#Now back to writin!

[munson-mjstan]

Small update fellow moots, my first Steve fic is not doing well in regards to notes.

I am not discouraged or disappointed at ALL. I'm proud of myself for writing it and noticed more improvement!

My next fic will be an AU trip to the beach with Older! Eddie! 🥵🥵🥵

[cerise-on-top]

Hiii! Have a great day!

How about Ghost, Valeria, and Price with a close friend who is a professional boxer? Imagine asking them to practice/train with you n stuff

Unrelated, what's your favorite color?

Hello! Thank you! I hope you have a great day as well! My favorite color would be either a nice purple or a nice pink! I just really love both colors, so it's hard for me to choose!

Price, Ghost and Valeria with a Boxer!Friend

Price: He’s not a boxer per se himself, but he can bust out a few moves if he needs to. He’s had his own boxing matches with the enemy from time to time, so he can definitely pack a very mean punch if he wanted to. Thinks it’s very cool that you’re a professional boxer and definitely supports you however he can. As he knows plenty of people, he can probably arrange a friendly match between you and someone he knows so you can get some practice in with all kinds of people. However, you’re more than welcome to ask him for some sparring as well, he’ll laugh but won’t turn you down. But beware, he won’t go down easily either. He’s a captain, he has his pride and wants you to know that he’s not just some goon you can pick off and defeat just like that. And he will give it his all. He’s fairly bulky and, due to his profession, can take quite a lot. Might fake mock you from time to time, asking you if that’s really all that you’ve got. Doesn’t hold back in the slightest, the fact that you’re his good friend doesn’t matter too much to him at that moment. While he sort of does hope that you’ll win, he won’t make it easy for you. Price has very quick reflexes and could dodge you somewhat easily, but you will be able to get a good hit or two in as well. Very proud of you when you do beat him, regardless of whether you’re able to do so on your first try or if it took you several times. After every match with him he’ll take you out for a drink, one that is on him, and gives you pointers on how he thinks you could do better. He just really wants you to thrive and do well as a boxer so you can rise almost effortlessly. He knows it’s hard, but he’s with you all the way and will support you however he can.

Ghost: He used to box for fun when he was a bit younger. It definitely wasn’t too long ago, so he still knows how to box somewhat well. Ghost is a bit stronger than Price physically, so taking a punch from him would definitely hurt, but that’s just him showing you that he loves and appreciates you: By not holding back in the slightest. He can take a lot, so I’m wishing you good luck as you train with him, it’s definitely not easy taking him down. You can train with him just about whenever he has the time, though, he really doesn’t mind. In fact, he quite likes it when you ask him to train with you, it makes him feel as though he’s a trusted friend of yours. He may not be as quick as Price, but his reflexes are still cat-like. Sometimes, he has to spar like that with Soap still, so he still knows what he’s doing since the sergeant is very persistent in matters like those. Ghost is quick, focused and his punches are very calculated, he can take down and defeat just about anyone crossing his path. Besides, you’re a professional, surely you won’t go down so easily when it comes to someone who shouldn’t be on your level, right? Gives you pointers as well during your matches. He means well, but he also just wants to piss you off and break your concentration like that a bit. However, a fight with him is entirely fair. Ghost knows the rules and knows them well, so he won’t do anything out of the ordinary. Besides, he’ll check up on you after the match, regardless of who won out of the two of you. You are a good friend of his, you should be doing well at all times, Ghost can take care of himself too, after all. Like Price, he’ll take you out for a drink or two afterwards. However, if he’s not on deployment, he’ll try to go to some of your matches as well, when he can. He’d love to see you in action against a proper opponent.

Valeria: She’s probably tried to hire you since you’re very good at what you do, but you said no every time, so she gave up eventually. While she will still hint at wanting you to work for her, she can understand why you’d say no, your job is much more honest than hers, after all. Valeria has a certain appreciation for your boxing, thinking it to be rather cool. You can defend yourself in close combat, if it comes down to it, so she really doesn’t have to worry about you as much as other people. Like Price, she knows plenty of people. In fact, if you want to go up against some celebrities, she could probably pull some strings and have something arranged. It’s amusing to her, watching two people beat each other up in the name of sports. Will watch your matches as well when she can, you are her dear friend, after all. You can ask her, too, to fight you, and she likely won’t say no to that. If she has the time, that is, and is in the right mood for it as well. She doesn’t have nearly as much experience boxing as Ghost or Price do, but she can hold her own if it comes down to it. While she may not be as powerful as the other two, she will turn a match of regular boxing into kickboxing. She knows she shouldn’t, but as soon as it looks like you’re about to win she’ll do whatever she can to turn the tides. Her kicks are very powerful, so it’s not like she doesn’t know what she’s doing either. You need to nag a lot at her for the both of you to have a proper match without kicking on her behalf. If you’re having a regular match then it’s not that unlikely for her to just lose. She doesn’t have a lot of experience in the field of boxing since she prefers ranged weapons over melee. She’ll sulk a bit if you do beat her, but won’t hold it against you. If anything, she might challenge you out of her own will again just so she can beat you at some point. Such a thing is important to her.

[todayisafridaynight]

OH OH OH OH OH FULL NAME FULL NAME AKANE KISHIDA

I figured she was the one to get in touch first based on Jo knowing she wanted to see her son, but I have SO many questions about that... how does she know her son survived... how does she know Ichiban was her son and not Aoki... how does she know who Jo is and how to contact Jo... (<- tearing my hair out as we speak)

Anyway when you have the opportunity please view the gameplay footage...

obsessed how its addressed to Mr. Jo Sawashiro i dont know why that detail tickles me... thats cute..

chicken-and-egg kinda deal with Who Contacted Who first. like id ASSUME sawashiro'd get in contact with her first if he was feeling guilty enough about The Whole Situation and was willing to dig into arakawa's past imo, esp since akane wouldn't have any reason (or ability to) know who he was until after he joins the yakuza.. and i mean.. shes long gone by then.. tho that's assuming they got in contact early on and they didnt JUST start communicating within the past few years.

BUT EITHER WAY just gotta wait and see for it all to play out.. in three months <- still cant believe its coming out january 26th 👁️💋👁️

IM OBSESSED WITH THE GAMEPLAY FOOTAGE im soooo glad i was right in how they were going to handle the style change aspect (though i guess it wasnt a hard thing to predict but still..). I LOVE HOW KIRYU CAN ACTUALLY ROAM FREE THAT'S SO COOL i remember people kept speculating on how the gameplay was gonna go with how different ichi and kiryu's playstyles are and this is SUUCH a rad way to answer that question. my excitement is immeasurable and im gonna throw up

[sluckythewizard]

[the-deadlock-south]

wrist working again time to draw scion hanzo as much as i can

[terrainofheartfelt]

prompt- jenny finding out about dair and her reaction + her being happy for them

Dair + Jenny

After she hangs up the phone, Jenny stares into space for what must be twenty straight minutes. 

Her fingers twitch, needing something to do, something to keep them busy. It’s been her prime coping mechanism since, well, probably since she developed the fine motor skills necessary. If she was too hyper or bouncing off the walls, her mother put a crayon in her hand, or a pencil, or a paintbrush, and then later, fabric, thread, needles. The act of making something gave her a way to focus, to take all that ambition that had been born in her blood and do something with it. 

She grabs her sketchpad, starts on a figure and the shape of a dress without really looking at it. When she does, she realizes she doesn’t want to design anything at all, and tears the page out, a new blank one gaping up at her. 

Jenny sighs, slumping back against the wall of her dormitory, drumming her fingertips on the paper. 

She’s not…mad, not really. The way Dan talked, all cautious and careful and slow, like she was a feral cat he was trying to persuade to come out of the alley, he probably expected her to be angry, but she wasn’t. Or if she was, it feels different than the kind of anger that ate her alive back in New York. 

Not wanting to design but needing to draw something, she falls back on an old standby learned from her mother. She picks up a pen, and starts scrawling across the page, filling all the empty space, just random letters, well, maybe not so random, D-A-N, B-L-A-I-R, W-A-L-D-O-R-F, E-V-I-L S-P-A-W-N. When a sufficient amount of the page is covered, she starts connecting the lines, weaving the letters together until they’re unintelligible, a collected framework of lines, an abstract approximation of the iron outline of stained glass windows of the Anglican church down the street. 

Once satisfied with the skeletal structure, Jenny grabs her box of colored pencils. She’s meticulous, one color at a time, taking care not to use two similar hues next to each other. 

Her mom always made her own coloring sheets like this. In the evenings, after dinner but before bedtime, when Dan would disappear behind a book and Dad behind his guitar, her mom would sit in the armchair by the record player and just…color, just like this, filling an entire page with a riot of different hues and shades that did look like stained glass, so bright it reminded Jenny of the blown glass vases her parents displayed in the kitchen that she wasn’t allowed to touch.

Sometime, around the time Jenny was starting to think of herself as an artist too, she insisted that Mom show her how she made them, and she did. Jenny remembers being almost disappointed that there was no great secret to it. Scribble, connect the ends, color in the blank spaces. 

“It’s no genius work,” Alison told her, “but it’s meditative. Relaxes the mind.” 

Jenny could definitely do with that, she thinks as she picks up another pencil. Bright red, like cherry lip gloss. 

She didn’t yell. She didn’t give her blessing—because why should she—but she didn’t yell, didn’t make any accusations. She bit her tongue, and powered through the conversation best she could, sprinting to the end of the phone call. And now here she is. 

She knows what she wants to say, but she also knows that she can’t say it to Dan. 

You can’t badmouth the boyfriend. Another nugget of wisdom from her mom, delivered unto her last year, when one of her friends from show choir in Hudson started dating a grade-A douchebag, and that’s judging from Jenny’s rubric, which has a steep curve. 

Jenny couldn’t stand being around him, and more than that, didn’t want her friend giving her own time to someone who didn’t deserve it, all of which she told her mother. She and Alison undertook a thorough Full Disclosure policy when she moved to Hudson. It worked pretty well, even when Jenny didn’t like the advice she heard. 

“Honey, there’s nothing you can say that will sway her,” Alison told her. “All you can do is just love her, so when the bottom drops out she’ll know that you are there for her.”

Jenny kept her mouth shut, and, a week before senior prom, the douchebag showed his true, douchey colors, and Jenny was there for her friend. 

But what sucked is that Jenny would have been there regardless, so why should someone she cares about have to go through the wreckage of heartbreak to fall back on something they already had? 

Dan has a more resilient heart than she does. It’s just fact, they went to that school and went through their own dark forests of fucked-up shit, and while she broke down, Dan’s still there. Dan still believes, in true love, in finding the one, no matter how many times he gets hurt for the sake of the one. He’s so much like their mom, but on this, he’s his father’s son through and through.

Maybe that’s the problem. Sometimes Jenny imagines stretching her arm out over the Atlantic Ocean, plucking up her brothers by the shirt collar and carrying them over to London, to safer ground. 

But when everything got bad, she felt like she couldn’t turn to anyone, but even then Dan had been ready to punch out any one that wronged her, so long as he gave her the chance to talk and she gave him the chance to listen. So, she doesn’t want to cut him off. Even though she doesn’t know how not to, given what he’s just told her. 

So, she colors, she puts it onto the paper like her mother taught her, puts the words she couldn’t say into the phone into each swatch of color. 

She’s going to wreck you. She is going to wreck you and leave you in pieces and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop it. 

Half the page colored, she puts on her headphones, blasts music from her laptop. She cycles through most of Paramore’s discography by the time the page is filled.

Jenny lets out a deep breath as she examines her handiwork. Stained glass on paper. And, despite herself, it worked, like mac and cheese, like chocolate chip waffles, like any comfort from her childhood. 

On impulse, she grabs her phone, snaps a picture of her DIY coloring sheet, and sends it to Dan. She doesn’t know what to say to him, but words had always been more his thing anyway. 

Two minutes later, Dan sends a photo back, one of his own attempt, still in progress, on one of his legal pads he uses for outlining. 

Love you, she sends. 

Love you too, he texts back. 

Jenny’s still worried, but she thinks, or maybe hopes, that everything will turn out okay. 

3 years later…

Jenny and Nate stumble through the door of their Airbnb. Well, Jenny stumbles, she’s been in these heels too long. Wherever they go, no matter how fucked up they are, Nate always carries himself with an infuriating amount of athletic grace. It’s that damn pub football league. 

“Oh, couch,” Jenny sighs, collapsing onto the piece of furniture in question. It’s very comfy. They truly scored with this one, booked on a whim by Jenny while they were still on the train this morning. 

Dan and Blair had their own suite at the Plaza Athénée; when Blair heard they were staying in the 5th, she’d rolled her eyes, but even she was too happy to spend any time berating Jenny and Nate’s choice of lodging on the “wrong” side of the Seine. 

“So,” Nate says lightly, toeing off his shoes and leaving them beside her discarded boots, “how are you feeling?” He bends to pick up the coat she’d dropped on the floor next, hanging it up along with his. He takes such good care of her. 

“Exhausted,” she answers, hanging her head over the back of the sofa, as Nate drops down next to her. “Can you believe we were in a different country this morning? And we took a train underwater?”

He laughs lightly, stretching out and putting his head in her lap. “That’s not what I meant. I meant: how are you doing? About today?”

She frowns down at him puzzledly, arching an eyebrow. “Don’t you have a conflict of interest asking that question?”

“My interest is you, babe,” he reaches up, tapping the back of his hand on her sternum. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I seem to recall already having this conversation with Eric after Dan proposed.”

“Yeah, well, I’m checking in again.”

Jenny sighs, tilting her head back to think. “I’m good. Really.” She clasps Nate’s outstretched hand in one of hers, and runs the other through his hair, soft between her fingers. “I’ve had enough time to get used to the idea. And while I don’t think I’m completely used to it…” she shrugs. “The more I see them together, the more it makes sense.”

Nate makes a small hum, his little nonverbal way of saying I’m listening, and Go on. 

“I don’t know,” she takes a breath, gathering her thoughts, trying to shape them into words, “Dan’s always been just…himself, but like, in soft lines, shaded in. But…now he’s more…sharper. Like the outline of him has finally been inked in, you know?”

Nate blinks up at her, crease forming between his eyebrows. “I think so?”

Jenny laughs, and he strokes his thumb over her knuckles. “I just mean, this is the most himself I’ve ever seen him be. And if you repeat this I’ll deny it, but I think a lot of it has to do with Blair. So…” she sighs, melodramatic, “for him, I’ll suffer through being legally related to her.”

Nate snorts, face breaking into that sunrise grin Jenny loves so much. He brings their joined hands down, settling them on his chest. She’s never historically been much of a hand holder, but Nate loves it, and she loves him. And, she loves that it’s her he’s reaching for. 

“I’m happy for him,” she declares. “And I’m happy he asked me to come. And I’m really happy that we won’t be anywhere near when he tells Dad.” 

Nate makes a noise of agreement. “Or Eleanor.” 

“Oh my god, yeah.”

They both laugh, out of not only amusement at the mental image of Rufus and Eleanor’s respective reactions, but also relief, that Jenny and Nate won’t be in the blast zone when the bomb drops. There are definite advantages to the ex-patriot life. 

“Is that something you want?” Nate asks softly. 

“Facing the wrath of an Eleanor scorned? Fuck no.” 

“No,” he says softly. “What Blair and Dan did.”

“Elope in Paris?”

“Well, yeah, I guess,” he qualifies with a tilt of his head. “But I was thinking…just – marriage in general.”

“Oh,” Jenny says bluntly. 

Nate nods, his normally open expression cautious. 

Jenny sits back, thinking it over.  When Nate asks a serious question, she knows it comes after a long time of thought, always seeking an honest answer, so she tries to give him the same level of consideration. 

She’s not a believer in forever like her brother is. She’s so like their dad in so many ways, but in this one, she is her mother’s child. 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that. Maybe later. Way, way later, but not now.”

Nate nods, understanding. “I don’t think I am either.”

She lets out a breath.  

“So…” he trails off, “glad we’re on the same page?” 

She laughs. “Yeah. Yeah we are.”

She may not believe in forever, but if she had to draw it, it would look a lot like Nate. 

“And, who knows, maybe we can revisit this conversation at a later time, like…when we’re forty.” 

Nate grins, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand. “Sounds good to me.”

One word prompts

[beauzos]

me earlier this year: SOBR probably won't go above 90k words since i imagine every act is about 30k words give or take?

me recently: okay, it'll be 120k words at max

me now: ok. it'll PROBABLY be no more than 150k-

[juniperhillpatient]

it’s literally always a good time for Jetzula friendship btw. if you even care

[shotmrmiller]

pornstar au

f!reader x simon 'ghost' riley

3.7k words (sorry)

tw: teacher-student relationship but it's just a scene for porn. explicit. horrifyingly so.

You burst into the classroom and stride purposefully towards your professor, who is seated in his leather chair, engrossed in his work. Impatiently tapping your foot, you waited for him to finish marking essays. However, after 5 minutes, your patience with this unbearable man ran out.

"Professor."

He hums, a deep sound coming from the back of his throat yet doesn't look up from what he's doing. A real piece of work, he is. How fucking aggravating.

"Professor Riley," your voice takes an irreverent tone.

The hand that had been writing non-stop comes to a sudden pause, and he finally directs his attention to you. Meeting your gaze, his dark eyes are hooded, his lips set in a firm line. His job is to literally deal with students, yet he dares to look annoyed.

"Are you gonna tell me what's wrong 'r am I gonna have to learn how to read minds?" he states.

Taking in a calming breath, you clench the crumpled essay in your hand. "Can you explain to me why you failed me on this? I did exactly as you asked!"

He must know precisely what you're talking about because he simply turns back to the papers on his desk.

"Tha's your problem. You did exactly as I asked, with no thought behind it. Just wrote the bare minimum, if you can even call it writin'. It's copy-paste," Professor Riley sets the pen down and leans back in the chair.

"I need ya to use tha' head o' yours when in this class. Otherwise, you'll fail the rest o' your classes too."

Fucking hell.

Professor Riley shifts in his seat, seemingly done with the conversation, and finishes, "If tha's all."

Shit. Your pause is too long, and the director calls it. Fuck.

"I'm really sorry, Ghost, I didn't mean-" Your words of apology dissolve into thin air as his strong hand finds its place on your hip— giving it a gentle, but firm squeeze.

"S'all righ', love. Mistakes happen. Matter fact," his eyes drift from you to behind you to beckon someone with two fingers. "C'mere, you."

It's the set assistant, and he's brought the script with him. Ghost swiftly stops him from handing it to you, instead pushing it onto the assistant's chest. "Won't be needin' tha', thanks. Tell the director tha' we'll be ad-libin'. Now sod off."

The assistant follows his command in haste, scurrying off to follow Ghost's instructions.

"Hey," he murmurs. Your eyes meet his, feeling the intensity of it quickens your heartbeat. "Say whatever you like, just remember to follow the storyline, alright?"

Follow the storyline. In porn. The irony isn't lost on you, but you bite the side of your gummy cheek to keep from laughing. "Yes, sir."

He drops his hand from where he held you slowly, seemingly almost reluctant to let go. "Ready?" Ghost's thin lips curl into a smirk when you nod at his question. "Good girl."

Your fingers tightly grip the flimsy material of your uniform skirt at his praise, and warmth pools in your lower belly.

His good girl.

A high-pitched voice cuts through your thoughts, signaling the restart of the shooting. You exhale a long breath, unclenching your hands in the process.

Action.

"If tha' all." Ghost reaches for his pen when you frantically grab onto his Oxford sleeve.

"Wait, Professor, please! I can't," you stammer, "I cannot fail this class! My parents would kill me if I studied abroad only to flunk. The tuition—"

His tone is authoritative as he abruptly cuts off your lengthy excuse. "Enough. Nothing can change the mark I've given you."

Your ears pricked up at his wording, and the corners of your lips pulled up into a roguish smile. "No?" Ghost stills before turning to face you, countenance blank. "Nothing at all, Professor?" With a coy tilt of your head, your wide, doe-like eyes meet his as your fingertips trace an alluring path from his forearm down to his knuckles.

"I really can't convince you in any way to change that grade for me?" You lean on the edge of his wooden desk— skirt so short it doesn't even graze the surface of it— and lightly curl your hand around his pointer finger. "It can be our little secret, Professor Riley," you purr.

Ghost lifts a single brow, and settles back into his seat, arms crossed over his barrel chest as his eyes travel from your feet to your exposed cleavage, fixating on the soft skin peeking out from your uniform top.

"Please?" his hushed voice reverberates inside your skull. "I promise to be a good girl."

That catches his attention, eyes flashing to yours, the fire behind them hot— you hope it burns you.

"'Sat, right? Tha' changes things now, doesn't it?" Ghost rolls his chair back, away from his desk, and spreads his thick legs apart in invitation, arms resting on the rests— the dictionary definition of casual. "Convince me then, pet."

"Yes, sir." Sauntering to stand in between his legs, you swallow thickly— the bulge in his groin was quite frankly, intimidating. You've had large, but this was in a league of its own.

"You gonna do it from up there? I know I'm bigger than average but not tha' big." A huff escapes from your lips. A whole comedian.

Knees pressed into the cold, tile floor, you expertly undo the button of his trousers and with his help, pulled them down along with his pants— just enough for his cock to spring free.

Bloody fucking hell.

His cock is monstrous. It rested against his belly, heavy and thick. The pink tip slightly peeking from under his foreskin. There was a groomed thatch of coarse hair at the base, and his balls were also heavy— one hanging lower than the other.

Ghost leans forward and cradles the underside of your jaw with one large hand, fingers gently caressing the delicate skin of your cheek, while the other pumps his rigid cock in anticipation. "Not scared, are ya?" His grin was wicked. "I promise it don't bite."

Grabbing his wrist, you maneuver his hand so that his thumb now rests on your soft lips. "Might not, but I do, Professor." And catch the tip of his finger between your blunt teeth, the subtle sting of it making him hiss.

"Perfect, pretty girl," he says, almost inaudible. His words of praise are for you alone— not for the scene, nor the camera. You peer up at him through your lashes, mewling softly at the expression on his face.

His brow was set, hooded eyes sultry, a rosy hue across his cheeks and nose, and lips parted as he panted quietly.

Delicious.

Ghost then pushes his thumb further into your slick mouth and hooks it behind your bottom teeth, delicately pulling you closer to him as he tips his head down— taking his thumb out with a pop. His warm breath fans across your face as he moves closer until his lips connect with yours. He slid his tongue into your mouth, tasting of frosty mint and his own unique taste.

Your hands come up, fingers digging into the meat of his thighs when he grasps your wrist and moves it to the focal point of his desire— his breath hitching when you give his cock a firm squeeze. Ghost bites your bottom lip before breaking away, a guttural noise escaping him when you begin to stroke him. "Tighten your hand around—" he breaks off, moaning against your kiss-swollen lips when you comply.

He threads his fingers through your hair that sits at the base of your skull, curling them into a fist and tugging back— craning your neck, hair pulled taut.

"So obedient. Jus' f'me, love?" you hum cheekily, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

"Would you hold it against me if I said no?" he chuckles under his breath, the grip on your hair tightening marginally.

"I'd say tha' you're lyin'." He sucks in a breath when you press down lightly onto his slit with your thumb. "Cheeky."

He loosens the hold he has on you, feeling your scalp prickle with tender relief, and relaxes back into the chair. "All yours, sweetheart."

That light wasn't getting any greener, so with a grunt, you shifted your weight, ignoring your aching knees, and wrapped your lips around his cock.

Barely.

The salty bite of his arousal and musk spread on your tongue as you took him in deep, stilling once he hit the back of your throat.

"Fuck, look at me."

Slightly tipping your head back, you do as he says, your throat closing around him as he slips in even further.

"Fuckfuckfuck," a hiss, "such a hot little mouth, just swallowin' me righ' up." Your lungs burn with the lack of oxygen, forcing you to pull back to gasp for air. Ghost squeezes himself at the base and taps your cheek with his saliva-coated length.

"A dirty slag like you, jus' takin' me like a professional. Tha' what you are? A professional cock sucker, love?" he taunts. Your pussy clenches when he calls you a slag, pressing your thighs together in the hope of some friction; Something to alleviate the throbbing ache in between your legs.

Ghost with eyes as keen as ever, notices. Damn.

"Oh? Little harlot likes to get degraded, does she? Reminded of her place? How I'd love to teach you exactly where you belong, but tha' wouldn't be you convincin' me to change your bad grade, now would it?"

His cock taps on your swollen lips. "Another time, hm? Now open. Make me see reason."

Ghost's wish is your command. With enthusiasm, you take him in your mouth, slowly bobbing your head, place a hand right under your lips, and twist with every push and pull.

It's sloppy, spit covering your hand, dripping down to his balls. Your jaw aches, a burning pressure a little under your ear, but what gives you the strength to continue is the loud moans coming from Ghost. He holds nothing back, his hand engulfing the crown of your head while he gently pushes you down. A performer down to his very bones.

You were about to pause the recording, the pain in your mandible and knees almost becoming too much when he suddenly pulled you off of him.

"Wha—?" Ghost seizes you by the upper arms, forcibly bringing you to your feet, disregarding your pained whimper, and places you on the sturdy desk.

He's curling his fingers into the waistband of your frilly knickers, slipping them down your legs and pocketing them. There's a quiet popping sound when he bends his knees, going eye level with your bare cunt.

In a hushed tone, you say, "This isn't part of the scene." Ghost drags his eyes from your glistening slit to your face, gaze suffocating, smothering the very air in your lungs.

"Just a taste, love." He curls one hand under your thigh, lifting it to perch it on the edge of the desk, the other he throws over his strong shoulder. The only sound in the room is your soft moans as he expertly slides his warm tongue through your slick folds, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

By god does he eat pussy like it's his job. Peering down at him, you can't stop the sounds that spill from your mouth when his tongue visibly splits your pussy lips open, flicking at your clit, lapping up your arousal like it is honey. You take hold of his short hair, tugging at the strands as each swirl of his talented tongue pushes you closer to your peak.

His eyes cut to yours when he presses a thick finger into you, drinking in your desperate expression as you keen, begging for more, blabbering about it being so good, yet not enough, please god more.

Ghost curls his finger, only taking a second to find your sweet spot, and pushes— bursts of light flashing in your peripheral vision. You begin to rock your hips unconsciously, chasing your ecstasy, and Ghost simply flattens his tongue, letting you grind against it.

You teeter on the edge of bliss, a tightening in your stomach, right under where his finger is. Shaky exhales leave you, the leg that's on the desk visibly trembling from the tension that threatens to snap you in half.

He presses a kiss to your sodden pussy, and croons, "Gonna come f'me?" You jerkily nod.

"Yes fuck yes, I'm gonna come for you, just for you, Professor Riley pleaseee—" your blathering turns into a high-pitched squeal as he lightly sucks on your pearl, hips lifting off the desk as a blinding orgasm crashes into you, pleasure bursting through your very core, cunt pulsating with every wave of ecstasy around Ghost's finger.

He wastes no time in rising to his feet and slotting his mouth over yours, the taste of your slick strong, potent on his tongue. Ghost breaks away, his breath smelling of your desire. "Exquisite, like ambrosia. Addicting."

Ghost's hand cups your sensitive quim and whispers, "Think you can take me? Tha' orgasm took a lot outta ya."

Silly question. "I'm a big girl, Ghost. I can take it."

He licks the front of his teeth and glances down to where his hand rests. "Course you can, love. Turn around f'me."

Your movements are sluggish as you turn over onto your stomach, rising to the tip of your toes as you present yourself to him.

Ghost grabs the sides of your waist, and flips your skirt up, tucking the edge into the waistband of it. His hands palm your cheeks, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass to spread you open, completely exposed to him.

"Fuck me if tha' isn't the prettiest sight I've ever had the pleasure of seein'." He doesn't acknowledge your scoff as he spreads your hands out, placing them flat on the table— enveloping your hand with his own, intertwining his fingers with yours.

His leans over your semi-prone body, cock gently prodding at your entrance, gliding easily through your folds. "Ready?"

Arching your back, his tip slips inside, just barely. That's your answer.

You can hear the smarmy grin that spreads on his face, and wanted to snark back but you're rendered mute when he pushes in. Your eyes cross at the stretch of his cock, a feeling so sublime you know that no one will ever be able to duplicate. Your fingers tighten around his as you mewl when he bottoms out, hips flush against your arse.

Ghost sucks in a breath through his teeth when you shift your weight, and whatever you did has him sliding in deeper— turning his hiss into a guttural groan. "Fuck, you have no fuckin' idea how good you feel."

Probably not, but you have every idea how good he feels.

"You okay, love? Took me so well like you were made jus' f'me. So warm and soft, tight like a vice around my cock. Pretty pussy split wide open, stuffed full of me." He speaks unfettered filth to you, dripping over your ears like molasses, thick and syrupy. Your head feels heavy on your shoulders— dizzy, drunk on his scent, his cock that's got you tearing at the seams.

Then he begins to move, pulling out until an inch remains inside, and pushing in until he's nudging the plug of your womb, feeling a deep pinch under your navel.

This is what it's like to get fucked by Ghost. The one everyone covets after, hoping he drags down the very heavens with his bare hands and lays it at their feet. And here he is, fucking you. A newbie, a fresh face no one knows yet, a name that'll probably never grace the front page.

You doubt his motives are altruistic, but goddamn does it not matter; Not with the way he's carving a space inside of you that only he will ever fit in, or the way he's curling his free hand around your neck, thumb pressed right over your racing pulse.

He lowers himself until his strong chest is to your back, his teeth nipping the tip of your ear. "The moment I saw you gettin' fucked by Johnny, I knew I had t'have ya." Your walls clamp down on him involuntarily, wrenching a pained noise from him. "Fuckin' hell, I knew this pussy would be magical."

Ghost's lips skim over the shell of your ear before pressing a chaste kiss on it. "Lemme hear how good I make ya feel, pet. Don't hold back on me now." He grinds into your arse, going in so deep that it feels like he's trying to push past the entrance of your womb. "S'alrigh'. I'll jus' have t'pull 'em outta ya."

He releases you, placing both hands flat on the desk, on either side of your shoulders. "Take em for myself, make 'em mine." Straightening all the way, he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of your waist.

"What a view. Perfection." He rolls his hips, rhythm languid, loud squelching noises coming from where he fills you. "Drippin' cream all over my cock, pet. Can't tell me this isn't 'cause of me."

How the fuck can he still talk? How is he coherent? Why isn't his brain turned into mush like yours is?

"Fuckin' ya speechless, am I? Oh, sweetheart, but I'm barely gettin' started." Ghost slowly pulls out, and curls his hand around your shoulder, nudging you to turn over. "On your back, now."

You lazily flip over, hair sticking to your sweat-slick skin, and he hooks his arms underneath your legs and drags you to the edge until your arse hangs from it. "I wanna see that pretty face when you come." He wastes no time in sheathing himself back inside your swollen channel, walls fluttering at the invasion.

Ghost hooks one leg over his shoulder to lean forward, pinning you to the desk with his upper body, and maneuvers your other to wrap around his wide waist. "That cock drunk look on your face makes my balls tighten, what a fuckin' expression you've got, christ," he growls. "Knowin' I put it there makes it all the better."

He gives you a chaste kiss on the lips and gives you a smile that is all teeth. "Now let's make you sing."

Grunting, he straightens. plants his feet firmly, stance wide, and begins to fuck you. The videos of the famed Ghost you saw are nothing, nothing, in comparison to real life. His full weight is behind every spine-jarring thrust, it makes your teeth clack, it rattles your brain inside your skull. He does it so perfectly because at no point do you feel any discomfort, not even a twinge. It's all a pleasure that blazes, an all-encompassing heat that threatens to swallow you whole, burn you from the inside out.

His cock punches the breath out of your lungs, wails clawing out of your throat, and it's so good, so fucking good— god, maybe he is god, you don't know, everything is so blurry, hazy—

All senses focus on the sudden touch between your legs, an expert thumb drawing tight circles on your slippery clit and there's no way you're going to survive this—

"There she is, the girl I saw in the video. Tha's an expression I see in myfuckin' sleep. Give me what's mine, pet. Let me feel you, cream all over my cock."

He's relentless in his pursuit of your climax, a wave of pleasure so intense, it just might drag you out to sea, drowning you.

Ghost, the fucking god of sex, stops his ministrations to spit on your pussy. Spit. From his full height, a glob of warm saliva drops to your mons, and he smears it with his fingers over your pussy lips before rubbing your clit. His thrusts slow in pace, turning into a firm snap of his hips, making sure you feel every ridge of his cock, and in less than a minute, your spine arches off the desk.

Your mouth opens into a silent scream, lids snapping shut as you break underneath him, warmth gushing from where he's continuously sinking into you, a steady, slow rhythm that never ends.

"Came all over me, didn't ya? Bet you didn't know you could even do tha'."

You didn't.

"Jus' for tha', I'm gonna give you somethin' in return, yeah? A little reward for bein' so good," he praises.

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, swollen and thick, and unconsciousness creeps at the very edges of your mind.

All you can do is lie there and take it, his sloppy thrusts, his harsh panting until he moans, "'m close, so fuckin' close," and with whatever remnants of strength you have left, you use to squeeze him tightly— unwilling to let go because his come is yours now, you've earned it.

"Come in me, Ghost," you whimper.

That does it. He slams his hands on either side of your head and borderline roars out his release, cock twitching inside of your used cunt, filling you with his spend.

Cut.

Ghost's breathing is labored, a harsh pant that fans over your overheated skin, damp with sweat.

His brows are furrowed, his eyes squeezed shut, gulping in air and shivering in the aftershock of his climax.

To be fucked by Ghost is to see the Garden of Eden behind your eyelids.

Now you understand. You understand why he has no equal. He is unparalleled.

Jesus Christ, you're fucked. So, so fucked.

He slowly opens his eyes and peers down at you with a wolfish grin.

"Perfection."

--

A week later, your video with Ghost is the most viewed on the entire website. Not one other video even scratches the bottom of where your video sits.

Ghost truly is the king.

Curiously enough, your friend is the one who lets you know that Mr. life-altering cock himself never kisses during work. Not once in any video of his has he ever kissed, apart from a short pressing of lips to skin.

Your heart traitorously flutters at the thought of it meaning something more. Catching feelings when you get fucked for a living is not the move. But there's no stopping it from misbehaving, especially when you receive another script, to make another video with Ghost.

Another. one.

Fuck. Fuck!!

You cannot wait.

@mishaglass

[elexaria]

dating simon riley wasn’t always easy. “i’m a bloody nutcase, eh?” he’d joke when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, taking deep breaths as his calloused thumb rasps against the soft cotton bedsheets, grounding him back to reality. “puts all my efforts to shame when i wake up like this. fuck’s sake.”

therapy is mandatory, especially given his role as lieutenant. the traumas of childhood, the torture. he thinks he’s good at dealing with his problems, thinks therapy is a waste of time. “what, it’s just a bloke sat there starin’ at me? hell, get me a piece of paper with some made up degree on it and even i could be a therapist.” he grumbles after you point out that, in fact, he’s not as good as coping with his trauma as he thinks he is.

“you need to actually give this a go, si. it’s..” you pause, biting the inside of your lip as you make breakfast. his hair is disheveled, wry strands of grey sticking up against the grain. his dark circles only exemplify just how tired he is, especially when he has his night terrors. you shake your head, sighing as you crack another egg into the frying pan. “how can i expect you to stay safe out there when you’re barely able to look after yourself when you’re home?” you sigh out as he grunts, taking a seat at the small dining table, his eyes skimming through the morning paper.

god, he’s such a stubborn bastard. it takes months to get him to at least consider finding a new therapist, to get him to actually care about his mental health. christ, if he can’t do it for himself, can’t he at least try for your sake?

and then, it’s like he has a lightbulb moment. you come home after a long day at work, only to find him sat at the dining table, writing scruffy notes in a ring bound notebook. “mission notes?” you ask curiously, keeping your eye on him as you make yourself a cup of tea. he grunts, shaking his head as he continues to write.

“it’s a diary. supposed to help with your mental health or summet.” he replies, settling his pen down to meet your gaze. you must have had a look of confusion on your face, and it makes the corners of his lips twitch up into a half-smile. “yeah, i know. a bloke like me with a diary, like i’m a bloody teenage girl.” he quips, now grinning as his fingers toy with the corners of the notebook. “writin’ about all the boys i fancy on the field.” he shoots a wink, before continuing to write some more in his notebook.

it’s actually surprising, a smile on your lips as you watch him in his own little world, actually making an effort in his mental health recovery. you come over, settling a warm cup of tea by him before pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of his head, still smiling as you make your way upstairs to give him some privacy. he comes upstairs after half an hour, chucking the diary into his bedside table drawer before sprawling out onto the bed obnoxiously with a deafening groan. you whine and complain when he purposely stretches on you, gently crushing you with his bolder-esque shoulders with a massive grin on his face.

there were still bad days, though. days where he’d hide himself in the garage to work on some of his projects. but you’re both trying, he feels his heart break when you gently knock on the door, holding a plate of snacks and a cup of tea for him, and fuck, it makes his bad day slightly better.

that evening, he curls up besides you silently on the couch, his journal and pen in hand as he clears his throat. you curiously peer down as he begins to flick through the pages of chicken scratch, gently tapping the page as he looks up at you. he clears his throat, and begins to read out the sweetest paragraph, one that makes your eyes well up with tears.

“no idea where i would be without you, love. you make the darkest days of my life brighter than ever. you make life worth it.” he ends his speech , the timbre of his voice cracking with emotion as he looks at you. and right there, you know that through all the trials and tribulations you two will go through, you’re the love of simon riley’s life and he would never let you forget that.

[dabisbratz]

𝒮𝒲𝐸𝐸𝒯 𝒯𝒪𝒪𝒯𝐻 — shouta aizawa x male reader

w.c: 12.4k

warning: dbf!shouta, age gap, (sho in his early 40s, reader is 23), bottom!reader, daddy kink, breeding kink, dirty talk, feminization, mentions of gettin ‘knocked up’ regardless of anatomy, sneaking around, creampie, unprotected sex ( wear condoms ! ), praise/degradation, brat!reader, jealousy, mutual teasing, reader has an oral fixation, improper use of lollipops, mentions of exhibitionism, blowjobs, cumming untouched/hands free orgasm, ‘ taboo ’

sonny says..: not proof read, msorry !! did lotsa jumpin around while writin this. . . n five months later !! she’s all done !! ໒꒰ྀི⸝⸝T ˘ T⸝⸝꒱ྀི১ ♡ m’a lil rusty, forgive me !!

You’re back home for the summer.

Well— not entirely. You’re back at your family’s summer house for the season. Gifted from your grandparents, it teeters at the beginning of a beach, crystal sands and clear, blue waters that stretch out into the horizon. You’ve been looking forward to it since you’d graduated, even if it did come with a set of overbearing parents and a sinful amount of sunscreen.

The air is hot and thick, sticking uncomfortably to your skin through the windshield as you watch an everlasting stretch of greenery and trees pass you by. The road has stretched on for miles, every upcoming exit and street sign blending into one as each hour passes by. You’ve got the company of staticky radio stations and news outlets, spewing something nonsensical about sports, politics, car insurance. . . But it’s the trip you enjoy more than the destination. Traffic and all, you prefer it over the muggy air and parental scolding. Though, the beach is nice. . .

“You’re sure you’re taking the right route?” It’s your mother speaking, her voice crackling through the speakers of your car. You’re sure she’d smack you upside the head for the aggressive roll of your eyes in her. . . general direction, but she’s not exactly within eye-contact distance. Not for another five minutes, anyway.

“I’ve been doing this for years,” You have— it’s true. Though you’re only twenty-two, you’d driven this distance since you’d left for college. There’s a sound akin to the sucking of teeth through the radio, and you have half the mind to turn around and restart your road-trip all over again.

“Why’s there so much attitude in your voice?” Her cheerful, smiley voice suddenly sounds much more shrill, to your chagrin. You thrum your fingers along the leather of the steering wheel, biting back a long, drawn out groan.

“There isn’t any,” Gravel crackles under the weight of your rubber-tire car, snapping and popping into the air as it makes a smooth halt into the driveway. Shifting gears to park, the radio switches off with the twist of your keys. And, perhaps with more force than necessary, you’re slamming the door to your car and face to face with your mother. Her phone is still in hand, eyebrows pinched at the thought of her very own son hanging up on her. “. . . attitude, Ma.”

She hugs you with a squeal, ushering you up the stairs to your childhood ‘home.’ It’s almost exactly like you’d left it— save for a few recent porch decorations and repainted walls. You hope the years have been kind to it, with the irregular weather and constant pipe problems. Floorboards creak under your weight, welcoming you home after a few long years of studies. There’s an everlasting stream of bubbly speech behind you, your mom speaking, but there’s already so much to take in.

The air is fresh and salty, hints of beachy winds flowing upstream through the doorway. It smells like home, and looks like it too, as you situate your small duffel bag by the stairs that lead to the bedrooms. Your room. You hadn’t packed much— there was still a dresser overflowing with old clothes in your bedroom, after all. And now that you think about it, you should probably change into something more fitting for the weather.

“I know you just got here,” The sound of ice swirling against glass catches your attention, and you turn to face your mother. “But could you bring these out to your father?” She’s holding a tray of decorative glasses— or at least, you’d always thought they were— full of oblong ice and freshly squeezed lemonade. The glasses are stocky enough to adorn lollipops— one each, which are probably sickeningly sour. Topped with tiny, colorful umbrellas and intricate swirling straws. It’s almost like she’s trying to impress someone, with the way she’s put so much effort into the drink’s presentation.

Your lips curl to form a playful ‘no’, a boyish smile pulling at your cheeks when she huffs— as if she already knows what you’re about to do. So you shake your head instead, stealing the tray with one hand, “Let me change first.”

In hindsight, wearing clothes about. . four years too small wasn’t a great idea. The shorts that once fit you perfectly— before your growth spurt— are now much too short, like they’ve been tossed around in the laundry one too many times. You feel almost naked, moving the pink hem down with the shake of your legs.

Your mother insists they look just fine, a dramatic downturn to her lips as she rambles on and on about how fast her boy has grown up. Still, as you walk through the sliding glass doors parallel to the open patio, the sunlight bathing your legs does nothing but make you feel stuck under a rapidly growing spotlight.

It all clicks as you walk outside— the detailed drinks, the smell of barbecue and fresh coal. There is someone she’s trying to impress, someone other than your father. Maybe both of them. On a good day.

Wiping the bead of sweat from your brow, your eyes squint at the man in front of you. Around your dad’s age— maybe slightly younger, he stands at a whopping six foot something. There’s age in his face, and worry between his brows as if he’d spent most of his youth grimacing. His hair is long and black like charcoal, save for a few streaks of gray and a salt and pepper ensemble of stubble littering his chin and jaw. Two scars— forming a cross of sorts, one beneath his right eye, horizontal and thin. But the other is much longer, starting below his brow and ending at his cheekbone. It draws your eyes to a milky gray iris— heavily contrasting against the natural black-brown of his left one. It’s pretty, cloudy and almost pearlescent.

His silhouette— tall and thick, with broad shoulders that travel on and on as he crosses thick biceps over his thick chest. He’s standing in the way of the sun, and yet, it peeks through his long hair in small, short leaks. And, surprisingly, his waist is small in his black tank top. If you feel hot he must be scorching, draped in black— down to the beaded bracelet adorning his wrist. His hands— they’re big, maybe enough to cover the entirety of your face, curled into loose fists at his biceps.

And— right, you’re here to help, not gawk. But you can’t help it, shifting your weight from one leg to another as his intimidating gaze slowly sweeps you over. He’s like sex on legs, and if you can squint enough to get the sun out your eyes, you swear you can see the imprint of his cock through his black shorts.

“Uh,” You blink dumbly after introducing yourself, and suddenly the tray you’re holding is weightless. “Ma made these. I’m supposed to help. . . or something. . .”

“Or something.” The man echoes, but it’s quiet and you barely catch it. His voice is deep, way deeper than your own, rumbling in your ears and smooth like butter. Almost husky, with a dark edge to it as flames roar in his face. But it makes your father laugh, hearty and jubilant as he bounces over to where you stand. He gives you a small pat on the back as a greeting, ushering out a small, “son.”

The heat emitting off the grill is enough to make a grown man cry, but neither of you wince when you walk by it. Cold glasses of lemonade are handed out, fingers imprinted on cold condensation painting the surfaces of each glass as they’re passed around— one for you, one for your dad, another for him. You watch rivulets of water drip from his fingertips, down his wrist, past the collection of veins adorning his forearm.

“Mr. Aizawa,” There’s a beat of silence, but it’s quickly filled once you’ve been introduced. “World’s cruelest teacher.”

“Shouta Aizawa.” Is all he says, a correction of sorts, voice grumbly as his fingertips brush against your knuckles. Your eyes flicker down to where he’d touched you, his skin warm and inviting despite the roughness of his palms. You see now, that he’s accompanying your father, occasionally taking over when he walks back into the house every. . . five minutes or so.

“An old friend of mine, we go way back.” Your parents have an odd habit of rambling, it seems, because you and the handsome stranger make exasperated eye contact as your dad begins to reminisce on old memories. “You met him a few times— remember? He’ll be staying with us, so be respectful, you hear me?” His gaze seems to dip for a moment, down your lips and straight to the extra exposed skin of your thighs, then settle back to the ocean before you can comment.

But those five minutes must start now, because after a firm squeeze to your shoulder your father heads inside, leaving you alone with his. . . friend. He’s awfully quiet, busying himself as the patio door slides shut— occasionally sighing as he wipes away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s obvious you’re staring, maybe a bit too hard, but he’s the best scene around, really. Even with the beach right behind him.

And maybe it’s wrong to think this way— but he’s hot. Old enough to be your dad and then some, sure, but it doesn’t make him any less attractive. He almost makes you nervous, the slow blink of his eyes as he pays you no mind.

“So you’re staying with us, huh?” You eye the juicy meat he’s been flipping for the last five minutes, golden brown and sizzling in the heat. It’s rather thick, soon to be lazily flattened by the tongs he's holding and— you can’t help but wonder. . . Is he good with his hands?

“Don’t make a habit of asking strange old men questions like that.” It’s not entirely clear if he’s serious or not, but he’s certainly assertive. Like a firm, guiding hand placed at the nape of your neck. Your eyebrows pinch in confusion, but before you can ask what he means, it clicks. You’d said it out loud, let it float into the air like an everyday, casual question. But Aizawa doesn’t seem exactly bothered, more passive (if anything), as he takes a swig of the fruity, sour concoction.

“You’re not strange.” Is what you conclude, slamming the tray down hard enough to rattle its contents, and the man notes your lack of regard. Even with a slight spill you don’t bother to clean, you’re already turning to walk off the patio and dig your toes into the hot sand before it can be mentioned— but not without plucking a lemon coated lollipop free from its icy enclosure of glass. There’s an arrangement of seashells hidden beneath the coarse mounds of the glimmering seaside. Different sizes and colors, different textures and shapes. Where some would scrape the soles of your feet, others would glide across them. But as a kid you’d liked the search for tiny crabs much more than the search for shells. Though you’re much older now, you’re not afraid to say you miss it.

“But I’m old?” Aizawa says, not too far behind you from where he stands. There’s a light glint of dry humor in his voice that sends butterflies down your throat and straight into your stomach.

“Yeah. Old enough.” Your small laughter is sweet, dancing in the air in a way that has Shouta nearly pressing his palm flat into the skillet— just to check if his heart is still beating. What do you mean by that, anyway?

There’s a divot where the tightness of your shorts dip into your skin, pressing against the plush skin of your ass whenever you bend over. Even as you’re upright, Shouta can’t stand to look for too long— you’re a real, proper, honest and genuine distraction. Yet here he is, watching you move around on your hands and knees, ass taut and round— shorts tight enough to show off the cute bulge of your balls from behind. And now that he’s really looking, it’s obvious you’re not wearing anything underneath.

He shakes his head, grunting to himself as he peels processed cheese free from its plastic packaging. You just met, that’s not right, you’re simply just minding your own.

“Ugh!” You share a groan, and for completely different reasons. Aizawa can’t help but watch you scramble in the sand, presumably after whatever sea-creature that had the pleasure to pinch you right on the finger. But you seem happy once it’s retrieved, stuck in the seclusion of its tiny shell as you hold it in your palm. From what he can see, you’re not much of a brat at all. Maybe your parents are just too hard on you. He’s always known them to be dramatics.

Still, he has half the mind to drag you over by your ankle, or maybe to press your handsome face into the sand while he fucks you from behind. Ever since you’d brought out that damned lemonade— tugging on the hem of the fabric as if you’d suddenly grown conscious of just how short they were— he’d been hard. And now he has to listen to you grunt and groan over the smallest of injuries. . . His best friend’s son, his presumed pride and joy.

He’s fucked.

From where he stands, slightly elevated, he can see the bulge of the sweet protruding from your cheeks, stuck afore your teeth. Cute, as it swishes from side to side, stuck in your mouth as your occupied fingers caress the diaphanous shell in the palm of your hand. Your lips move, puckered, around the sucker, curled and glossy with molten sugar— it’s hard to make out exactly what words your mouth forms, yet Shouta doesn’t think he’d be able to listen anyway.

Turns out the creature was a hermit crab.

Shouta learns this at dinner, the day’s hard work shared on plastic platters and glass

bottles in the middle of the beach. There’s a roaring flame between the four of you, it casts golden embers along your skin every so often, crackling into the air. Cicadas chirp with the night’s welcome, loud and joyful in retaliation to the silent, serene fireflies and settling ocean.

You’re all sipping on beers, some more than others, but it’s enough to loosen everyone up. Even Shouta, whose eyes look lidded with sleep the more he drinks. He’s not incoherent, he never is. If anything he’s observant. For one, you have an awful habit of holding onto this evening’s lollipop, it seems, as you have it situated between your fingers like a cigarette. Sometimes your grip around it tightens, like when your mother wraps her hand around his bicep, squeezing the flesh in small, sporadic rounds. And though neither of you want to say it, let alone think it— you’re jealous. That’s the second thing.

Even with Shouta’s knee brushing against your own, you can’t help it. He’s so warm, muscly legs pressed against your own in a manner that’s almost electrifying. You want it all to yourself, to suffocate in his heat and capable hands.

You zone out of the conversation, blinking at the fire with reserved eyes until a thick screwer pokes at the flesh of your shoulder, leaving behind a tiny dimple. Jet black hair invades your vision for a moment, smelling of faint seasalt and warm cologne, until you turn, “What?”

“You want chocolate on your marshmallow, right?” Your mother asks for him, squeezing a transparent bag of thick, soft marshmallows. It’s tossed to you in a flash, to which you catch, but not before stealing a glance at the man beside you. His jaw sets, poking out from the mass of stubble. Like she’d stolen a precious moment away.

“Right,” You mumble, stabbing the skewer through the excessive amount of sugar. The stick hovers above the fire, the sweet melting to a crisp, flaky brown. Sticky and gooey, it slowly begins to lose its form. Through all the conversation you can’t help but glance at the older man to your left, taking in the glow of yellow and orange caressing his tan skin. His silhouette is bold and broad, legs spread wide as he sits on a thick log. What was once brown turns a deep, dark charcoal. “Oh, shit! Fuck. I meant shoot, sorry.”

You’re not supposed to swear in front of your parents— Aizawa’s paternal intuition picks that up. But shoving the marshmallow into your mouth, even as it has yet to cool down, he doesn’t quite get. Either way, your expression. . . it’s sickeningly cute. It’s cute to watch you fumble. With lips pursed into a tight line, cheeks bitten and eyebrows pinched with apology despite how obviously uncomfortable you are with the piping, burnt sugar spreading along your tongue.

His heart could almost burst.

“You’re fine, kid.” Shouta’s voice is a gentle whisper, airy like the waves brushing against the shore. With his eyes caught on the sticky white lingering on your cheek, he's desperately aware you’re not a kid. The way you move and speak, the way you carry yourself. The way you suck on lollipops like they’re something else. He’s never been one for dirty jokes or subtle innuendos but. . . yeah, this is doing something to him. His fingers twitch with want, the desire to wipe it away and rub his thumb along your lips. He should really get it together.

And maybe the fact that he’s more worried about your parents being in the way than the fact that they’re your parents proves that.

But they’re pretty preoccupied, lost in conversation neither of you are exactly interested in. Whirling his own marshmallow, chocolate melts down its fluffy outside. It’s steaming, hot and fluffy after twirling around the fire. Looking at it now, it looks comically small in his large hands, much bigger than your own. His lips part, cool air leaving the ‘o’ shaped mold of his mouth as he blows on it with a low, “Here.”

There they go again, mouth open as your pink tongue covers your row of bottom teeth, Shouta doesn’t let go of the skewer despite the light squeezes you press along his knuckles. Instead he holds on tighter, lifting and reaching until the desert melts in your mouth and sticks to your lips. Messy on purpose, your heart plummets into your tummy when dark eyes watch marshmallow fluff pull away from between your teeth. Hungry, starving.

“I can do it myself.” You mumble, wondering if the heat prickling your skin is from the brush of his fingers against your own or the wilting fire.

“Can you?” His expression is tired and flat, but his voice tilts with blooming amusement. It’s odd, the way you’re so quick to shut him down. You almost respond more openly when you hear sneaky comments or listen to gossip— ‘that boy just doesn’t know what to stop,’ ‘why’s he such a smartass?’ — spoken about you directly by you.

“Yeah,” There’s a shine in your eye that isn’t just a product of the glowing fire. Mischievous, almost. “I don’t break that easily.”

Shouta could definitely take your dad in a fight. It’s the first thing that pops into mind as the two of you stand in the dark, dimly lit kitchen. Your parents had gone off to bed almost an hour ago, and with the clock approaching half past midnight, it leaves you two alone. So, yes, he’s considering who would win in a brawl because he can’t stop staring at his best friend’s son and his pretty, kissable lips.

They’re sheen with spit, your pink tongue licking them over as you scrub away yesterday’s dirt from the kitchen counter. It’s a noncommittal motion, your arms wiping suds and heavy contents of water along the granite surface. Yet you seem absolutely dead-set on getting that one stain. The stain that has your ass brushing against his side, bare skin rippling the harder, lazier, you scrub. Not that there’s even a stain to clean.

Yep. He’s fucked.

You suppose he should be focusing on the dishes— not that there’s much of those either— but his attention strays.

It carries him through the motion of leaning over, his body practically draping your own as you bend at the waist. Black hair again, wisps of it, lightly pressed against your back as he leans down, lips by the shell of your ear and an arm trapping you in. His cock is pressed right against the swell of your ass, and he may have to consider slipping it between his waistband.

“I think you got it.”

“Oh, really?” Your hips are moving again, side to side as you scrub shapes into nothing. “Double check for me?”

A low groan sounds behind you, big hands at your thighs that squeeze enough to have the plush skin bruised and tender in the morning. His hand travels, snaking up your thighs to meet the silky skin of your ass. Spread nicely with the way you’re bent over, warmth radiating off each globe as his thick pointer finger loops around the thin layer of pink cotton pressing against your balls.

It’d be so easy, perfect access to slip his thick cock into the warm, tight walls of your hole and pound you against the counter. You could sit on his dick for the whole day, drooling and dumb the more the head kisses your prostate again and again and again. Your Daddy could fuck you on your dad’s favorite sofa, make it squeal and whine under the weight of him filling your fucked-out and used cunt over and over.

Dark pupils blow wide as he pulls the fabric away, watching your hole flutter around nothing. He coos, sweet and deep. Just give him a minute, he’ll give you everything you need. Everything and more, until you’re a braindead fucktoy with glassy eyes and sticky, dripping holes. Until—

You’ve slipped past his arm, twisting as your growling stomach makes itself known. You inhale a quivering breath through your nose, eyes wide and expecting and waiting. His best friend’s son, wriggling and writhing under his palms, handsome face twisting as pearly teeth bite at your stout bottom lip.

He’s almost frustrated with himself, voice flat and distant when you puff out your cheeks. Forget a distraction— you’re a real, honest brat. “You’re still hungry.”

“I’m a growing man, Sho.” It’s almost consequential how your voice cracks, breathy and teetering the edge of a whine as he releases his grip on your body. Light from the fridge illuminates your silhouette in a yellow, halo-adjacent glow, and once again Shouta is staring a little too hard at his best friend’s son as he bends forward at the waist.

Aizawa weighs the juxtaposition between the middle of that sentence for a moment before his breath catches in your throat. Sho. You’d called him by a nickname, ten times sweeter than the candied fruit (grapes, are they?) you’re now sinking your teeth into. You’ve grown alright, and the proof stands hard, throbbing, and pressing against your shorts once you’ve returned to face him. It’s obvious your ploy with the fruit was just something to keep your mind off cumming in your cute, soft shorts— but he’d honestly have preferred to see that.

“I can see that.”

Rough palms press into your jaw— firm, but not aggressive, until fingers close and clasp at your cheeks. A dissolving layer of baby fat at your cheeks spills between his stern fingers, and you blink as the older man turns your face from left to right, then reverse. Seems he’s got a nasty habit of looking you over, breaking you down— bare bones. You still have enough room to chew, teeth grinding on the crystallized sugar with a hard and resounding crunch.

There’s always something in your mouth.

Dark eyes flicker to the lump appearing and disappearing in your throat as you swallow, sweet sugar dotting your lips, “You’re hard.”

“Yeah,” It earns a dark chuckle, though there’s not much light humor in it, “So are you.” His lips curl as he releases his grip, slow and lingering.

“Usually,” your gaze drops to his lips. “When two men,” Then up to his deep, dark eyes as you press against him, chest to chest. His cock twitches against the heat of your body, you can imagine it now— thick and pretty, curved upward with a sticky head and throbbing, heavy veins. “Make eachother. . . hard, they—”

A door slams upstairs, the air going still as your breath catches in your throat. As if that single disturbance has stolen all the oxygen in the world, your body goes rigid and stiff, and the sound of tired steps make their way descending down wooden stairs. The candied grapes are swapped for thick fingers, with light peppers of hair at the knuckles, and you can’t help but suck the seasalt right off.

“Behave.” He takes a single step back, dripping with indubitable authority that makes you feel light and airy. Ready to bend at his will with lazy eyelids and hazy eyes. It’s not a question, not a suggestion— it’s a demand.

“You’re still up,” Your father, shameless as he walks by the two of you with barely any coverings, makes a sleepy gesture in your general direction as he opens the fridge. “Both of you, huh?” He sounds faintly out of breath, and his skin sheen. The mental implications make you cringe, taking a step toward the characteristically nonchalant man who’d just stepped away from you.

Shouta’s eyes narrow.

“Don’t tell me I’m being replaced!” He’s always been a loud man, your father, but it seems tonight his one-too-many beers have finally caught up to him. It’s just a joke, the both of you know it, but you can’t help the prickle of heat poking at your throat. You’re pulled in by the back of your head, your father’s hand pressed against your hair as he holds you in a firm side-hug, “Rather Mr. Aizawa be your old man?”

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Your smile is wide and tantalizing, heavy and dripping with something that has yet to be named. “Are you a good Daddy, Mr. Aizawa?”

Then, his eye twitches, “When I want to be.”

Your laugh is instantaneous and loud, an awkward thing that stretches into deep silence. There’s a lot of things you’d like Mr. Aizawa to be— rough, gentle, sweet, and mean. But your dad? It’s laughable, and couldn’t be farther from the truth. And sure, maybe the title you'd like to use on him sounds similar, but they’re most definitely not the same. If only he knew.

“I’m sure you’re the best,” He watches you smile, opposite ends of your mouth pulling at your cheeks in a motion that doesn’t quite meet your eyes— but it’s convincing enough. “Better than your other friends, right Dad?”

Shouta is avoiding you.

You know it, you can tell! He’s always gone nowadays— a couple weeks into your vacation and you can only count a mere handful of the times you remember seeing him. You’ve barely talked, barely stole a few glances here and there— he may as well have disappeared. He’s out somewhere, somewhere that involves your father, and the ocean, and his generously sized deck-boat. You don’t want to say it, but you know you’re the reason why. You’ve gone a bit overboard, perhaps, with the flirting. Ever since that night— even before then, it’d become a natural habit of yours to call the man Daddy.

And, now, he’s grown even closer to your parents because of it. Whenever you come down for breakfast they’ve already finished, leaving your plate in the microwave— as if you’d want cold, limp eggs and soggy, get charred bacon. You want to scream, really. There’s your mother, who leaves lingering touches and bats her eyelashes like some sort of schoolgirl. You feel almost evil for the rage that sears your blood— even more so when your first thought is she’s pushing fifty.

Then there’s your father. Who is and always will be, not if you can help it, closer to Shouta than you ever will be. They drink together a lot, the guest more in moderation, but it still hurts to see them laugh about old times— over, and over, and over again. Even when you’re the topic of conversation, despite your presence being completely ignored, it hurts. You’re right here.

So you mope, lounging around in your swim trunks. Your skin sticks to every surface, humid and thick as your mother complains to you about getting some sun, stepping out the house, then something about how you need to fix the look on your face. She says the warm rays on your skin will do you some good, the salty water of the sea against your body will toughen up your bones and loosen your muscles. But there’s really only one thing on your mind.

It trickles into about an hour and a half when Mr. Aizawa finally comes back. Your father too, you suppose, with flushed cheeks that only sake can replicate. It’s once you’ve been pulled outside and forced to stand in wet, thick sand that washes away from your feet with every sweep of the shore— that they return. Once the sun has begun to set, yet still bright enough to have your brows furrowed and eyes narrowed, they return.

“There’s my boy!” No one’s boy, actually. Your father shouts with an intoxicated wave, and the grimace on Shouta’s face is hidden behind his whipping hair as he slows the boat to a stop.

Or at least, you think so. It’s hard to see with the sun in your eyes, yellow and orange flakes of the gold star percolating your vision.

It dances along the surface of the ocean, pretty and shimmering the closer you step, the further you go, until you’re submerged in water from your knees—down. There’s a shout, something akin to a ‘catch!’, and you have barely any time to react to the ball that’s flying to you with an oddly precise amount of speed and velocity. You gasp, whipping your head back to catch the ball between two sea-soaked hands.

“What the hell?!” Your hands sting, pretty eyes blinking back at the two silhouettes in your vicinity. Mainly at Aizawa, who hasn’t even acknowledged you, let alone looked away from the resplendent horizon. And what’s so good about that? Of all things to look at— you’re right here! You don’t leave with the setting sun, nor do you only ever arrive with the rising one. You’re a constant, and you know you don’t hurt to look at.

So you throw the ball back, all your force behind it with a smug look on your face until it smacks Shouta in the leg— right in the center of his calf with a horrifying thump of a sound.

“Fuck,” You shout in horror, despite it all. Despite the desire to maul him the last few weeks, rushing forward into the water with the cutest tremor to your brows. “Fuck, okay, shit, my bad!”

And it seems you can’t move fast enough to wade through the rippling waves, where schools of tiny, nipping fish and textured shells had twirled and danced about through the currents of pellucid water. But Shouta seems just fine, almost as if he’d forgotten how to react to the feeling of getting punted with a ball at full force. He picks it up, waves it in his large palm, and throws it back. You can hear it tear through the air, just as it smacks you in the shoulder with so much force you don’t register it at first.

Numbness spreads along your arm, eyes blinking up at the older man who laughs. It’s quiet yet hearty, and not at all a pretty sound. It’s more contagious if anything, a wheeze of sorts, but your lips still curl into a petty frown regardless. You can make out a huff of “Your face!” broken up with laughter, biting back on his tongue.

“I’m not laughing.” You grumble, rubbing at your shoulder with faux diligence.

There’s an eerie smile on his face, enough to send shivers down your spine as water drapes your face and drips down your body— boat engine revving with ferocity as the men float off into the boarding dock— Aizawa’s presence arrives just as fast as it leaves.

You’re left to your devices, gawking as you process the last few minutes— his smile, your brattiness and stupidity, the way you’d only just noticed his prosthetic leg— at the mention you can feel miscellaneous fish brush against your own, scales shining through the transparent waters. You can’t help but smile too, wiping it away with the back of your water-draped forearm. Fuck.

It’s only been a month and you’re smitten. He’d left you in favor of your father again, and all you can do is giggle about it.

There’s not much you know about the man— now that you think about it. There’s been a brief drunken mention of him having kids of his own, a little girl, you think. Maybe a son? Despite his affliction for quiet, Aizawa looks as though there’s more he wants to say. To share, to tell. Your father must know it all, seeing as they grew up together, and part of you can’t help but feel a bit jealous.

Hmph.

“What’re you sulking for?” His voice has broken you out of a daydream, turning your body to look him in the eyes. The man of the hour— Shouta. You almost hate how quick you are to melt under his gaze, squaring your shoulders with the stability of poorly glued popsicle sticks.“That ball bounce off your head, too?”

“I’m not sulking.” You watch him walk around the perimeter of the shore, slow and calculating, with his hands balled up in the fabric of his black t-shirt. He pulls it overhead, tummy contracting and biceps rippling— it still manages to catch you by surprise, how much muscle he’s hiding under his baggy clothes. Your brain sets off a symphony of ooh’s and ahh’s, unable to tear your gaze from the light rise and fall of his chest.

Your eyes trail back up, past the bend of his collarbones, up the display of stubble on his throat— he’s staring right at you.

“Uh — I wasn’t. . anyway. . What’re you looking at?”

His lips twitch, briefly pressed together before relaxing as he steps into the cold water. He’s slow, hair rippling just as smooth as the ocean, the further he moves forward. And, despite that, he slowly curls a finger to and fro, as if he’s talking to a small kitten. “C’mere.”

You’re frowning when you trudge forward, hesitance in your step. “Mr. Aizawa,” you grumble, still something of a cute little sound, using the prefix your father introduced him with. Something about it makes Shouta’s frame stiffen— the title, or maybe the pettiness behind it. It’s not like you call him that when you’re in a particularly good mood. “You didn’t seem to want me around earlier.”

“Quiet,” He tuts, clicking his tongue as if he knows the game you’re playing. But despite the curt, clean-cut execution of his tone, his thumb finds your cheek with the same gentleness as a spring breeze. “Your parents were always around earlier.”

Oh.

You play off your surprise well enough, swatting his hand away with a deep grunt. Sure, it feels good. His hands on your skin— such rough palms that cover your body — but you’re not desperate. Not entirely, not even when he fixes the twist of your face with a quick look to your furrowed brows. You settle for a sigh, grumbling, “They don’t have shit to do with me.”

“You’re, what, twenty-five—“

“Twenty three.” You interject, almost proud you can correct him. Rivulets of water trail down your arms, and his gaze seems to follow its motion.

“Twenty three,” He echoes with something of a breathless sigh tilting his voice. For a moment you think it’s the interruption— he’ll work on it later. Maybe he’s been struck by just how much younger you really are. “They have everything to do with you. You’re still their kid, I doubt they’d be enthusiastic about leaving you alone with an older man. A stranger, at that.”

“But they did,” You look around, as if to prove your point. Shouta’s never been one for dramatics, let alone those fueled by snappy attitudes and rolling eyes, but it looks cute on you. Maybe even cuter if it were accompanied by tears. “They left us alone. . . Half naked. . . At a beach. . . Alone..”

“I get it. We’re alone,” Shouta’s voice has always been so deep, rumbly and tired and smooth in your ears but even more so when he’s irritated. “Drop the attitude.” It’s different in a way. Leaves no room for argument, though you still feel the overwhelming need to stomp your foot and keep on pressing. You can’t help the shudder, nor the goosebumps crawling up your thighs. It’s just so fun to push his buttons, to watch his passive face twist for a split second as he processes your words.

It’s not exactly hard when he allows it. Shouta lets you push until your heart’s content, only reprimanding you with a glance or cleared throat— and it’s almost eerie. You can’t help but feel

like you should be anticipating something, even as you stand flush against his thick body in lukewarm ocean water and he looks at you with contentment.

Then it occurs to you. . . He’s letting it build up.

“And you’re not a stranger, Mr. Aizawa.” Obviously you’re softening the blows, so he watches you step forward, arms crossed over his thick, plush chest. You’re just so cute, brushing past his overwhelming seriousness with a smile— albeit sly. He can’t stay mad forever. It’s not fair, how cute you are, with lips stretched out and teeth on display, with the apples of your cheeks rising, and the cutest little twinkle in your eye. He wants to kiss you. . . He wants to kiss you so bad it’s starting to hurt.

Especially when you lean forward, sunlight bouncing off the ocean surface and across your body— painting you in pretty, golden slivers of glow. Across your face, your chest, your stomach, your thighs. It’s been a while since he’s felt his skin against your own. Since he’s run his large, calloused hands along your body.

“What happened to ‘Daddy’?” He asks, absentmindedly.

“What?” You break his trance, looking down at yourself with a hint of something Shouta can’t quite place. Uncertainty, perhaps? Vulnerability, maybe. It’s odd, you usually prance around so confidently. You wear the tiniest— tightest— clothes known to man, have the smartest mouth, egg him on day in and day out.

That’s not it. You look smug. You’re playing him for a damn fool.

“Nothing.” Aizawa sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. It’s wrong— it’s cliché, maybe even taboo. He wants to wipe that look off your face. He wants to kiss his best friend’s son stupid. The man he’d just shared parenting advice to, the man he’d spent years upon years of highschool, college, divorces, with. It’d been so innocent when he’d visit— maybe he should’ve never stopped. Maybe he shouldn’t have come back to see you in full bloom, so handsome and lithe and sweet.

“ ‘Nothing,’ ” You echo, snarky as you mimic the flat, detached tone of Shouta’s voice. If you weren’t sulking before you definitely are now, readying yourself to push past him like some spoiled brat who was just denied their favorite candy after being caught trying to steal it nonetheless. So He holds onto your bicep, squeezing the flesh as it flexes with your feeble attempt at struggling.

“Are you done yet? Or do you need a minute to calm down?” He shifts his weight, voice calm and level as he holds you still despite the straining. Not a single hair on him is out of place, his tranquility almost alarming.

“Let go, old man!” He has to ignore the rush of adrenaline the back and forth gives him— the way he has an incessant urge to squeeze your jaw just a bit tighter.

“Hey,” You watch his lips curl to coo, a tone somewhat akin to a parent shushing a fussy child. Your face is turned to face him directly, “How many times do I have to talk to you?” Then impossibly close as his warm breath pans over the expanse of your face, “What’d I say about the attitude?”

“I don’t care what you say about it.” Your face is squished against his palm as you go to squirm your way out of his hold, but with the way his head angles down toward your face— you can barely get the words to sound convincing. There’s a giggle in your voice, like you think his frustration is amusing.“You like it, don’t you? Forget strange, you’re dirty!”

He’s the only thing keeping you upright, eyes narrowed and lidded, “Stop fuckin’ playing with me, little boy.”

“Dad never lets me drive the boat,” Though the man can sense your whining from miles away, it still manages to catch him off guard. Shouta quirks a brow in questioning, hand hovering a polite foot away from your calf as you stand to walk along the wading boat floor. “Destroyed his last one when I was a kid,” (He doesn’t have to know you were actually nineteen when you did.) You speak in a tone that makes him think just maybe you consider it more your father’s fault than your own. “This one’s nicer anyway.”

“That’s wasteful.” Aizawa bites the inside of his cheek, brows furrowed into a familiar line. Had one of his kids done that it’d be a completely different story. Surely one they wouldn’t be proud of telling either. Through the corner of his eye he watches you dig into the cooler, scrabbling past the beer bottles and iced hennessy, to pull out an ice cream.

“To you,” You spare him a glance before finally plopping down in the passenger’s seat with much more force than necessary— especially when sitting on a boat. “I did him a favor.”

The cooler did a poor job— your ice cream is already melted and soft once it’s unwrapped. Thick, velvety cream that you lap up with your tongue dribbles down your knuckles. He should find it gross, but your pretty eyes flickering upward to meet his own as you take one long, slow lick up each bend of your fingers has done the complete opposite. Fuck. It’s hot— your sticky fingers and messy lips, your pinched brows and tiny, pleased whines.

If only it were his cock.

Shouta’s thick. Much thicker than your ice cream, he’s sure you’d feel a good stretch to your lips if you wrapped them around the head of his cock. You’d probably whine about how hard you have to try, how heavy it is on your tongue— how much it’s stuffing you full when it hasn’t even slid down your throat yet. You’d cry too, maybe, with drool slicking your chin and coating his dick in a pretty, shiny layer of thick saliva.

“Want some?” You lean uncomfortably forward, though your legs are over the arms of your seat and draped across Shouta’s lap. Already close, Shouta can smell the oreo on your tongue and vanilla cream by the corner of your lips. “You’re staring pretty hard.”

“Sit up,” The deflection is an answer in itself, yet the dark-haired man can’t find a reason to look away. “Before you hurt yourself.”

Instead, you take his wrist, thick and decorated with a long vein, to fiddle with his fingers. They’re long— healthy, strong, clipped haphazardly— big. He watches you split his fingers apart, lacing your free hand with his own— and though he remains with all five fingers up, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel the urge to close them around your much smaller ones. Shouta clears his throat while you hum, lapping at your ice cream before pressing your lips against his knuckles, “Want you to hurt me instead.”

“Hush,” There’s a sharp intake of breath, dark lashes fluttering as multicolored eyes glance past your shoulder. It’s evident he wants to say more— in the way he shifts his weight to lean outward. “You hardly know me.”

Your foot nudges his upper thigh, pressing into the firm skin as the boat moves further toward the horizon. It feels more secluded that way.. Private, even. As if there’s only the two of you left on the dreamy island. Your face looks a bit exasperated, like you’ve never had to work so hard in your life, and he has to admit it— it’s cute.

“I know you grew up with my dad,” He ignores the venom behind your tongue as you mention your father, letting out a low hum of confirmation. “I know you have two kids— adopted, right?”

“Hitoshi and Eri.” He interjects, voice soft and fond. You’d never noticed it before, but now you’re acutely aware of the gentle presence of breeze and rippling waters. Shouta’s relaxed face is much sweeter, still creased with age but not quite as deep. The cute, pinched dips between his brows are gone, but you know how to bring it back.

“Lucky. Wish you were my Daddy instead,” Aizawa isn’t sure which word he’s more hung up on, nor how it's so easy for you to completely twist his words— but as much as it rushes to his cock, gets him twitching in his pants and throbbing all the way down his heavy shaft— he doesn’t like it. You talk entirely too much. With lips much too sweet and sheen with cream. With a tongue that flicks and presses against your teeth when you smile. With a pretty voice he could listen to, all day. Something that’d sound better through choking and gagging—ragged and crackly and used. Your lashes flutter, soft and gentle against your cheek. “How old is Hitoshi? My age? If he takes after you, then. . .You’re just—“

“Listen to me,” Perhaps it’s not very characteristic of him, but he just can’t stop. Shouta moves without thinking, pressing his fingers into your cheeks until your lips are puckered. “For as long as I’m here,” he offers a squeeze. “For as long as your father is here,” then another, “Turn. It. Off.”

Your face melts into something floaty and distant, the smirk melting right off your face into something much more preferable. His thumb is so close, so close to your pretty lips. You blink once— twice, even— before regressing back into a grin, lips pressing against his long fingers. Fucking brat.

“I’ll just have to hit up Hitoshi sometime, then.”

The persistent comment nearly knocks him over, straight off the boat and plummeting into the cerulean depths of the sea. Instead, Shouta finds it better to step on the gas. . . To ignore the prickling heat in his blood, to ignore the easy taptaptap-ing of your fingers against the screen of your phone. It’s so easy for you to say anything around him— like a deliberate disregard for his reaction. His fingers thrum against the tiller, then wrap around its leather exterior to squeeze, and he doesn’t miss (not even for a second) the glance you give him through the corner of your eye.

The silence is almost painful. The motor speaks for you, loud and rushed and heavy. Aizawa’s jaw sets, clenched at each chiseled edge. His eyebrows furrow deep, angry, and his lips remain tightly shut. You can’t help but stare, watching his hair whip in the wind, dreamy and mellifluous. Not a moment of eye contact is shared, and you feel yourself slinking back into the white leather of your chair for the first time this evening.

Come the wooden dock just adjacent to the shoreline, Shouta’s throwing away wrappers (they’re all yours) and unbuckling his seatbelt. Your arms cross, a pout heavy in your lips as your eyes flutter closed. . Almost as if you being unable to see him makes him unable to see you.

“C’mon, baby.” You both miss the nickname, and despite the tension, it feels so natural dripping from his tongue.

Still, you whine. Mind occupied by your nearly offset tantrum prior to getting back at the dock. “I’m staying outside.”

“You’ll get heatstroke.” Shouta sighs, stepping back to lift you into his arms not even a moment later. You consider it ironic, for a moment, he always wears black despite the scorching heat. Bent at the waist as he leans over the open inside of the boat to unbuckle your seatbelt, his face remains stoic as your arms flail and fly to push him away. Your pretty face morphs into a nasty scowl, grumbles and mumbles toppling from your lips— you’re embarrassed.

He sets you down on the creaking wood, hands placed steady at your waist and shoulder to keep you upright— in your feeble attempt at escapism, your last result was simply going limp.

You just won’t budge, standing planted at the end of the dock despite the tugs to your biceps, forearm— hands, wrists. Your last attempt at pushing him away ends up in stumbles, nearly tripping over your own feet as you stomp down the polished dock, eyes hardening with the contact of deep, dark pools in Aizawa’s irises.

You were holding hands.

It’s been days. You haven’t left your room in days. At first, Shouta doesn’t worry. He doesn’t think twice about it, doesn’t question why you don’t come downstairs. When he asks your parents about it it’s always the same thing— ‘That’s just how he is when he doesn’t get his way,’ or ‘He’ll come around.’ The more he asks, the mode suspicion, More questions, mostly wondering why he’s so enamored by their son— even if he had been closer to you when you were younger. But that was long ago, and you hardly remember.

And that isn’t even it.

He starts to worry, to feel bad, on day six. Not a single sound that even points to your presence. No creaking floorboards, no music playing from your old, antique and overpriced record player, no sounds of muffled laughter. It makes him feel out of his skin, like a bystander watching the inhabitants of this very beach house go about their day like nothing is wrong. But this wrong, so very wrong—

He wants you. His boy, his brat, his best friend’s son. It’s wrong and it’s taboo, but so help him, he yearns.

His feet had carried himself upstairs before his mind could, following after you a good half-hour later. You heard him on his way in, the shuffle of his slipper-clad feet from the outside of your door. Still, you’d made no effort to move, no effort to free yourself from the cocoon of your childhood blankets, no effort to open the door despite his gentle knocking.

“You ready to talk yet?” He was willing to brush it all aside. The pushing, the persistent flirting, the slight disregard for his feelings, the mentions of his son. Really, he was jealous. Maybe it’s unsavory for him to admit, maybe he shouldn’t think of his son as competition. And he knows, of course, there’s nothing there— he’s only ever competing with himself. He just can’t help it.

Maybe he’s a bit spoiled too.

“I don’t like being ignored.” Your voice was small, but he could still hear it through the door. He heard it all, every implication. His sweet boy, his spoiled brat. You froze, just briefly, before he let himself in. The door creaked slowly with its open and close, a gentle click of the lock as the air grew thick.

Your old bed is small and creaky. Almost as much as the underused floorboards, your old bedroom screams with just as much personality as it does neglect. There’s tiny figurines, posters, awards, memorabilia— but it’s all too clean. Even if it has collected dust, not a thing is out of place. Pristine. There’s a few scattered photos— awkward haircuts, familial pets, the works. . Unapologetically you, maybe when you were just a tad bit more naive— but you nonetheless. It even smells like you, just with a hint of sea salt and warm, summer-y vanilla. Shouta wants to bury his nose in it.

“None of my fancy college boyfriends liked it here, Maybe ‘Toshi would.” You shift your weight as Shouta sits at the edge of your bed, the springy mattress creaking ever so slightly. There’s something left unsaid between the small string of words— and it’s sour. Twists on Shouta’s tongue, like he’s bitten into old bread, and it’s not just the mention of past boyfriends. Sure, that’s not exactly what he’d call this. . . relationship, but it’s not like it’d feel wrong. And he’d certainly feel bitter if his son were in his shoes. “Guess my sheets weren’t silky enough. Can tell you what was, th—”

“I like it.” It’s simple. The admission— simple and sweet, like it’s obvious. Shouta watches your lips part for a moment, just to close again, like a fish out of water. You look so small when you’re caught off guard, glancing to the side and shifting your weight onto your palms as you sit in the comfy middle of your bed. He knows what you’re doing— redirecting the conversation by flirting (it does get his heart beating, he’ll admit it)— and it makes you seem softer, almost.

He watches you sniffle for a moment, a quiet sound as you shift your knees with exuberating coyness. Your eyebrows furrow, cheeks puffed into a pout because, “That's it? You just ‘ like ’ it?”

He’ll give it to you, you never give up. He’d been warned, he was skeptical, and he’s been proven wrong. And, in the brunette’s head, you’d tallied over three strikes. Perhaps he was being too lenient. And now, Shouta, the weak man that he is, simply wants to indulge.

“What else would I say?”

“That it’s nice,” You cock your head to the side. “That you’ve never seen a room so nice. Which m’sure is true, anyway. . Are you low income, Sho? I can’t imagine what it’s like being a single father of two— or one, since Hitoshi moved out forever ago.”

The older man takes a breath through his nose, and out through his mouth. Pretty irises flicker down to meet the rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers pinch the bridge of his nose. Then, like the tidal wave of emotion has washed away back into shore, his voice is level as he speaks, “You spoke to him.”

“You ignored me,” You say it as if it’s obvious, simple, that if you can’t have Shouta you’ll have to settle for the next best thing. And though it’s not entirely true, you only really stalked his social media to learn more about his father, you don’t think your heart can stomach seeing pride swell in Aizawa’s chest. “Wanted your attention, Daddy.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, cold air rattling the bones as he watches you stare up at him. Your eyes look softer, boyish, wider at this angle. His pink tongue darts over his equally pink lips, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“Show me.”

“Shh, sh, sh,” Shouta’s cock slips down your throat with a low grunt, the slippery walls clench around the fat head of his cock. Just as he imagined it, cutting off pretty whines and gasps, head bobbing back and forth— like you can’t tell whether it’s too much or too little. There’s a slight burn— the stretch of his thick, sticky cock nestled against your throat— but it feels good, heavy and throbbing in a way that makes your brain shut off so quickly you drool. It sticks to his shaft and slides down his balls, painting your chin in a syrupy-sweet layer of saliva, but you’re too far gone to wipe it away. Such a good boy.

He must’ve said it aloud, because there you are nodding, lazily bobbing your head as he grinds in and out of your mouth. There’s a loud, sticky sound coming from your throat, squelching and soaked, obscene in a way that makes you whimper around your heavy mouthful of cock. He’s quick to correct himself— you only ever seem to behave when you’re stuffed with his dick, and he can’t have you thinking your behavior is acceptable. With a grunt, deep and velvety, Aizawa pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag— tight throat convulsing and quivering around his shaft.

You slurp loudly, choking and gasping as you struggle to pull back. His balls hit your chin, heavy and sticky and so fucking good as tears stream down your face. You’re starting to get into it now, making a mess of yourself as you stick out your tongue to lick along the prominent vein on the underside of his cock, eyes focused on the rings of saliva holding you together. Shouta pulls out to let you breathe, his cock quickly liding upupup your throat and past your lips until all you can do is whine and lean forward, lips wet with spit as you chase after what you’ve been wanting for the past month.

“Stop fuckin’ moving. Let Daddy use your throat, wanna hear you cry on it,” The bulge of his fat cock shows in your throat, in and out, in and out, in and out.

You want to whine, to beat your fists against his thighs, and kick your feet— it’s all so much. He has you by the hair, big hand pulling and tugging, lifting you on and off his cock like a warm, tight fleshlight. You fail to bite back a growl, though it emits more as a cute, pathetic sound, glassy eyes focused on his cock being shoved down your hot, wet throat. It’s so easy to press your lips against the darkness of his pubes, to smear pre along your pouty lips and cheeks. His cock jumps in your mouth, thick and long and curved, leaking at the tip.

It’s hard to adjust to the stretch, sputtering and gagging with such cute, greedy sounds. You’re getting ahead of yourself, eager, tongue lapping at the achy underside of his dick, pressed against his balls. And, with a gasp, Shouta pulls out, huffs and unintelligible groans filling the air. The blushing head of his cock taps against your cheek. Once, twice, again and again. “C’mere.”

And yet, despite all that bark, your eyes barely make contact with the ones above you. Instead they trace the pulse of his shaft, how heavy his cock hangs between his legs, how it makes his long fingers almost smaller in comparison. The way pre dribbles from the tip, sticky and warm and oh, so inviting. It’s as if he can read your mind, knows how badly you miss the weight of his thick cock stretching your throat, “You can do better than that," and you almost can't believe it.

Better? Your eyes flicker to the saliva dripping from your chin, suddenly aware of the slick pre smeared across your pretty cheeks and the heavy pants leaving your lips. What gets better than this? You let him use your throat like a new fleshlight, cried on his cock and muffled the sounds in his pubes. Ignored the aching of your own cock just to focus on his own, absentmindedly bucking your hips into nothing, even if it made you look like a pathetic puppy. Fine— you can show him better. You can break him first.

You blink rapidly, tears clumped in your pretty eyelashes, lips parting to, indubitably, sass the older man. “What, need help gettin’ it up? Fuck you, can do it m—”

Prideful boy. Shouta will have to fix that.

“— I wasn’t asking.” You really fucked up now, eyes wide as you’re lifted up by your throat and manhandled into Shouta’s strong arms. He smells good, and just as strong, as your face is pressed into his chest and your tiny, tiny shorts are pushed past your thighs. The air is cold, it spreads goosebumps along your skin, and you’re sure Shouta can feel them along his palm as he grabs handfuls of your ass. He ignores your off guard ‘Hey! I wasn’t done!’, ignores the squirm of your waist, ignores your poor, weeping cock.

Being the smooth, calculated man that he is, you’d expect Aizawa to put a rhythm and pace to his spankings. But no, there’s nothing for you to latch onto but the bundles of his hair as he hands out sporadic, random, and hard smacks along each globe of your ass. There is no back and forth, no favoring one over the other— it’s just where he wants, when he wants. If he wants to watch your thighs convulse and jiggle beneath his heavy palm he will, and if he wants to smack your hands away from his wrists as you tug and tug— he will.

Shouta groans when you let out a particularly pathetic cry, biting your lip and whimpering into his warm skin. You can feel his big hands part your cheeks, squeezing the skin until it spills over each finger and your ass has turned tender and sensitive. He coos, feeling you squirm and wriggle against his hold, “S’it too much? Daddy’s poor baby.”

It shouldn’t sound so sweet coming from his lips, even when it’s condescending and rough, even when he’s cracking his palm down again and again despite your kicks and squeals.

But it does.

“Da—ddy. . !” your voice quivers, hips rocking to an uncoordinated tune. So little contact and yet it feels like so much, his hot palms against your warm skin. . . The tears rolling down your darling face. . . The way your cock throbs against your tummy, your mouth aches with emptiness, your hole twitches beneath the weight of his fingers. The thought makes you want to whine all over again, body squirming and trembling as he holds and kneads the flesh of your ass.

“Quiet. I should shove my fingers down your throat to shut you up,” Shouta murmurs, so unnecessarily mean, kissing the dampness of your forehead before his hand cracks down against your plush ass three, four, five more times. You try to keep up your resolve, pretty legs trembling and knuckles clenching— but it’s just so hard. Being a brat is easy— it’s fun— you’ll give up a few tears, cry and pout, get your way. Easy. So you won’t break and give him what he wants. He’ll have to work for it, get a taste of his own mean, mean medicine.

Delayed gratification.

Wet llips open to speak, something smug and almost smart, but it’s reduced to a wet moan. You feel it—fingers spreading apart the globes of your ass, and more cracking down between them, on your empty, pretty little hole. For a moment your brain slips out of your body, thoughts static and turned to mush, fuzzy and convulsing where you lay. You process the sound of hushing, the feeling of wetness, the sound of slick spit against your skin. . . Thick, merciless fingers rubbing and tapping and sliding against you.

“Oh, god,” You sob, eyes fluttering shut and eyebrows pinching the second more pressure builds and— oh, a finger slips inside. “Fingers— that’s, oh god..” Inching in slowly, rubbing against your velvety walls and so fucking slick you’re beginning to see stars. Whatever you had your mind set on earlier flies straight out the window, your brain short circuits as your sopping hole flutters around his fingers, sucking them in.

“Fuck, baby, look at you clench on Daddy’s fingers. Want Daddy to finger-fuck this cute little cunt silly?” If you could see his face you’re sure he’d be smiling— an eerie thing, eyes trained on his fingers getting sucked back into you. Such a needy boy. “C’mon, say it. Tell Daddy you want his big fingers in your sweet, greedy little pussy.”

You can’t help it, hole throbbing rhythmically along his long fingers, squelching and gushing with stickiness. The swell of your ass ripples as you wiggle your hips, rising and falling to grindgrindgrind. “Fuck me already, c’mon, old man.”

“That what your little ‘boyfriends’ do?” Your lip quivers— he hadn't even flinched at the sass— and instead used your own words against you. “Oh, baby. They didn’t give that little boycunt the attention he needed, hm? That why you throw so many tantrums?”

Your hand finds his wrist, fingers wrapping around thick and strong limp just enough to get his hand moving, trying to guide him deeper, faster, harder. He should reward bratty behavior, but the words spill from his mouth almost immediately, “That’s it, just needed something to fill you up, nice and full.”

It’s ironic— he says it just before pulling out his soaked fingers. And, at your nightstand, opens the drawer to retrieve lube. You watch him pause, eyes scanning the contents of the drawer until his lips quirk downward. Lollipop wrappers. An ungodly amount— you really went on a hunger strike because he ignored you? For six whole days?

“What am I gonna do with you.” He sighs, but grabs a sucker regardless, tearing open its pretty, pastel blue packaging to reveal its red, shiny hard candy. He pops the treat into his mouth, holds it on the right side with his teeth, and squirts a generous amount of lube over the globes of your ass. His hands slip and slide as he guides it around, watches it dribble down your thighs and relishes in the way your hole opens up for him, soaked and sticky.

Your eyebrows pinch, hips wiggling as he pulls the lollipop free from his mouth and directs it against your own, “Suck,” He murmurs, but it’s forced past your lips before you can process the demand. Here come more tears, burning your nose as you hiccup out a tiny, overwhelmed, “Daddy?”

“It’s okay, I’m here,” He coos, circling the pad of his thumb along the rim of your hole. Even as your feet instinctively kick, there’s no reaction from him, just a pleased hum. “Keep sucking, atta boy.”

His thumb feels like a lot, makes you squeal and shiver as he presses it inside, and something hot and wet accompanies it. That's good, the heat of his tongue licking and sucking at your throbbing rim, bubbly spit dribbling down his chin and caught in his stubble. One hand is focused on fucking your boyhole raw, till your brain goes numb and you’re incoherent. His palm presses into the small of your ass, tongue working hard until your eyes are rolling to the back of your head, and your mouth flies open in a silent scream. He takes the opportunity to snatch the lollipop back, keeps his tongue pressed against your walls until—

He trails the glossy sphere of the candy down to your sloppy little hole, nudging and prodding until he slowly works the lollipop inside. “You can take it,” He growls, eyes trained on your fucked-out face. He can feel it, the tightening of your balls, the way your hole aches and pulses with the treat inside you. “That’s it, sweet thing. Wanna make this pussy cum, give it t’me. Let Daddy have it..”

He murmurs, and suddenly, instead of the treat that he’s popping back into his mouth, there’s the head of his perfectly thick, so big, cock pressing against your slick, thoroughly fucked-out hole and—

Oh.

“Sweet.”

You sob into nothing, back arching and spongy walls clinging down on Shouta’s cock as it’s worked inch by inch into you and— you can’t fucking believe it. You fought for so long, put on a bratty attitude and stomped your feet. Why would you ever push Shouta and his cock away for so long? Your breaths are short. Tiny little gasps as his large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs open to get a better view of the thick dick pumping you full. Your pretty little hole, sheen with spit and lube, exposed and on display for him and his cock. And, yeah, this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. . . You want him to break you.

“You’re— fuck, you’re so gross, Daddy,” Shouta grits his teeth, “Ohh, havin’ your best friend’s son on your fat cock, fuckin’ my pussy so full. . !” You’re straight up babbling, cross-eyed as each thrust knocks coherent thoughts out your brain. A real, proper slut, desperately humping upupup to fuck yourself on his dick. With this position— knees to your ears and holes on display, you barely have the control to move— but it’s cute to watch you try anyway.

“Shut up and take it,” He rasps, voice deep and scratchy in a harsh whisper as his hips snap back and forth. “Don’t want mommy and daddy to hear their son calling someone else daddy, do you?”

“Daddy— Daddy, my pussy—“ You’re babbling, it’s all you can do since Shouta is all force with his thrusts; takes what he needs, feeds you his cock good and so, so deep. Over and over, you let out broken whines, desperate for it, looking down as best you can to watch your own cock bob and jump against your tummy, thighs sticky with spit and lube. You can hear the sound of your slutty, pathetic moans, the wet plaplaplap of skin, lube trailing and frothing between your bodies as Shouta fucks into you. You can’t stop twitching— your legs, your hole, your cock.

“This is Daddy’s pussy,” He corrects, angling his hips just right, the heat of his cock pressing against every special spot you’ve got. Every bundle of nerves, every silky, spongy wall you’ve got wrapped around him. “Just like that,” You’re gagging for it, pouty lips parting with open-mouthed pants as he continues to watch your hole tighten around his thick, veiny cock. He has to swallow down his own drool, reaching deeper into you, your body jerking back as he pounds, and pounds, and pounds. You may not be a good boy, but you’re a damn good slut.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh. . .” Your breath is caught in your throat, and if you could, you’d scream, your body tensing as your cock throbs and bounces, cum spraying across your bare chest — stickiness shooting out your spent cock until you’re twitching, handsfree and body set ablaze. Shouta shows no signs of stopping, instead keeping his cock inside you as he flips you around, eyes narrowed. He fucks you through it, watching more cum squirt from your cock, leaky hole milking him for all he’s got.

“Dumb sluts love cock, baby. S’that what you are?” His voice is a low purr, pressing your face into the mattress, watching your ass fall back onto his cock until he feels himself aching hard, hard enough to start cumming inside you.

“Yeah, mhmm,” You drool into your pillow, absentmindedly fucking yourself back onto him. You’re desperate to chase after it, the searing spiral of pressure growing in your stomach, tight hole bearing down on his cock. “Daddy’s slut, s’me!” For a minute you think you’ve passed out, everything going dark as you ride out his hard thrusts, offering tiny movements of your own, up and down to satiate the erratic spasming of your hole, to feel his balls slap against your thighs.

“Good sluts take Daddy’s cum,” Your eyes, so glassy and empty, is what gets him, groaning loud as he pumps a load inside you. “Take it, boy. Let Daddy knock you up.” It’s messy, and downright pornographic watching his cum leak out of you, just for him to fuck it back in with the head of his dick. Shouta’s cum starts to kiss your insides and spurt straight onto that small bundle of nerves— fuck, it’s so deep. His thrusts are erratic and sloppy, thick rope after thick rope frothing around his shaft as he fucks it deeper inside. You never want it to stop, not the groaning or moaning, not the filthy sounds, not the cum filling up your hole till you can’t move.

He ignores your needy, overstimulated whines when he pulls out completely, his spent cock hanging heavy between his thighs. Even when you’re limp and boneless, body trembling violently, you want more.

“Da— Da—ddy,” You sob, eyes squeezed shut as strong arms pull you up and into even stronger thighs. Sitting on his lap now, Shouta coos hums, basks in the sight of his pretty boy’s afterglow.

“Daddy’s here. I’m here, I got you.” He whispers into your shoulder, and that’s all you need to hear. The thought of his best friend melts away— you’re more than that. You’re not just his best friend’s son. . .

You’re Shouta’s boy.

Summer is coming to an end.

There’s a seasonal chill in the air and it’s getting dark in the early afternoon. The beach has switched its course, currents changing direction and fish disappearing from the shoreline. The weather is turning, branches are starting to grow bare and bloom in color, the wind picks up, and the clouds have yet to dissipate into the sky. . Shouta helps you pack, grumbles when you press chaste kisses against his skin the whole time— shuts down the stomps of your feet while you whine, “I don’t wanna leave.”

“Spring break,” Is all Shouta says, his mismatched eyes downcast in a way that highlights his long, pretty eyelashes. Then, voice barely audible, he whispers, “I don’t want you to, either.”

Your body visibly straightens, giddiness painting your boyish face as you smile wide and big. The older man almost regrets saying it, huffing with you lean impossible close to hug him tight. “Will you call me?”

“Whenever you want,” He says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. You watch as he throws your large bag of lollipops into your carry-on backpack, but not before plucking a treat free from the others. “You know I will.”

And that’s all you need to hear.

[polyamorous-eclipse-federation]

me when my 5 page research paper is several days past due and i only just started writting it

[todayisafridaynight]

STILL HAVING SUCH A NORMAL ONE ABOUT THAT RGGJO BUT NO Y7JO GETTING REALLY GOOD AT HOUSEWORK I SEE THE VISION… I'm pickin' up what you're puttin' down…

Because I've always wondered how unprepared Jo would've been going into everything. On one hand, he did leave home really young, but since he was working and Ikumi wasn't, one could argue Ikumi would've been the one to handle the housework at least while they were together.

Inversely, I do kiiind of feel like Jo would've done at least Some Things when he could to ease the burden on Ikumi based on his attempt to comfort her at the station. I'm reading way too much into it but it's notable that, despite him definitely being a smoker and them hoping for a miscarriage, the ashtray in their apartment is spotless.

But we only really see his living situation when he's with Ikumi and don't get to see what--if anything--changes when he's on his own, when he has to do everything and not just Some Things. But with regard to food, if you're in survival mode like that, while it is more economical to make food at home, it would make sense that any quality of cooking would be passable. That's not going to fly with a kid who's lived in the lap of luxury his whole life.

So I've always had a lot of feelings about Jo Bettering Himself for Masato's sake (even when Masato isn't necessarily being reasonable) and his overblown neurosis at the prospect of falling short--the post you mentioned in your tags is Exactly It. But, you know, it's cheesy, but I firmly believe he could do whatever he set his mind to, if he can manage to learn Every Martial Art and become a glorified (and very competent) accountant after dropping out of high school.

Also uhhhhhhhh entire post reminded me of this (びら on Pixiv) that's it that's the ask

Ok I'm glad we both caught on to Jo's attempt to console Ikumi and the considerably-clean home. Evidently he was probably self-sufficient enough, but nothing extraordinary- just whatever passed as 'suitable' for them, so it's not as though he's going in totally clueless (but certainly not knowledgeable enough to match Masato's extremely-high standards. Bless Arakawa but he definitely spoiled him a little).

Even if it is a 'cheesy' sentiment, Jo very much has proven that so long as it's for Masato, he's willing to do anything and everything no matter how big (joining the yakuza) or small (probably like. learning how to make quiche)

[sturncrazy]

PITSTOP🔥

matt sturniolo x y/n (fem)

warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT nsfw 18 +(exhibitionism?, dom matt, language, unprotected sex, kinda rough, lil kinky at the end)

authors note: writin some matt content for variety 🤌 this is slightly inspired by that one time matt forcibly yanked nick out of the car cause that moment lives in my head rent free.

summary: you and your boyfriend matt are driving home from an event )you were his date) when you get bored and start teasing him more than he can handle

word count: 2,254 w

—————————————————————————

you sighed, stretching you arms above your head to the roof of the car.

“you tired, babe?” Matt questioned, not moving his eyes from the road

“mmm a little” you responded. it was a calm warm night driving along one of the quieter roads. you watched out the window looking at the few stars you could spot in the clear night sky. the car hummed peacefully while Matt’s playlist played low in the background.

You let out a small hiss of pain as you rolled out your ankles, suddenly aware the damage wearing heels for the night had done to you.

“what’s wrong?” Matt asked, concerned.

“nothin, feet just hurt from my shoes”

“oh, take ‘em off? you can put your feet up on the dash. might help with blood flow or somethin” he replied. you took his advice and kicked off the evil pointed toe stilettos you had on after unbuckling the ankle straps. you sighed in relief as you lifted your legs up and stretched them out. the silky black dress you had on had a slit up the left side and as you raised your legs half the fabric slipped between your thighs, exposing your left leg up to the side of your thong.

“woooo look at those legs…gonna make me crash the car if you distract me like that, babe” matt said stealing a glance at your body next to him. you felt a small flutter in your stomach at his comment. Matt had that effect on you so easily. even this far along into your relationship. it only ever took him even suggesting sex for you to be all over him.

“distracting you? whaaaat? i’m just gettin comfy” you teased hiking your dress up all the way and moving your bare legs around slightly.

“cmon y/n, at least wait til we’re home” Matt chuckled trying to keep his peeks at you subtle. you dramatically fussed around in your seat and whined.

“this dress is uncomfy. the straps are itchy”

“mmm” matt mumble ignoring you. you huffed, exasperated that he wasn’t giving you any attention. you whined again and reached to your side to start tugging at your zipper which made a loud sound as you pulled it.

“wha-what are you doing?” matt stuttered looking over at you. he knew that sound.

“i’m taking the top of it off. it’s bugging me.” you stated flatly.

“y/n, you can’t take your dress off in the car”

“i said I’m taking the top of it off. don’t worry i’m not gonna sit here totally buttass naked”

“still what if someone sees or something” matt said worriedly as you started to pull your arms out of the straps, still holding the top part of the dress up to cover your boobs.

“well then, lucky them” you replied letting go of your hold of the fabric. it slipped down easily sitting around your stomach, leaving you exposed from your bellybutton up. the cool air from the cars ac hit your skin making your nipples perk up immediately.

“jesus y/n” matt rasped out, swallowing loudly looking at your exposed tits. you played stupid and turned to him.

“what?”

“you know what. you have your tits out in my car and i’m trying to drive. don’t be dumb with me right now” he huffed getting pissed off at you. his grip tightened on the steering wheel and you felt a wetness start to form between your legs as you watched his tattooed arm muscles flex slightly. you leaned across the arm rest and up to his ear and kissed it lightly and then bit on his earlobe slightly.

“seriously y/n? this is unsafe”

“how far from getting home are we, matty?” you panted into his ear.

“like 25 minutes. now sit back down.” you whined loudly, crashing back into your seat.

“that’s too loonnnggg”

“too long for what”

“to wait. i’m horny now, matty” you said in your brattiest tone.

“so? not my problem. control yourself, y/n” he said ignoring you again. this was the last straw. his seeming lack of interest had pushed you too far. you needed to get under his skin. and you needed something to sooth the building pressure between your legs that was crying for attention. you placed your legs back up on the dash and let your knees fall to either side, leaning one against the window and intentionally dropping the other to give matt as clear of a view as possible. the crotch of your mesh thong was now fully on display. you shivered as the cool air blasting from the vents reached new places. you took a hand and ran it across your still exposed tits before dragging it down your stomach and into the space between your legs. you let out a small moan and threw your head back against your headrest as you began to press your fingers up against the soaked mesh fabric. slowly you pushed it aside and began to run two fingers up and down your slick folds which created an audibly wet sound.

“y/n what the fuck are you doing” matt barked looking over at you.

“fixing my problem since clearly you’re no help” you hissed as you began to drag circles over your clit. you let out another exaggerated moan, bordering on pornographic and closed your eyes. you felt matt make a sharp turn with the car. a few moments later, half still in the trace of your self inflected pleasure, you became aware that the car had stopped moving. you fluttered your eyes open just in time to see matt getting out of the car and slam his door. you had just enough time to process your visible surroundings as he made his way around the car to your side. you were somewhere wooded and darker, pulled off on the side of what looked to be a dead road. maybe matt really had had enough of your toying with him and this is where he’d brought you to get rid of you. you felt your leg fall down, loosing its support, as your side door swung open. before you had time to question what was going on matt yanked you out of the car by your wrist. you stumbled slightly trying to get your footing on the grassy patch beneath you. he slammed his body up against your back and roughly wrapped one arm around your waist to pull you impossibly closer

“bend over the hood of the car” he growled into your ear still behind you

“matt-wha—here? but—“

“you wanna act like a little slut on the road and touch yourself for anyone to see? then you’ll get fucked like a little slut for anyone to see. i said. bend over the fucking hood of the car now.” he snarled before unlatching from your waist and giving you a slight push in his desired direction. you obliged as a combination of nerves and desire stuttered through your body. you reached the hood of the car and leaned over it pressing your stomach and chest with your half-on dress up against the cool metal of the vehicle.

“lift up your dress” matt said firmly from behind you. once again you listened as you bunched up the fabric that covered your legs and ass and tucked it under your upper half to hold it up.

“good girl.” he said and you felt a harsh slap hit your backside. you let out a small shriek at the sensation. it hurt, but in a good way. a way that made you want more. he pushed his crotch, still in his jeans, up against your bare skin.

“you look so fuckable like this, y/n” he said thrusting his covered hardon against you more harshly.

“matt—please” you whined out. he wrapped a fistful of your hair around his wrist and yanked your head back.

“what was that, slut?” he snarled into your ear again.

“please matt— i need you” you panted desperately

“you begging for my cock already, you little whore?” he said slipping a hand around between your legs and beginning to rub his long slender fingers up and down the soaking thin mesh layer covering your pussy. you whimpered uncontrollably at the sensation.

“tell me what you need” he said continuing to send electricity through your body as he rubbed at your pulsing bundle of nerves

“please matt- i - i need you— i need you to fuck me— i need to feel you inside of me right now” you croaked out hearing the sound of a zipper being undone. he shoved the pathetic bit of fabric covering your dripping folds to the side

“that’s my good girl” he cooed sinisterly before slamming into you without warning. you let out a loud cry at the sensation of him so suddenly stretching you out. matt and you had had sex more than a few thousand times, but you’d never quite get used to his size. you heard him grunt as your walls clenched around him.

“fuck i love that tight little pussy” he grunted slowly pulling back out of you.

“so big matt—it—it hurts” you slurred out breathlessly

“oh don’t act like you can’t take it now, baby” he said pushing you harshly down against the car hood, your face smushing up against it slightly before he slammed back into you again filling you up.

“OH GOD MATT” you yelped out in half pain and half ecstasy. he began to thrust into you at a relentless pace. you let out a string of curses and moans so loud and pathetic it put most porn to shame.

“you like when i fuck you like the little slut you are out here for anyone to see?” matt groaned as he slapped your ass again, never letting up on his pace

“fuuuu—yes matt oh fuck” you cried out desperately fighting to breath through his ramming into your dripping hole. he pushed one hand down on your lower back forcing your ass even higher up making his hard length push even deeper into you. you thought the sensation would make you pass out.

“yeah? want everyone to watch me fuck you and see how pathetic you are for my dick, huh?”

“yes yes yes” you moaned

“fuuuucckk you feel so fucking good y/n” he exhaled leaning slightly over you now, supporting himself with his arms on either side of you pressing against the car hood, never stopping his thrusts.

the sound of his hips slapping your ass as he tirelessly slammed his throbbing dick inside of you must’ve been audible from miles away.

“matt shit i’m close” you horsely managed to squeak out

“yeah? you gonna cum all over my cock for me princess?” he said before biting down into the soft flesh of your shoulder. you let out another cry and felt the pit in your stomach of tension start to build up to its final moments.

“cmon babygirl. cum for me” those words sent you over the edge as you let out an unimaginably loud moan and felt yourself ooze your release juices and clench uncontrollably around him. he let out a low growl as his thrusts started becoming more messy.

“oh fuck i’m gonna cum y/n”

“mmm yes matty cum all over my pussy” you said still coming down from your high

“FUCK oh fuck i’m cumming i’m gonna cum” he stuttered pulling out of you abruptly just in time to coat your folds with thick spurts of his hot release. he shuddered collapsing on top of you slightly. you let out a small satisfied mmm as he tried to catch his breath.

“do you want me to try to find you a tissue or something” he said pulling back from you, looking at the mess he’d made of you.

“no” you stated calmly turning to face him.

“i like it this way.” you said readjusting your thong back over your sticky area enjoying the look of both awe and slight embarrassment that flushed matt’s sweet face.

“god your hot” he said pulling you in for a genuine kiss then heading back for his side of the car.

“y’know when we first pulled up here i thought you’d actually brought me out here to kill me” you laughed climbing back into the passenger seat and shutting the door behind you.

“what? cmon y/n, you know i’d never hurt you” said matt as he settled into his seat seemingly truly concerned by your accusation

“no no i know trust me”

“i mean i might fuck you so hard you wish you were dead, but that’s a different story” he said bashfully looking at his feet, he’s usual shyness taking back over slightly. both adorable and hot. he really could do no wrong. you giggled lightly and leaned over giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“i love you matty” you said sweetly

“i love you too, y/n” he said smiling at you. you grinned back at him still leaning over your seat loving getting to look at his face this close up. you always adored those big blue eyes. he blinked at you softly and then peered down your gaping dress raising his eyebrows dramatically.

“think you have a round two in you when we get home?” he asked with a grin

“maaattt” you said giving him a small slap on the chest

“what?”

“you’re not tired after that whole display?” you questioned

“oh please y/n, we’re just getting started” he said starting the car engine.

————————————————————————— uhh lowkey i rly like this one??

[blackpanda48]

Hazbin Hotel Adam x fem!Reader

A/n: I made this bc why not. Enjoy💕

Warning: Dirty talk (?)

*It wasn’t everyday that you saw the Commander of Exterminators, but it also wasn’t everyday when you became his Assistant. Yes, out of Gods orders, you are now The assistant of Adam. Yay!*

*You sat in the plush chair with your clipboard— Adam right next to you with an arm around your shoulder, his chin on it too— watching you write. Maybe he was drunk? Nah, that wasn’t him.*

“Hey, babes— what’re you writin’?”

"I'm writing things down for the extermination Sir"

*You said looking at your paper not leaving your eyes off of it*

“You ain’t gotta be so tense hun,”

*He said, nuzzling his chin into your neck and shoulders a little further. He let out a slight chuckle.*

“You’re always being so serious. Chill out.”

"I'm sorry Sir"

*You said looking down at him in your shoulder.*

“You don’t gotta apologize love! I was just messin with ya! God knows how important your job is! But you can’t do your job right if you’re all stressed out right? Relax a little! Let yourself just…”

*He put a finger under your chin, and lifted your head so you were forced to look into his eyes. You felt as if you were melting under his piercing gaze, his eyes seeming to command you.*

"Just…?"

*You said while under his spell that he put you in.*

*He giggled when you trailed off.*

“Just be a little more relaxed sweetie! You’re doin a great job, and I’ll make sure everyone knows that.”

*He said, still not letting you break your gaze from him. You noticed though, that one of his hands was now sliding down your shoulder, down down further…*

*You were just looking at him still under his beautiful spell*

*The hand was now halfway down your back, and he leaned in even closer. His nose was brushing up against yours, his breath hot and stuffy as he whispered into your ear.*

“Do you know what else I’m gonna do besides let everyone know how much you rock at your job, my dear?”

"What else?"

*You asked drunken with his scent. Going closer to him almost brushing his lips against yours.*

*Adam chuckled. He was just waiting for you to break and kiss him.*

“You… are gonna relax with me for the remainder of this long and tedious afternoon.

*He brushed his lips up against yours softly, his eyes still firmly locked onto yours. But he didn’t kiss you. He was just teasing and waiting for you to lean into him first.*

"Alright Sir"

*You said while you licked his lips.*

*Adams eyes widened and his breath hitched at the tease. He pulled you into his lap, keeping his hand on the small of your back.*

“That’s better, my sweet, sweet angel…”

"What are you going to do to me Sir?"

“That all depends on how cooperative you are, my dear.”

*He leaned his forehead to yours, and you could feel his body heat on your body.*

“All you gotta do is follow my lead, and all I ask from you is that you… is that you obey me…”

"Of course. Anything for you Sir"

*He smirked and finally pressed his lips to yours, you deeply as his other hand moved to your hip, squeezing it lightly. It was like the world around you disappeared, all there was, was just you. You were his.*

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[terrainofheartfelt]

Dair prompt please! Decision

Dair + Decision

Blair sits at her desk in her home office nook, staring down at the legal pad in front of her, no longer seeing the words scrawled on the lines, all the hypotheticals, the possibilities, the pro/con lists. 

“Hey,” she hears Dan over her shoulder, “how goes it?”

She makes a noncommittal noise as he comes up behind her, bends to press a kiss to her temple. At the touch of his lips, her shoulders drop, she wasn’t even aware of the tension she was holding until after it leaves her body. 

She taps the end of her pen on her desk. Well, it’s Dan’s pen, she stole it from his home office because her good ones were all at the museum. At least once a week, the classic line of what’s mine is yours is used in their household to justify some grand office supply larceny.

“I think…” she starts, willing herself to speak it, “Yale.”

“Yeah?”

She turns to glimpse Dan’s face, gauging his reaction. “I know it's not in the city, but it's a better program, and it's definitely closer than most of the others. Like, I want a doctorate, but I don’t really want to have to go to Boston to get it.”

Dan snorts, cracking a smile, shaking his head slightly. 

“And,” she continues, “I could get most of the work done from here, except for the teaching, but we can work something out –”

“Of course we can,” Dan insists, sincere. “Lizzie’s in school now, so that’ll help.”

Blair arches an eyebrow. “And Sam?”

He shrugs. “He’s easy, just water him and face him towards the sunlight.”

She rolls her eyes, but refuses to laugh, it’s too easy. 

“We have a deep bench of backup,” Dan adds, slightly more serious. “We can absolutely make Yale work, if that’s what you want.”

She casts an eye to the stack of promotional material they’d gotten in the mail. She’d thought universities had moved strictly to email, but Blair guesses some things never change (though Dan had offered to print every one of her acceptance letters: Harvard, Bryn Mawr, Penn, Toronto, Princeton, even Stanford and Berkeley—even though she abhorred the idea of moving to California). 

“Yeah,” she declares after a deep breath. “Yeah it is.” 

He drops down next to her, meeting her eye level, like she’s their daughter coloring at the kitchen table. “But?”

Blair shoots him a sidelong look, but he knows her too well. “Do you think maybe it’s too…” she trails off, waving her pen in the air. 

He nods, knowing what she means without her having to finish the thought. “It’s not like that,” he says, soft but firm. “This is what makes the best sense for you now, and all that happened back then has nothing to do with it.” He taps a finger on the notepad in front of her, color-coded and organized to class size, faculty, and course offerings. “All the lists you’ve made are proof of that.”

Blair huffs out a laugh, pulling up one knee to her chest, propping her foot on her desk chair. “It may be about that,” she turns to meet Dan’s eye, and holds up two fingers, pinched together, “just a little bit.” 

He smiles. “So what if it is?” He settles onto his knees, scooting up right next to her. “I know – losing out then hurt you, but you’ve already been accepted. And now, you have the chance to go back and rub all the success you’ve had since right in their face.”

She bursts into laughter, her head dipping towards the desk in front of her. “And you?” she asks suddenly, turning back to him, not having to add any more words for him to understand their meaning. You were hurt, too. 

Dan reaches out, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger. “If it’s right for you, it’s right for me.” 

She reaches for him, runs her fingers through his hair. “You have quite a bit of success to rub in Yale’s face too, Dan Humphrey.”

He laughs into her hand, twisting around to kiss her palm. “Hey,” he says lowly, “as far as I’m concerned, I’ve won.” 

She grins, teeth digging into her lower lip. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, solemn. “Mmm-hmm. After all,” he kneels up, bringing his face right in front of hers, “I’m the one who’ll be married to the hot doctor.” 

Blair laughs, giving in, kissing Dan back, knowing that whatever else happens, there’s at least one choice she got right.