues

Can u tell my love for masked character designs. Be it pull-overs or gas masks or helmets or the classic plague doctor mask, one can express so much with just two little squinty eyes

Spreading more Duke and Danny friendship/romantic relationship/what-have-you in this cold cold world. Not enough Danny&Duke content out there so I'm breaking out the mixing bowl to bake some myself

I just like these two hanging out together, they have such good chemistry :D

--------

p.s. the idea of Danny’s mask being a plague doc's mask comes from @void-of-unparalled-chaos

ppp.ssss. the inspo of this comic also comes from @transsunmoonwizzard ‘s tags on the original falcon post. big thanks to you both, hot choco for everyone <3

[gilbertscurls]

Pillow Wall ➵ Chris Sturniolo

The night had been a blur of whispered conversations, laughter, and movie marathons. You and Chris had always been close, but this—this was new. The boundary between your friendship and something more had been blurring for a while now, but neither of you had dared to acknowledge it.

You sat on Chris' bed, surrounded by an avalanche of blankets and pillows. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your eyes darting over to Chris, who was scrolling through Netflix absentmindedly. You were doing your best to ignore the awkward tension that had settled between you the moment you realized the night had gotten late—too late for you to drive home.

“Guess we’re stuck with the classic 'two friends sharing a bed' dilemma,” Chris joked, but there was a nervous edge to his voice. He tossed the remote aside, letting it land somewhere among the chaos of pillows.

You chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Yeah, wouldn’t want to cross any lines, huh?”

Chris smirked, grabbing one of the pillows and dropping it in the middle of the bed. “Easy solution. We build a wall.”

“A pillow wall?” You raised a brow, but the idea made you grin.

“Exactly,” Chris said, already arranging more pillows between you. “That way, no accidental cuddling or whatever.”

“Ah, yes. Brilliant plan,” you teased, adding a few more pillows to the barrier. The wall grew higher, and when it was done, it was a comically lopsided fortress between you.

“Perfect,” Chris declared, lying back on his side of the bed. “Now we’re safe.”

“Totally safe,” you echoed, lying back as well. You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the silence comfortable, but the awareness of each other’s presence just on the other side of the pillow wall was impossible to ignore.

You both tried your best to sleep, but every time you shifted, you could hear Chris doing the same. It was ridiculous, really, how much space you had in the bed, and yet it still felt impossibly small.

Minutes turned into hours, and at some point, your eyes fluttered shut. You fell into a restless sleep, your thoughts still lingering on Chris—how close you were, how easy it would be to reach across the pillows.

When you woke up, the first thing you noticed was warmth. More specifically, Chris' warmth. The pillow wall, once so carefully constructed, was now half-destroyed, some pillows having fallen to the floor during the night. And somehow, you had both ended up tangled in each other.

Chris’ arm was draped across your waist, and your head rested against his chest. You blinked, your mind slowly registering the fact that you had both gravitated toward each other in your sleep, despite the supposed “barrier.”

For a second, you thought about pulling away, about untangling yourself before Chris woke up. But something stopped you. Lying there, wrapped up in the quiet comfort of him, felt too right.

Just as you were debating what to do, Chris stirred, his grip on you tightening slightly as he woke. He froze for a moment, clearly realizing what had happened, and then he groaned softly, half-amused, half-embarrassed.

“So much for the pillow wall,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

You smiled, your face still pressed against his chest. “Yeah, it didn’t work out too well, huh?”

He chuckled softly, but neither of you moved. The awkwardness from the night before had disappeared, replaced by something softer—something neither of you had the words for yet.

“You comfortable?” he asked after a moment, his voice gentler than you were used to hearing from him.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” he said, his breath warm against the top of your head. “I’m good.”

You lay there in silence for a little while longer, neither of you feeling the need to break away. Maybe you’d talk about it later—what this meant, what it might turn into—but for now, you were content just being close, pillow wall forgotten.

tag list: @stuwniolo, @sturnobsessedwh0re, @matts-myloverboy, @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut, @lizzymacdonald06

[wholoveseggs]

Runaway

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x TargaryenSister!Reader} As the rebellious younger sister of Daemon and King Viserys. You come with all of their impulses, stubbornness, and recklessness. But that isn't always a good thing, especially when it comes to sneaking out of the Red Keep. Fortunately, Daemon is always there to retrieve you and bring you home.

3.2k words - Warnings: smut, classic Targcest, lots of banter / sexual tension, Daemon being Daemon, drunk sex, hair pulling, fingering && valyrian dirty talk...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

"Another!"

You hiccuped as you slammed your empty tankard down onto the table. The bar wench giggled at your antics before turning to the bartender. "A strong brew for the princess!"

The bartender grunted in agreement, already beginning to mix the drinks. You hummed in delight as you looked around the tavern. It was packed with people from all walks of life. Drinking, laughing, and dancing to their heart's content. A few handsome knights were already throwing you flirtatious glances.

It was the same almost every night you came to this tavern. You could only assume it was because of your status. Your looks also helped a bit. Being a Targaryen and a princess was a dangerous combination, but it did come with its perks.

The bartender placed your tankard in front of you, and you wasted no time gulping down the strong ale. It tasted awful, but the effects were well worth the horrid taste. You could feel the alcohol working its way through your system.

Just the way you liked it.

You giggled as a knight leaned into your side. He smelled of sweat and horse shit, but he had a nice smile. You could barely make out the words he was saying to you, but you found yourself nodding along anyway. You didn't know what his intentions were, but you didn't care. All you wanted to do was forget. Forget the pressure, the responsibilities, the expectations. You hated all of it.

Your family was never good at hiding their disappointment in you. The way they always scolded and punished you. How they constantly talked about what a failure you were. It made you want to scream. But this knight was a welcome distraction, the kind to worship the ground you walked on, not judge you for every little thing.

You smiled drunkenly up at him, running your hand along his bicep. The knight's face broke out into a large grin.

Suddenly, the doors to the tavern were kicked open. You groaned, you didn't have to bother looking, knowing exactly who had entered. Sure enough, the knight's expression dropped as your older brother stood there with a furious look on his face.

"Leave," Daemon commanded. His purple eyes narrowed as he glared at the man. "I need to have a word with my sister."

The knight quickly disappeared, leaving you alone with your brother. You rolled your eyes at his behavior. "Must you always scare away my friends?"

Daemon scoffed. "They are hardly friends. More like vultures," he hissed. "I'm here to take you home."

"And I refuse," you replied, already making your way back to the bar. Daemon grabbed your arm and pulled you back to him. You yelped as you crashed into his chest. You were about to protest until he wrapped his arm around your waist.

"I'll drag you home kicking and screaming if I have to," he said, his voice low and his warm breath fanning against your cheek. "And I don't think you want me to do that."

"You wouldn't," you replied, narrowing your eyes at him.

He grinned wickedly. "Are you sure?"

You knew your brother was stubborn and would do whatever it took to get his way. If he really wanted to, he would throw you over his shoulder and carry you out of the tavern. And knowing the reputation he had, no one would bat an eye.

"What would the king say if he knew where you were?" Daemon asked, his nose skimming the side of your face. "Out in the middle of the city. Drinking. Flirting with commoners. Do you really want our brother to know about this?"

You knew how Viserys felt about you. He was protective of his younger siblings, going on and on about what's best for you. He wanted to see you married off to some high lord and have children. But you weren't ready for any of that.

"The king," you mocked, rolling your eyes once more. "Viserys couldn't give two shits about what I do. As long as it doesn't interfere with his duties "

Daemon smirked. "You don't think this looks bad on him?" he whispered into your ear. You felt your knees go weak. "Always running away. Causing trouble and giving our guards the slip. I wonder what punishment you deserve."

You shivered, feeling yourself grow wetter by the second. Daemon was always such a tease, and you absolutely loved it.

"If you won't come willingly," Daemon began. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to him. "I guess I'll have to take matters into my own hands."

"That's only if you can catch me,” you giggled as you slipped from his grasp.

Your laughter rang through the tavern as you dashed toward the exit. Daemon followed, a wicked grin plastered on his handsome face. You reached the door and threw it open. Running out into the streets, you were met with the chilly night air.

You didn't look back, knowing that your brother would be hot on your heels. The thrill of him chasing you sent a spark of excitement throughout your body. Your blood rushed through your veins as you ran. Your laughter and his heavy footsteps echoed throughout the city.

You made a sharp turn and hid behind a nearby building. Thinking about how the night would end, hopefully with the both of you naked in bed. The thought made you shudder in anticipation. You wanted nothing more than to be his, but you knew he would never let that happen.

He was so gentle with you, it was infuriating. He even rejected a betrothal between the two of you, never explaining why. But now, it seemed that all of his careful control was slowly slipping away. You just hoped that he would continue to let it fall.

You leaned against the wall and listened as his footsteps came closer and closer. "You can't hide from me, little one," Daemon called out.

He turned the corner and spotted you. His grin widened as he made his way towards you. "Gotcha."

He had you pinned against the wall, his body pressed flush against yours. His breath was hot on your face as he leaned down.

"You should be more careful, what if it wasn't me?"

"Oh? Would you have let someone else catch me?"

His fingers curled around your chin, forcing you to look up at him. "No. I wouldn't let anyone else have you," he growled, his violet eyes darkening.

"Then why do you refuse to marry me? I would be yours and yours alone." You asked, your voice barely a whisper.

"Because you deserve better."

You rolled your eyes at his response. It was always the same. The same bullshit answer. You were sick and tired of hearing it.

You let out a frustrated sigh, pushing him away from you. "Fuck this," you muttered under your breath, you began to storm away from him.

He was quick to grab you by the waist, pulling you back to him. His chest rumbled against your back as he chuckled. "You can be mad at me, back inside the red keep," he whispered against your ear.

Before you could reply, he lifted you up, and slung you over his shoulder.

"Let me go!" You shouted as you tried to wiggle free.

"Not a chance, sweet sister,"

The guards were used to this by now, the sight of Daemon carrying his sister back into the red keep. They paid no attention to the commotion as the two of you passed. Some were even smirking at the scene, while others just shook their heads in amusement.

You had continued to fight against him as he carried you through the halls. He didn't seem fazed by your actions. Not once did his grip on you falter.

He kicked open the doors of your chambers and shut them with his foot. The loud slam made you flinch. Daemon was never one to be subtle. He walked over to your bed and tossed you onto it.

You immediately reached for him, your hands grabbing at his tunic. He chuckled as he pushed you away. "You're drunk."

"So?" you huffed.

Daemon shook his head. "You need to rest."

"No!" you whined, reaching for him again.

Daemon sighed, and grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head, "You're acting like a child," he chided.

"I don't care," you replied, kicking your legs in protest.

"Why must you always run off and cause trouble?"

"Why must you always try and stop me?" You spat back, glaring at him.

Daemon frowned, and leaned closer. "Because I worry about you."

You looked away, not wanting him to see the effect his words had on you. He let go of your wrists, and you pulled him close again, so that his lips were barely brushing against yours.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I... I just wish to see the world, to experience everything it has to offer," you continued, your voice cracking. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life locked away in the Red Keep."

Daemon's expression softened, his hands moving down to cup your cheeks. "You don't have to live like that," he whispered. "I'll take you anywhere you want, show you anything you desire. As long as you're safe."

"Anything?"

He narrowed his eyes at you, he always knew what you were thinking. "Within reason," he added.

You grinned, and pulled him down for a kiss. It was sweet, and slow. His lips were warm and soft, just the way you imagined they would be. You savored the taste of him, committing it to memory.  You felt him smile against your mouth, and you knew that he had been thinking the same thing. When you pulled away, you were out of breath, your lips plump and red from the kiss.

Daemon brushed his thumb across your bottom lip. "What do you want?"

"Nyke jaelagon ao {I want you}" you replied. "Mērī ao {Only you}"

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. But all he found was the love and adoration you had for him. He kissed you, this time harder and more urgent.

You reached up and began to undo the laces of his tunic, quickly pulling it off of him. You then went to work on his breeches, desperate to see all of him. He broke the kiss, his hands moving to your hips, stilling your movements.

"Paez ilagon, dōna mandia {Slow down, sweet sister}" he purred, his accent thick with lust.

You pouted, and he smirked at your reaction as he slowly pulled at the ribbons on the front of your dress. His fingers trailed along your exposed skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

Once your dress was open, he pushed the fabric to the side, exposing your breasts. He lowered his head, taking a nipple between his lips, and gently sucked.

You moaned softly, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. The feeling was unlike anything you had ever experienced. You felt like your whole body was on fire, every nerve ending tingling with pleasure.

He moved his mouth to your other breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple, before giving it a soft bite. You yelped in surprise, your hips bucking involuntarily. He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations causing another moan to escape your lips.

Daemon leaned back, pulling you onto his lap. You wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling suddenly shy. His hands moved to your waist, squeezing gently, slowly pulling your dress up over your head.

You bit your lip, trying not to squirm under his gaze. He had never seen you completely bare before, and the feeling was almost too much. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, hiding from his stare.

He hummed in amusement, his fingers tracing along the curve of your spine. The feeling of his bare skin against yours made your heart race. You pressed closer, needing to feel him.

"Lyka? {Shy?}" He teased, his breath hot against your ear.

You nodded, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks.

"Issa sȳz hāedar {My good girl}" he whispered, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, his fingertips brushing against your warm center. You gasped at the sudden contact, your hips instinctively moving towards his hand. He grinned, finding a spot that made your toes curl.

He began to rub small circles over the sensitive nub. You clung to his shoulders, your eyes locked with his. He watched as your breathing became ragged, and your eyes fluttered shut.

"D-Daemon," you whimpered, your legs trembling.

He smiled, pressing his middle finger against your entrance. You let out a soft cry, your nails digging into his skin. He slowly eased his finger inside of you, watching the way your lips parted.

He began to move his finger, pushing it in and out of you. Your head fell back, and your hips rocked in rhythm with his movements. His name left your lips over and over again, your voice growing louder each time.

"Gaomagon ao jaelagon syt se tolie naejot rȳbagon? {Do you wish for the guards to hear?}" He asked, his lips ghosting across your jaw.

You bit your lip, nodding your head. He chuckled, his hand moving in a slow, steady rhythm, making your entire body tremble. You could feel the tension building inside of you, the pressure rising.

He watched you closely, his eyes filled with hunger before capturing your lips with his own. The kiss was deep, and passionate, making your head spin. He broke the kiss, his fingers curling within you, causing a loud moan to escape from your lips, waves of pleasure crashing over you.

Your body arched, clenching around his fingers. Your eyes closed as you rode out the high. Your chest was heaving, and your cheeks flushed.

Daemon withdrew his hand, bringing his wet finger to his lips. His eyes darkened as he licked it clean, humming in satisfaction.

You grabbed his hand, pulling it away from his mouth in shock. "Ȳdra daor gaomagon bona {Don't do that}," you hissed, embarrassed by his actions.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk, then he pushed you onto the bed. Your back was against the soft furs, and his body pressed against yours. His cock was hard against your stomach, and you could feel his hot breath against your skin.

He leaned down, kissing along your collarbone. He sucked gently, leaving little marks along your skin.

You felt his hand slide under your hips, pulling them upwards, spreading your legs. He settled between them, his cock resting against your entrance, looking down at you. His eyes were filled with love and lust, and he gazed at you with such intensity, it made your heart skip a beat.

You reached up and ran your fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss. He always made you feel so safe, and protected. It was a feeling you never wanted to lose.

"Daemon," you whispered.

"Kessa {Yes}?"

"Sagon gentle lēda nyke {Be gentle with me}"

He smiled, his hand running along the side of your face. "Always," he replied, his voice soft.

You held onto him tightly, your fingers digging into his skin. He placed a soft kiss on your forehead, and slowly entered you. Your body tensed, and a soft whimper escaped from your lips.

"I-it's okay," you breathed, trying to reassure him.

Daemon nodded, his hips rolling, easing himself further inside of you. The pain was soon replaced with pleasure, and your muscles relaxed. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper inside of you.

He moaned, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes closed. His hips began to move, setting a slow, gentle rhythm, holding you close.

His lips found yours once more, and he kissed you deeply, his tongue slipping past your parted lips. Your fingers tangled in his hair, your nails scraping along his scalp. He growled, and his pace increased, his thrusts becoming harder and faster.

Your eyes met his, his expression full of desire, and something else, something more. He held your gaze, his fingers intertwined with yours, pinning your hands next to your head. You felt yourself getting close, the pressure building within you, then your whole body tensed as you reached your peak.

Your hips rose to meet his, meeting his every movement and your name tumbled from his lips, a broken moan leaving him. His grip tightened, his head falling forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. He let out a low groan, his hips bucking, his body shuddering, and you felt him fill you with his seed.

His thrusts slowed, and he pulled out of you, panting heavily. He collapsed next to you and you rolled onto your side, snuggling into his chest, a lazy smile spreading across your face.

You sighed happily, basking in the afterglow, and the warmth of his body. His arm wrapped around your waist, and he pulled you closer, placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head.

"Viserys will kill us if he finds out," Daemon murmured, his voice muffled by your hair.

"Let him," you giggled.

He chuckled, and his arm tightened around you, holding you close. "I'm serious," he replied, his tone softening. "He'll have both our heads."

You shrugged, nuzzling his neck. "Then we better marry before he does."

Daemon laughed, his chest rumbling against yours. "I guess I have no choice, do I?"

"No," you replied, looking up at him. "Not really," you teased.

He smiled, and placed a kiss on your nose. "Alright, then," he whispered.

You kissed him deeply, and pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. The thought of being his wife filled you with excitement. You had never loved anyone as much as you loved Daemon. You would never have to seek out adventure, or trouble. You had everything you needed right here.

[kimpossibly]

little spencer reid drabble to get me out of a multi-month writing slump!!

warnings/tags: spencer reid x reader, established/secret relationship, swearing, r uses she/her pronouns

summary: after a situation out in the field leaves y/n temporarily blind, it becomes increasingly difficult to keep a secret.

"Here she is!"

Y/N could practically feel the hush that fell over the room as JJ wheeled her into the office. The thick bandage covering both eyes ensured that she couldn't very well see it. She did her best to give her most realistic Y/N smile to put them at ease. "Are you guys happy to see me or what? You're gonna have to tell me, cause if you didn't notice, I can't really see..."

She heard a few relieved laughs (thank god) and a mutter of "smartass" from Morgan. Suddenly she felt the comforting presence of Penelope beside her as she took one of her hands. "Can I hug you? I just wanna hug you."

Y/N laughed. "You can hug me, Garcia."

With only a little effort, Y/N stood from her wheelchair. Almost instantly she was engulfed by a classic Garcia hug—it was a little less frantic and intense than usual, but that, she assumed, was attributed to her current state of blindness.

Garcia pulled away and there was a moment of tense silence before her Disney princess-like voice asked, "Are you...is it permanent?"

"No," Y/N said with a shake of her head. "The surgery went really well and this is just the standard recovery process. I have weekly check-ups, but other than that, these bandages need to stay for at least a month."

"A month?" Derek repeated from somewhere on her left. "We're not gonna have you in the field for a month?"

"Oh relax, Derek. I'm sure you'll find somebody else to beat in arm wrestling for a bit."

There was a bit of uneasy laughter at that, but the reality was a bit too disheartening for anyone to really be genuine about it. Y/N hadn't taken more than a week off in her time with the BAU, and that was only due to an emergency. She'd be gone for longer than she'd ever been—and without her sight, no less.

"But who's going to take care of you?" Garcia said, sounding a bit like a worried grandmother. "You can't be alone at home all...blind! Do you have someone who can stay with you?"

Before Y/N can answer, Spencer's voice came from somewhere on her right. "I am."

There was another hush, and this time Y/N was almost glad that she couldn't see everyone's faces. She could hear her heart hammering in her chest. JJ was the first to speak following the announcement of this information. "Spence?"

"What? Her grandma can't make it into town and I've done extensive reading on the recovery process for this—"

"But you're just going to go back and forth between your apartment and hers for a month? Isn't that, like, an hour long drive?"

Spence didn't have a quick answer for that, so Y/N finally forced out the truth. "We live together."

Once again, silence. Emily spoke first. "What? Since when?"

"Three months and fourteen days ago," Spencer said. "But we've been together for seven months and eight days."

Now all Y/N could do was plaster on an innocent smile as she stared (hopefully) into space. "Surpriiiiiiiiise."

Then came the uproar. Penelope and JJ shouted questions at the same time, Rossi seemingly swore in Italian, Morgan muttered some kind of threat towards the both of them. Y/N found her head darting left and right as she tried to find some particular sound to focus on. A comforting hand rested on her shoulders and she recognized it instantly as Spencer. She put her hand atop his and waited out the colossal wave of shock and awe from the rest of the team.

"Hey, hey!" Y/N shouted to get their attention. They quieted down and she pursed her lips. "Look, I know you've all been suspecting it anyway—we're just confirming your suspicions! Not that we have much of a choice..."

"Seven months? You kept this from us for seven months!" Garcia exclaimed—not mad, just surprised. Maybe a bit exasperated.

Spencer let out a little laugh. "Hotch knew!"

Y/N practically felt it as all heads turned to Hotch, who just shrugged. "They wanted to keep it a secret."

And then, of course, the screaming was directed at Hotch, who willingly took the brunt of it and began to guide the outraged hoard of co-workers in a different direction. Y/N heard their voices diminish as they followed him towards the other side of the office. She blew out a large breath, laughing in relief. She let her head fall to her hands, running her fingers through her hair. “Should’ve expected that kind of reaction.”

“Why are they so surprised?” Spencer said. She could practically picture the confused knot between his brows. “Garcia and Morgan already had a bet that we were dating.”

“I think it was the whole ‘we’ve been living together for three months’ thing that really got them.”

“Hm. Possibly.”

Y/N looked over her shoulder, tilting her head back in the general direction of where Spencer stood. “Make me a coffee? I would do it myself, but, you know, I can’t see.”

She heard him laugh quietly and felt a little flutter in her stomach. She always felt that way when she made him laugh.

“How long are you going to use that excuse?” he said, already pushing her chair in the direction of the coffee station.

“As long as it applies,” she replied. “Or until I become Matt Murdock and have superhuman coffee-making abilities.”

“Matt Murdock has radar senses.”

“Still probably allows him to make his own coffee.”

They came to a stop and she heard Spencer shuffling around to make coffee.

“Hey,” she said, blindly stretching a hand out.

Within a second, Spencer’s hand found hers. “What do you need?”

She removed her hand away from his, searching all the way up his arm until she found his tie, pulling him in closer. Within an instant her lips caught his in a slightly off-kilter manner—she kissed the corner of his mouth, really. He adjusted quickly despite his surprise at the sudden action. His instincts told him to pull away, to reduce any risk that anyone saw, but there was nothing to hide anymore. So he kissed her back for a brief moment before breaking apart, a small smile on his face.

“What was that for?” he asked, their faces still inches apart.

Y/N just shrugged, a smile on her lips. “I just realized I could do that. So I did.”

He nodded. “Got it.”

She released his tie and let him get back to making coffee, not needing her sight to see the smile on his face.

[buckets-and-trees]

Obsidian Stain and Sin

Characters/Pairings: soft!dark Ari Levinson x Female!Reader, soft!dark Curtis Everett x Female!Reader, Ari x Reader x Curtis Word Count: 8.1k Summary: You've thought of getting your first tattoo for quite a while. When you walk into Obsidian Stain Studio, you experience services beyond anything you bargained for.

Content/Warnings: tattooing/needles, DUBIOUS CONSENT, explicit smut, semi-public sex, vaginal fingering, kissing, anal play/rimming (female receiving), eating it from behind, vaginal intercourse, unprotected sex, praise kink, innocence kink, corruption kink, size kink, manhandling, fade to black/abrupt ending

Author Notes: I've had this idea all summer. I've been eager to write it, but literally the muse only kept teasing me with it until literally about six hours ago when she said, WE'RE DOING THIS, AND WE'RE DOING THIS NOW, so it's almost late/maybe it's still you're birthday week for a hot minute in some time zone, but I'm slipping this to you @stargazingfangirl18 for your Birthday Bonenanza! Literally, when I tell you that when you originally tagged me in the announcement, and I read over the myriad of prompts, I thought, "Oh, wow, this is so tattoo Curtis and Ari coded, it HAS TO happen for Siri's birthday..." that's really how my brain thought it was finally going to get the jump on working on this. But then no. Then that other Steve story happened, and I was stoked about that. Then the new chapter for Nomad Steve, and I thought, ah well, still fun stuff, maybe someday this, and then AT THE LAST MOMENT, Muse pulled a plot twist. So here's some ruinous hoe shit. Multiple dialogue prompts from the challenge are used here, and you'll find them in bold.

A/N 2: Shout out to @vonalyn for a few convos hashing out some of this concept!

You are surprised by the tinkling of a classic bell hanging over the door that rings pleasantly as you enter the tattoo parlor.

A man behind the reception desk immediately looks up to greet you. He doesn’t shoot you a phony, business-y smile, but his demeanor is still warm and approachable. “Welcome,” he greets you. “Walk-in or appointment?” he asks.

“Um, walk-in,” you manage. In a black t-shirt with shoulders that are nearly bursting through the fabric, lush hair and beard, and striking blue eyes, he’s more than an impressive specimen. “If you’ve got an opening?” you quickly add.

“Sure, we can take you,” he says. His gaze flicks to a scheduling book in front of him on the counter. “A couple of the boys are on break or about to finish up with other clients. Your first time here, yes?”

You nod. “First tattoo ever.”

“Oh,” he says, and his eyes brighten. “Even better. Let’s get you booked in.”

He takes your name, email, and phone number to set up a profile for you in their system. There are some electronic consent forms that he takes you through and has you agree to and sign on an iPad, and then he takes asks a few questions about what you’re interested in.

“Based off what you have in mind, Curtis might be the best artist, but he won’t be finished for maybe an hour.”

“Ah,” you look at your watch. It was a bit of an impromptu idea for you to drop in to get the tattoo this afternoon, and you had time, but you had probably been foolish thinking a walk-in was any sort of good idea.

“But,” he interjects, “I’ve got two other guys who are excellent, and either one of them should be ready to take you pretty soon. Take a seat just over there, and I’ll go check in with them and get a call on time for you. I’ll also grab you a drink. Pick your poison - we’ve got water or Coke products.”

You give him your preference, and he nods and smiles.

“Right then, sit tight, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He disappears around the corner, and you do as you’ve been told and take a seat on one of the black leather couches in the lobby.

Now you have time to really take in your surroundings. The walls are black with white moldings at the floor and ceiling, and the hardwood floors are a warm walnut. Everything is dark but clean. Classic but clearly in line with current trends. On the wall behind the desk, there’s a gorgeous, white-lettered feature with shop name - Obsidian Stain Studio - that’s sleek and impressive. On the wall next to you, there are ten framed pieces of art on the wall in a mix of sizes, some of them hand-drawn artwork, and the rest photos of finished tattoos on skin.

You’re nervous but determined not to be, so you cross your legs and try to keep your anxious energy limited to just running your fingers back and forth over the edge of your phone. Looking at the different designs on the wall does serve to capture your attention, though, and quell your nerves slightly.

The man working reception returns and hands you the drink. “We should have you back there in a chair in ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Great,” you respond, and the nerves kick up a notch, but it’s with a surge of excitement.

This is happening.

You take a sip of your drink, grateful for something to occupy your hands. The cool liquid helps soothe your nerves a bit. As you wait, you observe a few other clients entering and leaving the shop checking in or paying as they leave. Some sport fresh bandages, while others are clearly here for consultations, clutching sketches or reference photos.

The buzzing of tattoo machines creates a constant backdrop of sound, occasionally punctuated by muffled laughter or conversation from the back rooms. The atmosphere is more relaxed than you expected, nineties music underscoring it all.

As you wait, a couple emerges from behind the partition separating the lobby from the work area. They're both grinning, the woman cradling her forearm gently. Her companion is animatedly discussing something with her, gesturing excitedly. You catch a glimpse of fresh ink on her skin as they pass – a vibrant butterfly with intricate, colorful wings.

The sight makes your heart race a little faster. Soon, that'll be you walking out with fresh art on your body. The thought is both thrilling and slightly terrifying.

But you won’t be walking out with a friend or partner.

Your gaze wanders back to the artwork on the walls. One piece in particular catches your eye – an intricate mandala design with flowing lines and delicate detail. You find yourself drawn to its symmetry and complexity.

"Which one’s got your attention?" a voice asks, startling you from your reverie. You look up to see someone you can only describe as a lion of a man standing before you. All of his attention is focused on you like you’re his next prey. He towers over you with a mane of golden brown hair that’s grown out to tuck nicely behind his ears and curls out at his neck. He’s got a broad chest and shoulders covered in a denim shirt with a few buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. You can see peeks of ink mingled with some chest hair as well as intricate designs over his forearms. His dark blue eyes are zeroed in on you in a way that both unsettles and steadies you at the same time.

You point at the mandala, and the man smiles. “That’s one of Steve’s. He says you’re here for your first tattoo.”

“He… wait, is that Steve?” You nod and glance over at the man at the front desk who’s now consulting with an older man and showing him a few designs.

“Yep, he owns the place and loves to work the front almost as much as the back with the rest of us. I’m Ari, by the way.” He puts his hand out, inviting you to shake hands.

You push up from the couch, stand, and offer your hand for the shake. It’s engulfed easily by his big, warm, calloused hand.

“I’m the one who’s going to make your first time special.”

Your heart stutters and your face flushes. He didn’t just… your mind races. Did he?

He chuckles and drops your hand quickly. “Follow me,” he says and turns and begins striding into the back.

You fall into step behind Ari, your eyes inevitably drawn to his broad shoulders and the confident swagger in his step. The back area is an open space divided into several stations with partial walls, each with its own tattoo chair and equipment, creating semi-private booths. Ari leads you to one in the back corner.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to the chair.

You perch on the edge, your nerves returning full force. The air is thick with the scent of antiseptic and ink.

He pulls up a rolling stool and sits, leaning in close. "So, tell me about this tattoo you want."

You explain your idea - a simple constellation of stars for your zodiac sign - watching as his blue eyes light up with interest. He nods along, occasionally asking questions or offering suggestions. His enthusiasm is infectious, and you find yourself relaxing despite the butterflies in your stomach.

"Alright, I think I know what you're after," Ari says, reaching for a sketchpad. "Let me rough out a design for you."

You watch, mesmerized, as Ari's hand moves swiftly across the paper. His brow furrows in concentration, and you find yourself studying the angles of his face, the way his beard accentuates his strong jaw. Within minutes, he presents you with a design that takes your breath away.

"What do you think?" he asks, a hint of pride in his voice.

The constellation is there, just as you imagined, but Ari has added subtle details that elevate it beyond your expectations. Delicate lines connect the stars, and a hint of shadowing gives the piece depth and movement.

"It's perfect," you breathe, unable to take your eyes off the sketch.

Ari grins, clearly pleased with your reaction. "Great. Now, let's talk placement."

You indicate the spot you've chosen - your inner wrist. Ari nods approvingly. "Good choice. Nice and visible, but easy to cover if needed. Mind if I take a look?"

You extend your arm, and Ari gently takes your wrist in his large hands. His touch is surprisingly soft as he examines the area, his fingers tracing the spot where your tattoo will soon be. You can't help but notice the contrast between his rough, inked skin and your own unmarked flesh.

"Nice canvas," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. "Skin's good here. This'll work well." He looks up, catching your eye. "Ready to get started?"

You nod, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in your chest.

“You’re a sweet, innocent thing, aren’t you?”

You open your mouth but shut it again, unsure how to respond, and he brushes his thumb over the pulse on your inner wrist, and you think you see his eyes darken.

He releases your wrist and turns to prepare his equipment. You’re frozen in place, but luckily that’s fine as it’s not necessary for you to move. You watch as he efficiently sets up his station, laying out ink caps, adjusting his machine, and pulling on a fresh pair of black latex gloves. The buzz of the tattoo machine as he tests it sends a jolt of excitement and nervousness through you.

"Alright, I'm going to clean the area now," he says, swabbing your wrist.

His touch is clinical now, professional, as he prepares your skin. The cool antiseptic makes you shiver slightly.

"Cold?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"A little," you admit.

"Don't worry, I’ll have you warm soon enough," he says with a wink that makes your cheeks flush.

Ari places the stencil on your wrist, pressing it gently to transfer the design. When he peels it away, you see the outline of your constellation on your skin for the first time. It sends a thrill through you - this is really happening.

"Make sure you’re happy with the placement before we start," he instructs. "This is your last chance to change your mind."

You focus to examine the design on your skin more closely, heart racing. It looks even better than you imagined.

"It's perfect," you say, unable to keep the excitement from your voice.

Ari grins. "Alright then, let's make it permanent. You ready?"

You nod, settling back into the chair and extending your arm.

Ari takes your arm gently, positioning it just so on the armrest. "Now, I need you to stay as still as possible," he says, his voice low and soothing. "It's going to hurt a bit, especially at first. But I promise, I'll be as gentle as I can."

The buzz of the machine fills your ears as Ari brings the needle to your skin. You hold your breath, bracing for the pain.

The first touch of the needle is a sharp, burning sensation that makes you wince. Ari pauses, his eyes flicking to your face. "You okay?"

You nod, determined. "I'm fine. Keep going."

“Move an inch, and you’ll be sorry.”

You open your mouth wordlessly again, and he laughs.

“Only joking. I know you’re going to be a good girl for me, aren’t you?”

You bite your lip and nod, something fluttering in your stomach, mixing wickedly with your nerves and the uncertainty around this man who skirts between being casual, soothing your nerves, concentration on his craft, and making these comments that insinuate and evoke wholly inappropriate thoughts.

He smiles, then concentrates back on your wrist and resumes his work. Gradually, the initial shock of pain fades into a more manageable discomfort. You find yourself relaxing, mesmerized by the steady movement of Ari's hand and the way the muscles in his biceps move and flex.

As Ari continues, your eyes shift to his face. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his blue eyes focused intently on your skin. There's something mesmerizing about watching him work, seeing the care and precision he puts into every line. The buzz of the machine becomes almost soothing, a constant backdrop to the occasional murmur of voices from other stations.

"So," Ari says after a while, breaking the silence without looking up from his work, "what made you decide to get your first tattoo today?"

You hesitate, unsure how much to share. "It's… kind of a long story."

Ari glances up, a small smile playing on his lips. "We've got time. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you."

You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as the needle hits a sensitive spot. "I've been thinking about it for a while. But today… today felt like it was finally the day to take the leap."

"Spontaneous decision, huh? Those can be the best kind."

You nod, feeling the heat creep up your neck. "I guess I just wanted to do something for myself. Something permanent.”

Ari nods thoughtfully, his eyes still focused on your wrist. "Sometimes we need a physical reminder of the changes we're making inside," he says softly. "Something to look at and think, 'Yeah, I did that. I made that choice.'"

His words resonate with you, and you find yourself relaxing further. The pain has faded to a dull, almost pleasant sensation.

"So, what's your story?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. "How did you get into tattooing?"

Ari chuckles, pausing to wipe away excess ink. "Now that's definitely a long story. But the short version? I was a troubled kid, got into some bad stuff. Tattooing saved me, gave me a purpose."

He glances up, meeting your eyes. "There's something powerful about creating permanent art on someone's body.”

The words send another thrill through your body and you nod, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickens at his intense gaze. "I can see that," you manage to say.

Ari returns his attention to your wrist, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's intimate, you know? Creating something that becomes a part of someone forever."

The word 'intimate' hangs in the air between you, charged with unspoken tension. You're acutely aware of the warmth of his hand on your skin, the gentle pressure as he works.

“You’re the one Steve says I nearly got to mark for the first time,” a new voice startles you, and you jump slightly in your chair.

Ari tsks, but his left hand had been holding your arm down firmly.

The other man chuckles. “Sorry, sugar.”

He steps closer, coming into Ari’s booth. He looks to be slightly taller than Ari, and a shade leaner, but he’s still built with more muscles than the common man. His hair is dark, shorn close to his head, and a dark beard covers his angular jaw. Ice blue eyes pierce into you, and you fight hard to suppress an actual shiver running down your spine.

"Curtis," Ari says without looking up, his tone a mix of amusement and mild irritation. "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to interrupt?"

Curtis leans against the partition, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement draws your attention to the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. He’s got more ink than Ari.

"Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Steve said we had a noteworthy first-timer."

You feel your face flush, unsure whether to be flattered or embarrassed. Curtis's gaze is intense, almost predatory, as he looks you over.

"Well, now you've seen," Ari says, his voice tight. "Don't you have your own client to attend to?"

Curtis huffs. "Just finished up. Thought I'd come say hello." He turns his attention back to you. "How're you holding up, sweetheart? Ari treating you right?"

You nod, finding your voice. "He's been great," you manage to say, your voice a bit shaky. "It doesn't hurt as much as I expected."

Curtis grins, a glint in his eye. "Oh, Ari knows how to make it feel good, doesn't he?"

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks at the innuendo. Ari's hand tightens slightly on your wrist, and you see his jaw clench.

"Curtis," Ari says, his tone a clear warning.

Curtis holds up his hands. "Alright, alright. I can take a hint." He fixes his gaze once again on your face. "Maybe next time you'll let me be the one to mark you up. Lot more skin still to explore."

With that, he stalks away, leaving a charged atmosphere in his wake. You can feel the tension radiating off Ari as he resumes his work on your tattoo, his jaw clenched.

“Sorry about that,” Ari says after a moment, his voice low. "Curtis can be… intense."

You nod, still feeling flustered from the encounter. "It's okay," you manage to say, trying to calm your racing heart.

Ari looks up at you, his blue eyes searching your face. "You alright? Need a break?"

You shake your head. "No, I'm fine. Let's keep going."

He nods, returning his attention to your wrist. The buzz of the machine fills the silence between you once more. You try to focus on the sensation, the slight sting as the needle moves across your skin, rather than the lingering tension in the air.

After a few minutes, Ari speaks again. "You know, you don't have to let anyone pressure you into anything you're not comfortable with. Not here, not anywhere."

His words surprise you, and you meet his gaze. There's a protective glint in his eye, but he quickly returns his attention to your wrist. Ari's movements become more deliberate, almost possessive, as he continues working on your tattoo. The tension in the air is palpable, and you find yourself hyper-aware of every point of contact between your skin and his.

"Almost done," he murmurs after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all. "Just a few more touches."

You watch as he adds the final details, marveling at how the constellation seems to come to life on your skin. When he finally sits back, setting down the machine, you can't help but gasp.

"It's beautiful," you breathe.

Ari's eyes meet yours, a mixture of pride and something deeper in his gaze. “It suits you perfectly."

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words. Ari gently wipes away the last traces of excess ink, revealing the full beauty of your new tattoo. The stars seem to shimmer on your skin, the delicate lines connecting them creating a sense of movement and depth.

"Now, let's get this wrapped up and I'll go over the aftercare instructions with you," Ari says, reaching for a roll of clear film.

As he carefully covers your new tattoo, his fingers brush against your skin, sending little sparks of electricity through you. You can't help but notice how his large hands handle your wrist with such care and precision.

"There," he says, smoothing down the edges of the wrap. "All protected."

Ari walks you to the front, and your heart races when you see Steve and Curtis speaking quietly with their heads together. Ari clears his throat, and at the sight of you, Curtis nods, rakes his gaze over you once more. “Come back soon, sugar.”

You feel a shiver run down your spine at Curtis's words, but Ari's steady presence beside you helps ground you. Steve steps forward, a warm smile on his face.

"How did it go?" he asks, his eyes flickering to your wrapped wrist.

"It was amazing," you reply, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. "Ari did an incredible job." You extend your wrist, showing off your new tattoo.

Steve nods approvingly. "Beautiful work. Ari’s one of our best. Let's get you checked out."

As Steve begins to ring up your work, Ari leans against the counter beside you. His arm brushes against yours, and you're acutely aware of his proximity.

"Remember," he says softly, his voice low enough that only you can hear, "take care of it. It's a part of you now."

You nod, shyly meeting his intense gaze, looking up at him through your lashes. "I will," you promise, your voice barely above a whisper.

Ari's eyes soften, and he reaches out, his fingers ghosting over the edge of the wrap on your wrist. "Good girl," he murmurs, the words sending a shiver down your spine.

Steve clears his throat, breaking the moment. "All set," he says, handing you a receipt. "We hope to see you again soon."

You nod, suddenly feeling flustered. "Thank you," you manage to say, gathering your things.

As you turn to leave, Ari's hand catches your elbow gently. "Wait," he says, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out a small business card and presses it into your hand. "In case you have any questions about the aftercare. Or anything else."

Your fingers brush as you take the card, and you feel a jolt of electricity at the contact. You look down at the card, noting the personal cell phone number scrawled on it. "Thank you."

Ari's blue eyes lock with yours, intense and filled with unspoken promise.

You barely seem to turn away, but somehow manage to break off from the eye contact, and quickly rush out of Obsidian Stain Studio.

You keep Ari’s business card, but as the weeks go by, you don’t use it.

After a couple of months, you move the card from the spot next to where you keep your keys where you see it every day, into the top drawer of your desk. Out of frequent sight, but not out of mind completely.

It’s a solid six months before you return to Obsidian Stain again, but ultimately you do. The bell jingles above your head as you step inside.

The tattoo on your wrist had healed beautifully, and you loved seeing it on your skin. You had decided fairly soon afterwards that you wanted another tattoo, but even after saving up for your next one, it had taken you longer to decide whether to return Obsidian or not, the experience with Ari and encounters with Curtis leaving you torn between terrified and desperately curious to go back.

Ultimately the allure was too strong to deny.

But, more logically, although finally going in to get your first tattoo had been on a whim, you had been very thorough in narrowing down and exploring your options for months before. You knew they were one of the best in your area, especially for the style you wanted, and the price point you knew you could afford while still ensuring quality.

Unwilling to make an appointment, though, you were going to gamble on a walk-in again.

No one was immediately at the front desk, but at the sound of the bell, Steve quickly appears. “Welcome back,” he said, a broad grin on his face.

“Walk-in?” you ask, and remind him of your name.

“Oh, I remember you.” Steve beckons you forward. “Let me see that wrist,” he says.

You offer your arm with pride, and he smiles warmly.

“Looks good. You hit us on a slow day, perfect for a walk in. I’ll get you booked in, and then I’ll take you right back.”

You feel a mix of excitement and nervousness as Steve leads you to the back. The familiar scent of antiseptic and ink fills your nostrils, bringing back memories of your last visit. Your eyes scan the room, half hoping and half dreading to see a certain tattooist.

"Curtis is free right now," Steve says, guiding you to a station. "He'll take good care of you."

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Curtis's name. You remember his intense gaze, his bold words from your last visit. Part of you is disappointed it's not Ari, but another part is intrigued.

Curtis looks up as you approach, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Well, well. Look who's back," he says, his ice blue eyes locking onto yours.

You swallow hard, suddenly feeling very exposed under his gaze. "Hi," you manage evenly.

Curtis's eyes rake over you. "I was hoping you'd come back to us," he says, his voice low and smooth. "What can I do for you today, sugar?"

You begin to explain the design you have in mind - a delicate, line art floral piece. As you talk, Curtis listens intently, occasionally nodding or asking questions. His focus is entirely on you, making you feel both nervous and oddly thrilled.

“And where do you want it?” he finally asks.

You trace an area of your other arm - opposite of the one with your inked-up wrist — moving your above, over, and below the crook of your elbow.

“Hmm,” he hums. “You sure?”

Your eyes shoot to his. “Yes?” an edge of hesitation now in your voice at his query.

He narrows his eyes slightly, then shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No. A piece like this could work well there, but that’s not where you want me to put this.”

“It… isn’t?”

“No, it should go here,” he says, and he reaches out and brushes his fingers lightly over your ribs instead, causing you to shiver.

He gestures for you to take a seat in the chair. As you settle in, Curtis rolls his stool closer, leaning in. "Now, this is going to be a bit more intense than your wrist. You sure you're ready for it?"

You nod, trying to project confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. "I'm ready."

Curtis grins, a predatory glint in his eye. "That's what I want to hear from that pretty mouth. Now just sit tight and wait for me while I draw something up.”

Your heart races as you lean back in the chair, Curtis's words echoing in your mind, causing heat to pool in your core. You watch, mesmerized by the intensity of his focus. After a few minutes, he turns back to you, holding up the sketch.

"What do you think?" he asks.

Your breath catches in your throat. The design is beautiful - delicate flowers and vines intertwining in a way that would perfectly follow the curve of your ribs.

"It's perfect," you breathe, unable to take your eyes off the design.

Curtis smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction. "Alright then, let's get started. I'm going to need you to lift your shirt for me."

Your cheeks flush as you slowly raise the hem of your shirt, exposing your ribs. Curtis's eyes darken as they roam over your skin.

"Beautiful canvas," he murmurs, his voice low and husky.

You feel exposed, knowing your own soft belly and imperfections, but he looks at you in a way that has your head spinning, it’s a hunger that’s almost reverent.

“Better if you take your shirt off for me, sugar,” he says, his tone firm.

Head swirling, you don’t think to refuse, just do as you’re told. With trembling hands, you pull your shirt over your head, feeling incredibly vulnerable as you sit there in just your bra. Curtis's eyes roam over your exposed skin, a look of satisfaction on his face.

"That's better," he says, his voice low and approving. "Now, let's get you positioned just right."

His hands, surprisingly gentle, guide you to lie back and slightly to the side. You shiver as his fingers trail along your ribs, mapping out where the tattoo will go.

"Nervous?" he asks, a hint of amusement in his tone.

He already knows the answer, but you nod, not trusting your voice.

Curtis leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. "Don't worry, sugar. I'll take good care of you."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. He chuckles softly, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

Curtis begins to clean and prepare your skin, his touch clinical yet somehow still intimate. You try to steady your breathing, hyperaware of every point of contact between his hands and your body.

"Now, this is going to hurt more than your wrist did," Curtis warns, his voice low. "But I know you can take it. You're tougher than you look, aren't you, sugar?"

You nod, steeling yourself for the pain. The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the air, and then you feel the first bite of the needle against your skin. You gasp, your body tensing.

"Breathe," Curtis instructs, his free hand coming to rest on your hip, grounding you. "That's it, nice and steady."

As he works, Curtis surprisingly stokes and then keeps up a steady stream of conversation. Mostly it’s inquiry after inquiry, forcing you to focus on finding words, but his deep voice also helps to distract you from the pain. He asks about your life, your interests. You find yourself opening up, sharing more than you intended about your life, your dreams, your fears. His voice continues to provide the counterpoint to the buzz of the tattoo machine.

"You're doing so well," Curtis murmurs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before returning to his work. "Such a good girl for me."

The praise sends a shiver through you, and you bite your lip to stifle a small moan. Curtis notices, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

"Sensitive, aren't you?" he says, his voice low. "I like that."

Your cheeks flush, but you can't deny the thrill his words send through you. The pain of the tattoo blends into the sensations he’s evoking as his hands move with practiced precision across your skin.

"So, sugar, what made you come back for more ink?" he asks, his eyes flicking up to meet yours before returning to his work.

You take a shaky breath before answering. "I loved how the first one turned out. And… I guess I wanted to experience it again."

Curtis chuckles, darkly. "Addictive, isn't it? The pain, the permanence... the intimacy of it all."

His words make your heart race, and you're acutely aware of how close he is, how vulnerable you are beneath his hands.

"Speaking of your first time," Curtis continues, the steadying hand that had been at your waist ghosting just a little lower, "Ari seemed quite taken with you. Did you ever give him a call?"

The question catches you off guard, and you feel a flush creep up your neck. "No, I… I didn't," you admit softly.

Curtis's hand stills for a moment, and he looks up at you, his ice blue eyes intense. "No? Now that's interesting. Why not, sugar?"

You swallow hard, unsure how to answer, yet unable to stop the words from flowing. "I... I guess I was nervous," you finally say.

A slow smile spreads across Curtis's face. "Nervous? Of Ari? Or of what you felt?”

Your cheeks flush at his perceptiveness. "Both, maybe," you whisper.

“Or maybe you were waiting for something else?" His hand resumes its work, but the touch his anchor hand seems more deliberate now, each movement charged with unspoken intent.

"I don't know what you mean.”

Curtis chuckles, a low, dark sound that sends shivers down your spine. "I think you do, sugar. I think you knew exactly what you were doing when you came back here today."

His words hang in the air between you, charged with tension. You can't bring yourself to deny it, can't even find your voice to respond. Curtis seems to take your silence as confirmation.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the silence as Curtis returns his focus to your ribs. You try to steady your breathing, acutely aware of every point of contact between his skin and yours. The pain of the tattoo blends with the heat pooling in your core, creating a heady mix of sensations.

"Tattoo nearly done," Curtis says after what feels like hours.

You let out a shaky breath, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over you. The intense experience is coming to an end, but part you that scares you doesn't want it to.

"Just a few more touches," Curtis murmurs, his eyes focused intently on your skin, and the buzz of the machine continues for a few more minutes.

"There we go," Curtis murmurs. He wipes away the excess ink, then sits back to admire his work. His eyes roam over your exposed skin, a mixture of professional pride and something darker in his gaze. "Want to take a look?"

You nod, not trusting your voice. Curtis helps you sit up, steadying you with a hand on your lower back as you move to face the mirror. Your breath catches in your throat as you see the intricate design now adorning your ribs. The delicate flowers and vines seem to bloom across your skin, following the curves of your body perfectly.

"It's perfect," you whisper, unable to take your eyes off the mirror.

Curtis's smile widens, and his eyes darken. "Of course it is. I knew exactly what you needed."

His words send another shiver through you, but then suddenly you feel the heat of him too close, and he’s pressed right up against your back, planting his large hands on your hips and caging you in.

"You're trembling," Curtis murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady against him. "Are you scared, sugar?"

You can't find your voice to answer, your heart pounding in your chest. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - his broad chest against your back, his strong hands on your hips, the heat of him seeping through your skin.

"Or maybe," he continues, his voice low and dark, "you're excited."

One of his hands slides up your side, carefully avoiding the fresh tattoo, until it comes to rest just below your breast. Your breath hitches, and you see your pupils dilate in the mirror's reflection.

"That's what I thought," Curtis says, satisfaction clear in his tone. "You've been thinking about this, haven't you? Since the moment you walked in.”

You can feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint scent of ink and something uniquely him. Your heart races, a mix of excitement and nervousness coursing through you.

"Tell me, sugar," Curtis murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "Did you come back here hoping to see Ari? Or were you hoping it would be me?"

You swallow hard, your mind spinning. "I… I don't know," you manage to whisper.

Curtis chuckles, the sound low and dark. "I think you do know. I think you've been thinking about this for months." His hands slide up and down your sides, careful to avoid the fresh tattoo. "Thinking about what it would be like if you came back. If you let yourself give in."

Your breath hitches. “No.”

“No?” he challenges. His right hand, still gloved, audaciously slips past your waistband and down the front of your panties to cup your pussy. He laughs softly, discovering a growing wetness there. “Yes.”

You gasp as Curtis's hand begins to stroke your most intimate area, your body betraying you with its response. Your mind races, torn between the thrill of his touch and the shock at how quickly things have escalated.

"Wait," you manage to breathe out, your voice shaky. "We shouldn't…"

Curtis pauses, his hand stilling but not withdrawing. "Why not?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Your body is telling me a different story, sugar."

You're acutely aware of how exposed you are, standing there in just your bra with Curtis pressed against your back, his hand between your legs. The mirror reflects your flushed face and wide eyes, Curtis's intense gaze locked on you.

"Someone could walk in," you whisper, a weak protest even to your own ears.

Curtis chuckles darkly. "They could.”

Your mind is spinning, caught between the intense sensations and the voice in your head screaming that this is wrong, that you shouldn't be doing this here, now, with him. But your body betrays you, responding eagerly to his touch.

"Curtis," you manage to whisper, your voice shaky, and tears springing up in your eyes. "We can’t—"

"Shh," he soothes, his free hand coming up to gently grip your throat. Not choking, just holding. "Don't overthink it, sugar. Just feel."

His fingers continue their exploration, finding your clit and circling it slowly. You bite back a moan, plant your hands on the mirror, and your hips rock back against him.

“Fuck, knew you wanted this,” he speaks directly into your ear.

You whimper and shake your head, but then his hand moves up to cover your mouth. “Gotta keep more quiet than that unless you want someone else to join us, sugar.”

Your eyes desperately seek his in the mirror, fear flashing in them, and the tears begin to spill over. There’s a predatory glint in his icy blue gaze.

His fingers continue their skilled ministrations, drawing forth sensations you've never experienced before. Your body betrays you, responding eagerly to his touch despite your mind's protests. You're caught in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions - fear, excitement, shame, and an overwhelming, undeniable pleasure.

"Look at yourself," Curtis commands softly, his eyes never leaving yours in the mirror. "See how beautiful you are like this."

You force yourself to look, to really see yourself - flushed cheeks, wide eyes, chest heaving with each ragged breath. Curtis behind you, his large frame dwarfing yours, his hand between your legs, the other still gently but firmly covering your mouth.

Curtis's eyes meet yours in the mirror, his gaze intense and predatory. The fear in your eyes seems to excite him further, his grip on you tightening slightly.

"Don't worry, sugar," he murmurs, his voice low and husky. “I knew all those pretty tears were just for show, you want this just as badly as I do, andI've got you."

His words send a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through you. You're acutely aware of how vulnerable you are, how easily he could overpower you if he wanted to. And yet, there's a part of you that thrills at the danger, at the forbidden nature of what's happening.

Curtis's fingers continue their skilled exploration, drawing involuntary gasps and moans from you that are muffled by his hand. Each deliberate movement sends waves of sensation coursing through your body, igniting a fire that you never expected to feel. Your body continues to betray you, responding to his touch despite your mind's protests, creating a tumultuous conflict within you. The thrill of the moment is undeniable, yet a flicker of apprehension lingers in the background, whispering the dangers of being caught in such an intimate entanglement, making it impossible to pull away.

"Damn, that’s a pretty sight,” a familiar voice jolts you nearly out of your skin, and you whip your head around to see Ari looming in the entry.

Curtis stops only for a moment and looks over his shoulder at the other man. "Didn't anyone teach you it's rude to interrupt?"

Ari shrugs, all nonchalance, and palms the large bulge pressing at the front of his jeans.

Your heart races, caught between exhilaration and apprehension. The sight of Ari standing there, a blend of curiosity, mischief, and lust in his eyes, adds an element of unpredictability that excites and terrifies you.

Curtis grunts, then says, “I’m not stopping, but I’ll share.”

Your jaw would have dropped to the floor in that moment had Curtis’s hand not been holding it in place, securing your response and anchoring you to the present. The idea of a threesome, tantalizing yet fraught with risk, swirls in your mind. How did this escalate so quickly? The thought of being discovered sends a shiver down your spine, but the allure of the forbidden is intoxicating, pulling you deeper into the moment.

You sob, overwhelmed and afraid, but it’s muffled as Curtis turns your body around with him, his grip firm yet reassuring His fingers are still moving, relentless and sure, and you can hardly focus on anything else. Your mind races through the possibilities, the dangerous thrill of being discovered adding an exhilarating layer to the encounter. Would Ari join in, or would he simply stand by and watch, adding to the intensity of the moment? The idea of indulging in such a forbidden experience fills you with a mix of dread and excitement, as if you’re teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to leap into the unknown.

Ari pulls a privacy curtain you had failed to notice across the opening to the booth before taking the few short steps to close the distance between you. This sudden shield from prying eyes heightens the anticipation, transforming the atmosphere into one charged with desire and unspoken possibilities. Ari traces the back of his forefinger down the column of your throat, down your sternum, between your breasts, and then circles around the expanse of your new tattoo, eyes roaming over the beautiful design.

Not to be forgotten, Curtis tweaks your clit, cracking the pleasure that had been mounting like a whip, demanding an orgasm from your body, and you tremble in his arms as you cling to him. Each flick of his fingers sends shivers through you, igniting a fiery response that leaves you gasping for more.

“Knew you were such a good girl,” Ari praises, and your chest surges from his praise, his low, sultry voice invading your mind. Then, he unzips his jeans, the sound echoing in the booth like a promise yet to be fulfilled. He goes to sit on the black leather chair, pushing his pants and boxer briefs down around his ankles, revealing the enticing sight of his big, throbbing cock.

Curtis lifts you with ease and places you in Ari's lap. The transition is seamless, and you find yourself enveloped in the warmth of Ari's embrace. His hands instinctively find their way to your hips, grounding you as you settle in. With Curtis standing close, the dynamic continues to shift and evolve. You can feel the heat radiating from both men, each one eager to exact pleasure, and you hope the fire doesn’t consume you completely.

“Take off your bra,” Ari directs you.

Your eyes widen over his immediate demands, but, nervous as you still are, you don’t hesitate to do as he says. His hands on your hips hold you steady while you reach around to unclasp, and then you let it drop and fall away, biting your lip. Ari groans appreciatively, and grinds your core against his cock. You let out a shuddering breath at the friction, but it’s a singular sensation for only a moment, because then Ari dips his head and takes one of your breasts into his hot, wet mouth, and you gasp. Your fingers tangle immediately into his hair, looking for some kind of anchor.

Vaguely you hear the rustle of fabric from Curtis close behind you, and then you feel the heat of his now naked chest press against your back. He nips lightly at your neck, but then pulls back slightly. He rucks your loose skirt up over your hips, but then he rips the fabric of your panties right off, and you yelp in surprise.

Ari’s quick to muffle your sound by shifting his lips from your breast to your mouth, but his lips and tongue are no less eager, and the kiss is delicious and demanding, and you’re easily almost completely lost in him again. But Curtis has also discarded his gloves, and now his warm, calloused hands move slowly up your thighs before squeezing your hips, then start to knead the flesh of your round ass.

Curtis places a hand between your shoulders and pushes you forward, coaxing you against Ari’s chest. Ari takes the hint and leans back in the reclined chair, pulling you with him. This exposes your most intimate parts to Curtis, and he spreads you open, then presses his tongue flat against your cunt, eliciting a moan that, luckily, is swallowed up by Ari, who’s still eagerly kissing you, and now kneading your breasts in his large hands. Curtis continues to lick and lap at your cunt, but then his tongue begins to move up, and then suddenly he’s tonguing the tight rosebud of your ass, and you whimper and freeze.

Ari stops when you stop, pulling away to look at your face and assess the situation.

Curtis teases you with his tongue for another moment before pausing to pull away as well.

“Not a virgin,” he guesses, “but never had anyone play with your ass, have you, sugar?”

You close your eyes and try to take a steadying breath, your, “no,” soft and barely audible.

“Do you want him to stop?” Ari asks, and you can feel him studying your face.

Your mind is racing, but you remain frozen, unsure of what to say.

Ari brings one hand up to stroke your cheek. You lean into his touch and open your eyes again, but still don’t speak.

“Keep going,” he says to Curtis, and Curtis does.

While Curtis works your tightest hole with his tongue, still splaying your cheeks open, Ari reaches down to slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, and you eagerly rock your hips for more. Ari smiles, then brings you down with his other hand to kiss you again.

When you’re positively humping his hand, Ari pulls back from kissing you again with a darker laugh than you expected, but you’re so far gone between them, you think of stopping or slowing at all now.

“Open your eyes,” he commands.

But it doesn’t register.

He withdraws your fingers and slaps your pussy, making you gasp and groan, and your eyes whip open.

His dark blue irises are barely visible, pupils blown wide with lust, and it just cause another surge of electricity to run through you to your core.

“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?”

And then it’s his cock nudging at your entrance.

“Ari,” you groan.

“Since that first fucking minute I saw you in the lobby,” he says. He taps his cock aggressively against your swollen clit, and you keen for him. “Knew you were an innocent little thing, and I wanted to absolutely ruin you.”

You bite your lip, unable to look away from him, and think of that day, too.

“We both wanted to ruin you,” Curtis adds. And his finger takes over where his tongue had been, working gently but insistently into your ass.

You moan softly, but the two men hear it and exchange a glance over your shoulder. Ari looks pleased.

“I didn’t touch you that day, only teased you, enticed you. I knew you’d be back,” he growls. “Shame I didn’t have you on my chair again, but that wasn’t going to stop me.”

He pushes your lips back to his for another devouring kiss, but it’s brief.

“You’re desperate to be filled up, aren’t you?” he asks.

Closing your eyes again, you whimper and drop your forehead to his, but your answer is undeniable. “Yes.”

“You didn’t have to wait this long, but we won’t punish you for that. We’re patient men.”

“It only gave us more time to think of all the ways we’ll take you apart, sugar,” Curtis murmurs against your shoulder, then presses open-mouthed kisses against your hot skin there.

And then Ari is slipping his cock inside of your cunt, slow, insistent, and doesn’t stop until he’s into the hilt, pushing all the air out of your lungs. He’s so big it feels like he’s everywhere, and it takes you concentrating on making your lungs work again to suck in deep breaths, impossibly full of him.

But as full as you feel, it wasn’t everything. Because while Ari was slipping his cock inside you, Curtis had removed his fingers, and now his thick cock was splitting you open and finding room in a hole that had never been filled before, and it was unfamiliar pain, but already pressing into impossible pleasure, and really, you had to press your palms to the leather on either side of Ari’s head and focus on breathing and only breathing if you were going to survive this.

And then they both began to move.

In and out and in and out and inandout.

And you were sure you were going to black out or bliss out from how full you were and all the sensations surging through your body and –

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I make no apologies for this. Send me your medical bills as needed.

[satoruhour]

a/n: not sure if other countries have rubbish chutes but my country does! i have to get out of my house to go to the common floor chute to throw my rubbish so this is just a little drabble based on that + spider-man!gojo :) / tagging @osaemu @jabamin @shotorus @hyomagiri @mysugu ✶

“yes, yes! i’ll take out the trash—” you’re shouting to your mom when you’re called upon again, the third time within ten minutes to take the trash out. through your one-sided airpods (your left one always dies first), you can hear your mom tying the plastic bag and cleaning up at the sink.

it’s always been her bringing it to the chute outside your house; occasionally, you’d help but routine has never really let you do it, so later when you’re awkwardly tucking your phone into your pocket and listening to charlie burg’s voice through the right airpod, you can’t help the grimace that takes over your features at the wetness all over the trash bag.

“oh, it’s just water; stop being dramatic!” your mom chastises whilst on her nightly cup of water, gulping down the beverage before nodding towards the master bedroom, “i’m gonna go to sleep first.”

you hum in a half-hearted response, a little annoyed that you were interrupted from your lazing around but you still manage a soft goodnight when she disappears into the room and the house falls quiet. apart from the background classical music that plays from the stereo in the room and the laughter of the older kids downstairs outside, you’re living in a world of both music and silence, feeling a little disoriented by the one-sided song.

the walk to the outdoor chute is short in your oversized puffer jacket, flip-flops seemingly slapping against the floor in attempts of waking up all your neighbours beside you but thankfully they don’t seem to mind when you walk past their homes. it’s cold, feeling the snow that beats into the open corridors that lead to the rubbish chute. beside it, there’s a ledge that overlooks the other buildings, too.

with one swift step to the foot lever, the chute opens and you’re dumping the trash bag into the dirty, stained metal device and with a listening ear, you grin when you hear the bag travel through the tunnel and reach the bottom with a big plunk!, not really realising the ledge now held something.

or someone.

“h—”

if your slippers didn’t wake the neighbours up, your scream definitely did when spiderman himself hops off the ledge and leaps forward to place his palm over your mouth. it only fuels your desire to scream even more before you remember that your damn boyfriend is the vigilante that the police are looking for and citizens are rooting for more and more and that calms your racing heart just a bit.

but you still give him his due treatment . .

“what!” smack. “the!” smack. “fuck!” smack. “were!” smack. “you!” smack. “thinking?!” smack.

. . even if the widening of his spider-man mask eyes were adorable.

“sorry! sorry, sorry—” spider-man!gojo only continues to apologise but you can tell he’s enjoying it at least a little, hands gripping your biceps to help you to centre yourself. and as you predicted, once your boyfriend pulls off his mask, there’s a shit-eating grin and a cheeky glint in his eyes.

you muster the most unimpressed face you can — “really? i’m starting to think you’re not really sorry,” your mouth twists when you roll your eyes, getting ready to make a show of heading back into your house before he brings you into his arms. even with a hint of faux protest from you, you’re melting into his embrace, grumbling into his chest.

there’s a hint of wetness along his suit that you feel against your body, probably from the snow outside, but mostly you can feel the cold air against your hair and laboured breaths in your ear.

“i am! i missed you . .” he mumbles, suited fingers gripping your body tight against him like you were an apparition, “i just wanted to, uhm—”

it’s rare that you see your boyfriend having such a hard time with words, but it’s a cute sight when he pulls away and stumbles in his sentences and quickly removes the backpack that he’s webbed to the wall outside. there’s a noise of surprise from you as you watch him crawl outside on all fours and rip the backpack, scrambling to remove something from it.

and you’re so caught off-guard — in his hands are a ruined bouquet of flowers and a mixtape he’s put together for you — that you giggle at the state of it and coo at his downcast expression. he’s looking in the bag, outside, anywhere for what might’ve been the culprit to make the flowers turn out that way until he realises he had bought them a tad bit early and had been swinging around with it the whole day.

“aw . . satoru, they’re still pretty!” you take the gift with grateful hands, something you cherish despite his busy schedule of school and fighting villains. “but maybe don’t go on missions when you’ve got fresh flowers in your bag?”

satoru whines at that as he instinctively webs his backpack again, sulking until you’re leaping forward to give him another tight hug. alas, you would’ve preferred the comfort of his familiar hoodie but you can settle for the spandex of his suit as you squeeze him tight, ignoring the cold air that seeps into your bones.

“thank you, thank you ’toru . .” you smile, pulling away slightly before you take in the state of him. you didn’t have much time before, but now you can fully appreciate his white stark hair that matches the snow outside and the blue of his eyes that mirror his suit.

“it’s the thought that counts right?” he asks awkwardly, scratching his head with the hand that clutches his mask.

you burst out laughing, “yes. yes it indeed is,” you smoothen out his hair, but not before you’re forming an idea, “i’ll— i’ll go put these in water and see if i can salvage them. you, stay here.”

with one peck to his cheek, you’re off back to your house but the bouquet of flowers is only left on your bedside table. in your hands are something else, a scarf and beanie that you take back to the area of the rubbish chute.

it’s not a place you deem romantic, but you’d never pass up a surprise visit from your superhero boyfriend. when you get back he’s removing the fallen petals from his bag, interrupting his activity when you place the scarf around his neck.

“here,” you smile, wrapping it around once and tucking in the ends, “it’s cold.”

satoru looks at you like everything good in the world, a bright grin breaking through when your eyes meet his in the midst of your adjusting.

“just so you know, you might not see this scarf ever again, sweetness.”

you laugh, “why? cause it’s got my scent all over it?”

gojo shrugs and gestures, “partially, but also it might fall off while i’m doing big boy things and swingin’ around in the neighbourhood.”

you push his shoulder lightly and joke, “if my scarf touches the city ground, you’re never hearing from me again.”

and all he does is cross his heart and hold out his hand, “i humbly hold your promise to my heart, your royal highness.”

gently you pull him towards you with the scarf ends, careful not to choke him. there, your lips collide with his glossed ones that manage to stay like that despite the cold weather, while your chapped ones only surprise him. but he swallows the shock soon enough, humming into the kiss softly as he wraps his suited arms around you. you’re so warm, puffer jacket and all and his neck is already heating up from the scarf and his flustered state, enough heat to fuel him through the night.

when oxygen becomes scarce you find that you need to pull away, met again with his pretty eyes that soften just by looking at you, but you both know that he needs to go when the notifications on his phone don’t stop. it’s probably his trackers notifying him about the villain, so you help him put on his mask, making sure the eye holes fit exactly where it needs to go and the sewing lines up with the rest of his suit. the beanie goes on last.

“baby— i . . i just needed to come see you before i fight green goblin,” he mumbles, brushing hair from your face and even with the barrier between the both of you, you know he’s smiling under, “some good luck would suffice, don’t ya think?”

“it would. now, go.” you pat his cheek, pulling away reluctantly as he slings his backpack and you suddenly feel cold again. “stay safe, spider-man.”

satoru cannot wait until he’s in your arms again, so he lunges forward and pulls his mask up just to his nose to give you one last kiss and you indulge him; when your eyes open, he’s already on the ledge.

“merry christmas, baby.” you can see the familiar stunning smile and a soft confession before he’s hopping off and you’re running to it to watch him swing away with a loud, lovesick laugh that sounds a little too much like the star student, gojo satoru, but it doesn’t matter when you know you’re the only one who knows his secret.

part two

[cevansbrat0007]

Indecent Exposure Pt. I: Bye Bye, Daddy

Summary: You get more than you bargained for when your father decides to leave you in the care of his four best friends, your fake Uncles, while he's on away on tour for the summer. Read Part Two!

Warnings: Mature Themes, Bucky Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, Unwanted Touching, Dad's Best Friend Themes, Older Men/Younger Women Themes, Brief Discussions of Voyeurism, Brief Mentions of Mouth Soaping, Brief Reference to Spanking and Discipline, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Please heed all warnings. Part of my Indecent Exposure Series. If you'd like to be added to the tag list, please let me know.

"But Daaaad.” You whine, drawing out the word as you follow your father into the kitchen. Shoulders slumped, you can’t seem to stop yourself from pouting. 

While you’d initially made peace with the prospect of being left alone for the practically the entire summer before you planned to start your freshman year at NYU, you positively balked at the idea being left in the care of a fucking babysitter. 

Four of them, actually.

“No buts, pumpkin.” Your father drops his carry-on bag next to the door, on top of his other luggage. “It’s not good for you to be stuck in this big old house all by your lonesome. You even said as much just the other week.”

“Yeah, well…” You trail off, pissed at the fact that you’d essentially brought this on yourself. “That was back when you weren’t even sure if you were going.”

At first, your old man had been rather skeptical at going on tour with his former bandmates. They’d had a couple hits back in the day, but nothing major. Even still, they’d somehow managed to amass a bit of a cult following. 

And so when he was offered the opportunity to open for a much larger classic rock band, he just couldn’t pass it up. And you hadn’t had the heart to make him either. Dreams like this seldom came true for anybody, let alone a mild-mannered pharmacist who was pushing fifty. 

“Why can’t you at least take me with you?”

He turns to you then, heaving a sigh before pulling you into his arms. "Life on the road is no place for my little girl. Which is why I’ve asked your Uncles to check-in on you.” He presses a gentle kiss on your mop of curly hair, giving you one last squeeze before releasing you.

“And this is where I’d like to point out that I’m 18 years old, which makes me a full-fledged adult.“ Wrapping your arms around your middle, you try to play it off like you don’t care about him leaving so soon after your birthday. 

But you do. While your birthday had only been last week, you two hadn't even had the chance to embark on your annual fishing trip yet.

“I know that. Of course I know that.” He’s quick to reassure you. “And as a newly minted adult I’m sure you’ll be on your own some nights – the ones when Bucky can’t stay and none of your other uncles are available.”

“Ugh! Can you please stop calling them that?”

Little did he know that you were mere seconds away from covering your ears and letting out a frustrated scream. 

“Well, that’s what they are. They may not be blood, but it still counts.” Your father just shakes his head. Apparently he hadn’t expected you to put up this much of a fight before his departure. “And while it might be true that it’s been a while since you’ve seen your uncles, each one has assured me that they would be more than delighted to keep an eye out for their favorite niece.”

“Dad, I don’t even know them like that! At least not anymore...”

You’re rewarded with yet another weary sigh. “Then it looks like you’ll have the whole summer to get reacquainted with them then, won’t you?” His hands go to grip your shoulders, all but forcing you to look him in the eyes. “Besides, Buck’ll be around. I’m sure he’ll help ease you into everything.”

It’s impossible to stop the derisive snort that escapes the back of your throat. 

“Sweetheart, my ride is going to be here any minute now…” He tells you, making it clear that neither one of you has time for the tantrum you seem so keen on throwing. “You’ve gotta know that I only want what’s best for–”

The two of you are interrupted by the sound of a vehicle pulling into your driveway. And while you don’t recognize it, you’re almost certain that it’s too sleek and expensive to belong to any Lyft driver. 

“Speak of the devil!” Your father suddenly exclaims before throwing open the door and rushing down the steps. Which is fine, except for the part when he decided to drag you along with him. “Bucky fuckin’ Barnes – just in the knick of time too!”

Well, there went Plan A. So much for locking up the house after your Dad was gone and refusing to answer the fucking door for anyone except the pizza delivery guy. 

However, in spite of your annoyance and frustration, you can’t help the tiny jolt of electricity that hums along your skin as you watch the dark haired man peel himself out of the driver’s seat so that he can properly greet you both.  

“Get a look at you, old man!” Bucky chuckles as he enthusiastically brings your Dad in for a hug, lightly thumping his back as he does. “Can’t believe somebody actually fucked up and told you you got to be a rockstar!”

Your uncle’s smile only broadens when he finally lays eyes on you. But it’s the way he’s looking at you that catches your attention – it’s not quite a leer – but his blatant perusal is enough to make you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable. 

“I know!” Comes your Dad’s eager response. “That’s why I’m trying to get out of here before whoever signed off on this sobers up and realizes his mistake.” Both men are grinning from ear to ear when they finally take a step back. 

And that’s when all eyes turn to you. 

“And who’s this gorgeous young lady?” Bucky inquires, his pearly white teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he makes a quiet show of looking you over once again, this time allowing his gaze to linger just a fraction too long on your cutoff denim shorts. 

“Oh, come on now.” Good ol’ Dad reaches over to grab your wrist, pulling you even closer. Which is the absolute last thing you want. “Don’t tell me you don’t recognize your niece.” 

“Is that my sweet, little Clover?” Bucky pretends to rub exaggeratedly rub his eyes while evoking your childhood nickname. “I guess it is. Except now she’s all grown up.” Your Dad drops your wrist in time for the other man to grab your hand so that he can give you a little twirl. "Just turned 18, in fact."

“I heard. So pretty.” He hums, although the words are spoken just low enough so that only you can hear them. “You’ve got yourself a knockout for a daughter, Dale.” You resist the urge to squirm when you feel the roughened pad of his thumb lightly stroke along the ridges of your knuckles. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you kept a shotgun by the door.” 

While you suspect that his words are meant in jest, the only person that laughs is the man who raised you. 

“I actually keep it in the front closet. Which reminds me…” You father turns to you then, pinning you with a knowing look. “Now pumpkin, I know you're not super excited about the current arrangement and all that, but I’d appreciate it if you’d, uh, refrain from having any boys over at the house while I’m gone.” 

You swiftly open your mouth to protest, only to be surprised when Bucky beats you to the punch. 

“Roger that.” He grins down at you, the dimple in his left cheek on full display. “Your Daddy said no boys allowed, little Clover. Do we have your promise you’re gonna respect his wishes?”

Tugging your hand out his grasp, you turn your attention to your Dad, offering up a sugary sweet smile. “But what about Peter? You actually like him, remember? Besides, he’s pretty much my best friend.”

“Well…”

Because you couldn’t fathom the idea of a summer without him. And you just know he’s going to relent and make an exception. That is, until Bucky decides to go and open up his mouth. 

“You heard your Daddy, sweetheart.” He gently admonishes you, a hint of mockery in his tone. “Besides, I don’t think any of your uncles want to have to deal with strange boys wandering around the house.”

“Good man.” Your father agrees, clapping the other man on his shoulder. “And speaking of Andy, Ari, and Steve, this one here is a little nervous about seeing them again. I don’t know why. I mean it’s been a while since everyone’s gotten together…”

“Aww, bug.” He coos, wrapping a brawny arm around your much smaller waist. “Are you worried we don’t love you anymore?” You find yourself gritting your teeth to keep from elbowing him in the kidney. 

Why the hell did he have to make that sound so…suggestive? And how come your father didn't seem to notice? 

“No.” You grunt, hating the man for having the nerve to smell so damned good – like spiced vanilla and cedar. 

“Because we most certainly do. You know, Andy was just looking at your senior picture the other day.” His large, warm hand settles just above the curve of your hip. “He actually sent it to the group chat and none of us could believe just how much our little Clover had blossomed. Right under our noses.”

“A–awesome.” You mumble, wishing he would stop touching you so much. It did funny things to your belly, which you did not appreciate.

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it when he gets here.” 

Shock has your mouth falling open, briefly leaving you almost too stunned to make a sound. And to make matters worse, your father’s Lyft picks that very moment to pull up behind Bucky’s sports car. 

“What?” You eventually croak. Not that you receive much of a response, what with both men choosing to abandon you in favor of grabbing luggage and loading it into the driver’s trunk. 

“Alright, pumpkin.” Your Dad calls out once they’ve got everything secured. “I’ll call you from the road. I left instructions on the fridge and with Bucky. You need anything you call me, okay?” 

Seconds later you find yourself pulled into a bear hug. And, because you don’t know when you’ll see him again, you choose not to argue or struggle. You can only hug him back as if your life depends on it. 

“Be good.” He mumbles in your hair. “Listen to your uncles. It may not seem like it, but they know what's best. And you have my word that they care about you just as much as I do.” 

“Okay.” Is all you can muster as you fight back tears. “I–I love you.”

“You know it.” He holds you even tighter. “To the moon and back, plus the galaxy and beyond.” Smiling when he releases you, you watch him climb into the waiting car before giving him one last wave. 

And then he’s gone. You watch unmoving as the car backs out of the driveway and takes off down the road in the direction of the airport. It takes a moment for you to remember that you’re alone now.

Left to your own devices for the entire fucking summer. 

“Save those pretty tears, Clover.” You jump when you feel a hand press against the small of your back. “You’ve got us – me, Andy, Ari, and Steve – and won’t let anything bad happen to you.” Bucky whispers, his mouth hovering just above your ear.

“I don’t need a fucking babysitter.” You growl, stomping towards the front door.

“Fair warning, sweetheart.” He calls after you, his voice tinged with laughter as he goes to follow you inside. “Your Uncle Steve doesn’t like that kind of language. And I’m afraid Uncle Andy isn’t the type to put up with that attitude either.”

“Then tell them they should keep their asses home!” You snap as you reach the stairs, taking them two at a time all the while silently praying that he doesn’t follow.

“All I’m saying is that I’d hate to see Stevie have to wash out that pretty little mouth out with soap.” He calls from the bottom of the stairs, no longer bothering to hide his laughter. 

The fucking pervy bastard was enjoying this!

You slam your door with a flourish, briefly reveling in the sound it makes as it shakes the entire frame. If Bucky, or any of your so-called uncles thought you were still that same, sweet little girl you used to then they were in for one hell of a rude awakening.

Fuck! You’re so busy fuming over your current situation that you have no idea what’s taking place quite literally beneath your feet. For tonight, you decide that ignorance is bliss. If you got hungry later you’d just have to find something on DoorDash.

You throw yourself on your bed with a huff, punching your pillow over and again until you feel some of the rage leave your body. This summer was going to fucking blow unless you found a way to stay busy away from the house. 

Meanwhile, Bucky has taken a seat at the bottom of the stairs. Pulling out his phone he opens the group chat he has with his buddies and proceeds to start typing. Call it intuition, but he had a feeling that he and his friends getting reacquainted with their precious little Clover was going to make for one hell of summer.

Oh yes, this was going to make for one hell of a summer indeed.

END

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@cjand10

[hier--soir]

a lover's pinch | seven

joel miller x f!reader

pairing: professor!joel miller x f!reader rating: explicit, 18+ mdni summary: things get a little messy after returning home. a confrontation sparks the beginning of a new stage in your relationship with joel. warnings/tags: au, university professor joel, age gap [20 something years diff], ethically dubious relationship due to inherent power imbalance, angst, miscommunication trope, self-doubt, alcohol consumption/hangover, joel is 50 and he texts like it, les mis spoilers???, phantom of the opera spoilers???, jealous!joel, food/eating, hurt/comfort, professor DAD, professor COWBOY, soft emotional smut, unprotected piv sex, cream pie, oral [f!receiving], joel says dadgum cause i think it's so classic him and so cute. word count: 11.1k jesus series masterlist | main masterlist chapter moodboard a/n: merry christmas to all that celebrate. as always, thank you for your patience and kindness. the love for this series is nothing short of mind blowing, and i appreciate you all endlessly. i hope you enjoy this angst and potentially the most flowery + emotional ALP smut yet [if that's even possible]. also rachel i love you i'm sorry. without further ado, the beginning of our descent into The End Times x follow @hier--soirupdates if you'd like to be notified when i share my writing this is part seven of ALP. you can read the previous parts here: one, two, three, four, five, six.

Tuesday.

It's nine thirty in the morning and you buy a Coke anyways.

It’s raining heavy outside; fat droplets of water that splatter against the windscreen of your car and dribble down, slipping through the crevice at the top of the bonnet, searching for the engine, for the oil gasket, for somewhere undercover to dry out.

You tuck your legs beneath yourself, sit criss-cross in the driver’s seat, and take small sips of fizzing black sugar. Allow it to moisten your lips, coat your tongue and your teeth in that sickening, viscous way soda always does, before it slips down your throat.

There’s something unearthly about the day, unnerving—it’s Tuesday morning and you’re hungover. A dull ache behind your left eye, a kink in your neck. You check your phone.

Thick, rolling clouds loom across the sky. Occasionally, a flash of lightning, a thrum of thunder. You tear open a packet of peanuts and pluck one out, and then another. Eat until your lips are dry and puckered, and then take another drink. More peanuts then. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet.

It’s all you can stomach as your liver pumps and spasms, still working to cleanse your blood of the night before, spent sprawled on the couch with Trin and Nora.

Wearing sweaters and thick socks, gripping full glasses of wine, and watching Les Misérables. Nora, tears on her cheeks, had sung along with Hugh Jackman—'This innocent who bears my face, who goes to judgement in my place, who am I?’—and you, bleary-eyed and tipsy, had discreetly checked your phone.

You didn’t cry during I Dreamed A Dream but you’re crying for this? Trin rolled her eyes.

He sacrifices his freedom to save that man, Nora whimpered.

You woke up starving and the traffic was slow. At every red light and stop sign your fingers itched against the wheel, desperate to press inside your bag and pull out this little packet. And now, safe in the campus parking lot, you feast. Salty, sweet, salty, sweet. You feel a fleeting moment of pity for people with peanut allergies, and then you check your phone.

Still nothing.

Since you left New York on Monday morning there’s been no sign of life from Joel. No get home safe, no see you on Tuesday; no acknowledgement at all.

You stare dejectedly at the messages you’ve sent him.

First from yesterday afternoon:

Home now. Enjoy your last day in the big apple x

And then from late last night, two bottles of wine deep:

It’s raining and miserable here

Wish I was still in new york

With you

Sitting in your car now, glowering at the blank space where his response should be, you reconcile with the thought that perhaps he wants what happened in New York to stay in New York. Stolen glances and all-too-brief touches in a conference hall, his hand on your wrist at the museum, skin against skin in his hotel room, and in yours—perhaps it was supposed to happen there, not here. The lowering of walls came with a change in location, and maybe that was his intention. But those thoughts don’t ease the sharp twist in your chest when you think of him. Doesn’t take away how much you wish he would give you something – a morsel of communication, even a single word of acknowledgement. For as hard as you try to understand, you can’t forget the look in his eyes when he touched you at the cloisters, the way he breathed your name into your mouth. Sewing the seed of JoelJoelJoel into in the soft folds of your brain, impossible to forget.

You don’t think about his dinner with Rachel. Don’t consider that something may have happened that night, something that changed his mind about you. Something that made him rethink the entire weekend as you slipped into the shower and out the door, leaving him alone in your hotel bed while you headed to the airport.

No. You don’t think about that at all.

When you make it inside, clothes wet and cool from the rain, you shake your hair out like a dog. Let droplets fly across the hall as you make your way into the lecture theatre; a drizzled trail left in your wake.

The room is full when you step inside, but there’s no sign of him yet. You collapse into an empty chair in the front row and wait. The final few students filter in through the door, shaking out umbrellas and wiping their feet. And for another ten minutes you, foolishly, still expect Joel to show up.

It’s only when the door creaks open and an old man walks through, that you let the hopeful feeling rest.

He lays a worn old satchel against the desk and turns to smile at the room.

“Hello,” the stranger smiles, and his jowls quiver as he speaks. “I’m Jerry Dorfman, a Professor from the literature department, and…”

You zone out for a second, eyes darting down to your phone screen. Nothing.

“Oh, and Professor Miller,” Dorfman says, as if he’s just remembered that he shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be standing up there, in his spot. “Is tied up with a family matter. I trust he’ll be back with us later in the week.”

A family matter?

Slick with rain, staring at this stranger stood in Joel’s place, you feel like a kind of newborn. Some fresh lamb, soaked in the blood and amniotic fluids of her mother’s womb, staring through unseeing eyes, hoping to glean some understanding of this moment. This sudden burst of light, this shocking cold after so many weeks of warmth, of sweat and strong hands on your skin, holding you close. But this is Eros; the blacksmith, the limb-loosener, the crusher. A deviation from stoking the flame to the suddenly desperate, grasping loneliness of feeling as though you are standing by a lover’s window, staring helplessly through the glass, and watching them from the outside. Alone.

Dorfman tries and fails to connect his laptop to the projector.

Numb fingers type;

Are you okay? Where are you?

But no response comes.

No, not until later that night, not until you’re tucked beneath the covers of your bed, showered and sleepy, does he finally reach out.

The clock has just ticked past midnight when your phone vibrates.

Hey, I had to stay in the city another day. Just landed at PWM. See you on Thursday.

A hot, jagged feeling swims in your gut as you read the message, and then reread it. Twice, three more times, searching for some hint of familiarity. Some indication that he has been thinking about you as much as you’ve been thinking about him. That the past weekend meant something to him, like it meant to you.

Minutes pass, and when you don’t find what you’re looking for, you fall asleep without responding.

Thursday.

Nora wakes up with a stuffy nose.

This always happens to me, she sniffs. I hate being sick.

The tiles in the kitchen are cold beneath your bare toes and rain smears heavily against the windowpane. You can hear fat blooms of thunder bellowing outside. Nora’s sullen, husky voice paired with the steam rising from your mug are all it takes to convince you to stay home with her.

The two of you spend the day curled on the sofa beneath blankets. You stare at your laptop, a document open on your screen with the title of an essay sitting pretty at the top. The cursor blinks and blinks at you, taunting you, daring you to write something, anything. But Sex and The City is playing on the tv, and Nora is snoring at the other end of the sofa, and you can’t help but watch the minutes tick by on the clock. Listen to Carrie and Miranda argue about Big, and wonder if Joel has even noticed your absence.

Trin gets home from class, and you follow her into the kitchen. Peel and slice oranges and apples and lemons while she tells you about her day. Boil them in sugar with cinnamon and star anise while she complains about an argument she had with her boyfriend. Add red wine and brandy while she tells you that her Dad sent her some money, and she’ll order take out for the three of you.

So together you huddle in the lounge and eat hot Indian food with your hands. Soak pieces of naan in tarka dal and saag paneer and top if off with mulled wine, unphased by the clashing of flavours in your mouths.

And you don’t check your phone, or look at the time, and you don’t complain when Nora asks, with glassy-eyes and spinach in her teeth, if she can put on another musical.

He’s a freak, Trin frowns at the TV.  

He loves her, Nora implores, staring doe-eyed at a masked Gerard Butler.

Nor, Trin scoffs, he put a wedding dress on a mannequin that looks just like her. In his fucking lair, no less. That’s freak behaviour.

He has amazing sideburns though, Nora grins. So he gets a pass.

Your phone vibrates as Erik strokes a passed-out Christine’s face, singing help me make the music of the night.

Careful that Nora won’t notice, you pull it from beneath your thigh.

Where were you today?

You stare at the words for a moment and feel your lips curl into an disbelieving sneer.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mutter, and shove your phone into the crevice between the sofa cushions.

Wednesday.

A week goes by with no word from Joel.

No word from you either.

You stay home every day. Write and read and catch up on work and take Benadryl and sip soup and then you wake one morning, relieved to find that Nora’s cold has finally left your system.

So you tug on jeans, a sweater, and share a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Share quiet conversation with Pete in his shitty old Beamer as he gives you a ride to campus, and walk into Rachel’s lecture with zero expectation that today will be the day you finally see Joel again.

“We understand that Antigone is a victim of her father’s sins,” Rachel explains. “In the wake of patricide, of incest, every one of her actions is seen as a direct consequence.”

“Even her fate to be buried alive was sewn by her father’s unwitting actions,” she pauses, eyes searching the faces across the room, gauging reactions. “And, of course, this concept isn’t unique to Greek mythology. We see it plainly in the Bible, in Exodus; the sins of your father are to be laid upon the children… these themes of ancestral curses, of the inevitability of fate – they are integral to understand when looking at our tragic heroines. We saw it with Medea, we see it with Antigone, with Iphigenia, with Electra. Electra herself said, we are bound to acquiesce—”

An interrupting knock sounds against the door. Rachel’s head swivels around, eyebrows knitted in frustration as she calls for whoever it is to come in.

The door creaks open and her expression lifts. A saccharine smile spreads across her face, shoulders loosening.

“Joel,” she says warmly. “What can I do for you?”

A shiver wracks down your spine, toes curling in your sneakers.

The broad mass of him rests in the doorway. His head peeks past the wood, just a glimpse of his curls, his glasses, visible from where you sit. Your heart thunders in your chest, palms going damp at the prospect of this being the moment you finally see him again.

He speaks a few words in her direction, too quiet to catch, and then he’s taking a step into the room. His hand grips the edge of the door, keeping it open, and he casts a glance out towards the audience. Dark brown and searching, those eyes filter through countless faces until they finally land on yours.

And for a second, he doesn’t say a word. Just gazes out at you, eyebrows pulled together in the middle of his forehead, and then—and then he fucking looks back at Rachel. Your stomach goes hollow when you see the smile on her face. She lazes against the corner of her desk, and it feels like minutes go by as the two of you stare at him. And there’s something about waiting, you think, that feels like torture. That slow, painful build-up of pressure as you sit and stare and prepare yourself to discover who he’s here for. You or her.  

You’re reminded painfully of a Graham Greene quote. A passage from The End of the Affair – one you’d, perhaps foolishly, found romantic when you read it that first time. Chosen words that had warmed your chest and made you feel light, lighter than air; the way only words could do sometimes.

‘Yes, Henry?’ and then ‘You?’ She had always called me ‘you’. ‘Is that you?’ on the telephone, ‘Can you? Will you? Do you?’ so that I imagined, like a fool, for a few minutes at a time, there was only one ‘you’ in the world and that was me.

Now, as you stare at Joel in the mouth of the doorway and memory of that passage sinks its hooks in, you feel only contempt for Greene.

For you had always read that passage imagining yourself as Sarah. And someone else, some misfortunate Maurice Bendrix, had fallen into your lap, and he was the ‘you’. But not you, never you. And it’s that pride which deceives. That pride which lulls us into false senses of security.

Joel says your name then.

Says, “Can I speak with you?” You, you, you.

And it should feel like relief, to hear your name on his lips again. But you catch the way he spares another glance, soft and sympathetic, in Rachel’s direction, and that sickly hurt isn’t abated.

Her face falls, but she smiles at you. Nods her permission for you to leave the room, and only when you’re halfway across the lecture theatre, bag swung over your shoulder, does she continue speaking to the class.

Palm flat against the door, he holds it open for you, making you press against him as you slip out of the room. It clicks shut behind you and he begins to move down the hall, leaving you to follow behind with no explanation. You assume that he’s going to lead you to his office, or anywhere more private than this, but a metre from the door Joel pauses abruptly, turns, and you slam into his chest with a huff.

“Jesus,” you mutter, stumbling a few steps back.

“Where have you been?” he glowers, brows drawn tight and angry over his eyes.

“What?”

“I’ve been busy,” you grit, glaring back. “Where have you been?”

“Busy?” he scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ve been busy too. Busy teachin’ the classes that you don’t even show up for.”

“I’ve been sick,” you roll your eyes, unable—or perhaps just unwilling—to stray from nastiness, from spite. “My apologies, Professor.” 

“Don’t—” Joel snaps, and flinches as quickly as the word comes out of his mouth, surprised by how harsh it sounds in the air between the two of you. He takes a step closer, voice low now—“Don’t call me that.”

“Fuck, what is your problem?” you huff, eyes widening, exasperated. “I missed two classes, it’s not a big deal.”

“And the silence?” Joel takes a step forward as he says it. Close enough now to see the smudges on the lens of his glasses. Close enough to see the muscle in his jaw twitch. Too close for public; too close for here. “Can’t even text me back, huh? What the hell is goin’ on with you?”

Your body pulls taut at that, hands balling into fists at your sides.

“Oh, you don’t like silence?” you hiss, matching his volume. “You can’t be serious. Joel, I didn’t hear from you for days after New York. Why would I waste my breath when it’s obvious you don’t want to fucking hear from me?”

“It was barely two days,” he shakes his head, shakes off the insinuation, shakes off whatever blame you’re trying to put on him.

“Two days,” you nod, smirking angrily. “Two days after we spent an entire weekend together. Two days after we kissed and fucked and practically went on a date.”

And the word date must elicit something in him. Some minute, man-brain trigger that snaps him to attention and helps him understand the hurt on your face, the tremble in your hands. Because he says your name, voice softening, posture loosening, every bit of his body language screaming out that he wants to step forward and touch you.

And he’s speaking again, voice low, but there’s people coming down the hall, heading your way. Two figures that you can’t make out through the haze of Joel in your immediate vision. So when he reaches out and touches your hand you flinch, jutting your chin over his shoulder. A warning. Don’t do this here.

One of them calls your name and you pause, mouth open. Drag your eyes away from Joel’s features to watch the figures get closer.

“Pete,” you force a smile. “Hey.”

You realise quickly how it must look; your sullen expression, Joel staring down at you with his shoulders hunched. He must understand at the same moment, because he takes a quick step away, folds his hands behind his back.

“Hey,” Pete takes a step closer. He glances warily between you and Joel, confusion colouring his face. “Everything cool?”

Stony faced, Joel looks between the two of you, posture stiffening the longer he stares at Pete. So much larger than him, taller and broader and far more intimidating. But a man with a secret to keep isn’t one to jump quickly at confrontation, so he keeps his mouth shut. Let’s you do the talking.

Ian catches your eye over Pete’s shoulder and offers a sleazy sort of smile. You swallow down a glare and hold Pete’s gaze.

“Everything’s fine,” you lie, taking a step towards them. A step away from Joel. “What’s up, what are you guys doing in this building?”

Pete’s eyebrows pull together, and he cocks his head at you. “Said you needed a ride home today. This morning, remember?”

“This morning,” you repeat, nodding slowly. You raise your hand and pinch the bridge of your nose, thinking quickly, mind a mess. “I, uh… right, look, Pete, I actually forgot I have a meeting with Professor Miller about my final essay this afternoon.”

“Your final…” Pete trails off, frowning. “Isn’t that due in like a month?”

“Yeah,” you say vaguely, and do not look at Joel. “I’ll find a way home later, okay?”

“I mean, sure. I guess,” Pete agrees reluctantly, reaching up to grip the strap of his satchel. “Call me if you need me okay?”

And Joel’s face turns to stone at the insinuation in those words. The idea that Pete could give you anything he couldn’t. That anyone would need to swoop in and save you from him.

The pair of you stand in silence for a moment, eyes trained on Pete and Ian’s retreating backs as they head down the hall. You watch and watch until they turn the corner, disappearing from sight, and only then do you exhale a breath of relief.

You contemplate leaving him there. Turning your back on him and returning to Rachel’s lecture, ignoring his texts and letting this all fade into some painful memory. But when you look at him again—at those big brown eyes that gaze back at you—you know you couldn’t if you tried.  

“You look tired,” he frowns, and it’s not angry anymore. A little sad, maybe.

“I am,” you admit, and wonder if your face betrays how much of a role he plays in that exhaustion.

“Are you hungry?”

You stare for a moment, blinking slow, and then say, “Yeah.”

Joel nods, attempts a crooked smile, and says, “Let me take you to get something to eat.”

It’s silent in Joel’s car, aside from the soft patter of rain against his windows and the dull squeak of his windscreen wipers sliding it away. The truck glides through the winding streets of Biddeford, cruising down the main road and into the left lane of a fast-food drive thru. Orders you a burger, fries, nothing for himself, passing the bag into your lap and then continuing to drive.

The bun is soft beneath your fingers. Grease soaks your skin, and you taste beef, taste onions so soft, so sweet. A crimson dot of ketchup spattered onto your pants; a bright shock of mustard on your tongue. A fry here and there. Joel’s hand, outstretched fingers, sneaking across the centre console to steal one. You shift the paper bag on your lap, tilt the opening so it faces him, easier to access, but he doesn’t take another.

He grips the wheel and asks, “Do you want me to take you home?”

You think about Pete waiting for you at the house. Think about if Ian and that filthy smirk on his face and whether or not he’ll be there too. Think about having to flesh out your excuse, your lie, and finally say, “No.”

Joel keeps driving. You eat until your pants feel tight and the greasy brown bag is crumpled in your fist and he’s pulling his truck off the road and into a short driveway.  

“Full?”

“Very.”

“Good.”

“Is this your house?”

“This is it.” He drags the keys out of the ignition and knocks the door open. It’s not long, barely a second, before he’s pulling yours open with a rough yank and a soft, “Door always sticks on this side.”

A vague sound spills from the back of your throat, and he guides you up a path towards the small home. Single storey, with a large brown door and windows decorating the outward façade. Your immediate thought is that it’s very Joel, but you stop the idea in its tracks. Remind yourself that maybe it isn’t your place to think things like that.

Inside it’s even more silent, even more tense. The two of you stand in the entry way, toeing off damp shoes. Your eyes flit around his front room, but it’s difficult to focus on anything. Too much to look at, too much you want to know, and you find it easier to just look at him.  

“Realised you’d never been here,” Joel murmurs after a while. He shifts awkwardly on his feet, decidedly unsure of what to say as he rests beneath the weight of your stare. “This is the, uh, the livin’ room. Kitchen’s over there.”

When you don’t respond, he clears his throat, ticks his head towards the hallway. “Bathroom is down the hall. Bedroom too.”

You feel your face shift. Deadpan stare turns to surprise, to incredulity, to blatant anger.

“Oh, the bedroom, huh?” you smile, sardonic, cutting. Your throat feels tight. “S’that seriously why you brought me here? Ice me out and then come crawling back when you want something to fuck again?”

“Woah, hey,” his eyebrows shoot up, hands drifting forward like he’s trying to calm a startled animal.

“Don’t,” you hold up a shaking hand, eyes wide and wet suddenly. “Just… don’t touch me right now, okay? What are we doing here, Joel? Seriously.”   

He says your name hard and fast, surprised by how quickly it’s all unravelling, spilling from you in a tidal wave.

And spill it does. The words are wet and watery, a tsunami of pent up emotions pouring from your mouth without permission, without forethought.

“I mean, we haven’t seen each other since New York. And I… I thought being there changed things between us. But maybe I was wrong… and then you pull me out of a lecture, bring me here and say my bedroom is down the hall? Am I just… do you just like having someone to fuck whenever you want? Is that it? Someone at your beck and call?”

Joel repeats your name, sharper this name. “Don’t put fuckin’ words in my mouth.” His face pinches in anger, hands dropping.

“When it’s not convenient you try to shake me off, but when it is—at a bar, or out of town—” you list them off on your fingers, eyes growing wider and wider. “Oh, you want me then?”

“That ain’t fuckin’ true and you know it—”

“Do I?” you scoff.

“I came that night when you texted,” he implores, voice raising, all wild-eyed and pleading. “You were drunk, and textin’ and you needed a ride.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that—”

“You didn’t ask me not too either,” he crosses his arms across his chest. “You wanted me to come. Don’t fuckin’ deny that now.”

You open your mouth but he’s too quick, matching your spill with his own now.

“And as if you’re any better?” he bares his teeth now, voice low. “As if you didn’t find out I was your teacher and keep fuckin’ me just for the thrill of it. As if you actually wanted me, and you weren’t just gettin’ off on chasin’ some forbidden fantasy.”

“I…” you gape at him, unafraid to let the hurt show on your face. “Is that really what you think of me?”

“What the fuck am I supposed to think?” he hisses, exhaustion evident in the way he runs a hand through his curls and sags against the door. “You tellin’ me I should believe that you just want me for what I am? A fifty-year-old teacher who spends his time giving fuckin’ speeches to people that are hardly listenin’? Who goes home to an empty bed? That’s what you want?”

And it deflates you, a little. The wounded expression on his face – the devastating truth in those words, splashed across his expression so plainly for you to see. Disbelief.

“Is that such a crime?” you ask quietly. “To want you… and have it be that simple?”

“You shouldn’t,” he shakes his head. Grimaces. “You shouldn’t want me, I’m—I’m no good for you.”

You swallow. Feel tears hot and sharp behind your eyes.

“Then why do you keep letting me?”

“Jesus,” he exhales, and his hand is on the hem of your shirt, pulling you closer, closer, until you’re pressed against his chest, hands coming up to grip his shoulders and steady yourself. “Because I can’t fuckin’ quit you, alright?”

“Because I don’t just want you when it’s convenient,” his lips curl around the word, disgusted by the insinuation. “Because I think about you all the god damn time and if I can only have you some of the time then I guess I’ll take it. Because if you want some fucked up fantasy, then I’ll play my part if it means I get you, I don’t care—”

You cut him off, lips firm and searing against his. He goes still for a moment, mouth parting with a surprised exhale, warm when you press inside with your tongue. And then warmer, salty; tears on his cheeks, on yours.

“That’s not what this is,” you whimper into his mouth, desperate for him to believe it. “It was never about that, it was about you, Joel. I want you.”

He kisses you again, slow. All of the anger and hurt and frustration pools out of the both of you, spilling from your mouths and into the air. His lips mould over yours and his hands are warm on your waist, your back, holding you tight against his chest. When you sniffle, he pulls back, forehead heavy against yours, and sighs.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, eyes closed. “I missed you, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for—"

“Where were you?” you interrupt. “What happened in New York?”

He hesitates for a moment, nervous and calculating as he stares you down.

You wilt a little; dejected all over again. Recoil from him and quietly ask, “Why won’t you let me know you?” 

Joel’s hand hovers in the air, as if contemplating reaching for you again, but then it drops and he says, “I was with my daughter.”  

You blink.

Daughter.

Daughter?

“She lives there now,” Joel sounds a little breathless, cheeks pink as the words spill from him. “In New York, with her girlfriend. I’d planned to spend an extra day there with her, and then Nina—Nina cut her hand open at the studio and we had to go to the ER, and she had to get stitches and—” He pauses, waiting for you to jump in, to interrupt, to say anything. When you don’t, he takes a breath and continues. “And I wasn’t gonna stay any longer but Ellie was worried, and she needed me. She needed me there, and—and I’m never fuckin’ there, because she never needs me anymore. So I stayed, and I’m sorry I went silent but I was… I was takin’ care of my kid.” 

You think it might be the longest—and the fastest—you’ve ever heard him speak outside of a lecture hall.

His eyes drift to something over your shoulder and his entire body seems to sag a little. But it isn’t sad. It’s a resigned, sort of relaxed thing that happens – the corners of his mouth tilt up and he smiles weakly.

You turn, follow his eyeline until you see them.

Pictures, so many pictures, lining the walls of his home. Ones you’d paid no attention to when you first stepped inside, but can now see clearly. Bright eyes and wide toothy grins.

Some of Joel younger, leaner, smiling beside a little girl with curly hair. Some of him as you know him now; scruffy and greying, beside a different girl. This one lanky and pale and grimacing toward the camera as if she were forced into being placed in front of it.

There’s one picture of the girls beside each other, teenagers maybe, sat on either end of a seesaw. The curly-haired girl is on the upper end, grinning madly at the lens, while the other sits with her feet planted firmly on the ground, laughing up at her. Two of them. Two daughters?

“Please say somethin’.”

There’s a picture of Joel and he’s holding a tiny little bundle in his arms, and he looks so young and so fucking afraid. Dark eyes wide and teary as he gazes down at chubby cheeks, his index fingers crooked around the edge of her swaddle. A warm feeling swells in your chest and your body softens the longer you look at it. He’s a father.

Joel says your name and when you turn his face is all twisted up, and he looks the smallest you’ve ever seen him. Almost curled in on himself.

“I should’ve told you,” he nods, brown eyes darting across your face in an attempt to decipher your silence. “I know that, and I—”

“I’m an asshole,” you interrupt softly, and the tears never left but now they feel heavier on your waterline. Begging to spill over again.

“Hey,” he frowns, hand coming up to cup your cheek. His thumb swipes at the soft skin beneath your eye, begging the wetness there to disappear. “Hey, hey, no—”

“I didn’t think…” you trail off, sniffling. A sickly cocktail of embarrassment and guilt and shame swirl in the pit of your stomach and you try to swallow it down, try to send it away, but it’s persistent. “I never stopped to think that something had actually happened, that you had… I feel selfish, Joel, I’m sorr—”

“You’re not,” he hushes, fingers curling into the hair behind your ear. “You didn’t know. I should’ve told you before, and I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were staying away because of me,” you offer a watery smile. “I thought maybe you and…” You can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. Can’t make your lips form the name Rachel.

“No,” he shakes his head, jaw tight, as if reading your mind.

“Is she okay?”

“Ellie?”

“Ellie,” you roll the name around in your mouth. His daughter.  “Yeah.”

“She’s okay,” he smiles, nodding. “They’re both fine.”

“And…” You look back at the pictures. Two. “And the other girl?”

“Sarah,” Joel says softly, pointing at wild curls and brown eyes that look just like his. And he must see the questions swirling in your brain because he speaks again. “I was twenty. My, uh, my girlfriend at the time didn’t know what to do. Didn’t wanna be a Mom, but didn’t agree with abortion, and we were so young and… well, I asked her to marry me cause it felt like the right thing to do, but she didn’t…” he shakes his head a little, a faraway look in his eye as he remembers it. “She said no. She never wanted that… so, after Sarah was born, I told her that she didn’t have to.”

“Didn’t have to?” you repeat the words, eyebrows furrowing.

“Didn’t have to stay,” he clarifies. Your lips part, surprised. “So, she didn’t, and we ain’t seen her since Sarah was a few months old.”

“Shit,” you whisper, eyes widening as the information finally starts to sink in.

“And Ellie,” he laughs then, gazing at a picture of auburn locks and shock grey eyes. “Well, that one showed up on my door some time fifteen years later. Been in ‘n’ outta foster care for years, and just started followin’ Sarah home from school one day. We did this little dance for a while; dinners and sleepovers and me slipping money into her backpack so she could buy lunch at school. And then one day she just… begged me not to make her go back to her own house. So I didn’t.”

“Wow, I…” you blink. “You adopted her? Alone?”

“I…” Joel pauses. Wets his lips, frowning as he collects his thoughts. “Alone is… I don’t think that’s the right word for it. You see Ellie was… Sarah and me, we just knew. She was family so fast. It was the only thing that made sense, you know?”

And it does, you suppose. The image isn’t hard to conjure. Joel at the dinner table with two teenagers on either side of him. Arguing over homework, over curfews, over what movie to watch. You can see the fondness in his eyes as he talks about them – the emotion laced through his words; we just knew.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’,” Joel says, and that line between his eyebrows is back and it’s so deep that you can’t help yourself from reaching up and smoothing it over with your thumb. He catches your hand and holds it against the centre of his chest. Lets you feel the way his heart thuds heavily beneath the skin, a sturdy rhythm against your palm.

“It’s… it’s a lot to take in,” you confess, and his hand tightens over yours. “But I’m glad you told me.”

Brown eyes search yours, gaze heavy. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay then.” 

You flex your palm against his chest. Dig your fingers into the flesh there a little.

“Can I…” he hesitates, eyes flickering down. “Do you… Can I kiss you?” You, you, you.

Your heart beats fast, and you feel his do the same, and Joel is a father, and two daughters, and I can’t fuckin’ quit you, and you’re breathing into his mouth yes, yes you can kiss me, please kiss me.

It’s warm and it’s gentle and it feels like such a kindness to kiss him now and feel less space between the two of you. Feels like a thousand apologies and explanations slipping off his tongue and you opening your arms to him, saying I understand, saying thank you for telling me.

And when you pull him closer, wrapping an arm around the back of his neck, he meets you in kind, pressing your back against the wall. He shifts his hips between yours and shows you how much he’s missed you, and only when his hand drifts beneath the hem of your shirt do you pause.

He stills, warm breaths drifting across your mouth as he looks into your eyes.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m exhausted,” you admit shyly, twisting a finger through a frizzy lock of hair at the nape of his neck. You tug at it, not meeting his eye, and watch it bounce back into a curl when you let go. He nods and kisses you again, closed lips soft and not asking for anything, never asking for more than you want to give, before he takes your hand and leads you through his house for the first time.

He runs you a bath. Makes you sit on the edge while he lays out a towel and checks the temperature every few minutes. Only when he’s satisfied that the water is perfectly warm does he help peel the clothing from your body. He grips your hand and helps you step into the tub, lowering you down into sudsy water. And when you’re settled, he pulls a stool nearby and sits, keeping you company as you soak.   

“S’nice,” you tell him quietly, dragging a foamy sponge across your arms. “Thank you, Joel.”

The weight of before hangs over you a little, pressing down against your shoulders as you watch him. Gauge him. But he doesn’t seem angry or upset anymore. He leans over the lip of the tub. Runs his hands through the water, over the skin of your calf, your knee. Feels the coarse hairs that have grown there over the past fortnight and smiles when they scratch against his palm.

“Said you were sick?”

“Mhm.”

“What kind?”

“Just a cold,” you whisper. He squeezes your knee, palm against your patella, fingers soft in the flesh around it. “M’fine. Past it now.”

In the soapy water, his skin feels like silk against yours.

“Changin’ of the season,” he muses with a nod. “Normally gets me too.” 

And you laugh a little at that, because it’s such a fatherly thing to say and you can’t believe how naïve you’d been to not see it before. Can suddenly picture him doing this a thousand times over; resting by the bath while one of his little girls floats in the water, nose all stuffy from the flu.

At the sound of your laughter he smiles, gaze dropping to your mouth, and the skin beside his eyes pinches. Little wrinkles, so soft and so beautiful that you want to reach out and brush your fingers across them.

“You’re so beautiful,” Joel murmurs, and his voice is hushed, so low in the small bathroom.

His fingers skirt against the inside of your thigh and you splay your legs open for him, knees knocking against the sides of the tub. He glances down through the water to where you’re spread open for him to see, shameless, and smiles.

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he repeats.

“So are you, Joel.”

“Psh,” he rolls his eyes, offering a delicate little smile. So shy, so feeble, and so desperate to believe you. A little glimpse of that wary weight, still pressing down on him as well.

“Mean it,” you insist in a whisper. You lift a hand from the water, wet thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. Feel the bristles of his moustache, the hairs on his cheek, prickling against your skin.

“Swoony type,” you say, smiling when recognition flashes in his eyes. Stroke the fresh blush on his cheeks. “Long hair, bedroom eyes, cheeks like wine.”

“Hmm,” he murmurs, turning to press a kiss against your palm. “Can’t get away with plagiarisin’ Carson in this house, baby.”

“She just said it so well.”

“She did,” he agrees. “So did Tartt.”

“Tartt?” your mind wanes, the warm water lulling you into a sleepy sort of daze. You rest heavy against the side of the bath, gazing up at him

“Beauty is terror,” he quotes tenderly, eyes bold and earnest as he holds your stare. “Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

You wrap an arm around his shoulders, water droplets staining his shirt where your fingers grip the material, and pull him forward to kiss you. Joel grips the inside of your leg and kisses you until your skin prunes and wrinkles. And when he notices he laughs with you, gripping your hand to press his lips against fingertips that look like raisins. Worships the soaked skin of your fingers until you pull his face back to yours; jealous of your own hands, fearful that they might come to know his kiss better than your lips.

And when the water goes lukewarm and you don’t know what time it is anymore, he dries you off with a soft towel and offers once more to take you home. But you say no, so he smiles and kisses you again—your lips, your cheeks, your eyelids—and leads you to his bedroom.

He drags a too-big shirt over your head, helps you loop your arms into the sleeves. Dark blue and warm, so warm, against your skin.

The two of you slip beneath the covers on his bed and he drags you against his side; lets you press your cold toes against his shins without so much as a flinch.

Facing each other on your sides, those hands slink beneath the shirt, rough palms cradling your ribs, your back, holding you tight against his chest until your breathing falls in sync. And those hands don’t stray, don’t move down, they just embrace you. A carefully held apology that promises I want this, to hold you, to be with you, too.

It stays like that, nothing more, until your eyelids are heavy, and his breathing has evened out. Stays like that until your hand drops from his back to the band of his boxers, sleepy little fingers plucking at the material, trying to slip underneath.

“You should rest.”

But you whine softly; needy and insistent as your fingers press harder.

“What do you need?” Joel rasps into your neck, helping you shift them down his legs.

“Need you,” you whisper back into the darkness of his bedroom. “Wanna feel you, I—”

His mouth is soft against yours, plucking those words from your mouth and swallowing them down. He sucks your bottom lip between his, prying your mouth open so he can slip his tongue inside.

His hand in on your knee, pulling your leg up until your thigh rests heavy around his hip and you can feel the hot weight of him against your core, still slick and warm and needy from when his hand rested on the inside of your leg in the bath.

And if you’d ever subscribed to the meaning behind words like sin you suppose that once this might have counted as one. An act worthy of being sent to reside in that second circle of hell, reserved solely for those overcome by lust; left to blow back and forth in the storm of their own desire. Two people who cannot touch, should not touch, who hold their hands out to feel anyways. A touch once spiteful, once desolate and removed, now so forthcoming. A touch that says this is the only way it could have ever been. And there can be nothing sinful about it anymore. No more shame or derision behind heavy eyelids, no more you shouldn’t or I’m no good for you. Here you rest comfortably in the hurricane of that second circle, and you welcome the breeze as a comfort.

Lips against yours, Joel feeds his cock to you in slow, careful passes.

Ensures you feel every ridge, every hard line of his body. And with each gentle press inside he murmurs against your mouth. Incessant, low nonsenses of so fuckin’ beautiful and god I missed you and that’s it, baby, I know, I know. His kiss smooth as an almond, tender as a fig. Ripe and wet and tremulous as his tongue finds a home against yours, over and over.

The comforter on his bed stays pulled high, up to your shoulders, and it traps the warmth of your bodies between you.

He coaxes rough, gasping sounds from you with every shift of his hips.

Long fingers grip the back of your thigh, using his hold there to rock your body into his over and over again, slowly, making sure you feel every second of it. Slick seeps out of you around his length, smearing against the inside of your thighs and his, and he groans at the wet sounds that slip from where the two of you are connected.

Joel says your name, low and gravelly, praising every syllable. He tells you how good it feels, how perfect you are, and every word is like an undressing of the flesh. Like you’re some tender butcher, peeling back layers of his skin to let the air hit hot, red, pulsating matter, flashes of thick, porcelain bone swimming amongst it all. He keeps you close, hardly an inch of your body not touching his, and yet you can see all of him. The whole surface and everything underneath it now too. And when you say his name in return and he moans, begs you to say it again, say my name again, it’s hearts on wings, thin fire racing beneath the skin, eyes unseeing, drumming filling your ears. It’s the cold sweat on his hands that hold you shaking, that feel the way you tremble and grip tighter. It’s wanting to take those bones of his and suck them clean; lick past the gristle and taste the marrow beyond it.

It's everything and it’s nothing and it’s that silly little four-letter word that you can’t bring yourself to say, let alone think, and it doesn’t even matter because he’s here and that’s enough.

His nose rests in the hollow above your collarbone and he inhales, smothering soft kisses to skin and bone there.

He says, “You smell like me,” and when he looks up and presses his forehead against yours, he almost looks wounded by it. He stills, holds himself deep inside and just stares, and his eyes are screaming I can’t fuckin’ quit you, so you lay your thumb over the dimple on his cheek and smile. “S’my clothes, my soap…”

Your body flutters and tightens around him, and your mouths fall open in soft moans, lips slotting together again.

“You like that?” you breathe into the kiss, and he tightens his fist around the back of the shirt, pressing inward until your back is arched, and your stomach is flush against his and he’s groaning yes.

“Want you in my clothes all the fuckin’ time,” he pants, and the tip of his cock presses so deep inside that you’re gasping, mouth hanging wide open. “And when you give ‘em back I’ll wear ‘em and smell like you, and then we’ll be even.”

“Even?” you laugh a little, nipping at his bottom lip. He smiles, eyes glinting in the darkness.

“Yeah, even,” he repeats it and presses forward in a sharp thrust to emphasise his point. You don’t need to hear it again to know exactly what he means.

“Tell me you’re mine,” you whisper, and he grunts, hips shifting a little faster against yours. You feel him pulse inside of you, his stomach tightening against yours.

“M’yours,” Joel murmurs, voice like velvet and honey, so soft as he leans forward to kiss you, licking the words into your mouth. You say it back, spell it out against his teeth, his lips, his jaw. Yours, yours, yours. 

He says something else then, lips soft against your chin, and you’re so close; can feel it hot and burning in your gut, almost at tipping point.

“Hmm?”

“Baby,” Joel nips at your jaw, sharpening your senses. “Tell me you’re on the pill or somethin’.”

“I am,” you whimper honestly, and his body seems to sag against yours, hips shifting in sluggish, tired movements.

Something snaps at the base of your spine, and you tremble against him, gripping the back of his neck. Soon enough he’s shuddering into you, arms going tight around your back, trapping you against his chest as his cock pumps inside your core. And it’s warm and wet and sticky and his seed drools out of you, down to your asshole, smearing against the inside of your thighs, his sheets. Your legs wrap around his waist, holding him to you, keeping him there as long as you possibly can. Riding out your highs, and then the trembling, stuttering aftershocks in each other’s arms. He pants into your mouth and all either of you can say is mine or yours, until the words mix together and become a meaningless blur of sound murmured between locked lips.

It could be minutes or an entire hour before you manage to separate from each other. All eager little kisses and whines as his soft cock slips from your hold, thick spend seeping out of you in his absence. And you just want to sleep, want to curl up in his arms and never leave, but you slink off to the bathroom first. Wet your face and drop down on his toilet. Urinate and feel his come drip out of you. And where once, with someone else, you might have cringed at the feeling, you only feel warmth; calm.

In the bright lighting of his bathroom, you can see yourself reflected in the mirror above his sink. Hair a wild mess, cheeks and lips swollen with warmth. This woman in the mirror stares back at you and she has bright eyes. She smiles at you, and you feel your lips peel back, teeth on show just like hers. You stare at her and think god, she looks happy. When you wipe between your thighs and stand, she does too. And with your finger on the light switch, a wet handtowel clutched in your other palm, you give her one last look before turning out the light, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

Thursday.

Joel sleeps on his stomach. At least, that’s how he ends up overnight.

Face buried deep in a pillow, one leg slung outside of the covers, with a heavy arm out to the side. When you wake, at first, you’re careful not to move. Not to breathe too heavily, not to cough or jostle him awake. He looks so peaceful like this. Heavy breaths puffing from chapped pouty lips, forehead smooth and devoid of the stress and exhaustion that often lines his face. A large hand rests close to you. Despite you drifting a part in the night, the body heat getting too much for you both, his fingers remain outstretched in your direction. The tips just grazing the skin of your stomach as you lie on your side and watch him.

A low murmur escapes from his mouth, face twitching a little, and then he’s relaxing again, humming in his sleep. You smile, and let your eyes wander.

There’s a pile of books on his bedside table, reading glasses dropped haphazardly atop them.

An Idiot’s Guide to Space, one of the weathered spines reads. Interesting.

A framed painting rests above a set of drawers on the side of his room. A vast landscape with a herd of horses galloping across it. Gorgeous hides of orange and brown and black splashed across green grass and blue sky. And on the back of his door… hangs a cowboy hat.

You move slowly, careful not to wake him as you rise and tip toe across the room. Coming to rest directly in front of the closed door, you slip it off the hook and admire it. You don’t even hear his breathing change as he wakes up.

Dark brown with a curved brim; the felt is soft beneath your fingers. The image of Joel wearing it, perhaps often, while living in Texas flits through your mind and you can’t help but smile. And then warm hands are on your hips, arms snaking around your waist to pull you back into a warm chest.

You gasp in quiet surprise, but your smile only broadens when Joel rests his chin on your shoulder, peering down at the hat in your hands.

“Mornin’,” he murmurs, voice gruff and deeper than usual. A pang of arousal swims in your core at the sound of it, but you ignore that, turning in his grasp.

“Good morning, cowboy.”

Joel groans, sleepy eyes drifting closed as he hugs you to his chest, swaying the two of you from side to side.

“Wanted to lie in,” he grumbles. “S’too early for this.”

“For what?” you blink in mock confusion, holding the hat against your chest.

“For you to see that.” He moves quick, tugging it from your grasp.

“Hey—” You gasp, wide eyed and ready to steal it back. But before you can Joel just lifts it onto his head with a heavy sigh. “Oh.”

“Oh?” he repeats, eyes narrowing.

Warmth simmers in your stomach and you smirk, stepping back to give him a quick once over.

“I could get used to this.”

“Jesus,” he rolls his eyes, moving to take it off but you grip his hand, shaking your head fiercely.

“Not so fast,” you coo. “I want the whole experience.”

“And what exactly is the whole experience?”

“You know—” You shimmy your hips a little. Imitate twirling a lasso in the air, wiggling your eyebrows. “Show me some tricks.”

Joel laughs at you, and you can see the desire in him to say no, to refute it, but the longer you stare him down, the more it cracks and fizzles away.  

“Go on, cowboy,” you try out your best Texan drawl, falling down to sit on the edge of his bed.  

He adjusts his legs, elbows bending as he waves two finger guns in your direction. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down a laugh as he makes a small pchew pchew noise out the side of his mouth.

“Oh,” you smirk. “Is that all you got?”

“I’ll have you know,” Joel huffs, pretending to holster one of his guns. Hip cocked now, still dressed in nothing but his sleep shirt and boxers; he stares you down. “I’m startin’ to think this town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

And that gets you. A sharp, barking laughs slips from your mouth, and Joel grins in return, the skin beside his eyes creasing as he adjusts the Stetson over his curls.

As your giggles calm, he just shakes his head, still smiling, and murmurs fondly, “Dadgum, you got a good laugh.”

Your face warms beneath his stare, and you just shake your head, bottom lip snagged between your teeth. Moving quick, Joel pinches the brim of the hat and places it onto your head. It’s a little big, and the brim falls down, obscuring your eyesight before he adjusts it for you. Then he takes a step back, hands on hips.

“How do I look?” You bat your eyelashes up at him, smiling shyly.

“I don’t know,” he fakes an air of contemplation, giving you a long look up and down. “Think you might be all hat ‘n’ no cattle.”

“Hey,” you pout. “I’d make a great cowboy; just need a pair of chaps.”

“Well, you can wear the hat and the chaps all you like,” Joel murmurs, gaze heavy. “But you ain’t a cowboy ‘til you prove you can ride like one.”

Your thighs tense and you arch an eyebrow, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Is that right?”

“S’right.”

“Mm,” you hum. You lick your bottom lip and watch the way his gaze darkens, eyes trained on the movement. “Gonna let me show you what I got?”

And so you end up back in bed, straddling Joel while he smirks up at you, long fingers twisting around the hem of your t-shirt. But when you slip a finger inside the hem of his boxers, the movement so reminiscent of last night, he laughs a little and gives you a look that says, really?

You pout, confused. “I thought you wante—”

“Uh uh,” Joel shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

“Then what?”

“Get up here.” He lifts his chin upward.

Your eyes widen, stomach tensing a little.

Desire warms the inside of your thighs, and you murmur, “You want that?”

“Do I wa—?” he cuts himself off, eyes darkening a shade. “I said, get up here.”

Heart racing, you shimmy up his chest until your knees are planted on the mattress on either side of his shoulders. He smiles, encouraging, and you grip the hem of his shirt, prepared to pull it over your head, but he stops you.

“No,” he exhales, hand quickly gripping yours. “Leave it on for me.” And then he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, and you can only nod, holding your breath as you wait for him to reach where you want his mouth the most.

Face tucked in the cradle of your hips, Joel sighs your name. A rough exhalation, nose pressed into your skin. And it feels a little silly at first – your face is warm as you stare down at him, the wide brim of the cowboy hat tilting forward.

But then, breath hot and heavy against you, he mouths at the crease where your hip meets your thigh. Slow, drawn-out kisses that have your legs tensing over him, his hands slip beneath the shirt, tracing light patterns into the skin over your spine, all the way up to your shoulders. He keeps going until you’re shivering, a wet trembling mess in his hands, hips twitching forward with every touch of his mouth to your skin until he finally glides his tongue through your folds.

Your breathing hitches as he pants against you, chest vibrating with low sounds as he licks thick stripes up the entire length of your pussy. Eyes closed, he tastes all of you; tongue slipping over every piece of exposed skin that the position grants him. And with every broad stroke of his tongue, he dips inside your weeping hole and finishes with a gentle flick against your clit. So soft and so slow, building you up over and over until finally you break and begin rocking your hips into his face.  

Joel grunts at first, a little surprised maybe, but in a second his hands are dropping to grip your thighs, locking you in place against his face.

At first, he guides you. Helps you find a rhythm that works, that feels good. Flattens his tongue and uses his grip to rock you back and forth over his face, groaning as you roll your clit against him, huffing and panting quiet little pleas. But soon enough your fingers are carding through his hair, holding him tight against you as you grind down into his mouth. Sharpening his tongue, he dips it inside of you and then drags upward, pulling your clit into his mouth and sucking gently.

You gasp, vision going hazy as you try to keep your eyes on him, try to watch, but it’s too good. He knows exactly what you like, and it all moves far too quickly for your liking. You can already feel your hips winding faster and harder against him, breaths falling shorter, everything in your stomach pulling tight and hot.

Joel can tell – he can always fucking tell – and one of his hands drifts over your ass, fingers slipping between your thighs from behind until his middle finger is circling your entrance.

“Fuck,” you inhale sharply, jaw going slack as he prods at your cunt, tongue lapping lazily over your clit all the while. “Please, your fingers, yeah, ohhh—”

A long finger sinks inside and you moan, head falling back.

“You like that?” he murmurs, pulling back to graze his teeth along the inside of your thigh. A second finger presses inside, and he curls them against that soft spot, fucking you slow and steady until you acquiesce, whimpering yesyesyesfucksogood towards the ceiling.

“Good girl,” he hums, slick tongue finding its way back to your clit.

He eats at you so lovingly. So generous as he lathes firm circles around your nerves, only ever pausing to suck you into his mouth again or press wet, open-mouthed kisses against the entirety of your cunt. Nose buried in the short curls over your mound, he doesn’t let up until your moans turn high pitched; strained little whimpers of his name falling from your lips as you press down harder and harder.

“Oh fuck,” you cry, hips rocking back and forth, faster now. He breathes you in, jaw shifting from side to side, matching the intensity of your movements with sharp flicks of his tongue. And when you fall apart, shoulders sagging forward, he moans, taking and taking and taking every last drop of what you have to offer.

And what an image it must be – you, wearing a Stetson, riding Joel Miller’s face. You almost wish you’d filmed it, for posterity’s sake.

He presses a small kiss to one swollen lip of your pussy, and then the other, before his head is falling back into the pillows and he’s smiling up at you.

The lower half of his face shines, lips and facial hair slick with your come, and you can’t help but grin back, a tired snort of laughter slipping from your mouth.

“How’d I do?” You grip the brim of the hat, tipping it down at him.

Joel smirks, hands squeezing your thighs, helping to shift you up and onto the side of the bed so he can sit up.

“I’d say you more than proved yourself,” he hums, leaning in to steal a kiss. You sigh, whining against his warm wet mouth, and reach a hand down to press it against his abdomen. Shifting lower, you trail your fingers over where his cock strains against his boxers, but Joel just tuts, pulling away and slipping off the bed.  

“Hey,” you huff, gripping his shirt and trying to pull him back down, but he just shakes his head, laughing, and drags you to your feet.

“Gonna be late,” he tells you, squeezing your hips and pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you needa eat.”

Late. You’d almost forgotten that you had a lecture this morning. Joel’s lecture.

He turns, rifling in the chest of drawers, pulling out clothes, a pair of socks, while you stand behind him and watch, knees still shaking, with a fucking cowboy hat on your head. After a moment he turns, stares, and a rough laugh hits the air. Shaking his head, Joel grips the brim and tosses the hat back up on its hook before pointing towards the ensuite, telling you to shower.

“You coming?” you ask, and he just shakes his head, tugging on socks before padding towards the hallway.

“Cowboys don’t shower, baby,” he flashes a smile over his shoulder at you and winks. “They just dust off.” 

When you make your way out of the shower, Joel is in the kitchen. Ironed black trousers and a neat white shirt cover his frame, and from across the room you admire him. That strong back, the pert rounded muscles of his ass. Fuck.

He manages to over scramble the eggs and burn the bacon because he can’t stop looking over his shoulder at where you rest at his dining table. Head resting heavy in your palm, you smile back at him. And when he puts a plate of food in front of you, you don’t have a single complaint.

The two of you eat fast, plucking little pieces of eggshell out as you go, smiling and laughing shyly as your feet tangle beneath the table. He watches you; makes sure you clear your plate before he takes it to the sink, murmuring something about how he won’t make you sit through me talkin’ for hours on an empty stomach. Says he’s pretty sure that counts as torture somewhere, baby.

And when he turns, dirty dishes forgotten in the sink, you’re staring at him, heart on your sleeve, and he must see it in your eyes. You know that it has to be clear as day; that forbidden four-letter word blazing across your forehead in bold letters.

Joel clocks your gaze and moves to hover over where you sit, wordlessly cupping your face in two broad palms and slotting his mouth over yours. And as he licks into your mouth, tasting the remnants of eggs and bacon and every unsaid word, you start to believe that maybe confessing wouldn’t be so bad. That maybe forbidden is a word you’ve prescribed to this feeling all on your own – that he might just be feeling the exact same way.

But he pulls back, presses two more quick pecks to your mouth and tells you to get ready, says he’ll drive the two of you to school, and the moment slips from your grasp.  

Back in his car, you feel relieved to replace the memory of yesterday with this one. Windows down, the air is cool and calm against your skin as he drives you through town, sated, dopey smiles across both of your faces.

A Bob Dylan song drifts from the speakers and Joel sings along under his breath.

“We’ll meet again someday on the avenue. Tangled up in blue.” Voice low and breathy, left hand on the wheel, right hand on your thigh. You nod along to the lyrics, your fingers tracing the veins and tendons on the back of his hand all the way until he pulls over.

“Shouldn’t be seen walkin’ in together.”

“Yeah,” you agree, understanding. “Best not.”  

The truck idles on the side of the road, somewhere inconspicuous down the street from campus, and you slip out his passenger door. Close it with a thud and peer in at him through the open window, eyes devouring every part of his face as if you won’t be seeing him within the hour, stood up in front of the room giving a lecture.

The truck peels away from the curb, Tangled Up In Blue still whining from those speakers, and Joel sends a quick wink out the window at you, his face a blur as he drives off. And you just smile, chest warm despite the cool Spring air on your face, walking along in the same direction – because you know exactly what that wink means. And you love it.

Our little secret.

a/n refs:

in Dante’s Inferno he said that those overcome with lust were doomed to the second circle of hell, wherein they would be buffeted back and forth by the terrible winds of a violent storm, without rest. slay.

the bacchae tr. by anne carson [read if you have mummy issues, a massive ego, or just like the idea of frolicking in the woods for a while...]

the secret history by donna tartt [read if you like unreliable narrators, strange professors and stranger students, and the nursery rhyme 'the farmer in the dell']

the end of the affair by graham greene [read if you like weird intense guys and angst and infidelity]

eros the bittersweet by anne carson [read if you're cool as fuck]

thank you for reading! x

[livinginshambles]

Behold! My stuff.

WE CROSSED 2000 FOLLOWERS, THANK YOU EVERYONE

I want each and every one of you to know that I love you and appreciate you <3

Taglist: No main taglist; comment you want to be tagged on the fic you want to be tagged for. If you don't want to comment, usually, the full fic will drop somewhere about a week after the preview.

Last updated: 2nd of March

{Multiple parts}

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Best friends to lovers - You're stuck as 'one of the guys' and want to be girly too. James sees you in a new light. You don't believe him.

"Not ridiculous at all" (pt.1)

"You're ridiculous, you know" (pt2)

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Established relationship - James is embarrassed and pulls away. You overhear him talk badly about you and pull away too. ❤️

"I've got plans, sorry" (pt.1)

"I'll reschedule" (pt.2)

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Unrequited love on both sides – You're in love with James. After you get over him, you leave him strangely enough, conflicted.

"I needed to hear you say it" (pt.1)

"If I could take it all back" (pt.2)

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Strangers to lovers - 'A cinderella story' fic where James doesn't know you with Romeo and Juliet vibes and a little bit of fake dating.

"I thought you'd be different." (pt.1)

"No, you listen to me." (pt.2)

"Hear me out, please." (pt.3)

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Established relationship - James compares everything in your new relationship with his past relationship with Lily.

"You'll never compare to her" (pt.1)

"Can I be him?" (pt.2)

{One-shots}

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Strangers to friends to lovers - Classic "it was just a bet" trope. You're hurt, finding out you're a bet and only worth one galleon to him. ❤️

"How much are we worth?"

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Established relationship - Classic angst of being second choice. You just want to come first for once. Maybe that's too much to ask.

"I want to be loved first"

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Established relationship - You're jealous of the new girl, James is oblivious, and he also forgets your birthday and anniversary.

"But what about me?"

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Best friends to lovers - Lily demands James to choose between her or you. You're baffled that he's even entertaining the thought. "You're unbelievable (derogatory)"

James Potter x Fem!Reader: Soulmate au! - He doesn't care about soulmates as he has found 'true love' with his girlfriend Lily, so he burns your bond, literally.

"You had it all figured out, right?"

[chuuyascumsock]

Where Gay Goes to Die || Minors DNI

Summary: I have no words, and no apology because this actually slapped so hard. Let’s go lesbians lmao. Happy pride month.

Tags: Female! Chuuya Nakahara/Reader/Fem! Osamu Dazai, Afab reader, Threesome, Brief Voyeurism, Pet Names (Baby, Doll, Belladonna, Love, Pretty Girl, etc.), Classic Dazai-Chuuya Bickering, Fingering, Nipple Play, Hair Pulling, Face Sitting, Squirting, Strap-on Use, Slight Bit of Aftercare, Hints of a Poly At The End, Idk Maybe I’ll Make a Part Two, Haven't Decided, Honestly Downright Filthy Smut, Literally Wanna Be Stuffed Between Them Like a Sub Sandwich.

How you ended up in bed between your co-worker and her ex-partner from the mafia was a mystery to you. 

One minute you were having drinks with the ADA earlier that night before slinking off to grab another drink from the bar. And the next you were being complimented by one of the five mafia executives herself who was sitting nearby, Nakahara Chuuya. You’ve never had anyone so boldly eye fuck you while smoothly commenting on the way you fought during one of your missions— and against their organization no less. Chuuya was ethereally beautiful, her russet tresses fell over her freckled shoulders, sleek dress hugging her physique tightly to reveal her curves. The most captivating characteristic of hers had to be her heterochromatic eyes, soft blue and brown that sealed your fate as she dragged you away from the bar shortly after your interaction.

Dazai had only noticed your disappearance after she was finished with her Sake. Whining and complaining to Kunikida about how much she missed you, Kunikida scoffed and fixed her glasses. “The last I saw her was talking to the bartender.”

Dazai was quick to jump to her feet and trail off to the bar, only to find no one but the bartender there. When asked, the bartender nodded his head off to the back door that led to an alleyway with a small warning that you had left with a woman described way too familiar with Dazai. Not only was it Dazai’s ex-partner back in the mafia, but you had fought against her just the other day. Dazai felt off when approaching the door, weary of what to expect.

Entering the alleyway, Dazai hadn’t been expecting to see Chuuya feeling your soft body up with her gloved hands while shoving her tongue down your throat and vice versa. 

It took minutes for either of you to notice Dazai’s presence, too caught up in one another to see her staring you down as Chuuya had her way with you. The woman had tugged at the neckline of your tight dress, freeing your breasts to the cold air for the brunette to see before cupping and squeezing them. Your soft and cute mewls had both women wanting more as Chuuya’s lips captured yours again in a sloppy kiss.

Something in Dazai snapped and she knew that there was no more hiding her want for you behind sweet, charismatic smiles and adoring looks from across the office. She cleared her throat, a small gasp of surprise leaving you and not much of a reaction from Chuuya. 

“The hell do you want, shitty Dazai?” Chuuya nearly rolled her eyes as she kept your plush tits groped and spilling between her gloved hands. 

“What are you doing here?” You timidly ask, embarrassed for getting caught, especially with someone who was supposed to be the agency’s enemy.

Dazai kept her composure. “You were gone for too long so I came looking for you— but I see that you’re busy.” She completely ignores Chuuya for the time being.

“Sorry…” You whisper bashfully, head tilting down in shame.

“Well she’s perfectly fine, so you can leave now,” Chuuya grumbles, leaning forward to litter your throat with more hickies.

“I don’t think so— it’d be a shame for the president and Mori to find out what’s happening right now. Why don’t we talk about this at your place, hm, Chibi?” Dazai was clearly planning something.

And that something ended up with you sandwiched between both women in Chuuya’s king sized bed— Dazai’s long, manicured fingers stuffed in your cunt to the knuckles while Chuuya’s tongue entangled with yours, her calloused hand pinching one of your nipples between her fingers.

The loud squelching of your pussy around Dazai’s fingers makes your ears burn as you moan into Chuuya’s mouth, kisses growing messy and mostly tongue filled. Dazai grins in satisfaction as she presses a thumb to rub at your throbbing clit, enjoying every second of your soft walls clenching around her fingers. “Look at how cute her pussy is, Chuuya. Such a needy little slut— wanting both of us at once.”

Chuuya’s lips disconnect from yours, leaving a small string of saliva to break apart from your panting mouths. “Can’t you keep your big mouth shut for three seconds? You’re ruining the mood with your annoying voice,” She mutters in irritation at Dazai’s voice while looking anyway, her gaze glued to your slick pussy as Dazai’s fingers thrust back inside. Chuuya bites into her bottom lip at the scene momentarily before moving back to marking your neck up with love bites.

Dazai blissfully ignores Chuuya’s snippy comment, curling her long fingers to rub into a certain spot that makes your thighs quiver. “She’s so soft, I bet she tastes good too.” The brunette hums thoughtfully, her eyes trailing from your soaked pussy up to your eyes. “Do you?” She smiles mockingly, watching you stumble incoherently over your words into a muddle of whimpers. Her bottom lip juts out into a small pout as she continues to taunt you. “Oh, poor baby… can’t even talk— do my fingers feel that good?”

There’s a small wince as you feel Chuuya sink her teeth into your shoulder just slightly harder than the other bites when Dazai talks, most likely annoyed by how much more she was doing. Wanting more attention, Chuuya growls out, “Oh please, she’ll be crying over my strap compared to your lousy fingers.” 

“Toys? A bit of a cheater, aren’t you, Chuuya? Can’t satisfy her on your own?” Dazai finally responds, mockery evident in her tone.

“Keep talking and I’ll throw your ass out to walk home in the cold.” Chuuya glares at Dazai before she moves away from you momentarily to crawl over to her nightstand to grab out a bottle of lube, harness, and a relatively long dildo. 

Your face must’ve shown just how intimidating the size of the toy was as Dazai gives a light laugh. “Too big for you, darling? Bet you wanna keep my fingers,” She says in a sing-song voice, curling her digits once more. It’s enough to distract you momentarily from their bickering as you feel a familiar feeling building in your lower tummy.

“Relax, doll. It’s only eight inches,” Chuuya sighs nonchalantly, already strapping the harness around her hips and prepping the silicon toy with a thick glob of lube. The sight of Chuuya slicking the toy up with her hand only makes you clench tighter around Dazai’s digits.

“Well some of us aren’t as loose as you are, Chuuya-dear.” Dazai gives a faux innocent smile, malice clear in her eyes and tone. Her fingers falter a bit at Chuuya’s next words.

“You’ve got to be out of your damn mind to talk— you should be considered a fucking graveyard at this point with how many bones you’ve had in you.” Chuuya scoffs, slapping Dazai’s hand away from you as she grabs one of your ankles with her other hand to drag you to her.

You give a small whine, eyes hazy as your orgasm was ripped away from you. 

Chuuya’s gaze falls back to a softer expression as she looks down at you, “I got you, doll.” Her hands move over to grab your hips and lift them until your lower back and ass are resting on the tops of her thighs, bright purple dildo resting between your ass cheeks.

“Well now you’re just being unfair,” Dazai complains, voice pitchy as she gives Chuuya a nasty look.

Before Chuuya could make a snippy remark about her leaving, you reach to lightly tap the brunette’s knee, signaling her to straddle your head. “Just so no one is left out…” You murmur, flustered.

“Well aren’t you just a sweetheart?” Dazai’s mopey expression washes away quickly as she shifts to make her way across the bed to straddle her knees on either side of your head. Her head tilts down to look at you, lips pulled back into a grin and lithe fingers threading into your hair. “You look cute between my legs, ‘donna…” 

Your eyes lull as your gaze drops from her face to her  cleanly shaven pussy, folds practically drooling with arousal which makes your mouth water. You nearly forget about the strap-on nudging against your entrance until it’s pushing in with no warning, the bulbous tip stretching you back open, though not as much as Dazai’s fingers had been. As your lips part to gasp at the sensation, Dazai is lowering herself down until your mouth is enveloping her, your tongue pushing through her folds and labia to lap along her tight hole.

You think you could drown in these women and let them fuck you until you’re nothing but a mindless, pussy-drunk slut for them, your hands coming up to grip into Dazai’s bandaged thighs and your hips jerking to take Chuuya’s strap deeper. And they don’t even keep it from you, letting you have your way as Dazai settles her weight fully onto you and Chuuya shifts to slip deeper into your aching core, walls greedily clutching around the dildo. Your moans are muffled by Dazai, your tongue laving through her succulent pink cunt, clit throbbing wildly against your muscle. She isn’t sweet like how it’s always described, a musky arousal evading your senses— but it isn’t unpleasant and it has you slurping noisily at her sloppy pussy loudly, making her moan and buck gently against your mouth.

It’s overwhelming how they both selfishly take as much as they give, Dazai’s free hand reaching behind her to rub your clit as she rides your face and Chuuya is sinking into you to the hilt and pulling away to create a tortuous pace, her hands gripping into the flesh of your hips. Your ears are muffled and you can’t tell if it’s from the pleasure or Dazai’s thighs pressing to your ears, hips rolling down to hump against your wriggling tongue.

“O-Oh, fuck, look at you… made for eating this pussy, huh, ‘donna?” Dazai groans, her fingers tightening in your hair painfully which causes you to gently scrape your teeth along her clit. She gasps and releases your hair slightly, fixing it almost apologetically and pets it down, her other hand now resting to cup your mound, middle and ring fingers gently rubbing circles into your clit.

You don’t let the stinging sensation in your scalp bother you when Chuuya’s pace picks up and her hips are slapping against yours, thighs jiggling each time she fucks the dildo deeper into your sopping pussy. That and Dazai’s insistent rubbing against your clit has that coil tightening in your lower abdomen once more. You wish you could see the way Chuuya thrusts into your eager pussy, the loud squelching of the dlido fucking into you being all you had to know how good she was treating it. 

“Shit… look at you taking it all, dollface— your pretty pussy is sucking me in so. damn. tight,” Chuuya growls, hips slapping harsher with punctuated words, your body jolting with choked breaths. 

“Don’t be so rough with her,” Dazai chides, not really caring about her being rough, but wanting to piss Chuuya off.

It works as Chuuya glares at Dazai and only picks up the pace, thighs stinging with each thrust as you feel her skin slap against yours and her grip grow tighter on your hips. “Don’t tell me how to fuck my girl, shitty Dazai.”

“Your girl?” Dazai humorlessly laughs out before letting out a small moan from your mouth sucking at her clit again. “Please— after this, she’s with me. I’m just nice enough to share this once.”

“Like hell, I made a move first, go find someone else to whore around with,” A huff leaves Chuuya, but her pace doesn’t change and neither does Dazai’s fingers against your clit. It has your mind reeling and body twitching, nearly teetering the edge of a climax— not that either woman noticed as they continued to bicker. 

“Well I SAW her first, I called dibs. Besides, she works at the agency with me so that means that she’ll be coming back with me anyways. You lose, face it, Chibi.”

“Doesn’t matter if you saw her first, you’re just mad that I acted before you did. You’re such a petulant child, can’t even handle losing to me for once.”

“That’s because I didn’t lose, she’s mine.”

“Oh, you fuckin’ bitch—“

Their arguing is cut off by a loud muffled whine from you and an orgasm that has your body shuddering deeply, your pussy creaming all over the purple dildo. A small, frothy ring of your cum forms around the base with each thrust, leaving the two women to finally quiet down as they watch, movements faltering to a slow pace momentarily.

“Fuck… I wanna make her squirt now,” Chuuya exhales quietly.

Dazai nods slowly before murmuring, “Finally, something we can agree on.”

You pick up on their muttering and let out a muffled groan into Dazai’s pussy in attempts to disagree, not sure if you were able to take another orgasm, but it falls upon deaf ears and their movements pick back up to a frenzied mess now.

You squirm beneath them, eyes squeezing shut and limbs spasming as they overstimulate your flushed pussy, folds puffy and clit thrumming as Dazai adds even more pressure to your sensitive nub. You try so hard to focus on Dazai’s rutting against your mouth, but it’s difficult when they’re double teaming you like this and Dazai takes over, allowing her hips to grind down on your face. Her clit bumps against your nose and your tongue occasionally slips into her clenching hole, serving her just enough as she tries to desperately reach her own climax.

“C’mon, hun, let go for us, yeah? We know you can come again— wanna see you squirt, baby,” Dazai pants out, her bangs sticking to her forehead from the sheen of sweat she was working up. You can’t see Chuuya, but you know she must look similar to Dazai’s state.

Your head feels like it’s underwater and you can’t help but give into what the two women want, thighs clamping around Chuuya’s waist as your eyes flutter closed and your second orgasm crashes over you more intensely to the point your ears start to ring. A stream of arousal squirts out, splashing against Dazai’s fingers and Chuuya’s lower abdomen. A soft gasp slips from their lips and Dazai can’t help but come at the sight, her viscous cum coating your tongue and slipping down your throat like honey. It’s a pleasant feeling and tastes almost like nothing with a hint of her scent, making you moan weakly against her as her hips falter to slow down but refuse to let up from your mouth, insides pulsing against your tired tongue.

It’s a couple minutes until you gather your bearings and Dazai finally lifts her hips, breath hitching at the string of your saliva and her cum connecting your mouth to her pussy that breaks when she pulls away. It nearly gets her worked up enough for another round, but she presses the feeling down and moves to lay beside you, clinging to your side and burying her face into your neck. 

Chuuya pulls out of you shortly after, slipping the harness off her hips and begins to clean up. She disappears off into the bathroom momentarily and returns with a small rag to clean your face off first of Dazai’s cum and then between your legs. The mafioso pecks your lips gently in comparison to her rough treatment earlier and glances at Dazai, throwing the rag at her lazily without a care. “Clean yourself up, would you?”

“What?” Dazai whines out, “How come she gets the princess treatment and I’m treated like a peasant?”

“Because you are one, you’re lucky I haven’t kicked you out at this point,” Chuuya clicks her tongue and turns her attention back to you and scoops you up into her arms. “I’m starting a bath, I don’t give a damn if you join or not,” She says to Dazai over her shoulder, leaving the brunette to complain about the unfair treatment she’s getting as she stumbles up to follow after the both of you. 

With your arms looping around Chuuya’s neck lazily, a small smile curls in your lips, knowing that this wouldn’t be a one time thing.