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dabisbratz · 7 months

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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.

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elizaleclerc · 1 month

Text

intertwined, sewn together 🌊

lando norris x reader

summary: fem reader & lando share a sweet day w friends on a yacht <3

song: not a lot, just forever by adrianne lenker

author’s note: love this sm my heart ugh!! fluff & cute summer vibes. kinda grumpy x sunshine ; allusions to a bad childhood <\3

word count: 1.8k

You reclined on the plush deck of the yacht, basking in the warm rays of the sun as they caressed your stomach. The smell of sunscreen and tanning oil lingered in the air, leaving a sticky sheen on your skin. You relished these lazy days on the yacht, surrounded by your friends Lily and Carmen who chatted animatedly next to you.

Lost in the pages of your book, you barely registered their conversation as you lay with one elbow propped on the ground and the other hand holding the book, using it as a shield against the bright sun. However, your peaceful reading was interrupted by the rowdy boys behind you. Alex, George, Charles, and Lando were engaged in a game of cornhole, their shouts and cheers growing louder with each round. Their competitive banter blended with the sound of the cornhole sacks hitting the wooden board, making it difficult for you to concentrate on your book.

With a deep sigh of frustration, you carefully placed the book down and turned to your friend Lily, who was sitting next to you on the deck of the yacht. The sound of raucous laughter and shouting from the boys had grown increasingly louder, making it difficult for anyone else to carry on a conversation.

"Could they be any louder?" Carmen asked, her voice barely audible over the noise.

You nodded in agreement, “I know right, it’s like they are the only ones on the damn yacht.” You turned over, and, now laying on your stomach, you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched the boys play.

Your eyes were immediately drawn to Lando, his intense focus on the game evident in the way his brow furrowed and his arms swung the sandbag with ease. You couldn't help but admire how effortlessly he moved, his muscles flexing with each throw. His fingers ran through his messy summer curls, adding to his charming and carefree appearance. He was perfect in every way, and just knowing he was yours made your heart soar with happiness.

Lily and Carmen resumed their conversation, still reclining on their backs. You found yourself growing quiet, a natural state for you. Your introverted nature preferred observing to actively participating in conversations.

As a child, this led to struggles in making friends. Some labeled you as mean, but the truth was that you simply had little patience for most individuals. Your shyness was often viewed as a weakness and your silence as threatening, but slowly you emerged from your shell. Childhood experiences had left you with deep scars, ones that most people could never imagine. For a long time, you kept these memories buried deep within, trying to forget they were real. But then Lando came into your life, and he helped unravel all the pieces of you that had been hidden away. He didn't run away or judge you; instead, he loved every part of you as if you were made just for him. And because of him, you met others who saw and appreciated the real you as well.

That’s why you loved these people on the yacht. Not just Lando, who you’ve been dating for three years now, but even his friends and their girlfriends. They were lively at times, but they could be calm and relaxing too, having real and deep conversations. When you started dating Lando, they welcomed you with open arms, and the group quickly felt like a newfound family, one that you desperately needed.

Lando was sunshine personified. His deep, rich laugh was infectious, bringing out the same pure happiness in everyone around him, including you. You couldn't help but notice how his eyes would crinkle at the corners when he laughed so hard that tears formed in his eyes. And with his perfectly tanned skin and light brown hair, he looked as if he had been sent down from the Sun itself just for you to love and for him to love you back even more fiercely. His genuine empathy and understanding towards your struggles made it feel like he could see right into your soul, and his persistent effort to get to know you only further solidified your growing feelings for him.

The two of you truly seemed like opposites, but everyone around you saw how much love was between you and Lando. As you watched him play cornhole, a small smile spread on your lips. It was inevitable, Lando seemed to just have that effect on you.

“Lando, looks like you’ve got an admirer,” Charles shouted to him as he must have caught you staring. Your face flushed, even more so with the sun beating down. Lando caught your eye, shooting you a wink.

“Good, I’m on fire! Best game I’ve played yet.” Lando proudly proclaimed, which made you grin even more.

Carmen turned on her stomach now to watch along with you. “George, baby, how are you doing?” She asked him.

Lando was the one to respond though, “Oh, he’s playing like shit. You better take his place.” Everyone bursted out into laughs, everyone except George, who always got slightly offended at jokes made at his expense.

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” George sighed with a wave of his hand. “Let’s play another game, I’ll beat you this time.”

“That’s what you said five games ago,” Alex laughed, which caused the guys to break into another fit of chuckles.

You were enjoying watching them play, but as the sun beat down on your skin and sweat began to form on your brow, you knew it was time to take a break. Walking over to the cooler, you grabbed a cold bottle of water and some freshly cut strawberries. The icy liquid provided instant relief as it cascaded down your throat, while the juicy sweetness of the strawberries left a refreshing aftertaste.

Feeling rejuvenated, you made your way to the edge of the yacht and settled into the welcoming shade. As you gazed out at the vast expanse of ocean before you, you couldn't help but feel a sense of tranquility wash over you. The rhythmic lapping of waves against the boat and the gentle breeze caressing your skin were soothing in a way that only being on the ocean could provide.

Lost in your thoughts, you reached for your book and lost yourself in its pages. The sound of laughter and splashing from your friends faded into the background as you immersed yourself in the fictional world within. Time seemed to pass quickly as you turned one page after another, until you noticed the sky beginning to change color. A soft orange glow now painted the horizon, signaling that sunset was near.

You moved from your spot on the yacht and went back out to see what everyone else was doing. Lando was laying out on a large sunbed, clearly exhausted from his hours of playing cornhole. As you looked around, all of the boys were laying out too. You couldn’t find Carmen or Lily, but you assumed they were still trying to soak up the last bit of sun they could for the day.

“There’s my pretty girl,” Lando smiled as you approached him. You stood beside his sunbed as he kissed the top of your hand. “Where did you run off to?”

“I went to read for a bit. It was kinda distracting earlier when you and the guys were playing.” You explained. He motioned for you to cuddle up next to him on the bed. As you tucked yourself by his side, he smirked.

“Distracting because I was so good looking?” He bantered and you rolled your eyes.

“No, because you guys were being so loud.” You joked and he faked a frown. You smiled, “But you’re also very good looking.”

He tilted your chin up so he could kiss you softly, taking in every bit of you and the strawberry taste still on your lips. As you laid your head back on his chest, he ran his fingers through your hair, playing with it lazily. “I love you a lot you know”

You traced your fingers along his torso and grinned to yourself, “Yeah, I know.”

“Good. Just making sure you don’t forget it.” He leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head, his warm breath mingling with the soft breeze. As the sun began its descent towards the horizon, you both sat on the sunbed, watching the stunning display of colors in the sky. The vibrant oranges and deep blues blended together like a masterpiece, filling you with a sense of awe and wonder. Despite all the pain and suffering in the world, moments like this reminded you of the beauty and magic that still existed. You could feel the warmth of the cooling sun on your skin, leaving a subtle tan as it slowly made its way towards the horizon. The peacefulness of the moment was enough to lull you into a blissful sleep.

Charles propped himself up on his cushioned chair, and saw you asleep on Lando’s chest. “She knocked out, huh?” He smiled at Lando.

“Yeah, guess so. The sun makes her tired sometimes.” Lando replied in a low voice to try and not to wake you up.

“You know, I never heard her say she loved you back earlier.” George remarked from the other side of Lando.

“She doesn’t have to, I know she does.” Lando replied, which confused the guys. He saw their perplexed expressions. “You know it took her a long time to say it in the first place but…I’ve known her long enough to where I know it without her having to say it.”

“I still don’t understand.” Alex piped up next to George.

“I mean, cmon, what’s so hard to understand? You saw the way she watched me earlier. Her eyes said it all. And the other day when she peeled oranges for me without me asking? And yesterday, when we got home, she rambled to me about the book she was reading. You could just see the light and love in her eyes. She never used to be that way, not when I first met her.” Lando knew the other guys still might not get the full picture, but he remembered how you were before you guys started dating. He remembered how you would shut out the world and not let anyone in. He knew that you used to not express how much you liked things or even smile when you ate your favorite foods.

He knew you loved him, he knew it went without saying. You were his everything, and simply being nestled next to him, feeling the gentle rhythm of your breath against his side, was enough to make his heart swell with love. No amount of conversation could match the pure joy of watching you smile or hearing the sweet melody of your voice. The two of you were intertwined, sewn together as the perfect pair.

#f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one #formula one fanfic #lando norris #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x y/n #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine

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crashandlivewrites · 5 months

Text

Bathroom Habits with the 141 Boys

These were random thoughts that I had so I wanted to make it a thing with some input from @soapsgf

TF141 x GN!Reader

CW: it gets mildly steamy in a couple of them, but relatively domestic otherwise

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Chronic shower sharer. If you��re showering, he’s showering. Just enjoys spending the time with you

Hogs the water and adjusts the temperature for his liking, even if you got in there first

Washes your hair and body tenderly, massaging you gently with your favourite soaps and presses soft kisses to your shoulders as the water rinses your skin

Always comments on the smell of everything and tells you his favourites so you buy them again. Also takes into consideration the smells you like best on him

Loves when you return the favour and wash him. He’s a glutton for being pampered

Avid skin-care enthusiast. You don’t get skin that pretty without some TLC. Definitely takes sunscreen away with him

If you’re into skin-care as well, he enjoys doing it together (read: he enjoys lying in your lap and having you take care of his skin for him. Don’t worry, he’ll return the favour)

Does enjoy a cheeky swipe of moisturiser on your face when you’re not paying attention then bolts out of the room before you can retaliate

He’s also a neat man, meticulously laying out your bathroom bench or shelves with products so they’re easy to grab

Enjoys having his face mostly clean shaven when he’s home, but goes to a barber more often than doing it himself

Pushes the toothpaste from the bottom, making it easy to get most of it out

John Price

Not really a fan of sharing showers but enjoys sharing the bathroom at the same time

He likes doing his beard routine/ casual trims if you’re in the shower and vice versa for your small daily tasks whether it be hair or skin care

However, if you are looking to have a bath and you have one big enough to hold you both? You can be damn sure he’s joining you

Also makes it a big deal when he’s back. There’s candles, drinks, bath salts, and a movie playing in the background as you relax, back against his chest

Cannot keep his hands to himself. As you’re paying attention to the movie, his hands are gliding down your sides and over your thighs

Tells you to keep focusing on the movie if you start squirming too much before doubling down

Not big on skin care, but has a beard care range. Thoroughly enjoys spending his time re-shaping his beard especially after coming back, then having you keep up the smaller trims here and there

Does let you put moisturiser and sunscreen on his face but that’s it

Enjoys brushing, stroking, and/ or braiding your hair as you brush your teeth

Sits on the toilet for an hour despite knowing it’s bad for his bowel health

Clenches the middle of the toothpaste tube initially, but does push it up from the bottom when it gets low

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Gremlin in the bathroom. Invades your space. Like Kyle; if you’re showering, he’s showering even if he’s already washed himself for the day

Unapologetically pees in the shower and on you if you’re not careful

Enjoys washing you. Or rather, your chest. Loves soapy nipples. It’s the cleanest part of your body

Also abuses your body with the detachable shower head, holding it between your legs as he pins you to the wall, making you whine

Encourages you to wash him too, trapping your wrists and running your hands over his body suggestively

Can’t have a minute alone with this man. Always has something to talk to you about or show you so there’s no point closing the door

Washes his face with water; bar soap if he’s particularly dirty. We all know he’s a 3 in 1 user

Skin is crusty when he comes back from missions but sits pretty for you if you want to put moisturiser on his face (read: you’ll have to sit on his chest and pin him down but he likes it)

Also another one to spend an hour on the toilet but doesn’t think it’s an issue. Wants you to sit in there with him (no thanks)

Adores it when you shave his mohawk for him. Pretends he can’t do it himself if you’re around. Loves the way your eyes squint in concentration and move his head around forcefully, barking orders at him to sit still

Squeezes the toothpaste right at the top, doesn’t close the lid and leaves it in the sink

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Like Price, also not a shower sharer fan, especially early on in the relationship

The size of him is the main reason, but also wary of making you anxious about his heavily scarred body

No preference of soap or shampoo, probably whatever he’s stolen from base. Also doesn’t use conditioner

Doesn’t mind sharing the bathroom with you though once he gets comfortable, if you happen to be in there at the same time

If you’re having a bath, he won’t join you in the bath, but rather sit next to it on a stool either silently or having quiet conversations with you

Does love washing your hair as he enjoys the way you moan softly at the feeling of his strong hands pressing into your scalp

Always takes deep breaths of your hair and skin when it’s clean, committing the smell to memory

He wears a mask most of the time. He has acne because he doesn’t really wash it, especially on deployment

Doesn’t really care about treating it, but sits for you if you express an interest in taking care of it for him. He won’t admit it, but he is also a glutton for being pampered

Tries to remember what you’ve told him but forgets when he’s away. Sometimes he remembers moisturiser and sunscreen, but it’s a bit hit and miss

Toothpaste looks like he’s had it for years. All shrivelled, cut open, and squeezed to high hell in order to get every bit out

Thank you for reading!! If you have any requests for hc’s, don’t be afraid to send them through!

#crash writes #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #john price #captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #john mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod headcanons #call of duty headcanons

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elaci · 29 days

Text

You need a subject for a photography submission, 'the face of sport'. Art offers one up- him. He doesn't know, however, the long-lasting effects one photo can have.

cw; consensual voyeurism, piv sex, f-receiving oral, masturbation, tennis...

Art Donaldson x fem!reader | The Rule of Thirds masterlist | talk to me!

An old tennis racket, two trophies, a signed ball, three pairs of worn shoes he couldn't bear to part with. Art Donaldson sifts through piles of memories with a smile on his face. Tashi would call it junk and insist Art gave up on what he does not use anymore if she knew it was here, hidden in boxes labelled ‘LINEN’ in the basement where the dust collects dust.

His old pair of lucky socks, an empty bottle of sunscreen, a drive-in ticket to Fast and The Furious, another old tennis racket, his last ever report card from school. Art has to take a moment to stretch his back out, being hunched over a box of old things doesn't work for long periods of time when your posture is everything. He isn't so sure what he's looking for under the dim light of a bulb that needs to be changed: a piece of himself, if he were ever that pensive.

A box of condoms with only one left inside, a toy race car he found on the side of the road after losing a match, three different lighters. The blond has a match the next day and a sore shoulder to boot- with a grimace, he pushes his hair out of his eyes. The basement feels cold and stale and Art doesn't quite know why he prefers being down here than lounging in the wide expanse of his multi-million dollar home. Tashi will be back soon and aching to go and train— maybe it's just a moment alone that Art is after.

Art throws an old neck pillow on the ground beside him and coughs at the dust it kicks up. He knows he should go back upstairs and forget about a life gone by, but when Art peers into what he thinks is a now-empty box, his eyes widen. A camera bag sits abandoned at the bottom of the box, a ribbon that was once tied around the handle lays discarded next to the bag, frayed at the edges.

Art Donaldson feels like an infidel, an apostate, as he reaches in and picks up the bag. It's smooth against his fingertips, the zip cold from its neglect, though the bag is in good condition in spite of a half decade's worth of dust and the constant use of it beforehand. It smells like something old and sweet, and Art feels perverted for even remembering a time of such struggle when his life now is so easy. The feeling makes his breath catch, and he holds the bag to his chest like it'll give him strength- the idolater that he is.

He's seen many cameras in his life, but the one inside is what he remembers most fondly, it's an old Canon with a scratched lens. Though Art is no religious man, this is an occasion that warrants a little extra faith and he thanks whoever listened for blessing his hands with the volition to dig into his past. Also in the bag is a set of printed polaroids held together with a worn elastic hair tie, though Art discards them for the moment in fear of recalling too much.

He takes the camera in both hands and turns it on, half expecting a dead battery symbol to greet his piqued attention, but instead, the screen lights up and he's looking at his spacious basement through a camera that's seen more than it should. He aims the camera into the box mislabelled 'LINEN' and snaps a photo of the white ribbon lying at the bottom. He smiles, presses a button on the camera, and waits as it loads the picture onto the display.

"Not too shabby," he hums to himself, though falls silent again when his finger hovers over the PREVIOUS button, and Art Donaldson falls victim to the sin of nostalgia.

He presses the button and is immediately assaulted with a flash into the past that burns a hole right through his stomach. There he stands, spry and grinning like an idiot with a lollipop stick between his teeth, his arms draped around Patrick Zweig, who is sticking up bunny ears on top of his head. They look happier than ever, bound by a friendship they had thought to be unbreakable. Art can't bear the sight, he presses the button again and feels nauseous.

It's the same scene, the same lollipop stick between his teeth, the same eye-slanting grin across his face. But rather than Patrick Zweig by his side, someone else hangs off his arm...

The door upstairs slams- Tashi's home. The basement ceiling shakes with the rattle of the door, and Art jumps when his wife, his wife, calls into the house for him.

"Art?"

He drops the camera, and the damned thing breaks as it hits the concrete flooring. His heart pounds in his chest as he scrambles for the shattered pieces, eyes glued on the now-dull display screen.

"Art, come on." Tashi's voice is loud enough for Art to catch as she walks through their first floor. "I want to get an hour in before we leave."

Art looks from the camera to the stairs, and then to the set of polaroids he had left unlooked at. And like a dog biting his own tail despite the pain of his own teeth, Art shoves the polaroids into his back pocket and straightens up.

“Coming, babe!”

SIX YEARS EARLIER

“If you hit my camera with that ball, I’ll never forgive you.”

Art grins, “What, you don’t trust my aim?”

You stand to the side of the court, eyes squinted in opposition to the sun as you watch Art Donaldson take a tennis racket from his bag and stretch out his shoulders. You don’t know him, not really, but you’ll vouch on any given day that the man has nice hands.

You manage yourself as he pulls a tennis ball from his pocket and hits it against the floor a few times before catching it and looking up at you, hands on hips.

“So, I just hit the ball a few times?”

You nod, “and look good doing it.”

Art snorts out a peal of sweet laughter that has you grinning in response, though when you take your camera from its bag, you’re struck with an issue.

“Hey, can I put my camera bag with your things? I really don’t want to lose it.”

Art looks from you to the bag you hold, a black camera bag with a white ribbon tied dutifully around the handle, he nods and gestures over to his belongings that sit to the side of the court, but can't help his curiosity. "What's the ribbon for?"

"So I know it's mine, everyone in my photography class opted for the same bag," you shrug. "Plus, it's pretty."

Art lets out a hearty laugh and readies himself with a few more stretches as you situation yourself, checking settings and exposure and the such. He doesn't want to distract you, but the silence between you is heavy and awkward. He wishes desperately to fill it, but words of much grandiosity fail to find their way out of his mouth.

"So, you like photography?"

You giggle at his attempt and squint up at him. "You could say that. It's a bit of an entry-level requirement for being a photographer, you know... liking it."

He laughs again, leaning back on his heels to admire the care you take with the camera, fiddling with the settings. He doesn't know you, not really, but he'll vouch on any given day that you have nice hands.

Art's tennis coach is in the midst of a hot work-fling with a professor who happens to head the photography club. She had a student lost on a subject for the 'faces of sport' submission, and Art's coach put his name forward. And here you are, now one of many who have watched him through a camera lens. He had seen you around campus on occasion, taken note of you talking to a friend of a friend- he'd have introduced himself if Patrick wasn't always dragging him away for a drink or four.

Now though, sober and grounded in his element: the court, Art can't help but let his eyes train on you a moment too long. He wonders what you see through the camera lens- a tennis player or a peer?

"Ready?" You're looking up at him with an encouraging smile and he feels his cheeks burn under your gaze as you snap a picture of him as he stands unassumingly.

"I did not say I was ready," Art points an accusing finger at you, but replaces his butthurt tone with a smile and readies himself to hit a few balls. "But I am. Now, at least."

You laugh, and Art finds himself wanting to hear it every day for the rest of his natural life. He smiles at the sound, a toothy grin he'd usually only flash when drunk or ecstatic.

You take another picture, and one more when he frowns at your antics. "You said you were ready," you shrug.

Art serves a few times, getting into his element as you photograph him. The click of your camera becomes background noise as Art works with his mind's eye and body's memory, making precise adjustments and hitting perfectly every single time. He gets into a sweet rhythm, serve after serve as he hits the balls to an empty other half of the court. You watch his form through the camera, taking each shot as they present themselves to you. All he does is play tennis, yet you find yourself eyeing something breathtaking. He's beautiful, like a piece of art with skill unmatched, but it's not his form that piques your interest: it's the look in his eyes. Focused, intent— in love. He adores what he does, the narcotic feeling it gives him, and you find you adore watching it flood his system.

Though your perfect shot, your submission picture, comes as an idea.

"Okay," your voice breaks Art's reverie, and he stops mid-serve to look at you. "I have what I need."

Art's brows furrow, "that's all?"

His arms fall to his sides, tennis ball dropping by his feet as his racket hangs loosely from his grip. He's sweaty, hair damp and sticking to his forehead. Though he hasn't done much, you blame the sun and thank it in the same regard: he looks good.

"Just one more thing," you hum, raising your camera one last time. "Smile like you did before."

"What?"

"Just do it, Art."

He likes the sound of his name on your lips and obliges without further question. There he stands like a boy on his first day of school, arms by his side, racket hanging from his grip, sweaty and squinting under the bleating sun with a wide grin plastered on his face.

And you take the photo, him to the left of the shot as an empty court fills the rest of the frame. Remnants of that elated look still shine in his eyes, you've caught the afterglow.

"That's the one," you practically jump up and down at the picture staring back at you on the display.

Art makes a face. "What? I wasn't even playing."

You have to look from camera-Art to real-life-Art to catch his frown. You smile in response and walk pointedly over to the blond so you can practically shove your camera in his face.

"Look," you offer, feeling the extra heat of his body against you when he looks over your shoulder to gaze at the camera screen. You click through photos of him playing, all basic pictures he's seen a hundred times with a hundred different players. "That's the game, hitting a ball with a racket. You look good, you're focused, in touch with yourself, that's great. But this..." you click forward until you find your latest image, the one of him smiling, "...this is the afterglow, the dopamine rush, the actual game, the face of sport."

Art is quiet. He stares at himself, his own smile. A moment passes, and then another, and you're beginning to think he doesn't see the vision when he finally breaks the silence.

"Have you ever played tennis?" His voice is barely there, loud enough for you to hear as he leans down a little, right next to your ear.

You shake your head, you know he can see it, his breath is hot on your neck.

Art stands upright. "You should let me teach you. It's a good skill to have."

You turn and look up at him, "anyone can hit a ball with a racket."

He's quick to frown, a dramatic faux hurt etched across his face, "anyone can press a button on a camera."

You're about to defend your sport, ramble about the editing process and exposure settings and moving subjects and the rule of thirds when Art's sour expression loses to his breaking grin, and you catch the hypocrisy as it's about to drip from your tongue.

Before you can reply, however, he cuts you off. "I'll let you use that photo of me... if you let me teach you the basics."

The basics aren’t so basic when you spend most of your time photographing the ball, not trying to hit it. Art is patient, laughing ceremoniously whenever you flinch at the ball as it comes towards you, clapping when you do hit, and offering you pointers when you don’t. Half of the guys at Stanford for sports would have left fifteen minutes ago when you called tennis ‘a game straight from Satan's hole’. Art just laughed.

You wonder if you weren’t in need of a subject for your submission, whether you and Art would have ever crossed paths naturally. You wonder who his friends are, what he does when he’s not playing tennis, if he has other hopes and dreams.

“Your grip is wrong,�� Art calls from the other side of the net. “You can hurt your wrist like that.”

You look down at your grip on Art’s racket and sigh—there’s a proper way of doing everything in tennis, you presume. You’re about to try and correct it yourself when Art quite literally jumps over the net to your side, he’s right in front of you in only a second.

“Hi,” he huffs.

“Hi.”

Art gestures something with his hands that you don’t quite get, then takes another step closer to you before freezing. “Oh, can I touch you? To fix your stance, I mean.”

“I thought it was my grip that was wrong.”

“That too.”

You have to laugh at your fuck-ups if you want to avoid looking like an egg. You nod to Art, who moves behind you and gently places his hands on your hips. He guides your body, slender fingers splayed over your waist, into a position that feels unnatural yet somewhat powerful. With a gentle nudge of his foot between your legs, he parts them and pushes one slightly forward.

“That’s good,” his voice hits your ears in waves, and you feel the tingle of goosebumps creep up along your arm. “Now your grip."

Art Donaldson slides his hands down your arms, taking each of your wrists in each of his hands and readjusts your grip on the handle of the racket, one hand above the other.

You stare at the ground, and he clears his throat quietly. “Like this.”

He brings both of his hands down to cup around yours and pulls your arms up as he swings your arms back and forth, the movement fluid. in demonstration of the godforsaken 'proper technique'. Your back is pressed right against his front, his chest flush against your back and the ridges of his stomach brushing against the line of your spine. Your heart races, and though you're sure he hears it, it's drowned out by the pounding of blood throughout your head as you focus on each movement of his hands, on his words, and on his voice.

"There we go," he nods, his mess of blond hair brushing against your neck as he dips his head down, presumably to check your footing. Your body shudders as he whispers, "Good job," and his mouth tickles the shell of your ear before he releases you. The world seems to tilt, no longer relying on Art for balance. You're surprised the racket doesn't fall from your grasp when he steps back, though with the loss of contact, your knees feel weak enough to collapse. As it stands, though, you're still standing, and Art is beaming down at you like he's just taught a puppy a new trick.

"So, what'd you think?" he asks.

You tilt your head in question.

Art smiles wider, "is it easier than pressing a button on a camera?"

"Oh, so you're an asshole," a bemused smile crawls across your lips.

He snorts, "Maybe."

Your laughter dies away as a strange sort of melancholy seeps in. You're suddenly aware of how far apart you two are, the space between your bodies, the lack of physical contact. Art notices, and gives a soft laugh of his own, a lighthearted chuckle that breaks the eerie need to replace the warmth of the sun with the warmth of each other.

"So," Art crosses his arms. "Now you just have to learn how to hit the ball."

"Ha ha ha," you verbalise, straight-lipped and eyebrows furrowed. "Maybe next time, hot shot."

"Next time?" Art's reply is quick. "So you'll let me keep teaching you?"

You smile at him, "No, I was lying to be polite."

It's Art's turn to act unimpressed, but you see him bite back a grin. He lets out a stressed-short laugh that turns into a huff at the end. "You're so funny."

"I know."

"Will you show me the photo once it's printed?"

It takes you a moment to realise he's being serious.

"Huh?" you ask, looking up.

Art's eyes are wide, and he raises an eyebrow. "Can I have your phone number?" he clarifies.

You open your mouth to object, to tell him no- you don't give your number to random boys you've just met, but instead, the corners of your mouth twitch upward and you're suddenly typing your number into Art's phone and saving your name with a smiley face next to it. Art smiles at the gesture and pockets his phone. There's a moment of silence shared between you, an unassuming silence that's more comfortable than it is awkward, but a silence nonetheless.

A silence broken by the loud echoing voice of another boy calling out from the far side of the courts- a brunette with curls that are more defined than Arts, that's the most you can make of him as he calls to the blond by your side, waving his arms above his head and then gesturing to his wrist like he's tapping a watch.

"Oh, shit," Art pulls his phone back out to check the time. "Fuck, sorry, I have to go."

You shrug, smiling. "It's fine, thanks for giving up some of your time."

Art smiles back, thanking you in turn for putting up with his tennis brain, then hurries to grab his things and race away in the direction of his friend. For a few seconds, all you can do is stand there dumbly watching his retreating form until he reaches his friend, who nudges Art and looks over his shoulder at you before the pair of them disappear around the corner leading back towards campus.

It's not until they're out of eyeshot that you turn to grab your camera bag, just to be greeted by an empty space where you had left it. Your heart drops for a moment, the thought of losing your camera a soul-crushing one. You remember, though, tucking it away with Art's stuff for safekeeping. He must have grabbed it in his rush to leave.

You exhale, running a hand over your forehead. Well fuck.

Art Donaldsons dorm room number plays on a loop in your head that night. He had texted you as promised, with a simple ‘I HAVE YOUR CAMERA!’ along with an easy ‘COME TO MY DORM I HAVE BEER’

It had taken him another ten minutes to realise you’d have no clue where his dorm was, and send through his dorm number. You had debated sending him a text back, telling him to meet you tomorrow on campus to hand over the camera, but your submission deadline is the next night and you need time to edit, decide you hate your prospective career as a photographer, and then fall in love with the process all over again.

You roam the halls of the boys' dorms for a few minutes, eyeing door numbers until you find his. Some doors are left ajar, some wide open and sporting odours so bad you curse God for giving you a sense of smell. You finally find Art’s door, and double check the number twice before knocking, despite a tennis ball sticker just above the door handle.

There's a little rustling inside when you knock, but his voice calls out clearly. "Come in!"

When you open the door, you're greeted not by Art Donaldson, but by the blinding flash of your own camera. You blink away the stun to find Art grinning at the display, admiring his handiwork as an amateur photographer. He turns your camera in his hands to show you to yourself, startled and wide-eyed in a half-blurred photo: Art's finger covers a corner of the frame too, it must have been over the lens.

"I think I'm a natural," he bites his tongue cheekily as he hands you your camera back. You check it over, out of habit more than mistrust of Art, and he pushes his door wide open to reveal the dorm room in all its college-student glory. It's not large by any means, but it has everything you could ever possibly want and then some, plus an impressive collection of sports memorabilia from past years and awards displayed in frames on the walls. Your camera bag is sitting on his bed, and Art gestures you towards it with a smile.

"Sorry," he spins around and opens a little cooler sitting on his floor, pulling out two beer cans from inside and offering you one. "I didn't realise I had picked it up. Were you okay without it?"

You take the beer with a 'thanks' and pat the small shoulder bag you wear. You lift the flap open to reveal a little Polaroid camera, an old one you barely use anymore. "Had to pull this off the shelf," you say. "But yeah, it should be good now."

"That's good," Art nods as you pop the top of your beer.

You sit on the edge of his bed while he takes a sip of his beer, staring at you. You notice a slight flush to his cheeks and wonder if he's a few drinks ahead of you. You can't help but laugh, leaning forward as you rest your elbows on your thighs. "Why am I here, Art?"

He frowns, looking down at you from where he stands, leaning against his countertop. "To pick up your camera?"

"You could have met me with it tomorrow. It's..." you glance at the alarm clock beside his bed, "nearly midnight."

He blinks and laughs sheepishly at you, scratching behind his neck. "Yeah, about that... I guess I just wanted to see you again?"

"Oh," you lean back and purse your lips in surprise, glancing from Art and the beautiful nervous look on his face to the beer he holds in a tight grip.

Art laughs softly, "Are you freaked out?"

"No," you shake your head quickly, "I'm not freaked out, Art."

Art chuckles lightly at that, his smile widening as his blush deepens. "Okay," he breathes out before he takes another sip of his beer and moves to sit beside you on the bed. It dips under his weight, almost pulling you closer into him, though he leaves enough space to remain respectable. His eyes seem darker now, more focused, even though his expression remains soft and pleasant. His gaze lingers on your face for a while before he opens his mouth to speak. "You said earlier, on the court, that the photo you took was the real face of sport. You're good, huh?"

"I'd like to think so," you smile fondly, gaze flitting from his lips to his eyes.

"Are you in love with it?"

You hum, "with photography?"

Art's eyes flick up to your eyes. His gaze is intense, not in a scary way, but something more playful and inviting. He nods.

"I love it, sure," you nod, situating yourself to sit more comfortably on Art’s bed. "Are you in love with tennis?"

Art nods, taking a longer drink from his beer. "Yes."

Your brow furrows and you raise an eyebrow. "I didn't know. You seemed pretty nonchalant about the whole 'look at me, I'm a tennis player' thing, actually."

His face splits in a toothy grin. "I'm humble."

You giggle quietly at that, and stare at him for a couple of seconds, studying his face, taking in every little detail. His hair, his eyes, the faintest hint of stubble on his jawline and chin, his smile, and the dimples on each cheek that said smile brings out. There are traces of dark circles underneath his eyes, you realise, and they're highlighted when his pupils expand slightly at your laughter.

You feel warm, and not from the alcohol that sits inside your stomach. The both of you place down your beers, and Art Donaldson, who may well have a girlfriend and dirtied intentions, takes in a deep breath before asking you lowly, "Can I kiss you?"

The word 'please' escapes your lips before you can stop it and the red tint in Art's ears deepens. You bite the insides of your cheeks nervously, waiting for Art to speak again, but he doesn't, and suddenly his hand is at the nape of your neck, tugging you forwards and pressing his lips to yours in a hungry, desperate manner.

As he starts moving slowly, his tongue darts out and traces the curve of your bottom lip as he pulls you further into him, the taste of his beer lingering on his lips making the gesture feel all the more enticing. A hand cups your jaw, slender fingers trailing down your neck in sensual exploration of your exposed body before his other hand rests on the small of your back and he draws you even closer until the heat radiating off himself feels almost unbearable on your skin.

There's no hesitation, no awkward pauses, or second-guessing, you find yourself melting against his body instinctively. A narcotic, he is, the way he smells and tastes and sounds and touches, and there's only so much you can handle before it overwhelms your senses completely. The kiss itself isn't that hot, it's chaste and messy and your teeth click against his in the desperation of it all, but it fills you with something unfamiliar, makes you feel lightheaded and dizzy and yearning wholeheartedly for more. You don't care how little you know him, you don't mind the lack of foreplay; you just feel overwhelmed and need more, you need more than just his lips on yours.

He practically whimpers when you pull back, his hands sliding down to hold onto your hips possessively. Sad eyes meet yours at the loss of your taste, but you brush off his worry easily, running your thumb across his cheekbone as he leans into your touch, breathing in and out heavily through his nose as if you are his only source of breath, and the sight causes a knot to form in your stomach.

"You are single, right?" your kiss-swollen lips whisper against his and you feel him exhale.

"Yes," he speaks against your mouth, a husky sound that makes your heart ache.

"Good."

You kiss him again, more fervently, letting your tongue tangle with his as his arm wraps around you tightly. Before you know it, Art has your back against his mattress and is hovering over you, hands gliding swiftly under your shirt. You aid him in getting it over your head and watch as he follows suit, pulling off his own shirt and tossing it to the floor in dismissal. He slides down his shorts and leaves himself in a pair of blue boxers that you already notice are tenting.

You take a moment, you have to, to appreciate the sculpt of Art’s body—the muscled planes of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders. His face is flushed, hair mussed and unkempt, lips swollen and kissed pink. You want to commit every last inch of this man to memory, keep him locked in the back of your mind in fear of never experiencing this again.

Is this a one-time thing? You lift your hips as Art pulls down your shorts and panties in one go, and you can't help but wonder if this is the first and only time you'll feel his fingertips against the skin of your thighs. When morning comes, and your lust is expelled and tired, will Art turn his shoulder from you? Is this something? Hell, you don't know the guy, not really.

But he presses a gentle kiss to your lower abdomen and you feel safe and comfortable; your heart rate slows as the tension eases and your body sinks further into the mattress, letting Art's hand slip between your legs to part them. "Art…"

A low moan passes your lips as he brushes his fingertips over your clit, they're still cold from holding his beer, and the stark contrast in temperature is enough to make you gasp. Art slides his thumb over the sensitive nub and you arch your back in response. Your hands come to grasp at the sheet beneath you, knuckles whitening from the amount of pressure you're exerting on them. You want more, but you realise quickly that Art is a man for taking his time. Slow, languid circles over your clit, not daring to even push a finger inside of you just yet. You whine and buck your hips against his hand, needing his touch to be deeper.

He presses a kiss to your chest, and then trails his mouth down your stomach, pausing briefly to look up at you before he dips to place a kiss directly to your pulsing clit.

You freeze, and a wave of insecurity washes over you. "You don't have to..."

"I'm dying here," Art's eyes meet yours: he looks starved. "Please let me."

All you can do is nod your head and close your eyes as he delves between your thighs for a taste of your lust. His free hand digs into the flesh of your thigh, grip tight as if he’s dead set on leaving his mark, staking his claim. He’s showering in the way you writhe, his tongue rolling over your clit as he slips two fingers inside of you. He’s high off your taste alone, latching his lips around your clit in an assault fueled by insatiable need.

You can feel him shuffle a little, moving his free hand from your thigh to reach under his own waistband and stroke himself in tandem with the thrust of his fingers inside of you. His pace quickens, though he still manages to savour your pleasure. Your hand snakes down to thread your fingers through his mess of blond hair, pushing your hips up in an attempt for more.

As Art pumps his cock with his hand, he groans against your heated flesh, sending vibrations from your sex to your spine: you arch your back in pleasure, the tightness of an impending orgasm beginning to roll over you. You try to vocalise it, tell Art you’re close, but you’re already a mess of incoherent moans and pleads for more— but he doesn’t need words to know, not when he can feel you clenching around his fingers, your every muscle tensing. His scalp must burn from the stress of your pulling, but he doesn’t seem to mind so much, smiling against your pussy as he finger-fucks you to climax.

With a sharp inhale and a choked sob of a moan from your throat, you come undone under Art’s ministrations, your vision blurred and stomach in knots of ecstasy. It's only once your breath finds you again that Art pulls his fingers out of you and climbs over you once more to press a messy kiss to your lips, he shares with you a taste of yourself, lips glistening with your release. He grins into the kiss, as pussydrunk as can be, and moves to press a sloppy mixture of kisses and bites to your exposed neck.

"You taste so good," he speaks against your skin, nipping at your pulse.

"I want more of you," you exhale, dizzy with lust.

Your legs tighten around his back as he meets your eyes once again, a sultry smile creeping across his face. You snake a hand down to the waistband of his boxers, noting the thin layer of sweat that already glosses Art's torso, and dip a finger under the elastic. "Is this okay?"

"Yeah, please," he murmurs, ducking down to press another kiss to your shoulder. You tuck your hand into his boxers, feeling past his trimmed-short hair and wrapping your fingers around his cock, rock hard and pulsing in your hand. He groans and presses himself further into your hand, his teeth dragging along the expanse of your shoulder as you pump his shaft. His hips rise of their own accord as you bring your hand higher, rubbing along his length until you have him completely desperate for the now-familiar warmth of your pussy.

"I need to be inside of you," he lays his intentions out, head tilting up to watch you for a sign of protest.

You nod, eager and willing to accommodate him, and release his cock, raising yourself onto your elbows to get a better look at the beautiful mess of a man moving to stand. He (ungracefully) reaches over to grab a condom from his bedside drawer and sheds his boxers. Inhaling slowly through his nose, he takes his time as he slides the condom onto his dick, stroking his cock gently once it's on. He watches you closely, a fond look on his face as he rubs the head of his cock up and down your pussy a few times, collecting the remnants of your lust and his spit before he enters you. It's slow, and careful, and deliberate, and your body trembles in anticipation, eyes flickering closed when he finally gives into your silent plea. The shared gasp between you is uniform, a symphony of pleasure and endurance. Him, overwhelmed by just how tight you are. You, overwhelmed by the stretch of just how big he is.

Art bottoms out in one movement, to get the harshest part out of the way for you; you hiss at the searing heat of the stretch, but calm as Art stills inside of you. You both take a moment, a shared breath, to appreciate being one, and the pleasure that comes with such entwining.

Once you’re ready, you squeeze his bicep, giving him the green-light to move. And he does, painstakingly slow, he pulls out of you, just to snap his hips forward to plunge himself back inside. The hand that isn't holding him up is pressed down on your stomach, feeling himself through you as he pushes in deep, then withdraws. Each thrust of his cock brings forth a loud gasp from your lips, which only serves to guide him further into a state of mindless bliss. He keeps himself in check as best he can, though his breathing has quickened considerably as he continues to fuck you. You feel like you're going to lose your mind, unable to breathe or speak or think straight as you're pulled closer and closer to your end. Though as you've learnt, Art Donaldson is a man to take his time, and he switches from the fast snapping thrusts to a slow roll of his hips once he feels he's a little too close to the edge.

You notice, too: you see the tension building in his muscles, how he pants and groans with each movement he makes. He stares at you adoringly, heavy lids weighing his sights down to your chest, your arched torso, your sweet design. He leans down to press another kiss to you, lips parting so he can slide his tongue into your mouth as his rhythm quickens even more. The kiss feels more intimate than even the act of his cock splitting you open, it's a sweet one, a honeymoon-style kiss where after his forehead meets yours and his eyes bore into your eyes in a mixture of something hazy.

You notice the glossy look in his eyes immediately, it's the same one you had seen on the tennis court earlier. The awestruck, total blissful look in his eyes that had spurred your inspiration. The face of sport. Even through your fucked-dumb haze of lust and a hedonistic desire to finish like this, with Art on top of you, the opportunist in yourself can't help but move. You place a firm hand on Art's shoulder, and his thrusts roll to a stop.

"You okay?" he pants, a sudden worry in his eyes, he looks you over for any signs of discomfort.

"Fine," you shake your head, trying to clear it, blinking away the foggy sensation clouding your mind. "Just, uh... do you trust me?"

Art's eyebrows shoot up, taken aback by the question: "Why?"

Your voice is barely there, a heat spreading across your face as you ask; "will you let me on top?"

Art chuckles low and deep, eyes never breaking contact with yours. A gentle touch to the curve of your ass cheek tells you that he'll miss the view, but he nods nonetheless, and you smile in turn. You expect Art to pull out and lay back on the bed, but instead, he wraps one arm under your back and pushes up with his other, flipping the both of you in one fluid motion. As soon as he's flipped over you straddle his waist, resting your hands on his chest for support, and laugh at the sheer adrenaline rush of it all.

This new position, with you sitting on Art's cock, makes you feel twice as full. You can tell that neither of your orgasms are far off, and you take the opportunity to test the waters. You roll your hips, grinding down on Art's cock, enjoying the way his eyes flutter shut. When he lets out a low noise of approval that sends shivers down your spine, you lower your body closer, pressing a wet kiss to Art's jaw as he grips your waist with a strength you don't doubt will bruise come morning.

His hips raise underneath you, fucking up into you as you continue your ministrations. The sound of skin hitting skin fills the air, and you'd close your eyes in ecstasy if you weren't so hypnotised by the sheen in Art's eyes. With each thrust Art manages to drive into you, you find your nails biting into the skin of his chest. He gets louder, groans and whines that you'd play on repeat if you could,, he's close, and he says as such.

"Let me take a picture," you say before you can stop yourself; his jaw slacks open at your words, staring up at you with incredulity written across his face. You defend your proposal- "With the Polaroid. I'll let you keep it, no copies."

A bad idea, probably, what with his face being one he hopes to see plastered across buildings one day. He doesn't know why he nods, why he smiles when you reach across the bed for your Polaroid. Maybe it's the mindless state of lust he's in, maybe it's the danger, or maybe he'll find the photo in ten years' time and remember this night with a smile or a frown depending on the grand outcome.

You ready the camera, roll your hips against his a few more times, and look down at pretty Art Donaldson.

"You're fucking gorgeous," you let slip, praise falling from your lips straight to his reddened ears. You feel him twitch inside of you, you squeeze around him in coaxing. "Look at you."

He fucks up into you with a pace unrelenting. Your second orgasm of the night is only seconds away, and you cope through the haze of pleasure and lust to focus on Art's face, memorising every detail of that look in his eyes as he starts to falter.

"Fuck," you groan, pressing down onto him to a new depth. He's tense for a moment, a sweet moment of shared rapture as you both fall over the edge of your climaxes.

"Shit, shit," his sounds mirror yours, veins pulsing in his neck as he cums. One hand digs into your hips, the other grips the sheets.

His eyes meet yours, and you see it. The look, the face of pleasure, of need, of sin.

You take the shot.

SIX YEARS LATER

The night is quiet, save for the sound of rustling trees outside and the occasional passing car. Art Donaldson has to bite his tongue to stop himself from making a noise.

He stands in the shower, water falling over his back, though cleanliness is an afterthought despite being sweat-ridden after hours of training with Tashi.

With one hand, Art pumps his cock in vigorous strokes, leaning against the cold tile wall as he jerks himself off. His eyes are locked onto what he holds in his other hand- the photo you took all those years ago. He's careful not to get it wet, but it's hard to focus on the state of it when his pooling orgasm nearly blinds him.

His eyes burn into the image, a display of himself at his most vulnerable. You had taken it looking down at him as your orgasms synced, and now he looks down at the same sight you had seen at your peak. He cums ropes onto the shower floor, biting so hard on his tongue to stifle his moans that he's surprised he can't taste blood in his mouth.

He’s left breathless, eyes still locked on the polaroid he had found in the basement earlier in the day. There's a handful more of them, but Art had no time to go through them, not after pulling this one out first and being hit with a wave of memories he’s not sure he should have.

He has to satiate his guilt by telling himself it’s not wrong to jerk off, especially not when it’s only a photo of himself… or, that could make it worse. Art exhales deeply, emptying his lungs so he can take a breath of new air.

Art steps backward into the fall of water, letting it run down his face in a rejuvenating cleanse of his sins and unholy ways of thinking. He sighs, wonders what level of hell he’s going to, and then flips the polaroid around.

Written in your handwriting on the strip of white down the bottom in permanent marker,

THE ART OF MAKING LOVE.

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#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson smut #challengers smut #challengers 2024 #art donaldson #art x reader #art smut #art donaldson x you #art donaldson imagine

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honeytonedhottie · 4 months

Text

doll hand-book⋆.ೃ࿔*:･🎀

how to feel prettier, some visual interest tips, a beauty handbook and how to glow up without doing something big/extra, little habits and things that u can incorporate into ur life to make u glow up without even thinking about it ✨ (constantly being updated)

double cleansing every morning and night for clean and sparkling skin

BODY GLITTER

exfoliate ur skin weekly (2-3x)

incorporate pretty words into ur vocabulary

drinking enough water everyday to be healthy and beautiful

sweet smelling body butters and body oils to moisturize

posture is important so sit straight and stand straight

wear sunscreen on your face and body everyday bcuz spf is important

jewelry to decorate ur body

carrying lipglosses and hand lotions and perfumes in ur bag for touch ups throughout the day

meditate, say ur affirmations and journal for a pretty mind

for journaling, buy a cute journal and journal with scented glitter pens and stickers

for visual interest

glitter is very feminine, in makeup, clothing, nails, and on collarbones. when i wear glitter on my skin i feel like a fairy ✨

jewelry makes u glitter (nose studs, stacked necklaces and stacked earrings, rings, belly piercings, and nail gems)

know what ur undertone is, since i have a warm undertone (gold>silver)

LONG is the way to go (long nails, lashes, hair, flowy dresses and tops and skirts)

for the sleek and shiny look (shiny and silky hair, glossy skin and lips)

glowing up subconsciously

prioritize sleep (sleep 8-10 hours a night)

drink at least 1L of water a day

eat a fruit or veggie with every meal to glow from the inside out

use coconut oil/castor oil on ur lashes and brows every night

facial massage everyday and practice mewing

move your body in a way that feels natural (for example, i go to a school where we have to walk a lot bcuz the campus is big so subconsciously i do LOTS of walking without even thinking of it)

if ur wearing ur hair up/in a protective style, use a hair mask

to look polished and put together

chapped lips are unacceptable, use an overnight lip mask and a hydrating chapstick throughout the day. if u notice ur lips just peeling in general, use an exfoliating scrub/brush ur lips with a toothbrush.

neat hair = a polished look

keep ur nails trimmed, filed, and polished and if u wanna do a little extra get them manicured

address skin concerns so that then you can get glossy skin

make sure all ur metals match and color coordinate

keep it simple

details make a difference

shape ur brows

whiten ur teeth + maintain good oral health

color coordinate

fixing posture

HELPFUL RESOURCES

how to smell dreamy - @flirtygirl-coterie

feminine archetypes - @prissygrlsorority

beauty binder - @prissygrlsorority

maintaining a clean and fresh appearance - by yours truly

makeup tutorial in pics - by yours truly

"your glowing" - by yours truly

general hygiene secrets and tricks - by yours truly

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achenetype · 4 months

Text

the place i left behind — luke castellan // explicit

luke is on the run. things would be going perfectly if only he could stay away from you.

pairing: luke castellan x reader

word count: 2.1k

content: smut/explicit content, oral (f receiving), slight choking, coming in pants, afab reader, unclaimed reader, weed mention, a bit of angst but it’s all for the plot

🎧: the place i left behind by the deep dark woods

it was a bad idea for luke to come back to camp. you knew it; he knew it better. returning after what he had done wasn’t just stupid — it was a death sentence.

but here he is, tapping on the window of the cabin you used to share.

you meet his eyes through the warped glass and his face curls upward into a lazy smile. hey, he mouths. it knocks the wind out of you, sudden and disarming; seeing that familiar grin makes your chest ache.

“hey,” you whisper back, knowing he can’t hear you. hoping he can read your lips, knowing you won’t get your breath back until you can see him face-to-face.

outside? luke says, gesturing to the door of the cabin. moonlight falls in bars through the windows, illuminating a stripe across the worn brass doorknob.

you nod. the simple motion makes you nauseous. this isn’t safe. you’re going to get caught. you’re going to get him caught, and then—

you’re standing in front of the door before you know it. cold brass meets your fingertips and you bite your tongue, pretending you don’t feel how your hands shake as you turn the knob with a soft click.

outside, it's hot and humid. the air seems to hang in place for a split-second before luke is on you; his arms wrap around you and his face finds a home in the crook of your neck. this close, you can feel him breathing, feel the muscles shift as he inhales and exhales.

your fingertips roll over luke’s back — over his deltoids, those powerful ropes of tissue hooked into the bones of his shoulders. you joked about him being missing a pair of wings before, but that was before this.

before you could feel exactly how much potential he had shifting under his skin. before he squeezes you and murmurs into your pulse, “shit, angel, i missed you.”

hearing that nickname from his mouth feels like someone has ripped a hole in everything you are. luke smells like sweat and sunscreen and just a hint of weed smoke, and he missed you.

“i missed you too,” you breathe, and luke reaches up to hold your face in his hands. his forehead presses to yours, his dark curls damp against your skin. the bridge of his nose brushes yours, quick, barely-there.

you pull back, lacing your fingers with his, and he follows. it’s almost like nothing’s changed, you think, the two of us sneaking out, the closeness. the rhythm between the two of you picks up just like it would any other day.

except luke’s hair is longer, creeping uncut towards his eyes, and there are new scars on his hands and his back. there’s a knife on his belt and the outline of a gun — a mortal gun — silhouetted through the white fabric of his tank top, the metal of it still cold despite being pressed against his stomach—

you wonder if he knows how to use it. if he had lined up a shot, pressed the barrel against someone’s chest or forehead or the underside of their chin, and pulled the trigger. you wonder how luke’s face would look spattered with blood.

you wonder how it would feel to wipe that blood off of him with your fingertips or a wet rag, sitting with his knees bracketing your hips, just like every other time you’d cleaned him up.

—and luke had never held you like that before; like he was afraid to lose you before you could even say one word to him. like crushing you to his chest would keep you there forever.

“why did you come back?” you ask, praying that he won’t say what you already know.

luke sighs and rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “you get right to the point, dont’cha?”

his voice is teasing, low enough that a few of his words blur together. y’get right to the point. his thumb moves in twisting, concentric circles around the ridges of your fingers. his eyes dart up to yours.

luke reaches to cradle your face again, his knuckles grazing your cheeks as his palms flatten, one at a time and molasses-slow, against your jaw. “i wanted to see you,” he says.

there it is.

you step back and luke follows, matching your steps until you feel the rough-hewn stone of the cabin wall against your back. “you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

that lazy grin finds its way onto luke’s face again. “what, you scared?”

you don’t respond, and luke tangles his fingers in your hair before pulling your forehead back to rest against his. “hey, are you— are you scared of me?” his voice falters; his thumb moves in tiny circles at the junction of your jawbone and your neck. he frowns. "angel, c'mon," he whispers.

you shake your head. tears prick at the corners of your eyes and you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to bleed. “i’m scared for you,” you breathe.

you reach up to cup luke’s face with your hands, mirroring his posture. “but i’m not scared of you.”

slowly, you wrap your fingers around luke’s wrist and drag his hand away from your face. his fingertips run down your neck, across your collarbones. his hands linger for a split-second longer around your chest before his palm flattens against your stomach and he leans forward.

luke stops at the loose hem of your camp shirt. “can i?” he murmurs, hooking two fingers under the fabric. his thumb resumes its movement over your hipbone, calluses catching on the exposed strap of your underwear.

“can i,” he repeats. “please, angel?”

this is a terrible idea. luke tried to kill you. he tried to kill your friends. he nearly started a war between the gods. he’s a traitor, a walking betrayal.

luke is your best friend, and you have missed him more than anything.

the soft yes barely leaves your mouth before luke steps forward that final inch, caging you against the wall.

his hands slip under your shirt and pull it over your head, leaving you only briefly self-conscious before he finds your mouth with his. he kisses you hard, bruising, biting at your bottom lip. he makes a sound low in his throat, pulling you impossibly closer.

“i missed you,” he murmurs in the tiny pockets of air between your kisses. “fuck, angel, i missed you so much.”

“i know,” you say. i missed you too.

luke presses kisses to your lips and your cheeks. your jaw. the bridge of your nose. please stay.

he buries his face in your shoulder and laves his tongue over your pulse, drags his mouth from your neck to your collarbones to just above your navel. in his wake, a trail of reddish-purple bruises unfolds under your skin.

luke speaks in half-caught sentences into your skin. “i’m so sorry,” he whispers. “i miss you so much— so much, i’m sorry, angel.”

when he finally sinks to his knees in front of you, his lips slightly parted and his breath coming in shallow gasps, luke lets his head drop to rest against your hip. his pupils are blown wide, swallowing the brown of his irises with desperate, inky want.

“lemme taste you,” he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your exposed hip and stomach. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and continues murmuring into your skin.

your hand finds purchase against luke’s collarbone and slides to rest against his throat; you match his jugular vein with the junction of your thumb and your palm, stroking the sides of his neck gently.

his breath catches, his heartbeat fluttering wild and needy against your fingertips. you half-expect him to pull away or to move your hand and continue kissing his way down your body.

instead, luke tips his head back that extra inch, his gaze flicking up and down before finally holding yours. his eyes are glossy and his mouth is open. his chest heaves against your thigh, trying and failing to control his breathing.

“are you sure?” you ask softly.

luke nods so feverishly that you worry his head will split from his neck. “c’mon,” he murmurs. “you know i wouldn’t ask if i didn’t want it.”

you do know, and it’s for that exact reason that you slide your thumb over luke’s adam’s apple again, pressing down just enough to make him gasp. it’s a broken, strangled sound, breathy and rough, and he sings it into your hipbone as he drags your shorts down your legs. the fabric pools around your ankles, and luke closes what little space is left between you in an instant.

he hooks his fingers under the sides of your underwear, toying with the lace idly as he mouths at the ruined fabric covering your cunt.

“gods, luke,” you say softly, tangling one hand in his sweat-damp hair and tugging. it’s more to test the waters than anything, but luke groans and shifts underneath you, and—

—and he’s hard, rolling his hips into nothing, chasing friction that isn’t there. his eyes, half-lidded and glassy, meet yours. you shiver — luke’s eyes are dark and intense, barely containing the want that lights up both of your bodies.

gods, he’s pretty like this, too, you think. who knew boys could look so good on their knees in the dirt?

luke pulls your underwear to the side and presses a quick kiss to your clit, mumbling in half-sentences as he laves his tongue over your soaked cunt. “my darling,” he breathes, dragging his hand up your thigh and reaching between your legs, sliding two fingers into you easily. “my angel, my everything.”

you rock your hips against his face, tightening your grip on his hair — which must be crossing some wires in his brain, because he shudders and points his tongue, flicking it against your clit as he curls his fingers.

“luke,” you gasp, tension building in your stomach. “i— i’m close, luke, please.”

luke looks up at you and smiles. you can feel his dimples against your inner thighs for a split second before he doubles down on his efforts, licking and sucking until something inside you snaps and you cum with a stifled moan, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes.

between your legs, luke licks his lips. “beautiful,” he says. his voice is raspy and he takes a deep breath, in-out, in-out. “there’s my girl. there you are, baby.”

you slowly sink to your knees next to him, your heart thudding against your rib cage like a trapped bird. “luke,” you whisper.

“yeah, angel?” he asks, wrapping one arm around you and tugging you closer. his fingers trace unseen patterns on the expanse of your thigh and you shuffle closer still to him, leaning your head on his shoulder. you can taste his sweat, electric and desperate. the smell of sex is probably all over both of you.

there’s a dark spot on the front of luke’s shorts and he tenses up when you slide your hand up his thigh. “did you— just from that?” you ask.

“oh, shit,” luke says, looking down. “uh— fuck, angel, i—”

“it’s okay,” you say, leaning forward to press your forehead to his again.

he sighs, tangling his fingers back into your hair. “i know.”

the two of you stay like that for what could have been minutes or hours before luke presses a kiss to your jaw and murmurs, “i have to go.”

something in your chest twists. the words slip out before you can stop them: “i don’t want you to.” you press your nose into luke’s hair and inhale the smell of sweat, of smoke. your fingers find the straps of luke’s tank top. look at this barrier. look at what’s keeping you apart.

“you know i can’t,” he murmurs, and you swear the crack in his voice breaks your heart all over again.

"i know," you say, tucking your head into his chest. "but i don't want you to go." you look up.

luke's eyes sparkle, brilliant and terrible, and when he kisses your forehead you can feel tears landing in tiny constellations across your head. "you deserve better," luke whispers. "better than me. than all of this."

do i? you ask yourself. and: do i want it?

when luke kisses you one last time and stands, drawing his sword out of nowhere, you know it as well as he does: you don't want better.

when he leaves — when there is nothing for days, when your dreams are haunted by the memory of his lips against yours and the smell of his hair, you know.

you only want luke.

#ash writing #pjo #pjo imagine #pjo x reader #pjo smut #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #luke castellan x you #luke castellan imagine #luke castellan smut #reader insert #reader imagine #x reader #fem reader #fic writing #Spotify

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super-lovely-star · 1 month

Text

Summer/Hot Weather Things for Middle Regressors and Dreamers

Make some lemonade and freeze it in molds to make lemonade popsicles. These are super tasty and refreshing after a long hot day!

Water gun or nerf blaster battles with friends. If you’re using nerf or another toy that shoots foam darts, remember to protect your eyes with goggles.

Temporary glitter tattoos! You can get them done at some boardwalks or you can buy a kit online.

Body glitter, now that it’s tank top weather! I bought some at claire’s and it smells like strawberries :D

Just chilling outside in the evenings now that the days are longer. Bring a plushie with you and enjoy the nice weather.

Once it gets dark, you can play games like flashlight tag!

Thrifting summer clothes can be fun and affordable!

Dressing up dolls in summer clothes and swimsuits, or pinning flower hair clips to your plushies’ ears.

Summer playlists! I have to admit I always tell myself I’m going to make one and then forget, but remembering will be worth it.

If you have someone to drive you, take a summer day trip to somewhere you don’t usually go. Now’s a good time for that summer playlist.

Friendship bracelets! You can make kandi, rainbow loom, or traditional woven bracelets and give them to the people close to you.

On that note, miniature friendship bracelets or collars for your plushies.

Make a summer bucket list of all the fun things you want to do this summer, and check them off as you complete them!

Last but not least, remember to wear your sunscreen!

Make sure to keep cool and stay hydrated <3

#sfw middle regression #middle regression #sfw agere #agere #agere blog #sfw agedre #agedre #age regression #sfw age regression #agere activities #agere tips #agere textpost #summer #hot weather #list #you guys seem to really dig these so Ill keep em coming!#tw flashing

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sommerregenjuniluft · 18 days

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@jegulus-microfic june 5th — more — 1108words — cw: reg has some pretty explicit dirty fantasies for a moment or two for @honeybcj and all the other james dad bod enjoyers out there<3

Regulus is sitting in his lifeguard chair, eyes trained on the long pool where people are swimming their laps. Nevermind he isn’t even on shift. Over the last few weeks Regulus has signed himself up for more shifts than ever, much to the surprise of their staff manager. Pandora too. They’ve stocked up on sunscreen and went shopping for new cute swimwear and then devoted their last college summer to spending every minute in the presence of piss covered ground, soggy fries and chlorine smelling air.

All for the sole purpose of making eyes at a beautiful couple and their toddler half the day. Or, not-couple, as Pandora has found out in passing, much to both their delight. The parents of little Harry are divorced, or not together anymore, but they still seem to get along well enough, regularly meeting up to come here and spend their days in the water. Lily, a gorgeous redhead with bright eyes and a sweet smile that occasionally makes Pandora squirm in her place and redden in the cheeks more fiercely than any sunburn.

And then there’s James. Tall, dark haired, in his mid to end twenties, always grinning, tanned, insanely sexy and funny James.

The sun is already low now and Lily and Harry have already gone home. On the days James doesn’t take the toddler home with him, he often stays a little longer to get some swimming in. Or just to take a nap on one of the chairs, molten popsicle dripping down and into the hairs on his stomach. His belly rising and falling in regular intervals, full lips parted, dark mob of hair a downright mess and the legs of his bathing shorts hiked so far up it should be forbidden.

The white fabric of it is drenched when James heaves himself out of the pool and shakes out his sopping hair.

Regulus’ eyes follow greedily as the older man picks up his towel and dries himself off. James rummages for his water bottle and then tips his head back and gulps. His throat is bobbing and he’s so overly enthusiastic with it that something dribbles out at the sides and along his neck. Regulus feels himself stir in his own swim shorts and he absently gnaws on his lower lip.

He has already perfectly well resigned himself to the fact that he will be an admirer from afar because how do you even walk up to a young dad and tell him you’d very much like to find out just how much of a daddy he is without overstepping multiple boundaries.

That is before Regulus gets pulled from his perverse thoughts of getting fucked deep into the mattress and stubble burn on his jaw and licking over a nipple circled by chest hair when suddenly said object of his fantasies is walking up to him, eyes squinting against the sun.

He comes to a stop in front of Regulus’ high stool and wraps his hand around the ladder railing next to Regulus’ leg, his shoulder muscle bunching deliciously.

Regulus’ brain is currently projecting an Error404.

“Hi, sorry for disturbing you,” James says with a warm smile. To Regulus. The hot dad is talking to Regulus. “You can totally say No I was just thinking I should reapply,” he waves the bottle of sunscreen in his big hand, “and I need someone to get my back.”

Regulus just gawks, unable to form a coherent thought. There’s a dark mole right over James’ thick left eyebrow and Regulus wants to kiss it. His nose is a little crooked and his stubble looks so obscene from up close Regulus can’t help but imagine what it would feel like against the inside of his thigh, the crease of his ass.

James’ eyebrows raise and he frowns mildly, “You don’t have to, of course. I can ask someone else, it’s no iss—”

“No,” Regulus blurts, probably too quickly. He licks his lips. “I’ll do it,” he offers, his voice cracking embarrassingly, before clambering down his chair. Heat crawls up into Regulus’ cheeks and down his collarbones and he clears his throat.

A gust of realization flits over James’ face and then he grins, shamelessly. Regulus swallows. “Oh, so you’re the cute College kid Lily told me was ogling me.”

Regulus makes a panicked noise in the back of his throat, sputtering slightly.

“You really are pretty,” James murmurs, ducking closer. “I wear glasses usually, ’m sorta blind without them, really. It’s lovely getting to see you up close finally.”

“Oh,” Regulus nods, dumbly.

“What’s your name, love?”

“Regulus.”

James hums, repeating his name, slowly letting it roll over his tongue and Regulus shivers.

“I’m James by the way.”

Regulus nods again but he knew that already.

“So,” James cocks his head, “I was promised a slathering of sunscreen?”

And Regulus does just that. He lets James squirt the cool, milky white fluid on his hands and then begins rubbing it into tan skin. James is warm and sturdy under his fingers and when Regulus gets to his neck, adorned by a thin, golden chain, James lets his head loll to the side with a groan. Regulus has to work hard not to let his cock react to it.

When James turns around he has his lower lip trapped between his teeth and is watching Regulus with lidded eyes. There’s still some residue on Regulus’ palms and when James sees that, he takes his wrists slowly and brings his hands down over his bicep as well.

Regulus is pretty sure he just sighed a little too loudly but he’s too transfixed to care.

James hums once Regulus is done. “Thank you,” he says, tucking one of Regulus’ curls back. “I’ll let you get back to your shift then,” James mumbles, voice low and playful, “Wouldn’t want to distract you from saving lifes.”

“I’m not on shift,” Regulus replies, stupidly, basically exposing himself. He needs to get a grip.

A happy smile spreads over James’ face, “Well, then why don’t you come join me so I can keep looking at you without my glasses from up close?”

Regulus hesitates for a moment, dumbfounded by the amount of active flirting and compliments.

“I’ll share my fruit and you can tell me all about your courses and that blonde friend of yours that seems to have a thing for Harry’s mum,” James winks.

A small laugh tumbles out of Regulus, “Yeah, she’s ridiculously down bad for Lily.”

“Oh, people who live in glass houses, love…” James smirks, starting for his spot next to the pool.

Regulus blushes a deep pink as he follows behind him.

#jegulus microfic #dad james potter #what if i wrote the smut in a second part.......#and then the pandalily smut in a third......*eyes emoji*#jegulus #james potter #regulus black #sunseeker #starchaser #jegulus fic #lune’s tiny fic

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meetmymouth · 11 months

Text

cuore mio

from the series theadora.

for anon. smut. oral (f receiving), spitting, daddy kink, public sex.

"They're– Harry," she pushes his head away, and Harry lets out a groan, lips still puckered and wet from his kisses. "They're there..."

He looks up at the crowd in question.

Everyone's either drunk or too hot to care about anything around them. They're either singing, reading, or just taking a nap. He bites his bottom lip, looks around the small deck area they're on, and spots her beach towel she's been using as a pillow as she sunbathed before Harry interrupting her.

She watches him yank the towel away from where it's been sitting, and he opens it.

"What are you doing?" She laughs, eyes darting between the towel and Harry's boney fingers as he places it over their laps. "We look suspicious as fuck."

"They don't care," he murmurs into her neck, grabbing her by the side of it to move her closer to his face.

His kisses are slow, practiced, and wet. He smells of the beach, and the sunscreen she'd put on him a few hours ago.

And a bit of sweat.

She grabs him by the back of his neck, suddenly feeling too brave, and he opens his mouth, tongue finding hers as he sucks it into his own mouth. He smiles into the wet kiss, smiles at the noises she's making, knowing full-well he's got her under his spell.

Harry moves to her chin, then the side of her chin, her neck, then back up. He kisses her cheek with open-mouth kisses, and she giggles, hands grabbing him roughly, pressing him into her.

He lets out a growl when her hand touches his belly, then his cock over the shorts he's wearing. "You're so fuckin' hot," he whispers, forehead pressed against the crook of her neck. "So fuckin' hot."

"You are," she whispers, eyes trying to find his gaze.

He looks feral, eyes darting between each and every feature on her face.

He looks like a man on mission.

His hands say so.

"Yeah?" He bites the side of her neck. Hard. "I'm hot?"

She nods, watching his hand disappear under the towel.

She knows what's coming.

His warm hand cups her pussy over the tiny bikini bottoms she has on, and he lets out a moan, clearly not liking the fact that he has to work with yet another layer.

"Yes," she nods, voice quiet. "You're so hot, H."

"God– fuck," he bites into her shoulder, teeth almost breaking the skin. His fingers work the bikini bottoms and finally, they're pushed to the side, creating access for his long fingers. "You're so fuckin' wet."

She hides her face in the crook of his neck, smelling him, the smell of beach and sweat, and Harry retracts his fingers, quickly bringing them up to his mouth. He looks up at their friends, then back at her, and puts his fingers in his mouth, then moves his hand back under the towel.

She opens her legs wider, as discreetly as she can, and he breathes into her neck while his fingers rubs her pussy. He finds his rhythm quickly, the way she likes it, and she can't help but grab his other hand and place his fingers into her mouth. He rubs her pussy with his middle finger, bringing her slick up and down, and she bites his fingers in hopes of staying quiet.

She feels the coil in her stomach, so deep inside, and when he finds her hole, his palm pressing against her clit every time he pumps his fingers in and out, she feels like something gives up inside her. She feels hot, too hot, and she feels as though she's going to pee if Harry doesn't slow down.

She says as much while he licks the underside of her ear, lips then finding her earlobe and sucking on it as his fingers fucks into her harshly.

"Slower," she manages to whisper into his fingers. She licks them, kisses them, and Harry can't help but nod, hand going to wrap around her neck in a practiced manner.

His thumb strokes the side of her neck while he fucks into her with his long fingers, wet lips kissing and sucking on her warm, probably-sweaty skin.

"I love you," he chokes out, palm still creating friction against her clit. "I love you so much," he whispers, lips finding hers again.

She answers back, with her own kisses, wet mouths creating obscene sounds, and they're lucky Xander has decided to play music very loudly in the distance.

"Harry," a breath leaves her mouth, teeth clinking together, and he nods.

"Oh God," she fights his kisses, feeling too much all at once, and she leans her head back as Harry follows.

It's like he can't get enough of her mouth.

He abuses her lips with his, wet kisses all over her face, her mouth, and she feels his spit running down her chin, so she lets out another moan, hips already bucking up to meet the thrust of his fingers.

She feels it on the tips of her toes, her hands, her stomach.

Her cunt.

Everything feels on fire.

She's on fire.

"Gonna come for me?" Harry asks, voice raspy and low, and he licks the saliva that's running down her chin back into her mouth. He's clearly not looking for a response as he kisses her.

She can't help but nod weakly still, hand pressed against his. Then, she moves it to his upper body, fingers finding his pecks as she strokes the hair on his chest, then holds onto his necklace as he keeps fucking and rubbing her cunt.

"Come on," he nods, hair falling against his sweat-covered forehead. "Gonna come for me? For Daddy?"

"Oh fuck– fuckfuckfuck I'm coming, I'm coming!"

"Yeah, that's it," his abuse on her cunt becomes rough, almost more focused. Feral. He fucks another finger into her pussy as she squeezes around his fingers, and she moves her hips against his palm as she begins coming undone. "That's my girl. That's my good fuckin' girl," he bites her chin, making her lean into the touch. "Doesn't even care that we're in public..."

She feels like she's in a dream, Harry's fingers still deep inside her.

"No..." she moans– whispers more like.

"No," Harry agrees, forehead pressing in the crook of her neck. He licks there once, then leaves a kiss. "She doesn't care. You'll give it to me whenever and wherever we are, won't you, baby?"

"I love you," she nods, feeling cold all of a sudden, despite his fingers being inside her.

She feels him smile against her neck, and he looks up. "I love you. So much."

"Yeah?" She feels the need to ask. Again.

"I love you so, so fuckin' much," he kisses her cheek, his free hand wiping the saliva off her chin, and cheeks. "You're my heart."

"I am?"

"You are. You are everything."

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cungader0 · 2 years

Text

the smell of chlorine makes me want to freely weep

#diaries of an ex swimmer i guess #how can a singular chemical solution smell of sunscreen and laughter and peeling skin and soft pretzels and a big warm towel #while also smelling like darkness at 5 pm and seasonal affective disorder and tear stained cheeks #and the clank of gear against the locker room floor and goggles that are just a pinch too tight #but also smelling like sweat and aching and loving and living. a smell that makes the mouth water and the body shiver after a well won race #the water is both friend and foe; it is everything and it is nothing. when swimming i am simply me myself and i #god.#swimming #trauma? maybe? dunno lmfao #i miss it i really do #andy says shit #my crazy person trait is making fun of disney adults that buy that pirates of the caribbean candle that smells like the ride #but also being willing to drop hundred if someone was able to make a candle that smelled like the natatorium i swam at for most of my life

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httpknjoon · 28 days

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a summer fashion choice | jjk

plot | This summer heat got you and your friends to enjoy your day at Blaire's beach house in the ocean. While everyone suits in their swimwear, your friends wonder why Jungkook your secret boyfriend is wearing a high-neck shirt.

words | 2.7k+

genres | fluff, crack, secret relationship au, established relationship au, friends to lovers au

pairing | jungkook x reader

note | they are just getting sloppier and sloppier atp 🥴 anyway, enjoy reading!! let me know ur thoughts 🫶

main masterlist | drabble series masterlist

“Look at him, all focused on his laptop and work.”

Jenny rested her elbows on the white sand while turning her head to the beach house. Specifically on its porch, where your secret boyfriend types eagerly on his keyboard while answering a call through his Airpod. His eyes were focused on his screen and you swore you could see the gears in his head turning at a rapid pace. You thought he could enjoy this weekend but he got a call after you had breakfast with everyone this morning. You sighed, shaking your head.

“I heard he is working for a possible promotion.”

“Yeah, but we are on vacation right now,” Dara replied while putting on some sunscreen on her arms.

Your two friends shifted their conversation to other things. But your gaze remained on Jungkook. You watch Blaire approach him after his call, softly patting his back. She points out to the ocean while talking to him. Jungkook chuckles and shakes his head. Blaire walked away, also shaking her head with a smile. Even though she wore dark aviator sunglasses that matched her lace cover-up, you felt like she was looking at you. You confirmed it when she sat beside you.

“That guy cannot stop working after we had breakfast. Next time that I’m bringing you all here at the beach house, I am confiscating your gadgets,” she spoke out.

“Geez! Mom, relax.” Jenny exhaled exaggeratedly like a teenager, making you and Dara giggle. “You should check on your other kid though.”

She pulled down her sunglasses and pointed her finger to the other side of the beach. Wooshik, whose body is buried underneath a large amount of sand, has been shooing Bam away, who is licking his face.

“Who the hell spread peanut butter on his face?!” Blaire laughed.

Dara raised her hand, “It was my idea. But we all smeared it on his face.”

You nodded, remembering that you were also the one who called Bam to first smell your friend’s face. The sand was too heavy on his body that Wooshik could not even raise his hand to push Bam away. By the time he was able to get off the sand, his face was already shiny clean with your dog’s drool.

“Hey!”

You all stood up to run when Wooshik threw sand directed at your area. Bam ran behind you and your friends, laughing and playing on the seashore. You don’t know who ran towards the ocean first but you, Blaire, Dara, and Jenny worked all together to splash water against Wooshik. It did not last long as your arms got tired and you asked for a truce.

“Oh, no. Bam, baby, stay there!”

You quickly ran from the salt water when you noticed your dog running in your direction. Thankfully, you met him halfway, just when he was about to take a step into the waters. That was when you decided to sit with him on the sand. You two watched your friends playing in the water. You were smiling until you remembered your boyfriend who was wasting this day with his laptop. That’s when you pick up your sheer white wrap skirt and tie it around your hips. You also attached Bam’s leash to him again, just to make sure he won’t run away from you.

“Let’s go, Bam.”

Barefoot, you strolled on the warm sand on your way. Even though it was close to the afternoon, you still find the heat endurable to enjoy the beach.

“Hey…” you softly smiled at him.

“Hey.” he was typing on his laptop when he responded.

You pulled one of the vacant seats around the small table and sat on it. You noticed a little thick compilation of papers on the table. You wondered if he planned to do his job here today since he had all of these back in his car.

“Babe…” you called him with a careful tone.

He threw a short glance at you before reading something on the paper, “Yes, princess?”

“You know that today is Saturday, right?” you told him while Bam sniffed your resting hand.

“Yes. But I forgot that I was supposed to do this last night and I didn’t because we drove here.” he reasoned. “And I need to pass this–”

“When is the deadline?” you cut him off, knowing that he is just doing this all for a reason.

“It’s…” he paused, looking back at you while biting his inner cheek. He knows that you know why he was doing this. So, he cannot tell lies even if he wants to. “It’s two weeks from now.”

You leaned back in the chair while crossing your arms, “You know what I am going to say, right?”

He nods his head, “But they will announce the promotion soon and if I pass this report earlier than others, I might–”

“You might end up really tired and overworked.” you cut him off again. This time, sounding more serious. “You have a deadline for a reason. Plus, we came here to enjoy this weekend. You still have time to do that when we get back to the city.”

“But I want to pass this report as soon as possible.” he firmly said, undeterred.

“Okay, whatever you say.” You gave up, getting up.

The moment you said that Jungkook instantly felt the shift in the air. Your back is already turned to him as you walk back to the house. His chest tightened and it’s like something is stuck in his throat. Before he can even call your name again to talk, Bam barked next to him. As if he knows his dad did something wrong.

Might as well go read a book or watch something, you thought.

Admittedly, you were annoyed that Jungkook is firm about doing that report here, especially when he said that it’s still due in the next week. Usually, you understand him being this workaholic since he has been aiming for that promotion. But it’s not like you will get to go here again next weekend.

You searched around the room for that book you brought with you. Under the bed, under the sheets, and even your luggage. Surely, you brought it with you. You remembered reading it before Jungkook sneaked into your room last night. While looking on the bed again, you heard a couple of knocks on your door.

Busy, you only said, “It’s unlocked.”

That’s when Jungkook steps into your room. He noticed your scrunched eyebrows when you looked at him after looking under a pillow. His heartbeats fastened as he slowly closed the door behind him. You were busy searching for something and he was about to ask but then your expression changed after looking under the other pillow. Finally, you looked at him, holding the book to your chest.

“Where’s Bam?”

“I left him with Blaire. She took him with her on the sand.” Jungkook took a step closer.

You acted naive, walking to the other side of the room where your luggage was left open. You began cleaning up the mess you made while looking for the book.

“Are you done with your report?” you asked without even looking at him.

“No.”

You didn’t say anything and neither did he. So after zipping up your stuff, you have already decided to leave and read outside. But you wanted to freshen up first. You looked at yourself in front of the mirror, ignoring your boyfriend who sat quietly on the bed but obviously watching you. You meet his eyes through the mirror.

“Then, what are you still doing here, Jungkook?”

No babe? Or even Kook? Jungkook frowned, getting up behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist before resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Princess…” his tone was pleading. “I’m sorry.”

With how close his warm breath on your ear, it sends shivers all over your body. You wonder how did the temperature get high gradually, almost matching the heat outside. You tried to keep your composure, not breaking any expression on your face while you asked him again.

“For what?”

Gently, Jungkook turns you around to directly face him. His hands were still on your waist and the space between you two was almost nonexistent. You looked straight into his eyes while clenching your jaw.

“I’m sorry that I’m working during the weekends and I pissed you off when you just want me to enjoy this day,” he said, almost a whisper.

At that point, you already lost yourself. Your gaze went from his eyes down to his lips when he began speaking. After you realized what were you doing, you looked at him.

“I’ll accept that apology if you tell me you won’t be doing any work for the rest of our time here.”

He raised his left hand and stood like a true follower, “I promise that I will not do any reports while we’re here.”

Jungkook waited for you to say something but you simply ran your hands through his hair. You softly massage his scalp with your fingertips just like what you usually do when you know he’s tired or when you two shower together. You figured he was enjoying your thing when his eyes closed as his hold on your waist tightened. Your eyebrow raised before tugging on his hair, causing Jungkook to groan.

“Just… enjoy,” you mumbled.

Jungkook nods, slowly opening his eyes, and the first thing he sees is that little smirk on your lips. He smiled while wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you closer to him. You were the first one to lean in and make your lips meet. But as you were about to pull away, Jungkook held you firmer, deepening the kiss. You once again tugged on his hair. He responded with a soft moan. The kiss became more passionate. You two moved in sync, moving closer to the bed, without breaking the kiss. You straddle him. The next thing you know, your lips were tracing kisses on his jawline down to his neck. Lost in the moment, Jungkook tilts his head back. You move your hips slightly, earning another groan from him.

“Everyone’s outside?” you asked in between kisses.

“Mhm…” he hummed “Princess…”

You mindlessly began sucking the skin just below his jawline. He gasped, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. You did it a couple of times more before you pulled away and were about to reach and untie your top from the back when you noticed the dark bruise forming on his neck.

“Oh, shit,” you murmured.

Jungkook opened his eyes, “Why?”

You look at him with a look of guilt on your face. You were trying not to smile, pursing your lips. He tried to stop you from getting up from him but you pulled him to the mirror.

“What– Fuck.” Jungkook cursed while tracing the hickeys you left on his neck. “That’s a lot, Princess.”

You were trying so hard not to laugh, “I’m sorry.”

Jungkook was about to speak when you heard knocks on your door. Your eyes widened.

“Come out, lovebirds. We’re having barbecues outside for lunch.” Blaire spoke.

You and your boyfriend looked at each other, silently asking each other what to do with the obvious bruises on his neck.

“Tell me, why the fuck is your boyfriend wearing a turtleneck in this burning weather?”

After having lunch, you and your friends went back to the beach to play volleyball. You take turns cooking the remaining barbecues and playing. You and Blaire were sitting on the side when she asked you that question. Her tone was not even asking, just genuinely curious and you understand. Because it is really weird why someone would wear a turtleneck shirt on the beach. Worse, it’s not even the swimwear type. It’s cotton material.

Unfortunately, that’s the only remedy you and Jungkook can think of earlier. You cannot really think of any answer so you were relieved when Dara sat next to you guys. You tapped Blaire, asking her to keep her lips sealed.

“I hate playing with those competitive players,” Dara said, referring to Jenny, Wooshik, and Jungkook.

You and Blaire laughed, offering her a drink instead. Jenny was playing alone against the two guys. Her competitive nature naturally takes on every time the ball is served to her side. You and the others just cheered for her on the side, chanting her name. You all cheered louder when Jenny got another win.

“See? I told you, you can’t move properly with that shirt.” Wooshik grunted at his best friend.

Jungkook fought back, “I am literally the MVP of this team. Four out of five points came from me.”

You laughed at their immatureness whenever they were together. Jenny asked for time out and you gave her a glass of iced tea. The guys followed, getting their barbecue and drink.

“Why are you even wearing that? We’re on a beach.” Dara asked.

Jungkook took a glance at you before replying, “I… I got bad insect bites.”

Wooshik, who quietly caught that, asked, “Where? On your neck?”

“Y-Yeah.”

“Oh, I brought a cream for that!” Dara began searching through her beach bag. “Here!”

Jungkook awkwardly accepted the small tube Dara handed him, “Thanks.”

“You should put it now. It relieves the bite almost instantly,” she added.

“Oh, okay. I’ll put it later when I’m back in my room.” he reasoned.

“Why not now?” Wooshik squinted his eyes.

It didn’t help that your other friends also encouraged him to put it now. You remained quiet, gulping your drink until there was nothing left.. Jungkook can tell that you ran out of ideas too.

“Well, okay…” he sighed. Fuck it.

He removed his shirt and his friends almost had the same reaction as soon as he got his shirt over his head.

“Oh… Oh.”

Dara has her eyes wide open, staring at the insect bites. Her lips were formed into a small o. Jenny was confused, lines forming between her brows as she scanned his neck. Wooshik choked on something and was coughing for a good ten seconds. Blaire was covering her lips, obviously hiding a smile on her face. And the insect herself, you, looked away when you met his eyes.

“What?” Jungkook broke the silence. “It’s bad, I know.”

Jenny cleared her throat, “What… what insect bit you again?”

“I-I don’t know. I just saw them after I finished doing my workloads earlier.” he lied.

“I’m sorry but why does it look like hickeys?” Dara giggled.

“Dara!” Blaire scolded her.

Then, Wooshik joined, asking, “But is it though?”

“It’s not!” Jungkook exclaimed. “I-It’s actually kinda itchy.”

“It looks bad…” you awkwardly commented, just to break off your personal silence.

You feel bad seeing him cornered like this but embarrassed at the same time with your artwork on his neck. Jungkook turned his head to you with his eyes narrowing.

“I know, YN. That’s what I said.”

His tone seems a little annoyed and you totally understand why. Although this isn’t the first time you gave him love bites, you managed to hide it before.

“Then, you should totally put that cream Dara gave you.” you remind him about the said cream in his hand.

“After you put that, let’s go back to playing,” Wooshik told everyone. He then turned to his best friend, “And you keep your shirt off. The hickeys– I mean, those bites are gonna be fine.”

The sun was already setting when your friends decided to go back to the house. You decided to stay for a little longer on the shore to take pictures of Bam. Jungkook got back the house too to get his camera.

“Bam, look at here!” you tried to get Bam’s attention.

You were so focused on taking pictures that you didn’t notice Wooshik returning to look for his slippers.

“Do you want me to take pictures of you and Bam?” he asked.

You turned around, “Oh, it’s fine. Just Bam.”

He nods before turning his back, “Okay, Princess.”

You paused, confused, “What did you call me?”

“Princess?” Wooshik faced you and the first thing you noticed was that stupid smile on his face. “Oh, I thought you like being called that.”

Speechless, you just shook your head. Wooshik chuckled at your answer. A mix of confusion and surprise was painted all over your face.

“Okay, don’t stay out here for too long. You might get insect bites. Just like Jungkook.” he reminded you before running back to the house.

You rolled your eyes, whispering, “He knows.”

TAGLIST (closed)

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