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capslocked · 4 months ago

Text

PARIS

male reader x sana minatozaki

30k words

"City's a shithole," you tell Sana, stepping out of a taxi. "Absolutely rotten."

"It is not a shithole."

"It is a shithole, Sana."

"You just got off the plane. Can we reserve judgement on Paris until we've seen the fucking place?"

(This is the one where you get over a fear of flying, of falling - and Sana's breeding kink goes a little further, gets a little more complicated - and neither of you give up much ground. It's an ordeal, that one. You really oughta stop surprising her in hotels.)

"Little known fact," Sana says to you near the beginning and looking for once a little less ethereally put-together, a bit more like she wants to go back to sleep. "St. Valentine was actually an incel who died in jail."

She's slumped onto your kitchen counter in a sweater several sizes too large - the one with your college crest, a hole in the armpit - and shorts, her long bare legs dangling above the tile.

"So, y'know."

And you haven't a fucking clue.

She shovels another spoonful of cereal into her mouth, "spending the holiday insufferably alone is something of an homage."

"What?"

"An homage," she crunches, happily.

Oh, you're charmed by her, have been for weeks now, and you chuckle despite yourself, pour her coffee while you're waiting for the toaster to finish. You've decided she's going to eat fruit today whether she wants to or not - it's barely breakfast if it's just a bowl of sugary carbs; and in a pair of fuzzy socks, a stolen crewneck, with last night's makeup still slightly smeared at the corners of her eyes and her hair mussed to shit, Sana makes you feel sorta responsible for her health. Your infatuation must be showing.

She lifts her chin, blinks lazily.

"I guess that makes us both artists by extension, or something," you say.

"Incels?" Sana snorts.

"No." Your toast pops. "Homage-payers."

You watch her mouth quirk around her spoon. "I kinda like that," she allows.

This morning, for the record, is only different than others in terms of superficial details - today Sana woke up with your hand cupped over her cunt, three fingers sinking slowly into her heat - annoyingly slow, the way she likes it least and best, depending on what she gets out of the teasing: her morning orgasm, in this case - and it was different enough that she moaned high and pretty, back arching as she squirmed on your palm, the sheets, whispering a delirious good morning against your jaw when her wits finally cohered into something more linear, understandable.

It's your new normal, sure: sleeping together - and its odd, comedy-forged counterpart, waking-up together.

It's eating breakfast, it's Sana stealing your clothes, sitting on your counters like breaking convention is some sort of biological imperative.

It's her legs wrapping around your waist while she kisses you soft and open-mouthed, leaving it to you to decide how much morning breath you can tolerate - and maybe that's a routine worth indulging, for a bit. At any rate: it's February 7th, which means there's this sword of Damocles hanging over your head that a whole financial system has been built around monetizing, a day people probably buy chocolates and flowers and write sonnets over - except Sana is jetsetting next week and you'll be spending February 14th in your apartment, possibly taking a shower, definitely sleeping in until noon, not being in love.

She's a once-in-a-generation talent, a gorgeous face, a fantastic fuck - this is just what's in the cards for you.

"You're going to miss me," says Sana, flat-out declaring it, threading her fingers beneath your chin, hooking her ankles loosely in the small of your back.

The cereal bowl clatters as you set it in the sink. "I might," you say, noncommittal, enjoying the way it makes her press further into your body, clinging tighter. "How long did you say this trip was going to be, again?"

"Oh, forever, maybe," Sana breezes, waving her other hand.

"You're gonna change your mind about the whole concept of romance and think about texting me within five, ten minutes of dropping me off at the airport. But then you won't actually do it, because you'll figure that I'm busy, and then you'll spend the rest of my flight kicking yourself for not sending me, like, an emoji, or something, and that it could've been enough to bridge the gap, and instead I'll be off somewhere all dolled-up and glamorous, probably surrounded by hot models, and that's when I'll meet someone new. I mean, there'll probably be no comparison to well, y'know-" She palms your crotch, fingers skating across the fabric. You recoil, almost scowl, and she snickers. "-but that's what happens when you don't text me. We're not in contact for one week and I replace you with a French man named Pierre. Or Jean. Jean-Pierre, honestly. If I were you, I'd play it safe and shoot me a Valentine's text."

"Wow." You push your thumbs under the hem of her shorts. "You got it in one, I think."

She shrugs, faux-modest. "Naturally. Jean-Pierre knows what's up."

You slip your hands up further and her expression shifts as you meet skin under the heavy fabric: all suggestion, no pretense. Sana sighs contentedly, leaning back onto her wrists so that you have to chase her, tilt your head to follow the movement. This is natural. She takes your lip between her teeth and sucks, gently. The angle puts a crick in your neck. You let her get away with it anyway, press further in between her thighs, spread them wide - and then she bites harder, the flesh of your bottom lip giving under her canines.

There's a spark there, it makes you want to pull her hair, kiss her harder, dig your fingers into her hips and leave bruises that'll last through the next couple weeks of international press junkets and glitter-eyed meetings with like-minded, like-pretty strangers. You're starting to suspect she's psychic - because she slides a hand up your shirt, letting her fingers skate over your stomach, the dip of your hips, the places that make you tick.

You clock the twitch in your pants, growing, filling. You've slept with this girl an awful lot. It's a problem.

"Possessive," is Sana's assessment, with all of the derision of a tease.

"Cool it," you warn her, sliding your grip up from her legs to her hips, pinning her solidly to the countertop. "I've got a full enough schedule this morning without you making a mess of things."

"Mmm, you don't." She's petulant, kissing you again and letting the touch linger on your bottom lip. It's a strong argument.

"I do," you try.

"You really don't," she says, sing-song, breathless with expectation, anticipating rough treatment.

Her smile is syrup-sweet, oozing indulgence: the sight of her sprawled beneath you is a pure profligate pleasure. Like she's an apple you stole fresh from the orchard, red and shiny and dripping juice down your forearm, dribbling sticky on the grass, rotted with temptation. You wonder if she's always been this way - begging to be held down, fucked hard, edged beyond the realm of possibility - and recently her appetite for filth seems endless, like she's come into a taste for it. Sana Minatozaki doesn't often say no.

For all intents and purposes, your answer should be a given.

"Well," you drawl, thumbing the soft cotton of her shorts, that spot just above the waistband, where her inner thigh meets the crease of her pelvis and you can make her voice go to velvet. "Did you say he died in prison?" You pull away from her a bit, switching tactics, letting the subject slide from bedroom talk to regular breakfast chatter. "Of what, heartbreak?"

"You'd think," she says, almost curt, irritated at the prospect of edification and sorely lacking a good fuck. It's a pleasant mood to find her in - very manageable, easier if you slip your tongue between her legs, though still relatively straightforward. "It turns out the dude got beaten to death with clubs, then beheaded; hence the martyrdom bit, which I think is fair. Pretty metal death to warrant sainthood."

"Seems a little redundant."

"So does giving a holiday to people who are already, like, super in love or whatever, but." She gathers her hair off her neck - lets it fall, satisfied. "I guess romanticism and pragmatism are just mutually conclusive."

"Exclusive," you correct, lightly.

"What'd I say?"

You exchange looks: it's definitely something you've already joked about before. It's easy, like the rest of your dynamic. Sana smiles, slow-burn, and all you can do is try and one-up her: you shrug, sigh, like there's a lot to consider.

Her fingers work open one of the buttons on the front of your shirt, hover on the one beneath it - her patience is dwindling.

"Fine," you relent, rolling your eyes, feigning reluctance. "But we need to be quick about it. Fifteen minutes, twenty max. Then I absolutely need to leave and go sit silently in a room doing jackshit for eight hours."

Sana kicks you lightly in the shins. "Let me get on top, and we'll have time to cuddle, too."

"No dice," you tell her. The negotiations continue, as they always do. "Face-down-ass-up, princess. You can clean up the kitchen afterwards."

"Ugh. You're gross," she says, as you help her down from the countertop, maneuver her toward your room with one wrist tucked firmly in your palm, already rucking up her sweater to skim your fingertips along her ribs. Sana goes easy, her joints loose, willing to bend. "And annoying. And unaccommodating. You're totally wasting my last few days in town."

"I know. I'm sorry about it," you respond, stepping behind her up the stairs, her fingers gliding gently up the rail.

"Liar." She shoots you a half-smile, laughing with no bite behind it. You think, just a bit, that she'd let you get away with just about anything - that is to say, she'd get off on a great many things: you'd let go of your own guilt, just for a moment. For someone so hot and cold with her control, it'd be easy to slide the pendulum to the other side. Maybe she'd beg for it, and it'd sound real: a small part of you thinks she's close enough already. Sana tosses a smirk over her shoulder and your mouth goes dry. "But i'm sure you will be," she tells you, her gaze somehow already unfocused. You suppose all the daydreaming is beginning to affect her too. "In, like, four and a half minutes, give or take. Probably closer to four."

"Careful, Sana," you intone, pitching low; it's like warning a child not to touch an open stove. "Your ass gets red fast."

Sana wiggles her eyebrows in an endearingly ridiculous way - you can't believe this is the girl getting checks from all these designer brands - and twists your way for a second, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your neck.

"Promises, promises." She bats those unequivocally long lashes up at you. "You better know I'll hold you to 'em."

In any case, she was right: St. Valentine got fucking wrecked. It's the whole morning's lesson. Maybe there's something to be said for dying in a spectacular way, one so fantastically morbid that it has to have happened in another era.

Sana gets on top, sorta, in spite of any negotiations; Sana kisses you stupid; Sana talks nonsense while you eat her out; Sana cums when you get two fingers deep inside her ass and slam her cunt full of another, curling the tip of tongue right across her clit. She goes easily from her knees to bracing herself against the headboard; and you follow her up the mattress when she scoots forward so you can fuck her with her back flush against your chest, head tossed on your shoulder, throat arched so she can choke out sounds you've never heard from anyone, ever. She's not a screamer, but she makes these high, keening noises when she's close - when you're giving her just the right pace, the right rhythm, the right depth - and you lean back on your heels, slap her ass, pinch her hip, "make me cum, baby," and god, her pussy grips down on you greedily, hungrily, swallows every inch and fucks you back until the condom swells full, deep inside her heat.

"You." You say it like it's a half-formed threat, kissing her sweaty, satiny shoulder, nosing the bra strap barely clinging to her skin. "Are such an insufferable cocktease."

"That's me," she quips, out of breath, entirely too pleased.

It's such a familiar refrain now, her elbow bent back, hand trailing your neck, head tipped - she sinks her fingers into your hair and holds you against her pulse where it jumps sporadically under her skin. You flip her around - somewhat elegantly, somewhat not - nestle her soft, creamy thighs over your hips, warm your cock inside of her as she falls back from the clouds, pressing your hand to the tightness of her waist - she wasn't exaggerating: there's time to spare, to kiss her like a movie ending, and to come up smiling.

It's not just all the risky, illicit sex and reckless abandon already in play: it's also the entire lexicon and etymology of fated ends, of doomed sentiment - each verb conjugated twice and three times and five times over. She's got the filthiest parts of your imagination reined in with that face alone, like you're drowning in divinity; this is a girl so pristine and peerless and utterly without vice, staring up at you from underneath mascara-dusted lashes, waiting for her own devastation - always daring you to indulge her.

"You think you're corrupting me," Sana laughs in your ear, serenely, almost self-aware. "Is that it?"

"Well," you start, and there's a self-reflection somewhere in there - your fingertips on her jaw, her heartbeat in the hollow of her throat. The skin's so impossibly soft. Fragile. "It's a thought."

She lifts a shoulder, smiles lazily. Her mouth has that permanent imprint of sin, somehow simultaneously a crime scene and a place of worship.

"Baby," she drawls, all sugar-sweet. "I'm sure that's a given. I was such a good girl before I met you."

"Yeah," you reply, nipping the hinge of her jaw. "Such a sweetheart. So well-behaved."

"I'll take it."

Sana rolls the condom off of you, sitting cross-legged on your bed as you fold a pillow in half and prop yourself up, watching her do her thing.

She’s got so much control like this - wringing the thick mess out into her palm, then sitting back onto her calves. With two fingers and her thumb, she pinches at it, lets it drip back down. A beat later, she makes another string, decides she's all for swallowing today. That's an art. And it's mesmerizing, the way she concentrates with delicate precision, tipping her chin up and staining her lips, her tongue diligently slipping through the spaces between her knuckles.

"You're really cute," you inform her, and she flushes while licking up the rest - you love it, the little contradictions. "But that is filthy."

“Could’ve been inside me instead,” she muses, casually. She’s just testing it out, rolling the syllables on her tongue.

You raise your eyebrows. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” repeats Sana, quietly. She reaches forward, runs her thumb along your slit, a little lower - just a semi-circle of pressure. Yeah, you’re still achingly hard. She eyes you and her focus shifts; she seems to come to a conclusion, nods her head once; this girl, really, with all her unpredictable tempers. She takes the length of you in her hand, a loose, idle grip, more to be playful than sexy. It works both ways, apparently: your eyes roll up at her, and you suppress a gasp, grabbing hold of the pillow.

It's those dreamy, half-lidded eyes, glazed over and vapid - ah, the total and utter loss of any brain capacity. Something like a prelude to the sweet surrender; Sana does the drooling part for you.

“You wanna go again?” you ask her, and this is another bit: the whole I-say-one-thing-and-do-the-other game, the winding, unwinding tension.

When she wants something, she talks to you like she'd burn a church down for you, then tuck her arm right into yours like the fire doesn't exist in the first place - Sana blinks prettily up at you, strikes the match behind her back. For her part, she doesn’t lie as often as she could, as often as you would expect her to; in the beginning, at least, you assumed she was a bad liar, a good flirt, that kind of contradiction.

If you didn't know better, you'd fall head over heels.

"Or are you just stroking me off because you like the way it feels in your hands?" you go on. You'd like to find out, actually.

Sana smirks, and slides her palm lower, gets a second hand involved, slow and steady - the friction is aching, fantastic. "Aren't you supposed to be working?” she asks, twisting both. You could cum again, but maybe you shouldn't. "Is this really how we spend all our time?"

“How conscientious of you,” you say, drily, and she laughs before tucking her hair behind her ear, kneeling on the sheets and bringing her lips to the end of you, letting her spit run down the head and catching it with her knuckles; just once, she licks. Then, twice. Okay, well - you could probably afford to stay away a while longer. In theory. Three times, four times - oh, her mouth is hot and silky and there's really no way around it.

You grab your phone, shoot off an email or two, and slip your fingers into her hair.

Sana's someone you know from work, in a real roundabout sort of way. That's the whole sordid story.

You've got the cushy office job, the creative credentials, she's art, the product; and the optics surrounding that means you're supposed to never, ever lay a finger on her; oils mixing like they shouldn't - the finished, the half-baked, the polished to a gleam versus the raw unvarnished clay; but she'd wandered into the employee-only elevator and said good morning with that smart, sarcastic little voice and you'd turned around, thinking of some entitled manager in the process of haranguing you - only it wasn't a suit-and-tie corporate climber, oh, no, no-

"Hey," you said, too stunned for eloquence, too dumbstruck for wit.

Because here's a perfect, pouty-lipped princess, dressed like an angel and grinning like she's ready to rob a bank; like the moon landing and Shakespeare rolled into one, fantasy and classic literature and a pastel linen shirt, with what felt like half the buttons undone.

You blinked, remembered to breathe.

"Hi." She tipped her head and let a curtain of copper-spun hair slide off one shoulder. Took a slow, appraising sip of her iced-coffee. "You're new. Or - new to me, at least."

The doors shut, and suddenly there was no going back.

The signs are there. Four different conditioners on the bath rack, her lotion on the bathroom counter, her shaving cream next to the soap. She prefers peppermint to vanilla. And date night takes a turn from red wine to ramen; you'll end up on your couch watching crime documentaries because Sana will hook her fingers into the loops of your jeans, saying, can't we just, like, stay in?

This morning, too: her hand clings around your forearm a little longer when you kiss her goodbye and help her find the shoes she's wearing home, make her promise to return your sweatshirt soon.

But you know that if anyone asked, Sana'd shrug and laugh, say I dunno, it's not really anything at all.

You're hooking up. You're being idiots - this whole thing, from the very start of it, was so off-the-rails, so questionable. You remind yourself she's never met anyone she didn't like.

She doesn't think about consequences, and she certainly won't start with you. You figure things will fester, get murky and muddled and frustrating - and the worst part isn't how she's ruining you for anyone else; it's how you're going to miss the idea of her, the impossible promise. She's living the glamour, the ceaselessness, the adventure. It's all planned out. She'll keep living her life this way until she doesn't. It's an occupational hazard.

And she won't pay it any attention once some Jean-Pierre becomes her next hot, enigmatic, incomprehensible, asshole genius plaything - hypothetically speaking.

(Or maybe he'll be the first one to really, really figure her out, and that's the more disconcerting thought.)

So you're just...you don't even know what you are, frankly. Friends who text? Sure, whatever: that makes sense. You can cling to that. It's the most sensible explanation so far.

Sana: i was promised an apology text (´;︵;`)

Sana: the pregnant man emoji seems wildly inappropriate given the circumstances

You, at ten fifteen in the morning on February 8th: i'm in a staff meeting, first of all.

You've been getting nonsensical, arbitrary stuff since, like, October: grocery lists, links to memes, notes on things she remembers in the shower. Occasionally, it's horny stuff - a water droplet emoji, the wink, and the peach; then a photo of her skirt lifted in the mirror and her naked ass in a pair of heels - and occasionally, you oblige it.

You: second, I don't want this to come off as arrogant or anything, but I didn't realize you think about me the minute you wake up

Sana: um, soooo arrogant lol wtf

Sana: but also ur not wrong, im desperate for some relief <333

You: poor, pitiful baby 🙄

You: go find miyeon

Sana: she's ignoring my calls

Sana: just send something nasty please PLEASE 😭

Sana: tell me how hard i make you

You: i'm in a meeting, sana.

Sana: I WILL RIOT.

Sana: jk don't tell me. i'm just looking at pics of us rn and i'm going to die.

Sana: (send a dick pic u coward)

She sends you a heart. And an eggplant. Then the tongue.

You: I'll see what I can do

She follows up with: thank u thank u god bless <3

Oh, it's dangerous, working in the same office, dealing in all that proximity - even with the floors between you.

You're constantly resisting the urge to slide by, to try and catch a glimpse, to find excuses to bump into her in the hallway, listen to her talk, say hi. So maybe you're a sucker for the devil, or maybe it's all just because she's Sana, and she's a vision in a pencil skirt, a beauty with her legs crossed and her chin tipped high; or it's worse: you'll catch her in yoga pants, hair mussed and shiny with sweat as she flits from practice room to practice room, to get water, to take a phone call, to rub chapstick over her mouth - the daydreams write themselves.

But it's not like you know any details of her job other than, 'singer' or 'professional tease' or the occasional tangential reference. She never really talks about work.

You walk through the halls, eyes flitting around every corner; there's a standing appointment, of sorts, and it has been for the past month, maybe longer - you've got your doubts that today will break the streak. You've never actually agreed to meet her; it's sorta an unspoken understanding, and you find her exactly where you thought you might, after you've made a loop around the seventh floor, wandered as slowly as humanly possible - as if stalling could stop you from inevitably descending the same stairwell you do every time. It's an awful, terrible descent and it's gonna get you both fired - or killed, if her manager finds you first. It's a miracle you're still here.

Sana's leaning against the railing, flipping through her phone; when she hears your approaching footsteps she looks up and meets your eyes. Smirks.

"Ms. Minatozaki," you say, like this is a high school and she's one of the tardies you can't stop calling out.

It's the nth time this has happened, and you have to know she comes looking for you, too.

"So," she drawls, standing and sweeping all her hair up off her neck, clipping it like it's habitual, and the way her hands rest at your waist is a scandal in itself. The watch on her dainty pale wrist glitters in the fluorescent lights, slides down her forearm as she pushes her sleeves past her elbows. You're not really thinking about things like propriety, restraint; Sana's very good at convincing you to shed all pretense of ethics, morals. You're slave to the thousand-kilowatt smile, the short skirts and thigh-high boots and every calculated display of skin. This girl has her agenda written plain on the walls and you've made it known in ten different languages: it's one hell of a view, and it's impossible not to stare.

"You here to escort me somewhere?" asks Sana, in a way that sounds vaguely dirty - which it is. "Need to go looking for pens again?"

She takes a step closer, presses a palm flat to your chest; hums a low, delighted sound.

"Or you could bend me over the railing and stuff me right here." Sana tilts her chin and squints upwards, assessing the metalwork. She drops her gaze, presses her fingertips to the knot of your tie; and then, a show of pity or mercy, drags her eyes back to your face, pretty lashes blinking slow. "Wouldn't be complaining."

"I really wish you could hear yourself sometimes, sweetheart."

"Trust me, it's been on my mind all morning," she confesses, all soft, wicked intimacy. "Distracting me. I doubt you want me keeping it to myself, either."

"No," you admit. "You've got that right."

Her fingers toy with your top button, pop it open. You grab her wrist, stop her, gentle and warning. Her hand goes limp in your grasp, acquiescing easily; this is the part where she likes it, getting pulled back on the right side of polite. "You should kiss me," says Sana.

Like she has to. Like this girl, rich and famous and inexplicably out of your league, a glamorous songbird living high up in her nest, and still wanting for the little taste of heaven she thinks she can steal away from you in dark corners

"Where?" You're playing, and the moment you brush your mouth over hers, the second her breath meets your lips, you've gone and forgotten all your prior reservations about fucking her at work. You let go of her wrist, allow her hand to wander lower, unbuttoning, dipping past the waistband of your pants. She slides her palm beneath the material of your underwear, tugs them just low enough that her slim, small fingers can encircle the base of your cock.

"Anywhere," Sana decides, and kisses the answer into your mouth, sighing into it - enough to pull you under, to submerge and suffocate.

It's funny; she smiles like she's the heroine of your life story, like the storybook star on the cover of an epic, or an infallible leading lady - like someone to love, like someone to admire and aspire to. Or maybe it's a touch sinister: her eyes sparkle and your worldview snaps a little sideways, just to accommodate her; she could be the villain all the same - not your protégée, not the good girl, not an angel or a miracle. There's your poison, and it's in her blood - it's a flashpoint of pure greed, and Sana doesn't need a mirror. She knows every single sin.

You drop your hand from her hair, the pretense, and give in: the railing creaks a quiet noise of protest as she wrenches her ass against the unforgiving steel, and then she's arching into your body, sighing again; it's a sound you've committed to memory, ingrained it, the sweet taste, the sharpness of her exhale when your hand wanders high up the hem of her skirt.

"Anywhere?"

"Sure," breathes Sana, fingers spidering further into your open zipper.

It's so incredibly risky, it's bad practice, not to mention illogical: the stairwell is a public, communal space, no escape, nowhere to hide - there's only seven floors to the building, seven opportunities for someone to stumble in, and none of these numbers are in your favor.

"I'll be quiet," she mutters, lips ghosting along your jaw. "I promise." She knows that's not what you're concerned with, but you appreciate the thoughtfulness; oh, who's fooling who? "We can just-" Her hips hitch up and press firm against yours. "-see where it goes."

And, well - you have the rest of your career to be responsible, probably. Professional, obedient and boring and ethical and so many other useless terms you could drag up and wave in the face of the fact Sana's fucking gorgeous. She's holding back from giving you the full-on pout, but just barely - you catch the shadow of it on her lips; the thinly concealed ache, the pretty agony. She kisses you like she's not gonna breathe until the second after you're inside her - then that's that, like some sorta ritual. A tradition, an instinct, it's a swan-song for every shred of decorum she's begging to burn up.

You hoist her, balance her on the railing. When your grip tightens, she shuffles forward, draws her legs up a little - that's the key, letting her settle just right: the end of the world could come now and she'd still feel fucking divine, pussy dripping through her underwear straight onto the crotch of your pants - there's a wet spot now, you can feel it on the side of your thigh where you've got a fistful of her skirt scrunched, rolled up above her thighs, all bare creamy skin, something to remember this by: her in the height of perfection, full of good intentions and eager to fall apart.

"Panties," you tell her, palm up, hand held out.

"You're fucking crazy," she exhales, but she's fiddling with her waistband and shifting on her ass in seconds - they're tangled around her boots - you're a goner from the start, it's like your soul leaves your body with a wet little snick. "Get - get them off," and it sounds so sweet in her voice, whining, ragged - not that it was in any danger but her own breath renders her resolve for composure pointless.

"Your little cunt's dripping," you note, with your hand cupping it, two fingers teasing along her soaked slit; no part of the conversation has ever needed to go in circles with Sana, or anyone else. You just sort of lean into it. "Been wanting me since you got dressed, huh."

"Your fault," she tells you, nose sliding over yours, seeking affection. "Explicitly. Never got those pictures out of my head."

"Um," you say, slipping into another finger, because she's hot and slick and insatiable and the friction will melt her right to goo - you think Sana's orgasms might be getting a little violent, these days. You're more inclined to inspire them. "I didn't actually send you anything provocative."

"See?" She grins at you, breathless. "Here lies my problem."

"Such a hard life." You crook your fingers a little deeper; Sana collapses against you, a flower drooping from too much rainwater. "Such a burden, being you, hm?"

"So I'm the issue in this scenario," she mutters, pushing back into your hands, squeezing her thighs. "Causing problems, all by myself, sluttly-little-me."

"I never said that."

"You called me a fucking cocksleeve, the other night."

"Sana."

"Which is absolutely correct. Like. One hundred percent. But don't act like you don't get off on it."

"Well," you say, innocuous: stroke up inside of her, stretch, reach - crook - and there's a breathy moan in your ear. "So do you."

"Shut up," she says, "this is about your inability to compartmentalize," and her cunt is so slick that it makes a delicious, lewd squelching sound as your fingers dip and curl in further, the walls of her pussy clenched tight, suffocating your skin - every time you roll a condom over your cock and sink inside her you do have to wonder if it's really, genuinely necessary.

"Wanna cum?" you ask, deflecting a bit, and stroke her with intent, relishing the way her little pink mouth drops open to exhale.

"Gotta be better than getting psychoanalyzed by a guy who has my fucking panties in his pocket," she grits out, hips rolling to the tempo of your fingers, now scissoring apart. You're only touching her cunt and still she moves against you like you've been railing her for hours - you think she's so wet you might hear it down the hall, down the street. "Might be a good tradeoff. Maybe." Then, more resolutely: "Fuck. Yes. Please."

It's hard to take her seriously like this, with her pretty features drawn up, all the facets of a statue rendered beautifully human, transient, falling apart in the pleasure. In moments like these, Sana looks most ethereal; when your thumb's fast on her clit and you croon compliments and the sweetest-bittersweet filth in her ear until her whole body becomes liquid-fire, sloppy and hot, desperately keening.

"On my fingers?" you ask, because maybe you're a lot like Sana: an insufferable tease.

You slip your fingers down to the next knuckle and curl it up against the slick heat, deep, until she's making soft, whimper-like sounds, brow furrowing in focus, straining for release, and Sana can't even look you in the eyes, too far gone already, lost in this. "Or," and here's the dangerous part - "I could get on my knees and eat this pussy until you can't see straight." You're dangerously close to taking the panties from your pocket and sliding the lace under her tongue just so you could see how pretty she looks like that, huffing, groaning, eyes flickering shut at the sensation - not the actual taste of herself, but just the way it's so undignified.

She looks pretty at any angle, any moment - you wonder if you can fuck it into her so she'll always know it's true: the kind of egomaniacal narcissism Sana might get off on. It seems appropriate.

Sana just hums at this, arching a delicate brow, considering.

"How about you give me your mouth and watch me fuck the hell out of it, hm?"

"Mildly threatening, but okay." You take one hand, smooth over her ribs until it's cupping the slope of her jaw, and draw her gaze upward, until she's staring into your eyes. "You always taste like a godsend - could get addicted to it, probably, baby - would you wanna ruin my throat? Make me drool all over you? Turn it into a little fucking mess, just the way you like?"

The sound she makes then is unearthly, somewhere between a moan and a groan. A reverb.

You know it's out of hand because you've started using the same euphemisms she does - breeding her, ruining her tight little pussy, stretching it out nice and full. Getting a second opinion, then a third and a fourth. It's a little crass for your typical repertoire, but she makes the sweetest, most ruined noises at that. You're an equal opportunist, and her whiny submissiveness is just as good - maybe a little less effortless. More demanding: there's always the feeling she's lording it over you.

"No, really." You're stroking your fingers in solid, even thrusts as you speak: gentle, measured, nowhere near enough. "You're fucking soaked," you remark, the corner of your mouth tilted up. "Like you can't stand not having something inside you, huh?"

"Something big," she grits out.

You laugh a little, amused. She's practically leaking down the heel of your hand.

"The problem is," breathes Sana, swallowing once, twice, eyelashes flicking lower, her cheek pliable in your palm and her nails scraping gently against the hair at the nape of your neck - she's dissolving. She's all yours to own, consume, to make cum. She's drenched and warm and perfect and there's a whine threaded through every expletive. She always likes things better when you're nastier to her; it's probably fucked up. Everything is, and it's Sana - so that should go without saying. "Fuck - whatever - please. Just-"

You laugh again, and the noise twists a little meaner this time in Sana's ear.

"C'mon," you say. "Tell me about this - about my issues. Your ideas. How badly you're gonna, what was it, destroy my life, I think? Just talk while I go down on you. Might help take the sting out of it." You pause. "Or make it all the more worse, really."

Sana whimpers, broken, liking the sound of that, judging by the way her cunt drips, swollen and fluttering and you can feel her pulsing against your fingertips.

"I'll tell you if you start to go in the wrong direction," says Sana, petulant and lovely as ever. "How's that - how's? Oh, my fuck-"

Sana's words drop off. It's well-warranted. You're hungry for her, insatiable; you sink down to the floor, get your mouth on her pretty little aching cunt and that's sorta how this always starts.

She gasps out and tangles her fingers in your hair, fucks her cunt against your tongue and cries out like this isn't a scandal.

You pray to god no one comes for a smoke, for the breeze to cool them off: because nobody needs to know how thoroughly you ruin the company's golden goose, their pristine girl-next-door, pop-sweet baby-princess. You pray because she's going to cum like the rest of your brain won't remember it tomorrow, like every teary-eyed scream won't stick to your lips like static.

Your tongue moves, pressing harder to her clit; she rides your face. Grinds down your lips while your gaze remains rapt, transfixed.

You won't blink, won't look away for even a moment. Not when Sana's falling apart above you: a complete fucking mess, a spitfire and a divinity and a filthy-wet-dream in heels, panting so hard that you're gonna need an excuse. That everyone's gonna see you've done it, broken the perfect facade and left her absolutely mangled. It's fucking obscene the sounds she's making. High, aching whines, squelch, wettened suction; her fingers tearing through your scalp; those god damn lip-gloss-flavored moans - they echo on your neck and chest, run down and through your rib-cage. They land in your gut and rest heavy and stale, ruminant, too thick. Sweet and molasses and unbearable, all stuck inside your throat. Fuck, fuck. She cums; there's your paycheck in the line of her body, arched into an acute, cataclysmic peak, an upstretched needle to pierce the surface.

It's a moment in a crystal-clear shot, one you'll try and lock in the bank, the hallows, your mind.

She's beautiful, obviously: in the aftermath, ragged, inelegant - you figure it's the fact that the poor thing's so damned unused to being fucked, has gone on for all her teenage years, then her early adulthood, barely scraping a few fingers, a low buzz of some unremarkable toy; no - she's used to the admiration. The flattery. The rapture and praise.

But you doubt anyone's made a thorough wreck, a beautiful slobbering, sloppy mess - and who would? She's worshiped like she's an icon. Some half-baked notion of reverence, like she's holy. An angel in the wrong hands - oh, the imagery's much too flimsy. Fawning. Unending, untethered; you might be a sucker, but you wonder when you'll meet the next guy in her rotation, and, not wanting to spend much thought on him, wonder instead about Sana and her subterfuge.

You've wondered on and off why the hell she chose you.

"You don't deserve that," says Sana, after, a little breathless but otherwise unfazed and smug, like it isn't a big fucking deal to talk back to you while your jaw is still covered in her slick.

"Pretty sure I do." You wipe at your mouth, come up closer to her again. "Seemed like it helped."

"I have a whole monologue prepared," says Sana, a touch irritated - ah, well, she might be spoiled after all. "It wasn't easy to put together. The idea of you fucking me is kind of distracting, just for the record."

"Sweet of you, baby."

"Oh, fuck off," says Sana, promptly.

You smile. It's charming and cheeky and Sana blushes, suddenly off her game. "I'm serious," she says, scrambling back to her point. "You deserve nothing for leaving me alone and miserable and not showing up for ages. You're so - I'm mad at you."

"Oh," you say, and raise an eyebrow, mock-horrified. You kiss her bare, sweat-sticky neck, trace a finger from her navel down past her hips. Sana shivers. "I had no idea."

It's just Sana's axiomatic response: all snark and sass and sly one-liners until you've got your finger against her clit, and then all at once she's begging, sobbing, falling to pieces, whining your name like it's a mantra. She doesn't give a damn about your apology now. The state of your relationship has hardly progressed - but it doesn't matter. It's only the sex, the endless hours spent with Sana's thighs bracketing your head, her lipstick imprinted on your throat, the red lines she paints over your shoulder blades. It's only that. Sana's cunt, clenching and raw from orgasm and soaked like you can never fill her up: dripping, drooling.

And, okay. Yeah, maybe you didn't show up when she asked you to, didn't listen. You admit it. She's needy every second, craves praise and your cock in equal measure - but you are guilty.

(What's that she said earlier - that you didn't deserve it? Right.)

You aren't really in a position to say shit about being ignored either, so.

Sana has you pegged to her whims: she doesn't have to do a damn thing, she just breathes and has you around her finger.

Well - actually, she's very proactive. She likes making demands. Well, really: she wants things.

It's February 9th, for anyone keeping track - the shortest month of the year and the one with a few more grey days in the bank than the others, which makes sense since you're deep into the heart of winter by then. On December 28th you and Sana had spent nearly three hours on the phone discussing the latest installment of this netflix miniseries of very questionable quality. There were a lot of different points to be made, apparently: you think both of the leads are, objectively, fairly attractive, but Sana wouldn't admit she had a crush on the lead until you got to the third season.

Anyway, she was upset on her birthday because of it.

"Happy new year, by the way," you told her, somewhere in the middle of the call. Sana had to speak quietly so her parents wouldn't hear, but she sounded kind of moody. "How are you gonna celebrate?"

"My ex," Sana groaned, ignoring the question completely, "made fun of my taste in guys. Like, my type or whatever."

You cocked your head. "And what is your type?"

"Oh, you know," she said, dismissive. "Hot." You laughed, and then she said, "A little less old and a little more muscular," and that shut you up, quick. Sana hesitated.

"Shit," you said.

"Shit," she agreed. "I really, really like you, though." And then:

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And you've been kinda done for ever since.

Right, okay. You get sidetracked, easily. It's a running gag. Sana gives you shit for it, but then again she gives you shit for a lot of things.

On February 9th, evening leaking through a skyline cracked open and gushing like an oil spill, and the stars dripping silver - auspicious, potentially, on Sana's side - she turns up at the door of your apartment, tapping snow from her boot-clad feet, mouth tight.

"It's fucking freezing," she snaps at you, as a greeting - the hello goes unsaid. You open the door wider and she sweeps past, takes a glance around like she owns the place. You should have known - in hindsight.

Work was fine but felt lengthy. Sana shot photos for some designer brand you'd never heard of and felt pretty proud of the day's accomplishments. She talks your ear off about it while you lean against the counter and nod attentively, put water on to boil and think about getting a fish, a dog, maybe a plant; you haven't quite figured it out. Sana might have opinions about it all.

You make tea for both of you. It's this rose hibiscus thing that supposedly soothes the mind. It was a gift from a coworker at some point. Or maybe it was going to be a gift to a coworker and you just never got around to sending it; either way, it had a bow and everything. At some point in time, when someone received it, there was a bow involved. You'll work out the details - at the very least, you'll say the explanation was very elaborate and poignant, and it'd get Sana smiling. She'd trace your hand, thumb skimming your knuckles. All of a sudden you'd be sitting across a small table, talking and talking as a stream of conversation ebbed and flowed; you'd think about the stars in the sky, like blood in water. You'd kiss her neck and tell her you're not tired, ask her if she'll stay the night - it would be easy.

"So he's a total prick," finishes Sana, chin in one of her palms, blowing over the lip of the mug, "but at least he's good with a camera. Otherwise, I swear I would've left the label years ago."

"Wow," you say. You weren't paying attention.

"Mhmm," she continues.

You blink at her, slightly disoriented.

"I was talking for like, twenty minutes. You should have noticed."

"Were you," you say mildly, "seriously? Shit. I'm sorry. I guess I tuned out, just - went somewhere else."

"Huh." Sana leans on her arm. There's a lacy white ribbon tied in her warm, amber hair. It suits her, matches the gauze-thin chiffon sleeves of her sweater, the floaty skirt she's wearing, dark gray tights adorning her legs - a cossack blouse, maybe, would describe it. She's so fashionable, all the time, like it comes from the tips of her fingers, unbidden and instinctive. It makes sense; Sana's a muse for the finer things in life, all light and lovely like gold. Like - rose quartz, the blush of dawn. It's an indescribable sort of attractiveness - the kind that is rooted in her mind, in her character.

You're glad she hasn't made you spell this sentimentality out.

"Do you have a secret girlfriend you need to be confessing to?"

"I ran into Momo earlier," you say instead, which - bad timing, maybe. Sana's bright-eyed, brow lifted, curious.

"Where?" she asks.

"That cafe place. The one by the second-hand shop she likes. Near the theater."

"I've never been to a movie with you," she remarks, instead of pointing out that your explanation could apply to like, twenty places around the city alone. "Is it because you'd rather die than be seen with me in public? Like, are you worried I'm ruining your reputation?"

She's playing. Obviously. The script here is flipped: you're the secret fling, the casual affair, the quick fuck that isn't meant to mean anything, no strings attached - but maybe the implication in Sana's question is that she'd consider it otherwise. She'd like to go to the movies, or out to dinner. Somewhere crowded. Not exactly an ideal date, but you could see it on her. You want to take her places. Maybe you already do, anyway.

You roll your eyes. "Right," you say.

"Does she know?" Sana taps her bottom lip. "About us."

"Yeah," you say, too quickly.

Sana makes a face. "How? When?"

"She's your roommate," you explain, kind of at a loss. "And - you talk to her. I figured. How could she not know?"

"Dude," says Sana.

"Is this gonna be one of those moments where you pretend to be way angrier about something than you actually are?"

"Obviously, yes." Sana tilts her mug toward you in accusation. "What'd she say?"

"She asked if we were dating."

"What'd you say?"

"No," you say. "And then she asked if I wanted to be, and then I ran into traffic, like, literally, to escape."

"Do you," begins Sana, in her best innocent voice. "Or don't you?"

She looks delighted. You stare at her flatly. "Ask Momo," you tell her, and she dissolves into that creased-eye smile that sends all your faculties reeling. The gorgeous little tri-tone of laughter and her fingers combing through the silky length of her hair - she's still teasing you. You've figured out the steps, memorized the way this game moves forward. It's an indulgence and it's an obsession - and it's the same thing for you as well, really.

"Can't," she says, still laughing. "She'll lie on your behalf."

You have no clue what that means - but you guess that's just Sana.

So here's an inflection point, right before Valentine's day, because you have terrible timing - right before Sana ships out to Bruges, or Milan, or wherever the fuck it is for Fashion Week: you'll only catch a few days, maybe less, before she jets again for some other assignment. It's part of how her job works, and the situation's all roundabout, because she's probably spending the holiday eating French toast with a model and waiting in an airport, watching the world go by from the plane. So, sort of backwards. You should get the bouquets and heart-shaped boxes and share a plate of pasta, you suppose - but the main thing here is you'll only get a weekend. Then you won't even see her in person until the 28th.

Or not at all. Whatever the outcome - maybe she'll stand you up and have her revenge for you being so goddamn difficult and antagonistic in the first place. Who knows. Not you.

She's studying her reflection in your bathroom mirror, tying off an elaborately loose bun, pulling some curls free, working around the headband that she seems hell-bent on keeping in her hair, in case you should ever forget she's a total living doll. A pair of shorts reveals the creamy expanse of her thighs; she doesn't have a bra under her tank top. Your mind wanders.

"You look fine," you say, yawning, elbow to the sink's countertop.

The sound of the shower running is white noise in the background, droning away, and the door's cracked ajar so steam wafts into the hall. Sana doesn't spare you a glance, focused as she is on arranging herself back to magazine-cover perfection.

And it's not unreasonable: you've seen in her high heels and on runways, with cameras flashing, with a toned physique and carefully sculpted makeup and hair to match - but you think there's an authenticity here, the clothes she keeps in a bin above your dresser that have somehow mixed themselves in with a tube of mascara and a stick of deodorant, a set of bristled hairbrushes - the toiletry bag from her makeup case. If you were a more emotionally intelligent and honest man, perhaps you'd say something to the effect of, you look beautiful, or maybe, I'm going to miss you, you know, so if there were any big revelations that you might be having, if you might have something important you've neglected to bring up-

(Maybe it's not healthy - but you'll admit to some oddness, some habits: Sana sleeps better after she's been fucked senseless, her forehead pressing to yours; the sheets need washing more than once a week. It's a very regular development in her life and the fabric softener she prefers, the lavender and verbena, has started appearing in your cabinet; you're using that type now automatically.

And that's not nothing. That's probably an invitation for some sort of talk. It's not - well, yeah. Anyway: no one will ever accuse you of being great at communicating.)

You wrap your hands around her waist, pushing the cotton of her shirt up, spreading your palms flat to trace her skin, feeling the tight muscles in her stomach flex and quiver - your touch skates to the valley of her cleavage and back, around her side, shoulders to collarbones and the front of her ribs, then her hipbones. She squirms a little bit; her skin pebbles where you're touching her. She's sensitive - ticklish, maybe.

"Feels good, that," she admits, half into the sink.

And in the reflection, watching, you see her lean back, lean into you, without thought for herself; the familiarity of your touch. The easy intimacy of it.

"Well," you tease, "yeah, it's a bit of a problem for you lately."

The shower's still running. You kiss the side of her throat.

She smacks a hand down on your wrist - she's playful, though, teasing in her chide. "Get out," she says. "Unless you're getting in with me."

It's 11:34PM. You're already halfway to fucked-out; there was a particularly intense stretch, her thighs clenching and trembling on either side of you as she rode your face, hair falling and hitting her cheeks, her mouth parting open into the hottest sound you've ever heard, her shoulders arching; your palms braced tight against the soft skin of her hips, holding her just above your tongue as she whimpered please, more. She'd came on your face - like, all over - and then fell to your lap and was just so, so eager for a second helping. So you held her there, at the edge of your mattress as she took it so prettily; moaning and pleading until she'd sobbed through another and collapsed in a messy heap of satisfied flesh, slumped against you like the physical stress had stolen whatever architecture her bones had remaining.

It's not an unusual turn of events - and now, there's the two of you. A routine; a domestic dance, almost. A morning-evening-afternoon affair.

"Nah," you say, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her jaw, the nape of her shoulder. "You could use some space, baby. Wouldn't wanna infringe."

"It'd be worth it," she says - not even flirtatious. Just blunt, honest.

You run your hand through your hair, intimate deep-in-thought.

"Oh, c'mon." Her reflection scoffs at you. "Momo doesn't call us a pair of sluts with a love story because you're the uncomplicated, mature one."

"So you did talk to her." She shoots you a glare through the glass - but no fire to it. She's relaxed in your grip, compliant. "And listen, maybe it's my character arc, honey, let me have it. I think I'm really coming into my own."

Sana flushes just a little at the pet name. There's a roll of her eyes, too. It's intentional, and you adore her for it. "Are you?" she snipes, but you're her favorite frustration and this is all just prelude; there's heat in her tone, an anticipation of wanting to be grabbed, to be slammed down into the pillows and fucked hard until her thighs can't tremble anymore. It's an indulgence in familiarity. You understand - but you don't quite give her what she's looking for.

"I hope so." You lean further, push deeper into her space. Your arms bracket her in. She's a beard-burn shy of looking completely debauched. It's tempting. "One of us has got to get their shit together, and you're obviously not taking any interest," you continue, all clandestine and shrewd and serious. Your free hand presses at her thigh. It doesn't matter which one.

Sana rolls her eyes again. "You bitch," she mumbles, shifts her weight - nudges you a bit with her elbow. She keeps you close, either way. "I'm being serious."

You'd beg to differ, but the way she reaches her hand back into your hair and looks at your reflection is so loaded: lips plush, jaw smooth, a shadow resting across her shoulders. The honeyed quality of her hair. The rough shape of her collarbones, half-hidden beneath her loose cotton top, gray as gunmetal and baring her smooth, gorgeous shoulders. Sana is, above all, an attention-getter. It's hard not to fixate on the physicality. All parts of her - legs, ass, tits, hair, the swan's neck, the way she's just tall enough that you'd need her standing on tip-toe to kiss her, chin lifted, eyes down - that sweet little pout of a mouth - they're all an aesthetic intent; her waist has been grabbable since you've known her, and you would die to tug the ends of her hair free, ruffle the order and let them fall, a wavy-brown disaster, to her bare shoulders, frame her eyes with her eyelashes. That would make you soft, for sure. Or, anyway - more soft. As though you hadn't spent the past three months staring her down in the mornings, sneaking glances like she'd catch you at it, fixated and lust-ridden: Sana has all the elements to break you down.

You snap her waistband to make her flinch.

"You know what our problem is?" The water's still running - maybe she likes the sound of it, is trying to tune you out. "I always have to watch you for like five minutes before you kiss me," she chides, lifting her hair like she's fishing for compliments. "It's fucked up."

"A serious dilemma," you agree, without hesitation. Your thoughts are: 5'4", 120 pounds soaking wet, a perfect proclivity for being manhandled and made to feel cherished and worshipped and slutty as she needs. It's what you know of her, more or less. There are more things not on record. Things of consequence, weight. It would require context. "Truly."

"I mean, your mouth is never where it should be."

"Everyone's a critic."

Sana leans into you. Tips her head back. "Pay attention," she whispers, "be good," and lets her lips begin to part.

"Yeah?" your reflection replies, unkind.

She rolls her eyes again. Again again. There are many moments for this: the attitude, the incredulous stare, her naked body pressed to the marble walls of a bathroom she's becoming dangerously fond of - she sighs, like her heart's in it and it aches her. It's dramatic. "I'll teach you."

She spins away from the mirror and cups her hand around your mouth: another gentle touch, in contrast.

You think, all over again, of her thighs. Of the weight in her shoulders. The fine points of her wrists. She loosens the ribbon from her hair and places it on the counter. You don't know why that's so poetic. It feels like you've won something.

"Do I need to go get another condom?" you ask, dry, when your head goes south and your gaze gets low, right there - the cut of her clavicle, the way she'd probably like being handled rougher, hiked up on the bathroom counter, forced to submit like she's letting you do it.

Sana doesn't smile, but her lips twitch.

"Maybe," she says.

(You have an inkling, or two, or more.)

"Maybe you should take your clothes off before we talk logistics, huh?" she teases, and she does smile now. You laugh, despite your better judgment. "Don't look at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like that."

"I swear," she mumbles - it's accusatory, the way she leans her weight against you. It's her signature move. "I think your new thing is just a dirty girl complex."

You stare down at her. "Oh, okay."

Her lips crease: disgusted. "Just a thought," she says. Her eyes are hooding, and it's what she does when she's letting herself slide. Her hands come down slow, so slow to your neck. You could bite her if you wanted to. There's plenty to mark, plenty of skin to bruise: she's at your mercy, and she loves it like that. She licks her lips and waits. "You're out of them, by the way. Like - the condoms. I grabbed the last one from your nightstand and - you know." She's shaking her head - something solemn about it. "No more. I'm telling you for your own benefit. So, um - yeah, that's your warning."

"My warning?" you repeat.

You take her jaw, watch her cheeks bloom pink - it's nice. Pretty. Very charming. Well, that's Sana - well, at least it fits.

"What I'm trying to say," she begins, slowly, uncharacteristically bashful, "is you could, like, do whatever you wanted, probably."

"Dirty girl," you repeat, quiet.

She blinks at you. A furrow forms, impervious, in her pretty brow.

"This isn't - I don't - listen, no one says that- they only do that shit in the movies."

You grin.

"But you're like, a guy in real life."

She swats at you.

"I can't believe I have to clarify the fact that-"

"You want me to fuck you raw," you interrupt, gently - and when Sana looks at you there's something guarded, and soft, and caught, and it's almost like-

Well, what's the word?

"I just mean I trust you," she mumbles.

You think: well, you could've led with that.

"Oh," you say, instead. "Oh - sweetheart," and then she blushes harder, but it's not because of you. She has a sudden and surprising sense of embarrassment, and you just blink at each other for a couple seconds - maybe you weren't expecting that from her, the sentimentality - and she doesn't want to apologize. "Listen-" you begin, and then cut yourself off. What is there to say? What did you just spend the better part of an evening trying to avoid mulling over?

(A fleeting, untoward notion. Some sort of unsolicited idea, illicitly tangible. As in: maybe you're both going a little insane.)

"I have a couple questions," you add, like an afterthought.

"I can't with you." Sana ducks her head, pulls on the bottom of her top. "Sorry, just," she starts, but lets the rest slip. "You don't need to make a thing of it."

"You seem - conflicted, is all." You catch her by the hip, guide her a little closer. There's a slow-simmering feeling stirring in your gut - something incessant, demanding of attention. "A little regretful. Look at me."

"I wasn't asking." She looks. It's a direct hit: she has a mean glare, one with the same capacity to bore through you, tear you limb by limb. She has the capacity for cruelty, is what you're getting at. "If you're that curious about the specifics, it was an expression of trust. Take it or leave it."

"Now you seem upset."

She arches an eyebrow: the normal one, the regular sardonic-you're-so-hot-I-hate-it eyebrow, not the sexy-sultry-dirty eyebrow.

"Five minutes," she huffs, without explanation. "Five whole minutes and I'm still not being kissed, like, why-"

Your laugh comes from somewhere in your chest; deep, surprised.

"There's no winning with you," she grumbles, but when she looks up you can already see it - it's in her eyes, she's not actually that upset. There's no stormy undertow, just the fondness lurking like a tidal wave underneath everything else. You feel the current a bit before it swallows her: there are hands tugging, winding, drawing the whole mess closer and closer. It's affection, an entire sea's worth of it, flooding and indiscernible. You can see all the stars that shimmer. It's just: her hips are so fucking grabbable, you know that already, that it's to the point of being inescapable, an absolute truth - and she wants to get off, she always wants to, but there's some greater, darker purpose to how her breath ghosts on your neck. How she blushes like it's the first time.

"I want," she breathes. It comes with intent.

(Yeah, a lot of fucking intent.)

"I know, baby," you tell her, low - and press a kiss to the juncture of her jaw, one hand lifting her top, palming her breast, the other sliding into her underwear. "You always want more," you murmur. Sana nods like a doll - you've reduced her, again, into a bundle of fussy limbs and breath and gasps, begging you to get inside her pussy. "I've got you," you coo, a bit darkly: and, well, Sana isn't wrong - it is a kind of dirty girl syndrome. At least for her.

For you, it's more like a daily reacquaintance with your sins.

Your mouths meet, clumsy and off-kilter; Sana's tongue is heavy, languid in the wet heat of your mouth, and the kiss tastes like everything else: her hair like flowers, her makeup, the faded sweat, her cherry lip balm, the flat, glassy quality of the cum dried on her thighs, her underwear around your fist. There's a lingering scent to her sex that reminds you of how badly you wanna fuck her; your finger ghosts at her cunt and it's wet again, dripping-pink and sensitive, ready, open, a bruised thing.

"You," she breathes into your mouth, and her teeth skim your lip, "are so fucking hard." She's skated her palm down into your sweats, taken a rough hold of your cock, as though to prove something: and she's so right. She doesn't break the kiss. Her thumb smears a bit of your pre-cum over the slit, spreads it up and down your length. You're already aching-hot and throbbing for her. "Baby," she murmurs, sounding devious, feeling it, too. There's more to say, more of that floodgate left to open up:

"You're going to cum so much in me, aren't you?"

(It's rhetorical.)

You hoist her onto the counter, shove her shorts down, pull your cock out of your pants: it's just muscle memory, the way the rhythm works itself out - and if Sana was trying to push you, she's definitely succeeding.

"You should be careful what you wish for," you offer, half-nonsense, half the judicious side of an agreement. The devil on the shoulder's not exactly in the business of sticking to your promises: "I should probably pull out, you know," you go on, mindlessly - but she's got her arms around your neck, is rolling her hips impatient and insistent like the conversation isn't even important enough for her to properly listen to.

"Gonna cum on all over me instead?" she asks, too quiet. "Is that the plan?"

And it's the least combative you've heard her be in a hot minute. You slicken your fingers with her cum and rub your digits along the flushed, throbbing surface of her clit: the only way you know to deal with her filthy mouth.

"Right on my tummy, or all over my chest," she goes on, heedless, dragging her fingertips over her shirt like you need a demonstration. She's just spewing bullshit for the thrill of it. The grin accompanying that is sly, cheeky, like her whole self; she rubs her nose against yours.

You gather her panties and let them ball up in your palm.

"Maybe a mess all over my ass?"

"Oh, definitely," you sigh, finally, and work her apart as the kisses fall out of line.

She looks up at you from beneath long, delicate lashes, fluttering like she knows the effect it's having on you: it's un-fucking-fair, the way she uses it, wields it like the weapon it is. A sigh slips from her, ragged, fucked: she's bracing herself, chasing the tip of your cock, leaning into the nudge. "Maybe you can push me onto my knees, shove your dick down my throat and gag me with it until I swallow every drop, yeah?"

"Sana," is your reply. "Of course." It's the conscientious, mature, adult thing to do.

She's batting her eyelashes. You should do something about it, maybe: you line your cock up against her entrance, holding steady, and slap your hand on the smooth expanse of her right thigh. "Spread," you snap at her, and then grin back.

Her face scrunches: genuine exasperation, tight cunt, real feeling.

She huffs, opens her thighs wider, gives herself up to you - and that's another victory. Her fingers reach up and dance against the scruff on your jaw like it's a fond curiosity. You watch her search your face for affirmation like it'll fix everything. There's not much to do but to slip your arms around the waist, let her wrists cross over your shoulders like she needs the anchor to survive.

"So pull out then, mister-good-ideas-at-work," she taunts, nosing at your throat, the underside of your jaw, up to your ear: "Show me, if it's so easy."

You can barely breathe, it's so tense; the way she teases the shape of it, her cunt slick and open against you. She'll stretch like she was tailored for the fit, easy and familiar, taking, taking, taking - she's always such an angel, but she's halfway in hell already, legs spread out, slick pussy lips bumping against the blunt head of your cock, so wide, so vulnerable.

"Sana," you hear yourself say, voice like sandpaper, throat drying. Her smile twists her features to something more-knowing, all full-lipped and curving at the corners - she's a little more practiced in sinning, knows the game better. It's an act and it isn't, all at once.

"C'mon, I need it," she drawls, but the soft little plea comes back: "please."

Your hand drops from her mouth, smoothing over her chin, down the swell of her breasts, her ribs. You slip your cock inside her and can see the exact moment her face blanches - it's so sweet, so sharp: her eyes widen and her jaw goes slack, lips falling open as her brow furrows. She's so wet around you, taking you, swallowing up every inch like it's no work at all, her perfect pussy clenching just as it hits the base: like it's muscle memory, like she's been molding herself for it, opening for you. The very thought makes you want to fuck her even deeper: you tighten your hand at her hip, drag yourself out of the slick squeeze of her cunt.

"Oh," Sana breathes out, eyes half-lidded. "Holy- oh, you're-"

Your cock sinks deeper. The word gets lost in her moan; a crease forms on the bridge of her nose, between her brows, and she presses her fingers to your nape, clutching at the skin like she's unsure of the support. One of her palms strokes across your cheek: a wonder, a mercy, a favor, all of it. You'll ruin her, just like she wants, just like you promised. You're sure of it.

You have to fight the urge to ask if she's okay, because you know what kind of face she'd make: exasperated, disappointed, incredulous. Instead you snap your hips and drive yourself inside of her again.

All her thoughts and her confidence - the casual faux-command, the playful, arrogant tilt in the turn of her words - unspools, dissolves, crumples in her eyes, collapsing to dust around you: she can't even choke out her filthy demands, let alone the sugar-soaked slights and slander that came first. The innuendos, the bullshit, all those deliciously-subtle negotiations. She blinks, and the second you slide a couple inches back in and in and in, her eyes flicker shut and you both exhale into the same breath: an oh-my-fuck-Sana, and the answering whimper-moan that falls so effortlessly out of her mouth. Your palm burns against her hip bone, sinking deep, trying to press her tight against your cock, skin-to-skin and full-to-the-brim.

"How," Sana gasps out, sounding delirious, out-of-it, her brain rattled by nothing more than the full, perfect fit of your cock inside her. Her fingers lock behind your head, pulling you even closer. She gasps against your mouth, "-how does it- fuck, oh my god, fuck-"

You see what she's getting at.

There's nothing separating you, and it feels - well, her pussy is unbelievable. The realization is hitting you harder with each glide you sink inside her; just like everything else with Sana - charged, thrilling, slightly inappropriate and hotter for it.

And you'd tell her if you had the words - how fucking good she feels, the grip around your shaft as you hilt inside her, the exact feel, taste, texture of Sana's perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt. Oh, you're slaking a kind thirst here they write stories about, the kind you die for: it'll never be sated, you'll always be seeking, and the deeper you go the further you drown.

"Yeah," is all you can say. "Fuck." The only explanation.

Her voice goes tighter with each stroke, her legs wrapping around your waist like rope. You're touching everything of Sana that can be touched: you kiss her hair, suck marks into her collarbone, cup her face and force her eyelashes open; you fill her up so deep you can feel her throat tremble when your name just brushes the roof of her mouth.

Oh, it's rough, messy, somehow incandescent; you're pounding her right there on the counter, against the sink. The showerhead's hissing just loud enough for you to miss the string of expletives you know she'd be spitting, the half-bitten curses. She keeps her ankles hooked like she's afraid you'll fall, afraid that you'd slip out of her, leave her empty, unoccupied, unfulfilled, wanting.

"Fuck, baby," you hear, feel against you: her lips are near your ear. She shivers. "If I knew," a pause as Sana swallows, her hair clinging damply to her forehead. "If I knew- felt this good- you're going to- your fucking cock, I swear, ohmygod, I swear-"

You press your mouth right at her temple, harshening the rhythm and loving the way her fingernails dig hard, bright crescents into the skin of your back; there'll be marks there tomorrow, the perfect imprints of her grasping, coming apart, holding on.

"God, Sana," you mutter, almost desperate. It's such a fucking disaster. She's wet on your skin, soaking everywhere. It's so fucking hot.

You want her cumming on your cock; you want her on her back, knees up, shaking; you want her a sweat-shining mess, breathless and glassy-eyed. You'd worship her body if you didn't have your hands clenching her ass so you could push her (one, two, three, four) times (five) against the tile, (six) against your skin.

It's more imperative than religion, really.

Three months later and you suppose there's been a lot of perfect, sopping-wet, begging-and-creaming, broken-off, rough-thrusting, sinful fucking, and sometimes it's in her apartment or in the backseat of her car or in your fucking kitchen, her braced up against the island countertop with her legs spread and you railing her in her pajamas. Sometimes it's when Sana whimpers in this awful way when she's kissing you, pressing a soft, barely audible "ruin me," into your mouth - it's then when she gets really, truly fucking filthy: you're actually going to fucking cum inside her, sobbing and stupid, if she doesn't fucking knock it off. If this doesn't just kill you both - and that's how it'll go: her legs locked so tight around your waist, hands white-knuckled around your shoulders, face-to-face and with the base of her cunt kissing your cock so sweetly.

Sana makes a weak, overwhelmed noise, like the same thought's gotten the best of her, too.

"My pussy," she says in this high, thin whisper. "It needs you. Like I fucking - oh, fuck - like I think I was made for your cock." Her words have gotten little manic, voice edging at hysterical: "It's a perfect fit. Just feels fucking-" A whine pitches in her throat and she grinds her clit against your lower stomach, her abs quivering like she's had three cups of coffee.

You thrust once - no, you really, truly fuck her: you snap in and in and in - you hold her fast to the sink basin and bury your cock all the way to her deepest point, to where Sana clenches and her muscles ripple around you.

She's always so sensitive. Like in a smearing-lipstick, fucked-through-half-a-box-of-tissues, you-absolute-angel kind of way.

But there's no tease, no falsified modesty to it - none of the push-and-pull from either of you; your expressions are blissed-out, stuck in awe, in reverence. Jaws dropped and punching out each hard, deep fuck into her, gasping for air. "Oh my god," she's saying, head lolling like there's no rigidity left to her spine, nails digging into the hard muscle of your back. She's saying other shit - and you're talking, too, talking a bit: it's the kind of delirium that strips language to the bone. "Holy fuck- I know- Yeah. Fuck, I know."

The nodding is excessive - but in your shared defense, so is the sensation of fucking each other raw. Who the fuck coulda guessed?

She's hot and tight and god-blessedly gorgeous - and you tell her that. From the first time you watched her stretch a condom over your cock, roll it down with her palm, and felt her pussy sink onto you inch by inch and the pressure was immediate and aching - "It feels so fucking good," she'd been saying - to the fifth, to the fiftieth. To her draining you dry, her moans winding you up and around her finger - even that first time in a filthy, nasty, cramped bathroom stall, drunk as all fuck, and then the next morning. "More, more, more," and now, too, all: "It's everything, please, fuck, keep going," all the other times where your tongues have turned to satin, curling into the place of your own destruction, where the warmth is licking out all sense.

In the worst of moments, in the best - she's clung to you, body arched up, hips up, heels dug into you so hard you might be bruised under her.

All her moans are punched-out, high-pitched, shuddering with her exhales.

It's everything: "Don't stop."

And that's really how the last shred of coherency slips past, disappears down the drain: her voice twists as you graze the spot inside her you want her to cry at, and you sink into a pleasure so intense, a release so in-tune, it's like it'd only be complete after you both sank to hell.

"Such a good girl," you kiss into her skin, sinking your fingers into the round fullness of her butt, spreading her apart so she knows, even better, exactly where her cunt ends and your cock begins. "The prettiest fucking girl; your fucking pussy is so tight; hot and soaking wet for me." Your voice sounds worse with each dirty little nothing: you've both been babbling for a while. Maybe ten seconds. Maybe since the beginning. "I think I could fuck you forever."

"Cocksleeve," she agrees, and tips her chin to the ceiling, blinking hard at nothing, trying not to lose it, but maybe also, in the same sense: "Literally could just - be my cunt. For the rest of time. Cocksleeve."

"Gorgeous," is what comes next out of your mouth; and, in some warped parallel to the truth, "All mine."

For her, too, really: she likes being tossed around, told how much you need to breed her, how slutty she is - but then you watch how her brain fries with the softer, sweeter stuff. Oh, you're making love to the thoughts she keeps trapped under a box in the back of her head, and all the things she'll only dare admit to under dim lamplight; when she thinks she can disguise how they might come across as anything at all besides absolutely fucking tragic.

You could bottle her tears for how sentimental this shit is - well, you could do that anyway - the whole messy situation. You say her name once and she whimpers out your own. That's the state of affairs. Just one look at her face is all you need. It's an instant trigger, it's how the electricity rushes and buzzes through the wires.

"You're stunning," you say, totally earnest.

And the heat goes straight to her guts.

It's the transparency of it all, or the bordering bratty-tilt to it, or something, you're not a therapist - it's just what sends Sana toppling, fluttering like a heartbeat as her hips stutter into your own, legs spasming, pussy clenching - and right on the heel of that, with a strangled: "So fucking good to me, I swear, please-"

The moan barely passes the boundary of her lips as it breaks like dawn over her body, sending her spine arcing, chest heaving. It's a kettle-whistle pitch and you think your neighbors are sick of the screams, the late-night-to-early-morning, pounding rhythm against the thin walls, the laughter, the headboard beating like a drum. And they would have to be blind, to not look at her and see a sin they want to taste, too - she's divine like this, moans broken-off and falling into each other, a slur, a blur, her tits bouncing under the flimsy tank, rising higher with each stroke - the fat, firm weight of them; and this is when you know she's going to cum on your cock, the way her muscles go loose, pliant, willing, relaxed - it's all an afterglow in the waiting, she's wriggling into her death, in anticipation, arching up to meet you.

When you pull your hand out from under her ass to grab a fistful of her shirt, right at the center and pulling up to keep her back arched off the counter, her breasts spill from the loosened material and up, and up - they bounce higher, tighter; you're pounding her sopping-wet pussy harder than you have any right to.

There is no heaven to compare.

You'll tell her, if you'll survive the sight of it: Sana is an absolute fucking wreck. Her jaw is slack, her lipstick has long smeared to obscurity and she is a vision in the sexiest, sluttiest sense. She is the kind of fucked that's worth staying dead for. Worth taking last breaths to witness, dying to witness.

And, the moment her lips graze yours: your insides crackle and smolder.

Her hand hits the counter, knocking whatever's next to you onto the tile - the clatter would've been distracting, but you're balls-deep and you think it'd break her if you hit it any rougher-

"Ruin me," Sana pants into your mouth, barely audible. "Fucking ruin me, please, ruin me-"

"Sana," you manage through the hot clench of her around you, the near-painful crush of her arms tight at your waist.

"Need your cum," is what she sounds like. "Like fuck, do you feel that?" She's breathing into your ear. "God, fuck, your cock is right against my tummy, right here," she mewls, one slender hand slipping down to tap a knuckle right below her belly-button, "can feel it pressing up against me," and your mind's gone off, racing down every back-alley, all the old dirt-road streets: "You'd cum right up my little womb. You could. If you wanted, you could breed me up - pump me full, fuck me full. Give me- just - give me everything," and she has no idea - no idea what she's saying, what she's doing, how hard it is to think around a girl with such a perfect, pretty, slick-squeezing cunt-

"Sana," is all you can manage, warning and plea in one. "Careful." It's stupid: you have half a foot on her, outweighing her by more than the other direction, and yet Sana makes you weak. You're like clay for her to mold, bending beneath her fingertips and falling straight through, like the word please: a request. You don't know how she has you all figured out. It's no fun this way.

"Or else what?" Sana smirks, winning. "Gonna get me pregnant?"

You swear you see stars, that it's going to end embarrassingly fast for you, and the thought of you hilting right into Sana's tight cunt, knocking up against her insides, breeding her like your stupid fucking cock knows it wants, that's so, so fucking filthy - no, no, fuck no: that's not what this is, this is supposed to be innocuous, or some approximation of it - you're gonna put her on her knees, cum on her face, fuck a load across her tits, in the bowl of her cupped palms and watch her lap it up and lick clean her long fingers, maybe push the whole, aching head of your cock between the lips of her plush, pink, sweet-as-can-be mouth. Send the load directly down her throat, tugging those gorgeous tresses while her brown, liquid eyes peer up at you. A mess: a sopping, fucked-out, splayed-out, mess.

"Filthy fucking mouth," you deflect, because you can't keep on track with how pretty Sana's perfect cunt's clutching you like a fucking fist, her tiny frame somehow matching you, thrust for thrust.

"What about it," and Sana isn't even flinching.

"Gonna cum in it," you snap, a growl, and it's supposed to be a threat, but then it hits - right at the crease between her torso and legs, your favorite place to pound into her; you're fucking her like a toy, treating her like the easiest little hole you've ever had your hands on, and you'd never pull out, you'd never give this up and Sana knows it, too - you have to make sure to take the base of your cock and work your cum deeper into the bowels of her perfect, hot cunt.

"Yeah?" she hums resplendently.

Somehow, fucked-out and blissful, soaking your cock as you split her open, there's a note of tease in her voice - and an echo in the swell of her womb, clenching, just as willing; Sana's a genius, so she must have found all this shit out already - but it's the type of thing you have to admit, privately and to yourself, through gritted teeth, not within hearing-distance of a girl whose smile could undo every thread in the fabric of time: it's kind of really, ridiculously hot.

"Can you promise?"

"Yeah," you choke.

"Go on," breathes Sana, a dare and a request in one. "Love hearing you say it."

"On your knees," you try to swallow, "gonna pump your cute little throat full," you groan, a man unmade, "gonna have to fuck you like this again, baby. I'm going to make you-"

Make her what: a mother? A whore? A wife, a baby, something she'll be afraid to call out loud, but will say anyway-

"Yours," and that's Sana, fucking the thought out of your head, "so you could use me up, so you'd make me take it, give me everything - cum, cum in me, I need it- please," her voice climbing, crescendoing, "Cum in me," a broken record, all instinct. Sana and her tight, creamy little pussy, you pumping full, you flooding her insides and spilling out, the messier the better - it's how she gets off, her voice wavering until you can feel the shivering, the shaking, the quivering; that perfect moment of collapse, where you're there with her, just the same.

There's a certain kind of pure, self-destructive stupidity in trying to rationalize it, you know, but that's the fucked-up part.

"Oh," she breathes, deep and deliriously hot, and it's an aftershock of its own.

There's no reasoning with how badly you're pounding into her, fucking your cum as deep as it'll go, letting her soft curves rut against your body, to meet her rhythm in turn, to fill her up to the brim and then just a bit over.

"Oh, I can feel it," and Sana sounds like you've done the unthinkable: as if you'd broken a prayer, a hymn, the key to heaven held beneath the wetness, the heat, the fluttering pulse, the tightness, the sex, this body of yours. Like she could die. Like she should die. "That's - oh, oh - your cum's filling up my pussy," and it doesn't register that she shouldn't say it, and you should be telling her to shut the fuck up, but it just doesn't cross your mind at all: "Oh, God. You're - it's so hot inside of me, can - feel it," and it's all true.

There's nothing like it, her silken, creamy, slushy warmth surrounding your softening cock, the way you fit so easily against her.

"I told you," is the first thing out of her gorgeous, swollen mouth. Her lips brush your jaw, your neck. Sana's breath tickles, light on your skin. "No shot you were pulling out."

"Shut up," is the best you've got - it makes her laugh, eyes creasing, throaty and sweet; oh, there's that quintessential Minatozaki charm.

(That's it: she has your number; you watch her smile, watch the way her legs shake when you slip out of her, watch her warm brown eyes flit upwards. You can't let her leave. And she knows.

Sana's fingers graze the curves of your cheeks as she holds your lip between hers, tongue tasting, teasing. A long beat before she releases you, and her smile spreads over the line of your face, slow and steady, like a sunrise. She's impossibly gentle, all silk and sweetness. Unthinkingly soft as her palm smooths your hair out of your eyes - her skin on your skin. Sana's eyes are dreamy like this. The radiant gleam in her irises clashes with the moonlight on her lashes.

She's glitter, gold.)

The pharmacy. The one by your apartment that's open a little after 1 am on a Saturday.

And this should be your cue: walk on by, look forward, straight ahead.

Walk, like you have somewhere to be. Toss some distractions into the basket, drain cleaner, detergent, a fifth, new, foreign bottle of conditioner; maybe some light beer, too, to fit the stereotype, to balance things out.

You tell yourself you have no place here, amidst boxes of birth control pills, gels and patches and syringes and capsules of every single kind. Don't dawdle - don't linger.

Sana's milling the aisles in pursuit of candy, or a bag of those heinous fucking Takis, probably. A bottle of gatorade, realistically; she likes the blue one, says it tastes like putting your tongue to a nine-volt. What an eloquent princess, you think, and find it hard to hide the smile, the simpering stupidity, the tenderness.

She's someone you text about shitty things, who complains to you about her coffee stuck in the vending machine, Mina's ongoing billionaire-affair and Nayeon's chattering over some boy she likes from way back when. Someone whose high ponytail can be found above a pair of comically large glasses, a paperback novel pressed between the bend in her arm and her ribs (bitch, of course there is, she'd said when you'd asked, there's smut in everything these days); whose laugh, tinkling and lilting and silver-bright, has no right to sound as rich or as deep or as richly deep as it does.

Someone who looked in your eyes and found it - that gaping hollowness, a vacancy in the marrow - and who laughed at that, too. She makes it worse. You might actually love her.

"You're like, really nervous," she tells you, not asking.

"Well," and that's when the wall between your mouth and your brain finally collapses: it all rushes through; no air left in the room. "Maybe I'm a fucking idiot."

"I've actually always known this." Sana looks at you, half a smirk. It's almost impossible to imagine the last time you were anything else. "But, like, aren't all men, really?"

"Yeah, yeah. A genius observation." You run a hand through your hair; her smile blooms wider.

"If you insist," and Sana tosses her head, exaggerated, before dumping a shit ton of Twizzlers into the cart. "They're for Tzuyu," she explains. "She's been fucked by her publicist more times this week than she's had hot meals."

"Y'know I actually caught wind of that," you say, moving one step forward in line. "It was neck and neck until she skipped a lunch. Although I don't think those count as like, substantial nutrition. It doesn't negate the other thing."

"Fuck, you're probably right. Gummy bears next time, then."

"Right. Better, slightly."

"That's the spirit," and she peels away, leaving you with her smoky sarcasm - a hand on your bicep as she saunters off to the parking lot. "Also: get some of the good Tylenol from behind the counter. You fucked my brains out and I think I'm coming down with a concussion."

"Jesus christ," you groan. "Again with the outdoor-voice, Sana."

She flashes you her megawatt-grin, flips you off, and the whole transaction at the register is over before you've made sense of it. It's an opportunity for some perspective, a chance to decide you've got it wrong. You should walk home, Sana should ask for a ride, or an Uber - neither of you should need a night-time pharmacy. You could change it if you tried. It's almost absurdly simple, but the way she takes your hand on the walk home is so soft. She's so close: her profile is elegant, poised in the streetlamp's sick, sulfur glow.

You turn the key. There's her laughter again, echoing like windchimes through the city.

And, fuck. It's going to be harder to forget this than you think.

"The internet says it's best to use within twenty-four hours," is all Sana says about it. The tablet's small and green. She hands the plastic bottle to you to check it. Her hair's fallen over her shoulders like ribbons, soft as her eyes. "And the way Momo described it," she explains, almost playfully, "if I wait to take this tomorrow, I think we'd get an excuse to fool around some more."

The look she gives you then is somehow uncharged, despite the suggestion, and she has that habit, when she's laughing or when she's moaning, of chewing on the inside of her lip. She's sitting on top of your breakfast table and looking like starlight. She uncrosses her legs, tips her head.

"What do you think?" and it's everything, a complex trap in four syllables. She's caught you well and squarely. "Do we have a reason?"

"Hm," you say. Sana crosses her legs the other way.

"It's bona fide," she says, teasing you a little, running a finger along the tabletop, her eyes flicking up. She's impossible. It's terrible. "You can creampie me over and over. Can fill up every inch of my pussy - fill my guts right up, and breed me good."

"Huh." It's all you have left to deflect with, when she's laid it all out like that. "That's not what bona fide means, by the way."

Sana lifts a hand, cocks her head. "Means you can do whatever you want." She clicks her tongue, scandalized. There's not much point in refusing, and not even a chance.

"Carte blanche might be what you're after," you offer.

Her laugh is a little breathless, annoyed. "Yeah," and it's like she's flushing pink. "That's what I said. Are you gonna ask me if I know what creampie means too, smartass?"

"Princess," you say, grinning a little, setting the plastic down beside her. You're pretty sure it's rhetorical anyway. "If you read even another sentence from one of Momo's incognito tabs, you'd end up drooling on my sheets." You keep her gaze, eyes locked - well, at least one of you's taking this seriously, you think, as the corners of your lips curve, unbidden - fuck, she's always making you smile.

"Does this mean you're into me, or something?" You tilt your head, pretend to consider. Sana makes a show of scowling. "Or do you just have a thing for being a cumslut," you gesture vaguely, "like, generically?"

Sana leans in and kisses the underside of your chin.

Quick, easy; she snaps back into place like you'd somehow never notice. "A little of both," she says, as breezy as possible. "I'm surprised you're ruling out me taking pity on you." Her eyes have all the mirth you'd expect, and the warmth - the fondness. She looks up at you, and her smile's not as bright or sharp as it used to be. She just seems happy. "Wishful thinking, but whatever."

And maybe Sana's on to something: wishful thinking - but, then again, maybe you're getting close to the part where you've both got it all so, so wrong. You'll have to figure things out from there. Either way, you're at a place where you're genuinely taking medical advice from Hirai Momo.

So, it is what it is.

You don't exactly talk about it. Which is to say neither of you ever bring up how this whole arrangement came to be.

Because it's not romance, it's not sweet, it's not soft or sentimental - it's not even halfway serious: the way everything unfolds haphazardly and with no real, defined idea of what you're getting yourself into, other than a precautionary 'hey, we're not gonna know each other' rule that got broken almost instantly is all that you can divulge, for now. There's all these complexities, layered and tangled and difficult. It's all-consuming. It's an emotional quagmire. It's the kind of thing that'll take years to unpack, the kind that'll never really have an actual explanation; a mistake, probably, you think, one worth repeating, definitely.

"Look. You're leaking out of me," she murmurs from against your pillows, thighs parting - you glance at her cunt, exposed by her twisted panties, and sorta get stuck there. Sana laughs. "Wow," she says, watching you with that wide-open smile of hers, dark hair splayed across the pillows. "Your obsession's worse than I thought."

She's leaving town in the afternoon, so it's been this lazy, lingering fuck all morning, just to pass the time.

You're working from home in the most metaphorical way possible - taking advantage of the daylight streaming in the windows, playing with her hair, fucking her on and off until you get tired of having a mess of a stranger in your apartment. Right. That's the explanation you'll give, when anyone asks. It's a miracle you've slept at all - but then again, Sana gets blissfully and completely tuckered out, turns into putty in your arms, and this is the most dangerous thing of all, the sultry, doe-eyed beauty of her slack mouth in the dark.

You fell asleep together the first time you shared a bed and now never seem to wake up on your own anymore.

She's lax on your mattress, and the blanket's riding low on her thighs, revealing the slopes of her perfect ass. Her little cunt's gaping. Leaking cum. There is no denying it. You think the devil would look a lot like this.

You place your reading glasses delicately on the nightstand, pretend you haven't heard her - or the squelch of her fucked out cunt as she slides a finger down, down, down-

"Oh. Am I distracting you?"

"You have a breeding kink," you say, once she's on a second bottle of water, when her skin's less flushed. You're rubbing between her shoulder blades - she's glowing in your sheets like she belongs there, all white satin and innocence, even with the sweat matted at the ends of her hair.

"Probably," sighs Sana, eyelashes fluttering. "Do I?"

"Definitely," you say, amused.

"Maybe," hums Sana, sounding winded still. You dig your fingers into the nape of her neck, and the next sound out of her mouth is not entirely uncontrolled. You have a point; you're both thinking it. You're just not going to make it. "What's your excuse?"

"Excuse?"

You're not asking her to clarify the question, you're simply buying time to scramble for an answer. Because- "I have no excuse." You shrug. "Just - biology." She rolls her eyes at the apparent insufficiency. "Something about filling up this perfect little body and ruining your whole" - you make a gesture toward her - "pristine-ness."

"Ah, there we go." Sana sits up, the sun casting golden streaks over the angles of her back as she goes.

She stretches like it's an accident, reaches for the hair-tie on the nightstand, and it doesn't matter if you see her do it. "Well." She combs back her damp curls, piling it in an errant bun with practiced ease. It looks good. It's hot, actually. Your cock's still sensitive - but, well, so is Sana's everything. "We're fucked in the head. We get it out of our systems."

"Speak for yourself," you say. She raises a pointed, unmistakably Sana-ish brow. "I'm well-adjusted," you insist. "No baggage."

You watch her go through a moment of disbelief, trying to find some leeway before she snorts. She's climbing on top of you, apparently. Theoretically, you've been keeping an eye on the clock - counting down the minutes before she has to be checking bags and folding up a boarding pass into her purse - first class, because the company believes luxury begets beauty. You'd argue she was both regardless, but-

"That," she says, very matter-of-fact, and settles down so the curve of her ass is over your thigh. It's light pressure. Barely. "Is bullshit."

"I thought that's what you wanted, Ms. Corporate-wunderkind. A therapist type."

"Shut the fuck up." She smacks your chest, too hard to be playful, but a beat later and her hand's snaked back behind her, palm curved over your cock with a promise that makes the rest of the world seem sort of dull.

You shift beneath her, involuntary. Let your hands trail to the warm hollow of her hips, brushing your thumbs over the pink blush marks that blossom on her skin when you touch her for too long.

"Wanting, wanting," she muses, with a strangely alluring sense of casualness, "you've got one track mind - ah - don't even try to hide it." You're more interested in her fingers dragging over your tip, the graceful knuckles that go rigid as she finds your cockhead grazing over the pad of her palm. "For all you know I'll fuck another guy," she says, in a matter-of-fact, it doesn't matter anyway type tone. "Or, god, a dozen."

"Please." Your incredulity and chagrin slip out in equal measure. "Have pity."

Sana cocks her head, intrigued, and takes ahold of the base of your dick.

"No," she decides, "can't say that I can."

There's the stretch, the press. She sinks onto you with no resistance; she's all velvety and wet and you know you were the one who'd gotten her that way. You hiss - so does she. Then it's just quiet again, except for Sana shifting above you, her long legs tangling with yours, the heels of her palms pinning your thighs down to the mattress behind her. She gives a languid little swivel.

"Do you remember," you hear Sana saying, very dreamily, and that's what makes you think perhaps it isn't a serious inquiry and that your input isn't required. She goes, "there was that last day of scheduled rehearsals, that we had before the long winter break. And we got through the numbers in four hours, maybe? Tons of time to kill, and there was nowhere for me to be."

"You came over to my place," you mumble, a vague, wordless reminder of your role.

"Right." Another shift; you're still sensitive as fuck but Sana's weight feels good in your lap and the view of her tits is objectively excellent. "And I took a shower."

"Sure."

She squeezes and rises in tandem, sighing blissfully.

You sit up slightly, support yourself on one elbow and watch yourself disappear, reappear in the wet slit of Sana's pussy. "For a really long time."

"Like an hour," agrees Sana, almost humming, and snaps her hips forward. The jolt forces a groan out of you. She tilts her head up as she does it again, eyelashes fanned, and the reverberation of her movements shakes loose that damned piece of hair clinging to the arch of her temple. You watch a thin stripe of cum leaking out of her, too; that'd been inside her an hour ago. Maybe less. She's fucking you like it doesn't bother her, like she'll never grow tired.

She pulls at the long lock of her hair, seems to examine it contemplatively. She's so perfectly content in her self-aware, blasé, cat-like smugness, purring and untouchable and arching back. Then she says, "That was because I was fantasizing about getting filled with so much cum that I just started running down your shampoo bottle - that's, like, the ultimate breeding fantasy for me, honestly."

"What about that one time," you say, as though unhinged, as though half-conscious, as though every word has the consistency of molasses and there's a bright pulse of blood flooding your brain and rushing out your cock, "when we snuck out to the parking lot, and I made you sit on the hood of my car-"

"Shh, not the same," dismisses Sana, leaning into you, and you hold her there, lock your fingers into the swell of her ass to steady the desperate throbbing inside her pussy. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth, but her head lolls to the side, the gauzy curtain of her hair swaying at her waist.

"But," she concedes, an exhale, "that was good, yeah."

"You came really fast - like, so fast," you insist, thrusting up to the sound of her small groan. Her body, all lush skin and ample, unresisting curves, is flushed and gleaming. There's so much of her to take in: the inky fan of her lashes, the ridge of her ribs, the way her breasts hang heavy as she moves. This kind of debauched view feels exclusive, as if reserved just for you. "Remember that?"

"Did I?" She blinks owlishly.

"I'm remembering it for you." Your palm is heavy on her ass; it's what keeps you grounded, lets you get leverage. "What were you thinking about then?"

She bares her teeth in an indecent grin, tugs on the corner of her lip, as if reveling in the memory.

You watch her mouth open, close again.

It clicks: "Right," she answers, finally, and rides you all the harder. "Errant thought, but." She climbs up onto her feet, knees swung wide, her tiny soles balanced perilously atop the duvet - it's all slippery friction and she's so light you could flip her right over. It's all at your discretion. You lean up further. Your arm braces her back, low and hot. "Was imagining how you'd feel in my ass," Sana continues, carelessly, matter-of-fact, as if discussing dinner plans or a movie rental, and you don't expect a laugh from your lungs, but it comes out harshly, all surprise and hot delight, like a confession.

"This was a few years ago," Sana says.

She lifts off, teases your cockhead with the shallowest grip. Watches all the lines in your face start to wobble, and then sinks back down, all the way, burying your cock in her pussy again. Her lips move, you bottom out, you know she's going to ruin your next orgasm like that.

"Someone online posted some bullshit comment about me being - quote-unquote - easy," she tells you, turning her head to the side, to the window. You know the expression on her face: her mouth curved, eyes dark and so, so full of that amused contempt. "Just this thing that you see on the internet all the time. Everyone just doing the same thing - said I probably love it in the ass and - yeah. Can't recall. Fucked off right away."

"Really stuck with you, huh?" Your hips snap, and you swallow hard. "Brought that - image. Up. Didn't it."

"Guess it kind of did."

"Uh-huh."

She licks her lips. "I'd heard worse," she says, and hums, low.

Your grip on her back, her waist, her hip - they're steel-tight. "Felt like someone had put it in my head," Sana remarks, dreamily, then raises an eyebrow. "So y'know. Had a thought and let it take me there. Only made sense. Let myself. Daydream a little, take a long shower," and her smile goes lopsided, her eyes drift, "breathe hard against the bathroom tile, take two of my own fingers up there-"

And she drops, sinks, the lewd, sloshing sound of it resonant; your hands pull her to you by the roots of her hair and she gasps, heaves a small, faltering breath. She's so fucking wet.

"Baby," you groan, completely flat. "I'm gonna cum in you."

"Yeah." Sana looks like she's miles away. She could be. "I know."

She brushes the hair out of your face, holds her nose to your cheek, starts riding you fast, faster - and you do.

This is where the story actually starts - which, in retrospect, is kind of ironic, because everything was technically pre-written, already preordained:

You're in an airport, arriving late and harried, your hair a mess, Sana's luggage slipping from your shoulders. It's snowing biblically outside, the pavement frosted and dangerously slick with ice. The precipitation heavy and thick and white enough to obscure vision. You keep checking your phone, checking your texts, trying to stay grounded even though the forecasters specifically said the skies would clear by sundown.

Flying conditions: sub-optimal - but only barely.

You think serendipity could be something of an old friend to the two of you - if only the pantheon of weather-adjacent gods didn't seem to like her just a little more.

She's calm and unruffled and preposterously cool, with one hand slipped into her coat pocket, her face tipped towards the window so she can survey the falling snow. She looks the part of the chic world-traveller, clad in leather gloves and a tweed peacoat, the collar popped high and stern.

In contrast, you feel like the embodiment of frazzled, clutching anxiously at the handle of her suitcase and turning frantically to ask her which direction to head in; you're not her manager, you didn't plan her flight, didn't schedule any car services for the ride to her hotel. In a few odd hours she'll be on a different continent, standing in a different hemisphere, and you don't really know what to do with your hands.

"When am I gonna see you again?" she asks, pointedly sidestepping all forms of goodbye, bypassing any polite small-talk about the state of the storm.

She's done up in semi-dramatic makeup, a pair of gold earrings swinging when she tilts her head, fixes the edge of her fringe with her fingers: you watch her catch herself, relax - like a true work of art, you suppose, nothing to imply a separation.

There's the duality, you guess. You're looking at a profundity in motion.

And there will be a thousand cameras in her face when she touches down, vying for attention, swivelling and clicking, seeking shots that are just perfect enough - the internet is rabid and frothing at the mouth for a glimpse, some semblance of truth to satiate the rumor-mongers and their constant dissections of the arch of her spine, in the sway of her walk. She's got knee-high socks on and the fashion mags will be desperate to tear her apart at the seams, claim a sliver of all that profundity - they'll never know it's less of an aesthetic decision and more just a stopgap for the thumbprints blooming yellow-bruised in the curves of her calves.

Sana's watching you watch her; expectantly, eyes shining, big enough to fall into.

"Soon," you say, like you have a choice, and hope it sounds like reassurance, not resignation. "Hopefully soon."

She lifts her carry-on to one shoulder, smiles.

The lens you have is quieter, subtler - that's all.

(You can feel Sana turn to look from the terminal, paused, hovering, her jaw catching on her silhouette; and she waits until you're gone before she strides confidently to the desk, brandishing documents and asking sweetly, charmingly, for the check-in. Her walk slows, stutter-stops. Her posture straightens.

She brushes back her hair and keeps going.)

"You better not be romanticizing your melancholic solitude," Momo says later, with a tray of food in her hands.

It's the next day - same time, probably - you'd gotten back from the airport, hailed a cab and stewed in something like self-reflection before deciding you'd bury yourself in your work. You've been letting Sana distract you too much recently - not that you particularly mind it - but if she's not here to drag you into a conference room and drop to her knees, you might as well start making some progress elsewhere.

You roll your pen around your fingers. "What exactly do you think I'm gonna get up to? Staying up until midnight writing shitty poetry and getting blackout drunk?" Momo snorts. "She'll be gone for two weeks, Momo, not ten years. I think I'm gonna manage okay."

"Don't go punching through glass windows just yet, buddy. It's been twenty-four hours, that's nowhere near enough time for your brain to bathe itself in all the wrong chemicals yet." She plops a bowl of instant udon down in front of you. You realize suddenly you haven't eaten in - well, quite some time.

She wrinkles her nose. "God. So morose."

When you glance up, Momo's regarding you with one fist balled tight to her hip. You stare back at her. Her shirt is doing absolutely nothing to contain the top-half of her chest and your coworkers keep passing and rubbernecking. You get it. Her lanyard just goes right through the center of her cleavage; you sorta squint.

Some things never change.

"Um," she says, mock-scandalized. "Can you not?"

You lean back in your seat. "That was totally professional. I looked right at you."

"Yeah, like I'm a specimen." Momo pulls out the chair next to yours and takes a seat.

"I mean, you kind of are," you deadpan.

Momo chortles, pointing her chopsticks at you. "That was almost flattering, thank you." She slurps up the first noodle. "If you're nice to me, I won't tell Sana you're flirting with girls at the office while she's away. I think she'd come all the way back and wring our necks."

"And wouldn't we deserve it," you add. Your computer screen is frozen, blue-tinted with failure. Great. Momo sits down and the sky's falling within seconds. You assure her for the umpteenth time that she's not really your type anyway.

"Excuse you," Momo says, indignant, because that's a joke.

See - Momo's everybody's type, if you had to peg the definitive example of universal attractiveness. She's everyone's favorite eye-candy whether they swing right, left, upside down or none-of-the-above; it's the ass, ostensibly. The big eyes, the gorgeous cheekbones too - her jet-black hair's cut short, practically the opposite of Sana, sleek and androgynous and hanging off her shoulders in the prettiest sort of way.

If they made dolls they'd be collectibles, wildly sought after as a pair, mint-in-box-worthy - the perfect, polished icons of feminine beauty: brains, bravery, strength. But also definitely the ass.

You blink. "Is there something you're here to harass me for, or is my total lack of interest in banging you just something you're interested in re-establishing?"

"I dunno," Momo says around a mouthful of noodles, "it's distracting. It feels weird when Sana isn't here. Things don't feel very funny. Or cute, y'know? I feel like a standup act missing the lead comic relief."

"Are you saying I'm not hilarious and entertaining?"

"I think you're funny, but." She munches happily on some spring onions. "Not intentionally, not usually."

"So why are you getting soup all over my desk?"

"You're pouty for one, all sad-like," Momo says, swallowing. "And you're supposed to be coming up with this advertising pitch and the only thing written in that word doc was 'hey guys'."

"First draft's the hardest," you recite automatically. "I'll figure it out."

"But not anytime soon," Momo drawls.

You slump your shoulders. "But not anytime soon, no."

"If you miss her, just call her," Momo urges, with all the delicacy of an elephant on stilts. "I'm sure she's bored and horny. Like, wicked horny."

Momo is both direct and filthy - there's another difference. Sana's a layer cake: whip it into shape, top it off in pink icing, drizzle white syrup on top; she looks good and acts good and you can swallow her whole, every inch of her tasting sugary, syrupy sweet. Momo doesn't hide that she's the filthiest mess in a five-mile radius; the complete opposite of Sana - well, sorta.

"I heard you dropped a load inside her, earlier." She laughs out loud, true to form. "What the fuck are you thinking? I mean, serious talk: that shit will also rewrite your brain-chemistry. And the farther Sana is from us, the more your neurons are going to start feeling like they're fucking dying, so don't give me your stupid bullshit and tell me you're 'fine' when you're like, a total wreck."

"Can you fucking keep it down?" You rub a hand over your face. "Also wasn't it you who called us 'all-or-nothing?'"

"That was like a month ago. The whole being-casual-and-making-it-work shtick seemed neat and I wanted in. Also it's February 14th, you jackass. I think you two skipped past normal the second you could get into each other's pants." Momo slurps the broth. "Totally unhealthy."

"Also not fucking true." You exhale. "What am I gonna do?"

She gives you an are you stupid? look. "Text her," she enunciates slowly, like you're hearing her wrong. "Call her, I dunno. Romance is all about grand gestures and unreliable narration. Or at least she reads enough trashy Nancy-Meyers-movies-adapted-into-books-style romance to try and extrapolate something. Go out, and find some flowers." The next bite of her noodles is overly enthusiastic. "Make the girl feel special or something."

"Right, she's gonna love that."

"That's what all the books say."

You purse your lips. "So basically all the books have lied, but Sana loves them anyway because they make her cum with how badly they're written, and now you want me to act like they're an instruction manual on fucking courtship. Am I missing any other steps? Like, does this take into account the fact that I'm also really not that romantically inclined-"

"I think you have to do something nice, put some effort in," Momo interrupts, sagely. "Y'know, the gesture's important. A little creative thought. Something better than you've got going on in that empty husk of an advertising pitch. She doesn't actually care about flowers, but it means you think of her."

You slide further into your seat. Momo grins at the glare you give her, too-friendly. The girl is the only person on the premises who can call you out on your bullshit with any actual weight and expect to get away with it. She doesn't technically even work with your department - has more or less established herself as some combination of A-lister, sex icon, social darling - all rolled into the body of a curvaceous woman barely dressed. And everyone's just sorta charmed by it.

If you were a slightly-less-rational person you'd probably try to date her, too.

"Did you know that St. Valentine was actually beaten to death with clubs before getting decapitated?"

It's an aside question, because the only thing worse than arguing a point with Momo is when she happens to be right.

"Where are you pulling this shit from?" Momo wonders, deadpan, wiping her chin. "Why would you tell me that?"

"Thought it might be relevant." You swirl a plastic spoon in the bowl. "Do you have anything else for me, O great and venerated sage of modern womankind?"

Momo snickers at the sarcasm. "Sure," she says. "Tell me your current thoughts on Paris."

You drag a breath through your teeth. "City's a shithole if you aren't rich, famous and absolutely beautiful. In which case, the city exists solely to bask and dote upon your presence. What was the question?"

"Stop checking the travel sites."

"I'm not."

"Are to."

"Don't."

"Do," Momo replies, primly, and waves her hand dismissively. You are very, very mature. This is your professional space. "Keep it simple." She adds, casually: "Or something."

Far, far away and farther still, a girl ducks into a hired car, takes her heels off and turns up the air conditioning, wiggling her toes in relief.

She ends up slipping out of her clothes, taking a hot shower, changing into sweatpants. A private meal is offered to her; she turns down a glass of champagne, instead requesting iced coffee with an obscene amount of espresso shots - pours a ridiculous amount of milk in until the contents are a creamy beige, not even close to being a light-roast.

Later, much later, after a scented candle is extinguished and a notebook is closed shut, the night sky still dark and unchanging, the time zones shift, and then a single, glowing notification flashes across the screen - 4.42 am, her phone says. She's drifting in and out of sleep, dreaming in monochromatic pixels.

It's a mundane, totally insignificant message: nothing fancy, nothing new. A quick update - something along the lines of where are you, what are you doing, are you safe and happy, thinking of you. But it's punctuated with an exclamation point and followed by a pair of hearts - which is something new - like you're thirteen and she's just given you her home-room assignment list on a slip of paper and made you promise to exchange homework with her in the morning.

"How cute," she breathes, softly, and feels warm.

Here are the three rules about falling. Another anecdote; another wish-wash of creative editorializing, again: you really hate that you're quoting Momo on literally any of this, but unfortunately Momo has a lot of practical advice in the form of shitty armchair-psychology.

You know because you have a literal book full of the worst pithy maxims, delivered by her in varying states of drunkenness and hysteria and grudges borne of much heavier drama, all edited to her personal taste. It's a different thread, but also all part of the story: she and Sana are best friends. Take it or leave it.

Anyway: the rules,

1.) Grand gestures. Unreliable Narrations. Know that the idea is romantic, but the process is totally horrifying.

There aren't really any guidelines or requirements, not an exact science, anyway: there are softer, slower and easier ways to love than an impulse transcontinental flight; it comes in different forms, with much fewer headaches, far, far less red tape.

Try a knee nudge in a cab, a smoke-flavored kiss on the back porch, a text me when you get home, murmured in between yawns, the click of heels coming into the house after work - maybe, outside her apartment, making out against a wall of bricks like it's all you'll get, breathless and laughing under streetlights; if Sana were any less captivating (a loaded word if there ever was one) there'd be no good reason to think or to dwell on the semantics.

2.) Bending at the knees makes you less likely to get a concussion when you lose your balance. It's still risky, still a shot in the dark: in physics, there's a certain amount of grace under pressure - Sana's adored not by men, not by people, but by the universe itself.

It feels like: she's too loved, too known. The number of followers she has is, frankly, abhorrent to your sensibilities.

3.) An object at rest remains at rest: it is up to someone else to try and change its trajectory.

For all practical intents, purpose and reasonable application: forget them.

The only lesson that counts is 4.) Fuck logic, and that goes in the book.

February 14th.

Presently, we're flying at an altitude of twenty-eight-thousand feet as we begin our descent into Charles de Gaulle Airport. I'd like to ask you to please fasten your seatbelts, place all tray-tables and upright seats in their fully-vertical positions and power off all personal electronic devices. The local temperature at the landing strip is eleven-degrees celsius or about fifty-two degrees Fahrenheit. The forecast for the rest of the afternoon predicts clear blue skies, and we would like to thank you for flying Air France. Please have your passports and immigration documents handy for quick and efficient processing.

Then the same message in French, you're guessing. Welcome then, to the City of Light.

Your cell service pings back to life as you navigate through customs. Her texts and voice-mails are short, clipped, inane: news bulletins of random things she's heard of, things that catch her attention, new designs, newly-founded associations, this gallery and that gallery, this statue, that museum - all without her own commentary or editorializing.

The deluge of information almost makes her seem impersonal, disconnected from her own thoughts, like you're getting everything secondhand. Like it's accidental.

9:00 AM - Sana: oh btw just saw the 80's hairdressing revival special in studio e. 7000 times worse than the 70's one. nothing. nada. not a single ounce of cool. not like, at ALL.

Sana: never in my life will I EVER, in the history of fashion, agree with it.

Sana: photo attached

The photo is honest-to-god terrible. You have no idea what she's referencing.

11:30 AM - Sana: idk how it happened or why, but there's this tennis match thing i guess i'm supposed to be at

Sana: im honestly too zoned-out to tell whether i actually like this game lol

Sana: how tf does everyone know the rules. what is for-de-all? is that just a made-up thing people scream when a serve bounces into the net???

Sana: we'll see how it ends

Sana: ok the pro in the white suit is kinda hot and like, sosososo talented

Sana: he hits hard and his returns are perfect

Sana: how have i gone so long without knowing how deep i could get into the sports of men in fitted shorts??

There are countless more: small-talk, casual banter, lighthearted teasing, all going at her own speed of 5000 centimeters per second. You skim through, not sure how to parse the implications: she seems at best half-focused, unengaged, probably tired - maybe high on local-jet-lag, more interested in telling you she misses you and that her hotel room bed feels massive than telling you about her afternoons wandering art museums in a designer dress; oh, the magazines are frothing over her.

For reasons you don't feel entirely ready or qualified to address, you're reading between the lines to all sorts of things.

3:00 PM - Sana: could i call you? it'd just be like 5 minutes, i'm not busy or anything but idk if youre busy. not sure if you'll reply to this right away.

Sana: sorry don't mean to disturb you (´;︵;`)

Sana: well tbh i actually kinda do mean to interrupt.

She sends an obnoxiously bright, cloyingly pink 'V-Day' Gif in place of the last text and then doesn't answer. And suddenly, in a way you hadn't considered before - you think you're losing your goddamn mind, trying to construct an actual picture from fragments, assembling all the puzzle-pieces back into a single, discernible whole. She hasn't so much as signed off her text, let alone give you anything concrete to follow up on; this whole chain reads like the equivalent of sending her a lunch break meme, asking what her day looks like.

Inconveniently: it's the 14th of February, and Sana is the kind of person you'd get chocolates for - would tear open a Valentine's Day card and sign the message and seal it off with a stamp. It'd be tacky, and overly sappy and gaudily, horribly romantic - like a suitor from the Renaissance. You've always suspected she was something like an antique, in this very modern kind of way. It's how she looks best, all draped in antique jewels, chiffon and damask, dripping pearl and lace and silver threads, all in expensive, cosmopolitan aesthetic that makes sense within itself: something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue.

The insanity is that it's making perfect sense right now. You have been ruined in ways unimaginable, and you have not, as Momo kindly warned you, even known.

You are not, in fact, alright - or casual about the situation.

You need flowers, urgently: this is a gift-giving crisis.

It's funny - this winter fling, as ill-fated as they come, a few months in: time seems to pass fast. Too fast, to the point where it starts to slip away in longer and longer increments, faster and faster, further and further intervals - like shadows stretching inexorably towards dusk.

There's no flowers, no cards, no nothing - and that is sort of the nature of it, the romance of the everyday.

You're in the metro so you can't even use your data, can't send her a quick selfie of your charming visage, with the background blurring like you're getting real poetic about it. No moon, no stars, no gaslight illuminating the dark. Just plain-ass subway tracks, a near-soviet expression of concrete, and some stupid ads for full-body waxes. The trains clear the station at 8:57 PM local time. That's Paris's time, Paris's city, her backdrop. The frame of this portrait.

So, in other words: you are not poetic, at all. You've probably got nothing in your hair except dust, dirt, and a bit of airfare grime. You've still got yesterday's cologne and nothing worth sending her except an afterthought.

No photos, no video, no cards, no ring; no pearls or lace, no gold and silk - and this is total luck, by the way; serendipity must still like her more - you look across the platform and watch the lights of another train arrive: the girl stepping off is stunning.

And even further in terms of non-comparisons: she's the type who laughs too hard at your jokes and wipes away the smeared tears on her cheeks afterwards, who will drop a dirty joke at every moment, who lets you see her mouth open in a perfect, dripping-wet gape, who will sink into the mattress after a good, rough fuck, the headboard creaking; a girl who will tell you your coffee is too bitter and when you ask, sweet enough? - she'll still say no; not yet; no; don't; harder, don't you dare stop - that type of girl, is the one inching off the metro, glancing down at the watch on her slender wrist.

The trains start again and the girl is left standing on her own. In another five seconds, someone will probably say, mademoiselle? - which, also: there's a class on language you have not passed; you'll pay that back later - and in response, she'll sigh deeply, stretch her arms out. Tilt her head upwards for some fresh air.

You blink once, twice: and no - that really is her, on the other end. Sana Minatozaki - somehow inexplicably, for no reason you're privy to - has materialized as though she just decided on a whim to visit her home planet again.

You call out across the chasm, like a man possessed, and it is incredibly loud, incredibly embarrassing, incredibly out of character. You hardly notice.

Your voice catches on the draft of the tunnels; it must've echoed. She spins around to see who's calling her.

When she spots you, her face glows.

"Holy fuck," she rasps, trying to catch her breath, putting her forehead to your shoulder. "Jesus christ. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"We were in the same city," you respond, hoarse and almost panting, palms flat against her skin. Your muscles have that third-rail electricity running through the tendons and straight on through, too; Sana feels like pure tension, just burning off. There's something vaguely buzz-high about you. "Couldn't resist. I was gonna call eventually-"

She hits your shoulder like she's mad, but her face has more or less melted in pleasure, her mouth parted into a wide smile, all sharp edges and incisors. Her hair's almost a disaster: you can see the barrette slipping out, the edges of it, the glittery accents; you think about getting your hand all knotted up in the up-do and pulling - just to watch her spill off the end of the spool, tightly wound, twining around you like ribbon, sinking in and refusing to leave.

The doorman tried to ask for your coats before you fell on each other - in the middle of the lobby, if that's possible - and it's not like he even really saw anything, you were sure: just saw her smile when you pressed the tip of your fingers up under her chin, just your thumb grazing her lip before you bent your mouth to hers and didn't come up for air.

The doors of the elevator up shut close, and suddenly there's nowhere left for you to go: no further to climb, to hide, to disappear.

"You," she begins, biting off the end of the sentence in exasperation, settling instead for letting the word trail away. Her lips ghost across the hollow of your throat, the curve of your jaw, the little dip between the column and your ear, pressing hard and insistent - marking her territory.

"Do you just, y'know, pop up in fucking New York once in a while, too, for like a spot of breakfast and then, yeah, I'm good." Her voice sounds tired, worn. It's kinda cute. "No plans to stay, nothing booked, just passing through, huh?" She taps your shoulder, pulling away to run her fingers through your hair. "Idiot," she breathes, in that saccharine way of hers, smiling; you are helpless; you are done for, fully done-for: she can take as many digs at you as she wants. "Also what the fuck, you didn't answer my texts," her face crumples a little when you grab her, haul her against you - holding on, tight. It's an intoxicating rush, seeing Sana falter like that.

She's as stunning off-kilter as she is put together: more real than any human being should be allowed.

"Well," you say, not apologetic at all. "It's a holiday."

"You're making it really hard to be angry right now," she replies, lifting herself in her pumps and slotting her lips over yours. This time, the kiss lingers. It is the point of departure, a threshold of arrival: who knows whether or not she can feel you melting beneath the heat of her fingertips. You want her to take as many soft, easy-going kisses as possible - a stack, a row, a wall. If she keeps leaning into you like that, you'll do just about anything. "Not just to make a boner joke, either," Sana whispers, fingers gripping onto your shoulders for balance. "I wanna go slow for once. Real gentle."

"Say that again?" You hum, unable to leave well enough alone.

"Something slow?" She lilts.

"A boner joke."

"God," she groans. "Would it kill you, you massive fucking prick, to have a modicum of compassion and not act like you're five?"

And look - there's not enough elevator for the whole story, let alone the novel it would be to properly explain everything there is to know about Sana; how the sky goes dusky-hued when the streetlights come on; how she always fiddles with her hands in her pockets when she's bored, the impatient flex of fingers, pulling at the loose threads. How you'd kiss her knuckles to calm her - how she was annoyed that she let you in the first place.

The story of the two of you would take, well - it'd take a few months.

"Actually," you counter, "it would. Probably kill me dead. Obituary, a single photo of a smirking ass in a dress suit. Very sad."

"Christ. I've put up with way too many assholes today," she huffs, shaking her head, "for you to be the way that you are."

"Oh, trust me. It's not my favorite either." You lean back, can't quite help it: she's not at all ruffled - only curious, only teasing. You pull her hips tighter towards you. She kisses you, sighs a little: her neck smells like orange-blossoms. You had no idea that could be as sensual as it is. "You'll just have to deal," you murmur.

"Like always," she complains.

"It is pretty rough."

Sana meets your grin. Her hand cups your face - it feels oddly tender.

"How," she says, slowly, the words very carefully enunciated - "the hell did you think this would turn out?"

You open your mouth: this is what you are capable of.

Sana never actually gets around to telling you the things she meant to say: the confession of a valentine, all sappy and serious, almost candid, with gravitas - a five-paragraph essay, four pages long.

It's a messy affair - you've got a fistful of hair and the other's shoved down the front of her skirt. She's been wanting to be here all day, it seems - you've seen the text-book spread of supermodels and old-money socialites and she's wanted a moment's escape from them all, has been pining for someone, anyone (most certainly you); waiting in her pretty dress and her high heels, a set of pearl earrings, the starlet curls of her hair - the clutch she left on the floor by the door because you shoved your hand underneath the fabric, said: I'll eat you out right fucking here.

So there's a common thread, if nothing else: you and Sana are verifiably incapable of having anything resembling a serious conversation. There isn't a single point of departure: the entire thing starts out casual and remains, firmly, casual.

You are deeply unserious people; this is just how it is. So clear from your head the ideas of saviours, soulmates.

You stumble together into the sitting room of her hotel suite - the luxury is appalling, almost, the floor-to-ceiling windows opening onto a gorgeous balcony and overlooking the Seine - "It's fashion week," is her excuse, "all the good penthouses have been booked since last November," she apologizes, which you can't really wrap your mind around anyway. You nod like that's reasonable, the right answer, pull at her lip with your teeth, and she melts right into the open palm of your other hand - oh, she'll fit well here. It's where she belongs: soft, sweet, yielding to you.

"Don't need your pity," she pants, breaking the contact to speak, to drag her tongue up your collar and up to the hinge of your jaw, grinding her hips down so that you hiss and close your fist tighter in her hair, give her that sudden tug, that sweet little rush: that thing she doesn't need, wants anyway.

Her expression flicks something in you - the eyes, the mouth; the trademark Sana-sneer. And suddenly you need to pin her to the wall, the floor, hold her still for the taste. You look up to get your bearings and find the world gone monochrome: night, cold, grey, grey-on-grey, black, dark - and that's fitting somehow. Sana tilts her head away to observe you back - you have a feeling she's observing how fucked-up you are over her already, and for some reason, you can't give her the satisfaction, not quite yet: can't admit the defeat of how you can't ever take your eyes off her, the thick swell of her legs and the smooth curves of her calves. Can't lay out what you'll do to her.

Though that's about when the storybook romance vanishes, and in its place - a more familiar arrangement; the reality you'd built with her over the past half year, the awful, easy rhythm you're going to settle back into with little ceremony: all playful affection, no sentiment. Zero pressure to pretend - or to pretend anything differently.

(Which brings you to this.)

"Sana," you drawl, grabbing her chin, making her twist in the direction of your touch. "Is that your dildo stuck to the coffee table?"

Because in the middle of all this, that's what she left lying out in plain sight: a some-odd inch silicon cock, unabashedly translucent, obscenely clear; with a ridiculously realistic head, veined shaft, balls - she had gotten her vibrator out of one suitcase and forgot the rest. It's literally sitting right next to the complimentary drinks; so obviously out-of-place, it's impossible that someone could mistake it for anything.

"Oh god," is the only reply, mortified. "Please, dont. I didn't think I'd be-"

"Should I be offended?" You are doing a truly appalling job at sounding seductive. You are, in fact, kind of choking down a laugh.

Sana takes a hand through her half-disassembled hair. Tosses the bobby-pin holding up her bangs: there. Full dishevelment - the effect is startling. You can almost trace the silhouette of a girl so very badly kept together; frayed ends, straying strands, half-gossamer and half-permanent dye.

"It's a toy," Sana explains, like you hadn't pieced together that much. She shrugs off a strap of her dress, the other. "It's just plastic and stuff." She looks at it. You can see the wheels turning, trying to figure out if it's worth salvaging. Then: "Here, c'mon - don't think. Don't," she tries, unconvincingly: "think too much about this."

You raise an eyebrow.

"I was planning to fuck myself senseless, maybe because somebody wasn't answering their texts," she adds, glibly. It is absolutely stunning, watching Sana Minatozaki shamefaced, pouting - trying and failing, failing miserably - to look even a little apologetic. "Just lemme - if you're into it, y'know, we could. Use. It. Or something."

"Or something."

It's too late: you're cracking up.

"This is really what you use on your off hours? On yourself?" You pick it up: it's heavier than you expect, mostly because the thing is made of clear jelly, probably some kind of latex-powdery-water concoction - just the sheer thought is bizarre, foreign to you. The base suction cups to...any surface, you suppose, to provide stability. It's not altogether very practical, now that you're getting a closer look. "Is this," and you hush conspiratorially, "Is this Jean-Pierre?"

Sana smacks the side of your arm, flushing. "Shut the fuck up," she responds, laughing. A beat later, her lips tilt. "His name's Woody."

"That sounds like a conversation starter."

"I shouldn't have to explain the reference."

"You're sure it's a he?"

"It's got testicles don't it?"

"Oh yeah," you say, weighing the toy in your hand. "Look at that."

"Would you just, like," Sana coughs delicately, looks around the room for something interesting. "-put it somewhere."

"Phrasing," you can't help but point out. "Jesus you moved the mirror in here, too."

And you'd caught the moment originally, when the blush had filled her cheeks, her forehead, her nose, all the way on to her ears. She had known. "Maybe you really did corrupt me," she counters, turning her head pointedly away. "Wiped away the good girl veneer and turned me into a degenerate pervert."

"Which is basically how you started," you remind her - and you catch her in your arms. She relaxes almost instantly; you sink a palm down the small of her back to rest in the dip of her spine. You've learned a little: Sana prefers closeness, intimacy, touch. No questions, no fanfare, no gimmicks, just the simple offer of body warmth. She'll curl into your chest and stay quiet, almost content; an ineffable smile leaking up the back of her throat as your nose tickles the side of her neck, mouth open and warm and pressed into her skin.

Her eyes crease. She feels more real, a little less ethereally divine.

"How could you?" she asks, faux-affronted. You can feel how she breaks character, the laughter reverberating against your fingertips. "I'm, like, so fucking demure."

It takes everything to resist kissing her until she moans: which is the danger. You do anyway, but at least the damage has already been done.

She locks her wrists loosely behind your neck. Kisses you slow. Heavy. Giggling - you've been demoted to giggles in the end, it seems, a slip from seductress back to child-like delight. "Seriously," Sana sighs, rolling her shoulders out and circling her hips slowly. Your heart drops. Your entire face turns hot; you're really fucking gone for this girl. "Wanna watch me ride it?"

The thing is, a bed-time story would have paper-hearts, and candles, and maybe a field of birds; an open space, a plush meadow, a wide, beautiful, clean canvas for this little romance to run wild across, uncontained.

Sana instead, reaches for a bottle of personal-lubricant, glances back with a smile; your breath catches - you think it's a momentary trip, a chemical reaction.

You realize it's the lighting instead, the frame of this moment. The simple concept of art, how the hues of the dark deepen, saturate into something a shade off - purples and blues; something to capture and press into paper, inked forever.

She holds the bottle above the end of the toy, pours generously. As you can already tell - no lack of initiative, imagination: she takes both her legs to the edge of the table, stretches them outward - makes a pretty little show of herself, arches her back off the glossy wood - and sets the tip just against the inner junction of her thighs. Sana pushes, tilts: gasps aloud, sharply inhaling, watching you watch her with heavy-lidded eyes. Her shoulders relax and the rest of her muscles follow the tension - easing in a slow, languid circle, hips grinding down. She sighs at the cool feel of it, before pulling it back to rest the edge just in-between her lips, a teasing movement, right where you would reach - two fingers inside, hook up and outwards and open, stretch her wide to fill.

The girl looks like sin, looks like decadence; near-saintly: holy and sacrosanct. You think they've beatified less.

Sana reaches with her free hand for the front of your shirt.

"You," she whispers, and your hands flex involuntarily.

"Yeah," you reply, soft, even-keeled. "Me."

(Romance me, she'd said, only half-sarcastic. Sweep me off my feet and ruin me. Then I'll show you just how obsessed I am with you.)

There's always the itch, the impulse: to undo and dismantle everything around her, take everything to pieces; reduce her to tears until all she knows is your hands and your voice. To stop treating her like a masterwork and treat her more like something you're carving out of a block of stone. Maybe she'd lose that divine edge; she'd fall from that angelic grace into something mortal, and it wouldn't be anyone's fault. Not really.

Well - until now; because this is all you.

"Oh, Sana," you murmur, watching her tear up like it's killing her. "God, look at you."

You’ve got your fingers running through her honey-blonde tresses, got her wet lips slipping down the length of your cock, got the cutest little whimpers coming from her chest when you push a little too far, force yourself a little too deep - got the prettiest girl on her knees, working your cock to the back of her throat and letting her hips grind a few more inches of silicon inside her. The visual isn’t even in competition, in comparison - her huge amber eyes all innocent and glassy, those flawlessly plush red lips - you really shouldn't do it; if she hates something it's being mussed up, but here she is, anyway, because if there's anything she hates more, it's not getting a full serving of exactly what she wants - and she's swallowing your dick down her tight little throat without asking anything in return.

"You love this, don't you, baby," and when she bobs up - sinks back down - your next breath drags through your teeth.

The mirror's behind her; you don't need the nod for confirmation.

You can see it clear as day: her pussy creaming, glistening as she takes it even deeper, leaving a white, glistening trail from the base to the tip of the silicon shaft - how far she's gone; how far she'll still go.

"You love having my cock down your throat," you keep talking, and you curl your fingers gently in her hair, not enough to guide or press, but Sana - bless her - takes it like an indication and does the work for you; she nods anyway.

The waterline of her big doe-eyes is swimming, nearly spilling over - and if this doesn't prove it, then nothing will, certainly not anything she could say herself.

But, really - you can't get over her face, and she must know that.

Prada, Fendi, Chanel, Dior - they've got similar ideas, sure; straight to the gutter, only if they could see how you're replicating their vision - her eyes: too huge, too shimmery, too imploring; her hair spills from your fists in loose, glossy coils; that magazine-cover-ready look all flushed, mascara-thick lashes wet from the strain, jaw a little slack to accommodate the size of you - you're not too much easier to take than the dildo stretching her cunt wide right now, either.

Oh, she's filled up on both accounts.

"Mmnhph," is how Sana hums around you, tongue working obscenely over the head. Her mouth feels velvety-tight on the upstroke.

It doesn't take much to forget her mouth's playing second-fiddle to the work her cunt's doing, and her free hand's curling tight around your thigh, a steadying mechanism - which, isn't that the very root of the matter: the first time you'd cum in her tight little pussy, hadn't it been just like that, where all the pieces slotted right back into place, a certain order to the chaos? The desperate cling of her pretty-fingernailed hand.

Eyes wet and blinking: trust, don't let me down.

And you'll indulge her like tomorrow's the end of the world. Work her through it; watch her fine eyebrows pinch tight together; note how her high-strung breathing sounds muffled in her nose. How she lets you slide to the edge of the chair to fuck her face, lifting your hips and knocking into the slightest gag-reflex possible. She gets progressively filthier, tongue lathing the underside of you, sucking the head with the tight seam of her lips whenever you pull back to give her a second to breathe.

"Jesus." Your fingers loosen in her hair, combing her wild bangs from her flushed face. It's suddenly delicate. Gentle. Doting. Sana's pretty little forehead deserves a kiss for how fast, how deep, she's taking your cock in the softest part of her throat.

"There we go - just relax, sweetheart," you tell her, the very same girl who is making herself cum in the full-length mirror: pussy stretched and pulsing wet around the toy. "Catch your breath."

She doesn't even flinch when you touch your thumb to her cheekbone, carefully pulling her face back, feeling the wet press of her tongue at the crown. But her lips pull into a pout like she's sad you're stopping her. "No more?"

You inhale, deeply, and try not to laugh out loud. Her cheeks have flushed this adorable rose color. "Baby," your voice trails off with a click, and it's entirely your fault for teasing her; you might not get out of this room for the rest of the night, after all. So much for red wine and valentine's on the Seine - the perfect, the picturesque-

"I can't help it," Sana cuts in. She doesn't even hesitate. If anyone can redefine perfection, well. She's wearing that look: her mouth an utterly sinful pucker and her tongue skimming pink up the wet mess her throat's made of you. Her big, heavy-lashed eyes gazing at at you, and her pupils - well, that's no doubt what happens when something hits too hard, and it's the last thing you should notice, really, in this moment.

Her tongue is flat, stuck out. Very pink. She slaps your cock against it. Jesus christ, you think.

But: who can blame you, when the gorgeous, nude, marble-perfect woman on her knees is riding her toy with no qualms whatsoever, gazing straight into your soul?

"The faces you're making are really fucking hot and it's valentines day and you, like, taste and smell so fucking good-"

"Okay." You're twitching in her hands, and it's making her give you the most awful bedroom eyes in the world. "Okay, baby, slow down-"

She doesn't, but she can't do much worse; Sana presses her plush, swollen bottom lip to the crown of your cock, makes a show of licking the precum beading from your slit - licks her lips like it's a present, like she'd flown halfway around the world just for that, and it's an ambrosia she'd rather savor than spill.

"Sana," and your laughter falls out in a gasp, because, fuck - she's got a tight grip on your thigh and the most selfish desire for your orgasm you've ever seen; her other hand is already set, too, the one rubbing away at her own dripping pussy, wrist working just underneath her, catching her clit. "You're going to make me cum like that."

"Okay," she tells you, all round-eyes and wet-mouth; she's so fucking insatiable. "Then cum."

You're not sure how a goddess who worships your cock ends up like this: propped up the hotel-furniture, sinking down a thick, gleaming dildo and the slightest hitch in her breath a fucking non-sequitur. "Fucking hell," you gasp. "Princess-"

And, well - it's not like you really protest; her mouth's already at the tip of you and she's working it there, in and out, with a teasing wetness.

She sighs, heavy, but also blissful; sinks lower in one, rolling agonizing movement; meets your eyes when you go heavy-lidded and biting your lip - like it's a competition for who can end up the worse wreck. She swallows, slowly, so slowly. Lets her nails lightly dig into the sensitive skin behind your balls, drags them back up with her tongue and her throat constricting.

It's her expert mouth, that's the thing. You close your eyes because you think you might cum right then; right down the back of her pretty, porcelain throat. You can hear her humming like she's enjoying it more than you - can hear the clicking sound in her throat when she bobs her head, fucks herself deeper. Can hear the slick, filthy slaps of her pussy taking the cock fastened to the coffee table under her. And, you think, opening your eyes just a crack: when your girl's making a mess of the expensive hardwood with the cream spilling from her needy cunt - that's worth giving into. That's an image so good and perfect and god-damned filthy that you'd bet, when you cum, all the devil will want is a deal for a replica, for a pact to possess every woman out there who fits the mold: this one's yours.

You're fucking her mouth so hard, she's drooling.

"Jesus- ah, fuck. I'm going to fucking cum, Sana," and, not that she listens, “down your fucking throat, honey- I'm, oh," - not that she cares, really - you've just managed to grit your teeth - to arch your back up like that could pull you out from the sensation: it doesn't.

She does moan around you, then. Pulls the vibration deep and uses her tongue, works the pink, slender muscle right down to where you're half-gagging her, making her eyes water.

It's easy to knot your fingers back in the locks of her hair, pull tight.

Easier still, her face is framed with your thighs and the effect's immediate - it feels as hot and wet and tight as a vice and your voice shakes along with the rest of your neurons, firing, collapsing, keening - and, of course: when your hand fisted in her hair tries to pull her hot mouth off your cock, well.

There's a few more inches of sloppy-wet friction and slippery-tight drag you hadn't really budgeted for.

You're cumming all over her face, not that you had much of a choice - it's just one wave and another, your thighs tensing and the breath going out of you in stilted, long, stuttering moans - Sana looks up, when your brain has unscrambled enough to register her name and the light of the world and the absolutely perverted expression she's got: there's a shot of cum that streaks across her closed eyelid and another string making a sticky-white mess out of her button-nose and, god-

You don't mean to cum in her hair, but-

"Fuck," your teeth clatter around a biting-gasp, "Sana, oh fuck," but - as expected, she does have your cock gripped tight at the base, her lashes clumped with the mess, her cheeks sticky-messy.

Sana's looking up with the innocent sort of mischief only she could ever get away with, you figure, cum-covered and beautiful: the good girl with her good girl mouth, all the evil inside of her.

She lets your cock fall out of her hand, down, with an obscene, wet thud, right where she can press it against her face - press it against those sharp cheekbones - and those doe-eyes, and those lips: the ones she draws across the dripping tip, pulls at them with a sultry sort of sigh. Sinking the curve of her nose down the belly side of your cock as you paint her, gasping for air; and it gets worse - when her tongue catches between your balls, when her lips are pouting right around the soft skin there and her soft moans make you pump the white-hot ropes of cum until it's a mess in her hairline, in the silky locks that fall to the crests of her ears and down to where they rest over her tits, hiding the flush of her hard, puffy nipples, her tiny little pink clit-

"Messy," Sana croons, without much of an inflection; one eyelid flutters open and a milky-stream runs down the curve of her cheek; the other seems hopelessly stuck.

Oh, she's usually such a wet blanket about getting anything in her hair (which is more often just an excuse to ride you brainless on the shower bench, but it doesn't come without her grumbling on the way), and even then she's lifting up off her heels and resting her chin on your thigh to make sure you can watch when she spreads the mess along her slender throat and back behind her ear, almost shy, drawing strands of cum into her mouth with her long-lashed eyes locked onto yours.

"It really hasn't been that long," and she says it with some exasperation, with a bubbly little bout of laughter that has the same weight as her pecking kisses along the muscles of your abs, cleaning her cum-hand against the patchy wetness across the flat plane. "Geez - you must've been so pent up -" and she stops for breath, for another suckle to your shaft; your cock twitches in her grip, the sensation too much, but it makes Sana give the most self-satisfied smile. It'd be unbearably irritating if she wasn't your entire universe - she is, so you try not to move as she steadies herself on your thighs; presses her messy face into the side of your throat and mewls. "All mine," Sana decides, sounding quite content about it. "Do you need a few minutes?"

She asks this like she isn't pumping you still, using her delicate fist to keep you upright for her while she speaks into the line of your jaw.

"Um," you say, before anything else. Before thinking about her clinging, wet heat around you. Before anything else: "yeah."

She purses her lips. Presses her free hand to your chest with a needy arch of her body. Pants for you, lashes falling shut - and, there's the problem, she's so much more fuckable like that. She's painted red from her cheeks all the way down her tits and you're just realizing how much drool fell off her chin, how much of a mess is between her tits, how much she revels in it - getting her face-fucked until neither of you can survive the fallout.

"How about," she huffs against you, all breath and the curve of a whine, "I clean this up," her hand's still tight at the base, where your nerves are singing with all sorts of new sensory input - "and god, your heart," she whispers, and her chin hooks over your thigh. She's looking up at you, ruined, flushed and dewy. "-is beating so fast for me -" she says, almost wistful.

That's the point, probably. It's the entire problem: she has a few ideas of how beautiful she is, the kind of destruction she wreaks.

Her breath catches in her chest when her hips shift back and that thick, fake cock pops out of her cunt; it sounds fucking filthy, and the softest of keening moans escapes her - it has the weight of your existence and she probably knows it; her amber gaze fluttering shut as she doesn't move for a second.

You don't either, can't really; Sana sliding up your body as graceful as ever, even naked and used-looking, leaves you barely functional and running on over-stim. "I mean," she starts, like the two words just tumbled out of her cunt with the rest of the mess and that's a great explanation; Sana's moving around in your lap anyway, dropping that nice, hard dildo on the seat beside you, still dripping. "I can't let you cum in my pussy," she says, all gentle matter-of-fact, while her mouth opens across the arch of your jaw and she gets cum down her wrist. "Well," she amends, "-not yet anyway, not right now," and she does look guilty, for some reason.

It makes your smile twist wry and unattractive, probably. "I'm good at controlling myself," you manage.

"Liar," says Sana, which is a reasonable reply. You'd laugh, but her cunt's wet and hot against you, already sinking, settling, just an inch deep into her cunt. It's easy to take in hand - you grip her hips, thumb her little pink clit.

Sana's response is to rut against it, rubbing all over where the swollen head of your cock rests between her thighs. Her smile goes a little blissed out, dreamy.

"There's another place," she's saying, while her hair spills down your arm, between you, sticking in the space between her tits, "that would be a perfect home for this thick, gorgeous cock."

"I think you should let Woody and I sort that out," and, shit, that doesn't make her stop moving, dragging her soaked slit over your shaft. "Maybe he'll be your valentine after all, huh, babe?"

Sana narrows her eyes, tilting her head forward in her best attempt at threatening. It's cute, almost, if your dick wasn't trapped between the wet heat of her body and your belly. You pick her up so, so easily. And that's hot, you think: your strength, her whole lithe-waisted petite-tits everything.

"Hey," her lips part against yours, a protest there - until you move her by the hips, pushing up and watching her spread for it.

And if that doesn't go straight to your ego.

Sana huffs, playing aloof, petulant - a character you draw out when she's really hoping and praying you'll fold her up and show her what the good parts of worship mean. "You think you can share?" she's asking you, voice already growing rough. She's trying to fuck back, take her hips again, but you still her with your palms, fingers sinking tighter and her ass spilling out between your knuckles.

"Get your knees back on the table for me, pretty girl," and you lift her as she squirms; set her down, until her body is arched forward, tits pressed punishingly to the hardwood.

You think you're maybe spending next-century's savings on a wet-dream made real; maybe being too rough, too mean about your hand twisting through that mess of golden-strawberry curls at the base of her spine and making her spine curve deep as she breathes out a heavy, messy curse.

"Give me what I deserve, then," and she can't reach under her body and tug at your cock, but she gets the words out. The order. "I'm aching, it's sore and empty and, it's so fucking tight," and that's not a demand but a whine. She wants you, that's the real point. "You know, I want," and she doesn't finish that, but:

She's blinking at her reflection in the glass, watching it. You really fucked up that pretty painting, and she's appraising the art, tilting her chin just a bit to appreciate the effort: how she's made to be wrecked.

You grab Woody, attach it to the table without thinking; the weight's warm, solid; he's hard-used and wet enough from her body that it's not an issue; there's enough lube leftover to slide your palm once or twice over and drag it wet across Sana's ass, around your length, even over Sana's pink cunt, wet and swollen and bunched with the toy she'd used, stretched deep as you'd seen. She whimpers out the softest sound, then, and you think: what a miracle, and maybe she does too because her hips arch into it like she's begging for praise, for your touch, anything; there's a few seconds of pressure, just enough time for you both to realize what's happened.

"This'll get messy, you know," you tell her, which isn't fair. "It won't feel the same in there," because your baby needs her explanations.

"Want to feel you both in my guts," is what she offers instead, and- yeah, it's so not fair for her to say stuff like that either.

You touch the silicone head to her puffy folds, ease him up and down - just how you would for her, only taking care to feel where she's pinkest. Where's the pressure on your fingers? There, probably, but there, too. Where does she gasp the softest when she's full and tensing in anticipation? Oh.

Her cunt is so slicked she sinks on it, opening fast and beautiful and dirty.

The sound Sana makes is unreal; no way to measure her reaction otherwise. You don't know whether it's good or bad; all you see is the way her reflection dips into nothing, into pain, but: her head jerks up in time to watch and she moans like she's begging - loud and pretty and shocked, eyes fluttering. Her hair falls like curtains around her face, a wildfire behind her. She's stunning; of course you think it.

"See that," she says, through clenched teeth, "the pretty way it pushes out of me-"

"Makes room for me," because yeah, fuck, okay. You know it too.

She's perfect for this: a body like she's the centerfold in a dirty magazine and then a disposition that says yes, you do want me like that. Or, she's asking for a pounding. That's the least you can do - straddle the surface with her, line your cockhead up, push just barely to the resistance - force Sana's hips down until Woody's bottomed and her legs shake for the first time.

"You good, baby?"

"You can," and-

Oh, man. "Let me do it," you tell her, sliding your hand up her back to grab her hair, winding it between the thick of your knuckles. "I'll take care of you, I promise-"

That's another shot in your veins: her lips bitten red, her expression ruined; the way her face falls for you like she's meeting you in that elevator for the very first time, the straw of her iced coffee between her lips, her nose wrinkling for the cliché.

She blinks at you again, nods and keens and oh-

Your cock works in that next fraction of an inch, just the head spreading Sana open.

"Holy-" but she chokes it back, so you'll keep doing this, making her think, fuck- "oh my-fuck-okay," is what she gives you, breathing in pants; what her expression tells you, the lines cutting over her brows and between her nose.

"Sana," is as far as you get, and Sana's grinding, gasping. She'll sob. She'll get loud. You can see from your angle; just feel how much it burns, the way Woody's working inside her, splitting her to the core.

You watch the line of her back work, tense, clench - where it's just that simple and base and human.

And the mirror's got the full story: it all comes up with the same obscene details - Sana's mouth a deep open pink, her eyes rolling closed as she swallows thickly - as she's wetting the air down and relaxing her whole body for it: her toes curling. She sinks another inch onto the toy, you figure, and she makes this fucked-up mewling noise, half-cry, half-begging. Your cum is tacky all over her front, drying sweaty; her makeup's runny. She's a disaster and so pornographically stunning.

You sink deeper, and she bucks, takes her time riding. "Feels- fucking incredible, doll, I'm going to start fucking you, ok?" and you groan; you are. You pull back, seeing where her cunt is creamed out and ruined, where there's the ghostly wet lube smeared on your cock, all sticky like her.

Sana nods, looking back - she finds your face, doesn't falter; she'll see her tits spilling against the table; the dark shade of her nipples. Her cunt's sliding over the toy in a rush; she's shimmying her whole body, impatient. You let go of her hair and touch between her shoulder blades to the base of her spine, marvel in the stretch of it, the pretty flush you're fucking into over and over.

"It feels-" Sana's talking, her forehead bowed against the table, her mouth hanging loose, "feels-good. Good. Amazing. Feels-" and she can't breathe, you know, but fuck, neither can you- "so. Full. Full."

You nod; know. She knows.

She's saying it for herself, in a slur, the words on the edge of a gasp: "I'm-holy-"

Your fingers pinch her ass, just gentle; enough to spread her, catch a view of her stretched asshole. Her teeth knock together - she's trembling for this. She'll cum.

"Trying to kill me," you tease, but fuck- it's good; so fucking good.

You've been brushing your cock to the back of this girl's throat and it's still the hottest thing you think you'll ever see; her personal toy buried to the hilt beneath you, just the tight little opening of her pussy fucked-out and slicked-up, raw and red and utterly ruined-

"Shh, sweetheart," you manage, burying yourself in as far as possible, leaning over. You move the hair falling into Sana's face and trace her features with the tip of your index finger, smudging a fingerprint of eyeliner. You're kissing her hair, her skin, tasting salt, sweat, cum: "Such a slut, taking that big fat toy all in you, opening you up-" and the last you get out isn't her name, it's a murmur- "look what a whore you're being," and her cunt is fucking throbbing-

You lean back, catch a sight of it; her thighs trembling and pinkish and oh, fuck, no. She's got one of her hands worked back and on her clit, stroking it feverishly-

"Baby-"

"I need you," is what she cries out; not an explanation. "So," and it's something mangled- "God, please. Come on."

She tells you twice; she can't help herself. Sana's ass is unbelievably tight. So pretty; so the little fucked-out cocksleeve you always needed. All her eyeliner's fucked to hell and her hair's still a knotted disaster; you've got all your inches inside her, she's pressing the heel of her hand to her clit and drawing patterns over her face with her fingers like she can't remember-

"My pussy, jesus-fucking-christ." Her mouth is falling slack again. "God. God. Harder, it feels too good, don't stop-"

"Such a good fucking girl," and there's this picture-perfect moment-

She cums. You're all up in her guts, spilling to the tight space, that she's fucked beyond the stretch and that's got to burn, paradoxically making her go all crazy with this feeling. Your cock's making space - you'd hate not fucking her until she's overfull and all those slick muscles are clenched and bruised-

"Does my princess need something?" you ask her, while your palm teases the flare of her hips. It's teasing; she won't stop; she'll cum again. You're pounding her ass and that toy's still there, buried to her cervix, her pussy's a mess and it's almost an itchy pleasure, too much stimulation, too sensitive; she's slick, sodden.

Sana is nodding furiously. One hand's doing it again, and the other's got the thumb trapped in her mouth; she's trying for silence; it won't last. Her throat's loud and filthy and you've always probably known, since the very beginning, that Sana loves taking you in whatever gorgeous, wet, tight hole she can.

"Please," she manages. Her hand's moving quicker- "Let me. Let me." And she's grinding against you, taking in every inch you have for her, arching her back; her clit is raw and throbbing and she's a fucking genius. A natural at begging. She deserves the win. She's being good. She's letting you fill her with cum.

You're not even fucking her into particularly fast, particularly deep, just grinding, using the tight ring of muscle, the heavy, bruising press.

"Tell me," and she can't focus- "Tell me when you're going to cum, princess. Can't wait to feel you-".

Oh. And, then-

You want it to last.

Her feet are tapping, toes curling into the hardwood, and it's over: she's tightening her grip against the table and making sure to keep the vibrations direct, her cheek pressed to the wood, drool drenching the corner of her lips. You've seen enough dirty shit, done enough kinky stuff. This - this might actually have you dumbfounded: watching her convulse; watching her bring her hand away, just touching. Her cunt's all milky and soft.

"Stay still, sweetheart," you're saying; as if she can move. You're holding her steady by her hips. You're massaging lightly; taking all the rest you can. "That's it, come here, you're so-" and your cock's easing its way out- "fucking."

She gasps when you slip all the way free; your cum slides back down. Sana's languid and fluid, skin sweating, hair everywhere. She's not crying, but it's the closest she's been in ages; the closest, most pure you can get a girl: your cum spilling out and all over you, and you're telling her it's alright, telling her she's gorgeous; saying it's okay she's already stretched herself so thin, exhaustion pooling, seeping out of her mouth, the line of her thighs and-

"Thank you." It's that genuine, melodic cadence, the honesty - it's that the first time she's looking down and she's blinking tears- "Want you to- right here," and she's moving forward, slowly.

You're cupping Sana's thighs before you can even think; lifting, bending them to her chest, her lips bitten, kiss-swollen. Her tongue darts to the corner of her mouth: Sana knows where this is going.

You can taste her. You can taste your own sins - the vanity, the hubris, the glutton, the greed - taste how wet, how flushed. She's putting that expert mouth to good use and keeping quiet again: a pant, a whine, an ahhhh, a whimpered half-curse. Her chest is flushed the prettiest, sweetest, lightest shade of red.

It's too intimate. You could lie in it, keep her warm like this until the very earth rotted. All the rough, dirty things you could do to her; it's almost sacrilegious that this is what brings the closest feeling of bliss, peace.

You don't realize how still everything is, all stilled, until Sana's small, quivering legs hook your shoulders; until the end of her toe brushes the shell of your ear, presses. Her spine arches into your mouth and the scent of her cunt - the taste. You could stay here, in your hands, and take, and - and give it right back: take, take, and take.

You eat her cunt until her voice is wrecked raw, your tongue dragging across her ass, over your lower lip, smearing her slickness, tasting her from your fingertips. She doesn't beg and she doesn't tell you what to do, she just spreads her pussy and rides her clit against your lips, moaning unashamedly as she rocks herself on your face, coming on your tongue in two, three hard, heavy pulses.

"Good fucking-"

"-God," you finish for her, and it's all the most sacred kind of silent. Your face buried back in between her thighs, just breathing. Just loving her, and holding her steady, because aftercare's a bigger part of the game than either of you let on, and you know she's ready and safe in your arms by now.

Sana pants and heaves, eyes shut. Bites her lips red as she smiles.

The lines of her face relax as if you're soothing her, tucking her in: good job, I've got you. When she isn't such a tender wreck, it'll happen all over again.

"You know," you say conversationally to Sana, who's lying in the fetal position at the foot of the bed, "you look cute right now."

It's another day, same time-zone, different house, same game. You've never stopped in your pursuit of what exactly a muse looks like: perfect, empty, caught in the bright white exposure of her hotel room lamp; all hard black-and-white, tonal range; in the scratch of the pen and the haze of the film developing, on the translucent material of the photo you'll print. There's the image, there's her breathing-

(There's all the ones you don't even know you'll find: her belly growing large, skin smoothing with child, a birth, a growth, a transformation; the dreams.)

-she's told you as much, but you can never know for certain if she really, truly-

"I'm dying," she grumbles. "You fucked me to death."

"You're bad for my ego." You plop down next to her and rub a hand between her shoulder blades. The curve of her back makes your fingers ache and your throat close up. "How do you feel, really."

Sana takes a moment before she replies.

"Hurt," she finally murmurs, quietly. You hum back a soothing noise. "But good. The best. Everything I've always wanted." She pauses. "Also: dead."

"You said that already." You're rolling your eyes, fondly.

She doesn't reply, just pushes herself up, legs crossing, one hip propped up. She's in a hotel bathrobe and she's supposed to be at a runway in an hour. "Hey."

"Yeah?" you're already tilting your head. She's sitting in the middle of the bed now, legs crossed under her; this is definitely a hotel robe, you've never been around her this long. "What's up?"

Sana just tucks her hair back, bares her shoulders and moves the fabric down the curve of her side.

"I told you," she starts, and her teeth snag on her bottom lip, "I think you're good," and she's suddenly shy: this little fuck-off of yours, of yours. "For me."

"You-" you start, and there's a way that things are and you have the gut instinct, the conviction of it, but-

(Then again, a girl with hair the color of a caramel confection and eyes you could be lost in for eons told you the other day without having to say it, eyes widening in the haze and light and gloss, that she could love you forever.)

"Yes," she answers, because it's your question, that slow smile making her features draw inward, the wrinkle of her nose: yes, it's your decision. That she's telling you the truth. "Exactly."

Actually, to frame this right, you probably ought to have started with her, at the girl with idyllic, copper-spun hair and a thousand-watt smile. It reads main-character energy from fifty feet away: you should've pulled the curtain back and simply said, meet Minatozaki Sana.

Your significant other, sorta - few people on earth know that, for a lot of reasons, and depending on the day, you can't be entirely sure if she wants it that way or if she'd rather scream it from the rooftops; Sana is - well, it's tricky. She's beautiful in a way you never got to conceptualize before, that nobody probably does. She's magnetic. It's effortless. It's gravity, and it's only natural that you'd always want to pull yourself back to her, to orbit her; she'd ask and you'd die, right?

She assumes you'll ask to marry her, someday - you're starting to suspect she's probably right.

And there's a pattern of nuance to how you know her, all the definitions of her - you bring her fresh-cut flowers, you call her princess, you fuck her until she begs, you hold her while she rinses her hair in the shower. You run your mouth, you eat her cunt until she can't walk straight. It's a big role, a broad palette to capture.

Sana, in the morning for example:

Can't drink her coffee black; steals sugar packets from cafes and slips them into her pocket; sleeps so still and so quietly that sometimes it almost scares you, worrying that she’s slipped off into a coma. She likes being doted on, likes getting compliments, likes melting under someone’s full attention as if she's waited for that from you her whole life. She says it directly: listen, okay, don't laugh at me, I get needy.

Or, beneath starlight:

Flitting across hotel balconies, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you into open bars.

She'll buy you a drink and loves when you buy her another, her glass never half-empty. She climbs on top of you and presses her mouth to your ear, sings the song in her head for the next five minutes, hips jolting when she sways a bit too far - a light bulb over a diner counter. Tips the waiter extravagantly, rolls her eyes when you lecture her for spending your money. Smiles at you anyway and takes your hand in hers on the way out the door.

Sana Minatozaki, on herself:

A nightmare. I don’t even know. Seriously. An absolute mess. Completely nuts. (You said you were a 'total fucking catch.') Oh, yeah. I guess that's true too.

(Or maybe, Sana, on you:

Well, when you ask on the flight out, she says something sweetly innocuous. When you press her again, she blushes. When she might be feeling especially adoring, she'll look at you and say, with utmost certainty and uncharacteristic lack of sarcasm, 'I mean, it's you. What more can I say?')

#sana smut #twice smut #sana #twice sana smut #kpop smut #male reader smut

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moonlightdreamzz · 3 months ago

Text

“Let’s make a movie, baby.” — ENHYPEN

SUMMARY. Remember that time—the night before he had to leave for tour, when you grabbed your boyfriend’s phone while he was in it, and started recording? For memories sake?

GENRE. Nothing short of whorish $mut.

THEMES. Established!Relationship, You’re a naughty, naughty girl :). Cuss words per usual

AUTHOR’S NOTE. As you guys know, the parasite in me wrote this, not me. Enjoy.

HEESEUNG

He was too lost in you—eyes squeezed tighter than your pussy around him, thrusts sloppier than the head you just gave him—to even notice you reaching for his phone at first.

How could you two go two whole months without this? The comforting weight of his stomach pressed against your back, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he barely grazed your spot—just enough to make you needy for more.

“Hee…” you whimper, voice breaking to match the rhythm of his thrusts. You press record, your half-lidded eyes flickering open just enough to capture what you’ve never been able to see before.

And so does he.

His eyes, already heavy with lust, darken the moment he realizes what you’re doing—what you’ve done. You’re filming him. On his phone. And just like that, something clicks.

His gaze locks onto his own reflection—low, pussy drunk, and seductive—as if to say, it’s showtime.

His right hand catches your jaw, tilting your face toward the camera, and suddenly, he’s fucking you like he has something to prove.

“You wanna leave me with a memory, hm?” He grunts, each word punctuated with a sharp thrust. “Then I’m gonna leave you with my cum in your pussy, baby.”

The smirk you had falters immediately. Your body betrays you—your mouth gasps at the first deep stroke, your fingers clutching the phone desperately as he hits your spot over and over and over again.

He presses his lips against yours, swallowing every broken moan, tasting the mess he’s turning you into. The kiss is sloppy, tongues sliding against each other, but it doesn’t matter—you’re both too far gone.

Your arms are shaking. The phone feels heavier with every thrust, but you refuse to let go.

And Heeseung notices.

He pulls away from your lips, smirking into the camera before glancing down at you. Your head falls limp in his grip just as he decides he’s done teasing—no more grazing your spot, no more holding back.

Now, he’s fucking you like he means it.

Your moans cut off into choked gasps as your body jerks, waves of pleasure building fast, and he’s laughing.

Yes, laughing.

You thought he was fucking you as hard as he could. He wasn’t.

And now, as you struggle to form a single coherent thought, as your mouth hangs open, drool pooling onto his forearm, and your legs shake violently around him—he knows it.

Heeseung looks straight into the camera like the cocky bastard he is, watching with deep satisfaction as you finally break—cumming all over his cock.

Jay

The two of you haven’t broken eye contact once since he pressed himself inside you.

His rhythm is steady, each slow, deliberate thrust sending heat crawling up your spine. His hands move over your skin gently, as if he’s savoring every second of you beneath him. There’s no rush—just the deep, quiet intimacy of him wrapped around you, inside you, owning you in every way.

“I’m going to miss you so much, baby.”

The words slip from his lips before he can stop them, his breath coming out shaky. He’s trying to keep it together—trying not to fall apart inside you right now—but you’re so wet, so fucking perfect around him, that every time he pulls out, your arousal drips onto his cock, making everything even messier.

“Mhm,” he groans at the feeling, his eyes fluttering briefly, his resolve crumbling.

You nod, but your attention shifts—you reach for his phone resting on the desk beside the bed.

For the first time tonight, his focus breaks from yours. His thrusts slow to a halt, brows furrowing as he watches you navigate to the camera.

“What are you doing?” he whispers, cheek brushing against yours as his eyes lock onto the screen.

And fuck—seeing himself on top of you, his body covering yours so perfectly, your legs tangled together, the way you look beneath him, utterly wrecked—it knocks the air from his lungs.

This is where you belong.

“Keep fucking me,” you purr, hitting record before turning back to him, running your tongue slowly up his jaw.

You feel it immediately. The way his heart starts pounding against your chest, the way his breath catches. For a moment, he’s frozen.

You know him.

He’s debating. Too caught off guard to think straight, too turned on to deny how fucking hot this is.

But when you buck your hips up at him—impatient, needy, determined—it’s over.

He lets out a low, shaky exhale.

“Keep fucking you?” he murmurs, voice dangerous, his eyes flickering from the screen back to you. “That’s what you want, baby? You wanna make a movie with me?”

“Mhm,” you whimper, melting into him, arms wrapping around his broad shoulders.

That’s all he needs to hear.

Jay repositions, gripping your waist firmly before rolling his hips deep into you, his slow, calculated strokes picking up right where they left off—except now, there’s something different.

Something carnal.

Something desperate.

Every movement feels like he’s drowning in you, like he’s trying to memorize you, burn this moment into his brain before the night is over.

His forehead presses against yours, sweat beading at his temple, his breath heavy, and then—his lips find yours.

But it’s not just a kiss.

It’s hungry, messy, so deep and intoxicating that your grip on the phone nearly slips. His tongue slides past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessiveness that sends shivers down your spine. You can taste the heat between you—the need, the addiction, the way his desire for you is threatening to swallow him whole.

And when your moans start spilling out, mixing with his, when your bodies move in sync, when the air between you becomes so thick with tension it’s unbearable—he loses himself completely.

Jay’s grip on your hips tightens, his thrusts turning harder, faster, as if he’s holding onto you for dear life. The desperation in his movements, in the way he’s clinging to you, in the way he presses himself closer, deeper, stronger—it all tells you exactly what he can’t say out loud.

This isn’t just about sex.

This is him worshipping you.

And judging by the way your body is already unraveling beneath him, how your fingers claw into his back, how you gasp his name, he knows you feel it too.

Jake

The two of you were always so in sync, and right now, it’s no different. You reach for his phone, fingers brushing the screen, but before you can even get a grip on it, Jake’s hand is already there. His movements are fluid, controlled—his thumb already swiping across the screen, unlocking it like he’s done it a hundred times before, with the same quiet confidence that always radiates from him.

“You want to record this, huh?” he murmurs, voice steady, with that teasing edge you love. There’s no question in his tone, only the kind of quiet understanding that makes your pulse quicken. He doesn’t even need to ask if you’re sure. His gaze is dark, expectant, as he angles the phone, positioning it with a practiced hand. The smirk on his lips tells you this wasn’t something you had to suggest—he had already thought of it before you did.

You open your mouth to say something, but the words die in your throat as he leans in, just close enough for you to feel his breath against your ear. “Don’t worry, baby. I got us covered,” he whispers, his voice rich and low, sending a shiver down your spine. There’s something about the way he’s in control, about how he already knows what you want before you even have to ask, that makes everything feel even more intimate, more thrilling.

He presses a soft kiss to the curve of your jaw, his lips moving slowly down your neck, tracing a path of warmth that lingers long after he’s pulled away. Meanwhile, his hand slips to your waist, pulling you in closer, just like he knows you want him to. You can’t help but melt against him, your breath hitching as you feel him respond to the subtle shift in your body. His touch becomes deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second of this, every inch of skin he’s allowed to claim.

You don’t wait for him to take control completely. Instead, you lean back slightly, giving him a mockingly innocent look before you tease, “You know, this is all for you, right?”

He meets your eyes then, his expression soft yet burning with intensity. The phone is positioned just right, the screen capturing both your faces, but there’s something in the way he looks at you now—something deeper than desire. It’s a look that says he’s not just giving you a memory for later. He’s creating a moment between you two, one that’s real and raw and completely consumed with the heat of the now.

Without breaking eye contact, he moves again, his lips capturing yours in a kiss so slow, it feels like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. His body presses against yours, slow, controlled—yet there’s an undeniable urgency, the rhythm of your connection building like a steady tide. He’s savoring the way you respond to him, the way you press back into him, and the way his own pulse quickens, matching yours.

His fingers slip beneath your shirt, tracing the outline of your spine, each touch deliberate and slow. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs between kisses, voice thick with desire. “So fucking beautiful.” The phone captures everything—your flushed face, his darkened gaze, the quiet sounds of your breaths filling the space around you. The knowledge that this moment is being preserved only makes everything feel even more intense, more intimate.

“It’s all mine? Hm?” He questions, his keeping your legs open and sturdy.

“Every inch.” You chuckle seductively.

Sunghoon

Sunghoon’s rhythm is steady, his pace slow, deep, and controlled.

He’s taking his time with you—dragging it out, making every thrust count, savoring the way you squeeze around him like you never want to let him go.

And fuck, you don’t.

Not when this is the last time you’ll have him like this for weeks—maybe months.

His grip on your waist tightens, his movements fluid, effortless, like he knows exactly how to pull you apart. The way his jaw clenches, his brows furrow—he’s focused, determined, but there’s a glint in his eyes that tells you he’s just as caught up in this as you are.

And that’s when you do it.

You reach for his phone.

Not sneaky. Not hesitant. Just bold as hell.

Sunghoon barely has time to process what’s happening before he feels the shift—your fingers wrapping around the device, unlocking it like you’ve done it a thousand times before.

His thrusts slow, his eyes flicking down to where you hold the phone, the screen lighting up against the dim room.

His gaze snaps back to yours.

“What are you doing?” he breathes, voice rough, his forehead nearly touching yours.

You smirk, lifting the phone just enough to angle the camera, your expression playful but knowing.

“Leaving you a present.”

The second the words leave your mouth, something in him snaps.

His grip on your hips tightens, his pace picking up instantly, his cock slamming into you with a sharp, deliberate force that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Oh, you wanna leave me a present, hm?” he taunts, voice dark, amused. His hand wraps around your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your pulse spike. “You want me to have something to watch while I’m gone?”

You nod, biting your lip, eyes fluttering at the way his dominance overtakes you completely.

He grabs the phone from your hands—angles it perfectly, just enough to capture your wrecked expression, the way your body bounces with every sharp thrust.

“Look at you,” he breathes, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip. “You want me to watch this when I’m gone? Want me to jerk off to the way I fuck you?”

Your fingers claw at his back, your mouth opening to respond, but the words come out broken—nothing but desperate moans spilling past your lips.

And he loves it.

His smirk widens, his thrusts turning brutal, each stroke hitting deeper, sharper—like he’s making sure you won’t forget this either.

“Mmm, yeah,” he groans, staring into the camera like the cocky bastard he is. “You’re not gonna last, baby. Look at you—already falling apart on me.”

His grip tightens on your jaw, tilting your face so you’re forced to look at the screen.

Forced to watch how good he’s fucking you.

Your breath stutters, body trembling, and the second he lowers the phone, capturing the way he disappears into you with every stroke, you feel yourself snap.

He grins, watching you fall apart, his own restraint slipping as he chases his high, his movements growing erratic, desperate, possessive.

And when he finally buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a shuddered groan, he tilts the camera back up—catching the way your lips part, the way your body still twitches from the aftershocks.

The way you’re still his.

Sunghoon smirks into the camera, lifting a brow as he murmurs—

“Yeah… this’ll do.”

Sunoo

It’s soft at first.

Sunoo moves slowly, rolling his hips into you with lazy, teasing strokes, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm, sweet, intoxicating.

His fingertips trace nonsense shapes against your waist, his touch light, playful—like he’s taking his time, like he’s enjoying just being here, feeling you wrapped around him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he hums, voice dripping with affection, amusement.

He’s smiling against your lips, his tone saccharine, but you can feel the heat behind it—the way his movements are just a little too calculated, the way he’s holding back.

You can tell he’s waiting.

Waiting for you to lose patience.

And of course, you do.

Your fingers curl around his phone, grabbing it from where it rests on the pillow beside you.

Not sneaky. Not shy.

Just bold.

Sunoo feels it immediately—the slight shift in balance, the way your grip tightens, the way the dim glow of the screen illuminates your face.

His rhythm falters.

For the first time tonight, his movements pause.

And when he finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes—

The look on his face?

Deadly.

His lips curl into a slow, wicked smirk, his expression shifting from sweet to something far more dangerous.

“What’s this?” he purrs, his tone still light, teasing, but you can hear the mischief lurking underneath.

You bite your lip, angling the camera just right, making sure it captures everything—the way he’s hovering over you, the way his hair is sticking to his forehead, the way his bare shoulders glow under the dim lighting.

“Leaving you a present,” you murmur, voice dripping with seduction.

His brows raise, his smirk widening.

“Oh?”

Then—

He snatches the phone from your grip.

And suddenly, you’re no longer the one in control.

He lights up, his playfulness turning deadly, consuming.

He flips the camera, making sure it’s on you.

Making sure you see what he sees.

“Oh, you like watching yourself get ruined?” he breathes, tilting his head, his fingers gripping your jaw as he angles the phone perfectly.

You barely have time to process the shift before his hips snap forward, driving into you with a force that has your eyes rolling back.

You gasp, your body jolting, but all you hear is him laughing.

Laughing.

Like he loves seeing you like this.

“Mm, baby, look at you,” he coos, pressing his lips to your cheek before pulling back just enough to let you see yourself on the screen.

The way your body shakes, the way your mouth hangs open, the way your fingers are digging into his back—it’s a sight.

And Sunoo?

He’s fucking living for it.

“This is cute,” he murmurs, smirking as he presses a soft, almost mocking kiss to your lips. “I’ll make sure to save it.”

His pace doesn’t falter once.

If anything, he deepens it, making sure you feel every inch of him, every stroke, making sure you know that even when he’s teasing you, he’s still in full control.

And when you finally fall apart, body shaking, back arching, his eyes gleam with pure satisfaction.

He presses one last kiss to your jaw before looking straight into the camera—

And winking.

Jungwon

Your legs are spread over his lap, body flush against his, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Jungwon never rushes.

His pace is calculated, his movements fluid—each slow, deep thrust sending waves of pleasure through your body, making your head spin.

He’s watching you.

Observing every little reaction—the way your fingers twitch against his chest, the way your breath stutters when he shifts his hips just right, the way your thighs start to tremble, like you’re already on the verge of breaking.

And he loves it.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost teasing. “Haven’t even done anything yet.”

You let out a breathless laugh, your arms tightening around his shoulders.

“You think so?” you challenge, a playful lilt to your voice.

And then—without hesitation—you reach for his phone, snatching it from where it rests on the bed beside him.

His eyes darken immediately.

His movements stop.

The playful smirk on your lips falters slightly as you look up at him, finding his expression unreadable—his jaw tight, gaze sharp.

For a second, he doesn’t say anything.

He just watches.

Then—his lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk.

“You wanna test me, baby?”

Your breath catches.

Before you can respond, he moves.

With effortless strength, he shifts, his grip on your waist tightening as he flips you onto your back in one smooth motion.

You barely have time to react before he’s on you, his body caging you in, his knee pressing between your legs, keeping them wide open.

“Go ahead.”

His voice is low, commanding.

He nudges the phone toward you, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“If you’re gonna record, do it right.”

Your lips part, a shiver running down your spine at the sudden shift in power.

Jungwon leans in, pressing his mouth to the corner of your jaw, his breath hot against your skin.

“Make sure you get all of it.”

You barely manage to hit record before he snaps his hips forward, the force of it making your back arch off the bed, a choked gasp escaping your lips.

He laughs, low and satisfied.

“What’s wrong?” he taunts, his hand gripping your throat lightly, tilting your head up so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. “You started this, baby. You can take it, right?”

The camera is still rolling, capturing everything—the way your body jolts with every precise, unrelenting thrust, the way his expression remains so calm, collected, like he’s barely even trying.

And then—he looks straight into the camera.

“This is what you wanted, huh?”

His pace doesn’t falter, his grip on your throat keeping you in place as he watches you come undone beneath him.

And just when you think he’s going to let you go, just when you think you’ve reached your limit—

His fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your swollen clit with dangerous precision.

Your body jerks, a broken sob slipping from your lips, your vision blurring.

Jungwon smirks.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your temple as your body trembles in his hold. “Now, let’s make sure you remember this, too.”

2K notes · View notes

zomgcaleb · 3 months ago

Text

time of the month

-`♡´- synopsis — based on this drabble, extra blurb at the end.

-`♡´- tags — bunnyhybrid!xavier, bunny rut cycle, m!masturbation, xavier stealing your clothes, panty sniffing, pillow humping, mutual pining, scent kink, spitting (once), mating press, handjob, oral f!receiving, overstimulation (?), multiple orgasms m!receiving, xavier calls you master, cockwarming, biting, breeding kink, aftercare, whiny!xavier, kinda pathetic!xavier, sex with feelings, porn with plot, love bombs, marking, premature ejactulation, xavier passes out (he's fine), dom!xavier, tummy bulge, creampie, unprotected p in v sex (be safe please)

minors do not interact — 18+ only!!

wc — 6.2k

quick context — male bunnies typically lose consciousness temporarily after ejaculation

notes — not proofread!! i haven’t written a fic like this in quite a while, so i hope it’s somewhat coherent and you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it ^^

He could feel it. It wasn’t far away. The blood in his veins felt like fire. An invincible flame that nothing could quell… except…

You were none the wiser of this ordeal, hacking away at the vegetables you’re preparing for the soup you’re making for dinner.

Xavier bounced his leg to the rhythm of his thoughts. You’d surely be getting suspicious by now, about the stains on your pillows. His heart plummeted when you confronted him about it, the limp pillow case dangling from your fingers. To his fortune, his lucky stars, you begin to ramble about a supposed leak in the ceiling. ‘I knew our insulation was getting bad but not that bad’ you’d told him. The relief he felt came in strong intense waves and in blew a high he carried for days. You’d hadn’t caught him yet.

You’d hadn’t caught him so he can do it again.

But his streak soon ends when you came home from work early one day and a strange knock sounded at the door. It was a maintenance worker. A maintenance worker who took a look at your insulation systems and said they were perfectly fine.

A maintenance worker who just replanted the seed of doubt in Xavier’s garden of ecstasy. How was he supposed to spend his ruts without his only outlet? Now that he thinks hard about it, they’ve been lasting longer and longer. It seems his makeshift methods have grown stale.

Maybe he should pretend to run away. No, that’s stupid. Maybe he’ll come up with a distraction…But, what kind of rouse would last a whole week?

Xavier shakes his head to calm his racing heart and huffs dejectedly. He listens to calming sounds of your kitchen tools clanking softly and with a twitch of his ear his eyes shoot open.

Maybe… he can convince you it was your idea.

He’s seen the way you look at him when you think he can’t see you. He’s noticed the glimmer in your eye when you take care of him. He’s even noticed the way you touch him, or rather, that places you touch. If he thinks hard enough he can still remember the feeling of your fingertips on his neck as you checked his temperature after his last rut. You’d been so worried he’d shut himself away and his chest tightened painfully at your confession that night.

You’d thought you’d done something to upset him.

He can’t let things go how they are for much longer.He’s starting to make you doubt yourself.

It ultimately comes down to two outcomes. None being good. You either find out of his naughty endeavors eventually, or his long, grueling, unsatisfying ruts will give him away anyway.

His brows crease in distaste.

Before he can spiral anymore into his rabbit hole you call him sweetly from the dining room. Dinner was ready.

He was certain now. Or at least more certain than he was.

You both sat at the table to eat, like you normally would. However he couldn’t shake the feeling of a watchful eye…like usual. He tried not to make anything of it really. He was a bunny hybrid. His fluffy ears were hard to miss. But due to his earlier turmoil he paid closer attention this time. To what you were looking at.

He was wearing a rather old t shirt. It’s been out through the wringer a number of times, used for various activities like painting, cleaning. Whatever you wouldn’t want on a shirt you actually like.

He was doing laundry last week when he noticed the collar had been snagged. Not enough to really make him think to throw it away but it wasn’t too noticeable... Except since now that he wears it, it sags pitifully below his collarbones.

You definitely noticed.

He’d trailed your wandering eyes through his peripherals right to his neck. At first he wasn’t sure what to do with his finding. It wasn’t until he finally looked over at you that your eyes meet and he sees a glint of something.

Of want. Of desire. The same one he has when you bend down in front of him…or when you lick the batter off the spatula and moan in delight..or when he smells your perfume in the bathroom after you’ve left for work…

It was then, he knew exactly what to do.

The tests started small. A fleeting touch here, a lingering stare there, hugs that last for a little too long. But it wasn’t enough. Not to make you crack.

He needed to get you to act first. And quick. It wasn’t until his skin starts to burn deliciously when you touched him and his brain starts to fog with—indecent—thoughts of you that he gets his rude awakening.

His rut was coming, and fast. He needed to up the ante somehow.

He lays helplessly in his bed. His body suffering from a heat wave all too familiar. It was faint, few and far inbetween but its effects showed no mercy. His hands clutched a shirt you’d gotten together at a new park stand that sold lemonade. It was a grand opening souvenir you’d gotten from the tender and you’d been so happy with it. It was big on you, too big. You’d both shared a laugh at the time when you slipped it over your top and it draped down to your knees.

The graphic was stupid and hard to look at. He thinks if he thought hard enough he’d be able to come up with something better. Something less of an eyesore.

But right now…he couldn’t seem look away.

He’d waltzed into your room the next day with innocent intent, trying to find a pen to finish the grocery list, when he saw the crumbled yellow fabric of it tangled in the sheets of your bed. He held it up, chuckling as he reminisced. But before he could put it down he gets a whiff of you. Your perfume, your deodorant, the conditioner you use; it even smelt faintly of him. It was enough for him to take it.

And now, it was clutched tightly between his fingers, sniffing wildly at the ugly fabric as each wet schlick of his other hand filled the room. His breath hitched softly, his voice catching in his throat. The smell of you was faded and weaker than before as it’d been a while since it’s left his bed, but it still quelled the heat growing in his core nonetheless.

If he closed his eyes he could picture your hand instead of his, gripping his weeping cock tightly—possessively. He’d be so pliant, yielding to your every word yet you’d tease him anyway.

“Please….” Xavier wheezed. His voice was strained and rightfully so. His cock bobbed against his abs, demanding attention with his angry pink tip. Spurts of pre-cum glisten against the ambient lights of his room.

He wants to touch you. His hands need to grip and kneed at your hips—at your waist, to fondle what ever he can reach and burn the feeling into memory. He’s so tired of looking longingly from a distance. To not be able to have you whenever he wants.

Oh, how he’s wanted to kiss you sweetly before bed every night. Or hold you from behind to nuzzle into your neck, only to bite softly into the juncture of your shoulder. You’d gasp in surprise, so cute and helpless pressed against him like that.

“Hah…“ Xavier’s hips thrust into his hand. Faster. Tighter. His hands start to get sweaty and his hair sticks to his forehead. He was already so close, the rising heat of his orgasm was only getting stronger and his stomach drops.

With a long lingering sniff of your shirt he presses it to his tip as his cock twitches. A groan rumbles in his throat as hot white ropes erupt into the fabric, soaking it almost completely. He chants your name softly, mumbling to himself as he fucks himself through his high; his thrusts slow and he hums at the warm feeling of cum coating his fingers. The once vibrant yellow turns into a muddy mustard variant and he only stares down at it with a glaze over his eyes.

It’s ruined…looks like he’ll have to borrow another one.

Xavier sighs. His ears are flopped over his pillows and his tail flicks behind him.

What can he do to occupy your head like you do his? How can he get under your skin?

Under… your skin…

Well, if you liked his ogling his neck, you should like this, right?

He’d woken up the next morning and did his usual routine—with a slight tweak. Brushing his teeth, making his bed, changing out of his pajamas…Only this time instead of digging around in his drawer and throwing on the first feel of soft cotton up and over his head, he just…didn’t.

He was shirtless and shivered at the unfamiliar breeze of the cold AC against his chest before strolling out into the hallway.

-`♡´-

It was almost as if he’d developed an estranged allergy to wearing a shirt the next two days.

You’d wondered what the sudden interest in this behavior was considering Xavier wasn’t exactly the type to do such a thing so excessively. Not to mention bunnies were prone to temperature change and if anything it made you worry. It didn’t last long enough for you to ask about it but you kept it in mind.

You kept in mind the sleek curves of his collarbones…and the ripples of his back when he rolled his shoulders— the dip of his back to the twitch of his cute little cotton tail.

But mostly his unusual behavior, of course…

You’d thought that maybe it was just a fleeting habit, something that would show its head for a bit before going dormant.

Well it didn’t.

It was movie night. The one night out of the week that was designated for the both of you to relax, unwind, to make up lost time with each other. And relax you did—until you didn’t.

You’d hadn’t even managed to sink into the couch properly before Xavier walks over to you, casual as ever, dressed so non-casually.

The obvious bulge in his sweats was staring at you through the whole movie. You tried not to make eye contact but the act was almost impossible. You wanted to look. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. However, that didn’t stop your cheeks from heating, or quell your racing heart at the thought that…you could just.. grab it. What kind of owner would that make you though? Taking advantage of your sweet bunny? You worry your lip in between your teeth as you move to sit on your hands.

You didn’t want him to shut himself away. Again. You went a whole week without seeing him and it crushed you. You hated it. So you keep a comfortable distance in hopes that you won’t upset him.

This was only the beginning.

Eventually it got to the point where he’d walk around in nothing but a towel every night after his bath. His actions seemed more deliberate after a while.

He’d hold your hips to slide past you in the kitchen. he’d lean over you and peer at you from above with those beautiful blue eyes when you sat on the couch. He’d sit and watch an episode of your favorite show next to you, legs spread and skin still glistening with water.

It wasn’t until tonight that he’d seemed to have had enough.

“Why won’t you touch me?”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise and you start to choke on your own spit. You shove your bookmark in the book you were reading and practically toss it onto the table by the couch.

You clear your throat with a curt grunt before facing him with teary eyes. “Xavier, what are you talking about?”

He stands there, looking down his nose at you with an unreadable expression. His eyebrows are scrunched and he can’t quite seem to meet your eyes, opting to stare at a spot on the floor. It was extremely mundane compared to you.

“It’s…I’m so..hot.” He whispers. His fingers twitch at his sides.

You soon wear a look of concern. Now that you’re looking at him his chest is heaving a little heavier than normal. His forehead shines faintly with a sheen of sweat and you tilt your head confused.

“What do you mean? What’s the matter?” When he doesn’t answer right away you shift to the edge of the couch and widen your knees, just enough for him to fit through. You sit up straight and pat your lap. “C’mere.”

Hesitantly, he sinks down to his knees before you, nestling in between yours with his hands in his lap. He sneaks a glance at you but quickly turns away.

You press the back of your hand just above his eyebrows. “You are hot…” you trail off. Before you think to stop yourself, you drag your hand along his neck and he flinches. You retract your hand as if it had been burned. “…and flustered.” You whisper. “Is that why you’ve been acting so weird lately? Are you getting sick?”

Xavier sighs. “It seems…I am.” His velvety voice echoes throughout the living room and suddenly the air feels hard to breathe. His hands move from his lap to trail his fingertips up your calves. When he reaches your knees his fingers draw petite patterns along your knee caps. “But…there’s only one way to take care of me when I’m this way.”

Finally, he meets your eyes and you see it. He looks hazy, almost drunk off the tension that swells in the room. Your breath becomes shaky and you feel like you can’t move. Probably because, you can’t. Not anymore.

Xavier’s hands rest beside your hips and he rises, slowly, almost predatory. If the situation had been less intimate, you’d laugh at the irony. All you can do right now is stare at him in anticipation and you start to lean back instinctively as he gets closer. Your elbows catch you as collapse under him.

Your gaze flickers down to his shirtless torso but you look away shamefully. Xavier’s fingers quickly grip your jaw and turn you to face him. Your noses are almost touching and his eyes bore into yours with something desperate.

His warm minty breath hits your face when he speaks. “You seem to know all about how to deal with bunnies, right? Then…” he takes your wrist in his grip and spreads your palm over his chest, “you don’t need any hints?” He keeps his gaze level with yours and he starts to push your hand. Down, down, down. You feel the divot between his pecs and soon the ridges in his abs. It wasn’t long before you were dangerously close to the waistband of his abnormally low pajama pants. Ones that appeared to have a suggestive tent growing in them.

Before you can reach it you resist against him, your arm twitching to pull away. He stops but he doesn’t let go of your wrist.

“Xavier you..w-we can’t.” You try to contain the way your body warms at his ministrations yet, your voice is breathless as if it was punched out of you.

You startled slightly when his knees hit the floor, his body shakes and crumples into your lap. He talks before you can.

“Why?” His voice was deep, deeper than you’d ever heard it and firm, albeit shaky in his current unfamiliar condition. “Why—Why won’t you…” his breath is heavy against your thighs and his back heaves with every inhale.

Your eyes are wide in surprise. Your eyebrows crinkle when you suddenly remember something, something you’d buried inside your head a long time ago when you first looked into homing a hybrid like Xavier. It was a notice that warned new partners of… particular seasonal behaviors. It clicks in your head and your hand hovers over Xavier’s head reluctantly.

“Xavier, are you…in some sort of heat?”

His body jolts and you feel something hard brush against your legs. It’s as if the dam breaks and he keens loudly at the feeling. He tries to catch his breath to reply. “I—hah—I want you to make it go away. Please...” His big, glassy blue eyes look up at you and your body gets shocked with arousal. “…Master.” You gasp quietly and feel the heat flare in your core. You fidget slightly in his grasp. Is this really happening?

You reach out to him and cup his cheek, an innocent gesture, but the second he feels your touch it’s like he can’t live without it. He shoves his face into your palm and his lips part to moan. His hips start to pick up a languid rhythm as he humps against you.

“I tried so hard to get your attention. You didn’t reach out to me, not once. Didn’t even look at me.” Xavier shakes his head frantically. His thrusts get firmer and rock with intent before coming to a jarring halt. His head drops from your hand and the tips of his bangs tickle your thighs. “Do you…regret bringing me here?”

You grip his face and lift his head up to face you. You use your fingers to scrunch his lips into a small pout. You lean down and press them into yours, kissing him with a longing you’ve held for a while. You hoped he could feel it. He groans sweetly and you separate with a soft smack. “Xavier I could never regret you. I wanted to touch you I just.. I didn’t want you to think I was taking advantage of you.”

He perks up at this, looking up questioningly at your confession. You shake your head dismissively and smile before pecking his forehead, letting go of his face to push coaxingly against his shoulder. “Switch with me. Let’s take care of you, bunny. Yeah?”

His breath hitches in his throat and he groans, eyes squeezing shut to nod aggressively. He quickly takes your spot and now it’s you who’s leaning over him, plopping down to sit on his thighs. You take a moment to truly breathe him in. Xavier was a gorgeous man. Even now with the new and unfamiliar shift in your dynamic, this was the first time you could truly admire him. No sneaking glances or peeking through cracks in the doors, or staring at him through photos you’ve taken together. And this time, he’s actually looking back at you, with the same feverish want.

You start with his ears. They’ve been bobbing on top of his head, standing proud as if begging for attention. You couldn’t help yourself when you reach up to touch them, gently grazing and caressing the fluffy outer shell, just the way he likes. He grunts and you feel his hips stutter. His hands quickly find purchase on your thighs and you feel his fingers dig into you firmly.

You glance down at the sizable bump that sits right below his waistband. It throbs angrily as if trying to escape its confines, trying to get to you. His eagerness is really turning you on.

Your eyes drag up, and up, past the faint veins under his belly button and the chiseled creases of his stomach. Right to his collarbones. You salivate at the thought of finally being able to take the soft, almost porcelain skin into your mouth and ruining it with pretty, red and purple splotches—like you’ve always imagined.

Your eyes settle on his face and dark, half lidded eyes look back at you. His long lashes flutter with anticipation and he tries hard to keep himself from squirming.

However, the second you dip down to take the skin between your lips, he blows caution to the wind. You sink your teeth into the junction between his neck and shoulder and he whimpers. Right into your ear. The sound rings through your ears and clouds your brain, and you don’t register the way you start to bounce at first. It was the pitchy moans and cries that sounded soon after that snapped you out of your haze.

His hips start to buck, searching for something, anything, to tame the heat in his abdomen. He groans with frustration when he realizes you’re sitting too far back and grinding against the fabric of his pajamas is not enough. Your name flows from his mouth in a sickly sweet plead.

You hum into his neck and lick over the mark tenderly, giving it a firm suck before you grab his hips and press them down into the couch.

“Be still, baby. Let your Master claim you. You want that, right?” You purr, choosing another spot to nip the skin between your teeth. He nods, wrapping his arm around your waist while the other trails up your back to tangle his fingers in your hair. Every suck, every lick made him twitch but he endured it. You finally pull back and he looks dazed. His cheeks are red and flushed, and there’s red marks littering his lip where he’s sunk his teeth into it.

Before you can act he thrusts forward, smashing his lips into yours. His hands come to cup and hold your face as he leans back, taking you with him. Your hands are spread over his chest for stability as he devours you and swallows the noises you make. He tugs at the hem of your shirt and you pull away to rip it off, tossing it somewhere on the other end of the couch.

“So pretty…” he mumbles, softly palming the lacy fabric of your bra. He leans forward to kiss the peaks of your boobs before trailing sloppy open mouth kisses up your neck to your jaw. You sigh, dragging one of your hands down his torso, to hook into his pants. With a swift tug you pull them down and tuck them under his balls, his cock slouches from its own weight to rest on his stomach.

You curse at the sight of him. It was smooth like the rest of him. The head was a pretty pink, glistening in so much pre you start to wonder if he’d cum already at some point. You take him in your hand and immediately his head is thrown back. He arches towards you, a whimper on the tip of his tongue. Thanks to his leaky tip it easy for your hand to glide against his length. It soon leaks over the top of your fingers and you bite your lip at the feeling.

“Mmm. S…Stroke me faster, Angel. Please.” He whines breathlessly, his chest heaves violently with every breath and his thighs shake and tense. “Faster, faster, faster…” you follow his instruction, your grip tightening and all that fills the room is the naughty shlicks and moans coming from Xavier. “Yes. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

Finally, finally. He feels your soft skin touch him like this. It was euphoric. The tension in his core was about to snap and he had no time to prepare. This was so much better than what a pillow could give him, or a shirt. His eyes roll back under his eyelids and he can’t seem to shut up. Your hands slide and grope at his chest and he feels an overwhelming rush of adrenaline that he can’t ignore. With what strength he has he hoists himself up to nuzzle into your neck, huffing the sweet scent of you and pressing heated kisses to wherever he could reach. Between the pace you’re going and the weight of you on top of him he’s going to blow his load. Right now.

His body goes rigid and his hand flies up to grip your wrist. “Don’t stop. I—I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum—m’cumming.” His cock was hot to the touch and pulsed aggressively in your hand. White runny ropes of cum stream out and down his tip, running over your fingers to pool at his base. He continues to writhe and wiggle, thrusting into the comfort of your hand through his orgasm.

You loosen your grip when he starts to grunt, giving one last stroke before it flops between you. It was…still hard. As a rock.

Suddenly you feel as though you’re about to fall backwards. Your legs hug his waist and your arms are thrown around his neck. Xavier props you up in his arm and hold you close with the other. “Hold on to me.” He whispers.

You nod, placing a soft kiss just below his chin. He hums, rubbing your back soothingly with his thumb and placing soft pecks of his own against the span of your neck.

Soon your back hits the soft padding of your bed and you grab at Xavier to follow suit. You pull him into sweet kiss and you both hum in delight, Xavier shifts from where he lays comfortably on top of you, pinning you to the mattress.

“I really want to taste you, Angel. May I?” He sits up on his forearms and litters your face with kisses. Kissing your eyes, your nose, your cheeks, your temples. You giggle and his heart sings at the noise.

“Yes, bunny.”

He sighs softly, pressing a final kiss to your lips before he sinks down. His lips kiss and lick down your navel to the start of your pajama shorts. He hooks his fingers into the elastic and pulls, tossing them to the side. All that’s left is your panties. They’re a beautiful light blue with lace trim with a cute little bow on top. He thanks his lucky stars for this moment. You looked like some kind of sexy present for him to unwrap. Only for him.

He groans at the wet patch right in the middle. Right where the entrance of your cute little cunt was. Just leaking, begging for him.

“It’s for you.” You call out. He looks up at you through his lashes and the view is burned into brain. You’re bashful now, having being spread open for him like this. Your face is flushed and the curves of your body align perfectly in this angle.

He curses to himself, opting to caress the skin of your inner thighs with his lips. He stops and glances at you again with those deep blue eyes. “I think…” another kiss, “it’s only fair to give you some of my marks as well.” He happily decorates your thighs with purple marks of his own, even forming one into the shape of a heart. You moan dreamily, trying to fight off the urge to close your legs around his head already.

He shoves his nose deeeep into your panties, inhaling deeply at the scent of your arousal. His ears twitch above him and you can even see his tail wag briefly.

“You smell so good. Mm.” He nuzzles into your cunt and his nose catches your clit. It was also mindnumbing how sensitive you were. You jolt with a gasp and your thighs threaten to close on him but he wraps his arms under your legs to keep them apart. His fingers make dents in the soft skin, the sight was erotic.

He places a few more kisses to your cunny before licking a fat stripe right down the middle. Your hips buck at the stimulation but it wasn’t quite enough. You pout down at him. “Don’t tease me, Xavier.”

He chuckles, so quiet it was almost to himself you think. “You got to have your fun. Now I’ll have mine.” He gives your clit a sloppy kiss and pulls your panties to the side. Your slick clings to crotch, seeming as if it didn’t want to let go but it finally pops off, connected by hypnotizing strings.

Xavier groans and wastes no more time. His lips wrap around your clit and suck, your back arches off the bed in ecstasy. Hot waves of heat shoot through your limbs and you keen at him, reach down to card your fingers through his hair and rub at his ears. He moans into your cunt and the vibrations make you shiver.

“You feel—hn—so good.” You cry out shakily. Your hands tighten their grip against his scalp and he grunts, the bed started to wobble as he bucks against the mattress. You feel a pop in your lip as you bite it, the faint taste of copper fills your mouth. His tongue moves up and down in a steady pace, catching and swirling around your hard bud. The tip of it teases the rim of your entrance before easing in, your legs resist and against his grip to close but to no avail.

“You’re so pretty. So pretty, Angel.” He slurs. “Think of you spread for me like this when I touch myself. Love how your body squirms, just from my mouth.”

He spits on cunt and uses it to glide across your clit in quick circles.

“I need you, I need you so bad.” Xavier kisses around your labia tenderly only to dive back in, swallowing whatever he’s able to take from you.

“Xavier, baby, please.” Your hips grind in tangent with his face and you feel your eyes cross. One of your hands moves from his silky strands to grip the sheets instead.

“Gonna cum for me, Master? Give it to me. Let me have it, let your bunny have it—please.” His thrusts start to stutter and he whimpers. His hand leaves your thigh to grab yours, untangling your fingers from the sheets to intertwine them with his own. “Cum for me so I can fill you up.”

Your core tightens and snaps all at once. With a wanton moan you arch into mouth, squeezing his hand to ground you. He squeezes back, eyes fluttering shut as he erupts into your pretty bedsheets.

The room is filled with heavy panting and soft groans. You sounded so good together.

You’re still basking in your afterglow when Xavier sits up, climbing over you with a new glint in his eye. You glance down to see his raging erection is still seeking satisfaction.

“Angel, I need to be inside of you. Please, sweetheart open.” He grabs at your legs that lay limp between his and his hands under your knees to throw them over his shoulders. His brows furrow at the burning sensation of his skin. The tip of his cock kisses the soft plush of your entrance and he looks at you, swooping down to take your lips as his hips push forward.

You’ve never felt so full than you do now, the walls of your wet cunt cling to his cock like a lifeline. You moan into each other at the stretch, his hands once again searching for yours, desperate to ground himself to you like and anchor at sea. His mind is lost in you and only you can find him.

His touches are firm but gentle. He works you open, taking in every jolt and twitch of your body. The feeling he was chasing was finally his, the warm suction of your pussy was slowly taming the fire that lit his bones. His voices catches in his throat.

He needed more. More more more more.

Xavier pulls away from your lips with a soft smack but he doesn’t stray far, he leans forward to touch his forehead to yours and your breaths combine.

“H-How do you feel, does it hurt?”

You shake your head firmly. “Good. Can feel you…” you grab his wrist and drag it over you, pressing his palm flat against your stomach. “Right here.”

“Shit.” Xavier feels the push and pull of his cock inside you, and his jaw drops at the revelation that every inch of him has been accepted by you. He’s touching parts of you that no one else will ever come close to and it makes him crazy.

“Go faster.” You whine, hooking your heels into his lower back. “I can take it, bunny, promise. Use me to feel better.” You coo at him.

“But I want this to be special.” His pace picks up and you see a line a drool start to spill over his lip. “Love you. I love you…loveyouloveyouloveyou—“

He attacks your neck, licking and sucking colorful spots in places he knows you can’t hide. He wants people to see. See that you’ve been ravished in a way they can only dream of. At the end of the day, you’ll come home to him and he wants everyone to know it.

It doesn’t take long for his thrusts to become damning, forcing you into the mattress only for your cunt to bounce back up at him, taking him deeper than before.

“Yes!” You squeal, pawing and scratching at his back. “I love you, Xavier! I love you...”

Your name falls from his mouth pitifully, a cry you respond to by peppering his face with small pecks. Your hands fall to cradle his face and your eyes snap shut as your walls clench around him.

“Say you’re mine. Tell me.” He pleads his hands knead your waist and you’re sure you might bruise tomorrow.

“I’m yours! Only yours. Forever and ever.”

His eyes open to gawk at your sweat covered bodies and he watches his cock disappear inside you. A rubber band is forming in the pit of his stomach and his breath hitches.

“Mine. My angel. Gonna fill you up. Gonna give you a big pretty litter. You’d want that, right? I’ll fill your cute cunt whenever you want. Keep you nice and happy and full. Full of me.”

Your mouth hangs open as loud moans escape your throat. His hand comes up to dig into your cheeks and pries your mouth open wider.

Tuah.

A wet blob coats your tongue and your teary eyes open to meet his. The look he gives you sends an intense warmth down your spine.

“Swallow.” Xavier releases you and you close your mouth, shuddering as it travels down your throat. “Good girl. So so good. I knew you’d be perfect for me.”

You whine, touching his chest, his shoulders, his arms, trailing your hands down his hard torso. He coos at the feeling of your fingertips gliding over his hot skin. He takes your hand and flattens it on the left side of his chest. His heart beats against your palm as if it wants to kiss it itself.

“D’you feel it? I’m yours. Master.” His thrusts start to lose rhythm and he pants heavy, using his free hand to rub frenzied circles on your clit. “Please, cum. I want to feel it.”

Your core pulses at his words as if they were the last thrush of water before the dam breaks. And break it does. You clutch him tightly, pulling him down to smash his chest against yours and the synchronizing of your heartbeats comforts you through your high.

Your cunt contracts and twitches violently, and with a long drawn out groan, Xavier shoves his cock as deep as it can go. His cum is hot like lava and you moan as it fills every crease, every crevice, every ridge and nook it can claim.

Finally his hips come to a still and he drops your legs to wrap around his waist, before the full brunt of his weight relaxes into you.

There was a comfortable silence, the sounds of your fatigued breaths filled your ears and you hum. Your fingers run through Xavier’s sweaty hair and you kiss the crown of his head. He nuzzles weakly into your neck.

“You okay, bunny?” You wince at rasp in your voice before peering down at him. His chest has slowed significantly and he’s… really heavy.

“Xavier.” You call out again, using your shoulder to jostle him. Your heart skips in concern when he doesn’t answer and with what strength you have left you rock back and forth enough to flip the both of you over. You quickly balance yourself on his lap, and clench slightly. He was still nestled warmly inside you.

Your hands take to his face, poking and prodding, trying anything to get a reaction. Eventually, his eyelids flicker and he opens his eyes albeit slowly. You sigh in relief and he turns to look at you. He props himself up his elbows, giving you a delicate Eskimo kiss.

He hums. “We’ll have to try this position next time.” His cock had softened a good while ago now, but he still grinds up into you, soft and teasing.

Your face flushes at his vulgarity. How can he say something like that in such a casual tone? You decide to ignore it. “Y-You had me so worried. What happened? Are you okay?” You whisper.

“I’m sorry I worried you, Angel. I’m okay. It’s common for bunnies like me.” His eyes squint cutely and he yawns. “M’sleepy.”

You smile and lean down to press a lazy kiss to his lips. “I’m sure you are, stud. Don’t fall asleep just yet, we gotta clean up.”

He groans reluctantly, but hops to his feet with you in tow. You yelp at the burst of energy and giggle as he blows small raspberries into your neck, carrying you into your—shared—master bathroom.

extra —

You wake up to soft chirps of your name and groggily open your eyes. The sky was still dark but the sun had just started to rise, casting the room into a light cool blue.

“Xavier? Whas’ wrong?” You whisper. Your eyes shoot open when you feel something hard poke into your ass.

He grunts as his hips jerk against you. “M’sorry m’sorry I..I’m really hot.”

This was going to be a long weekend.

-`♡´- tag list — @froleineeeee @hitorim106 @silverbrain

#lads #love and deepspace #lads xavier #lnds xavier #love and deepspace xavier #xavier love and deepspace #xavier x reader #xavier smut #bunny xavier #xavier x mc #xavier x you #love and deepspace fic

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sematarygirls · 5 months ago

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Okay but he’d fuck you so hard when they lose the Super Bowl after you spends an hour gloating about the eagles handing their asses to them!

i saw this request and started giggling and kicking my feet omg. anon, i owe you my first born child. you are a GENIUS! (although, fair warning, i'm not great at writing smut. i hope this is okay <3) not proofread

cw: unprotected p in v, rough sex, mean rafe, slapping, degradation

Football tended to be a touchy subject between you and Rafe. Where you were a diehard Eagles fan, he wouldn't be caught dead rooting for them. After the Chiefs narrowly beat out the Eagles in the 2023 Super Bowl, Rafe wouldn't shut up for weeks about how "trash" the Eagles were. It drove you absolutely insane.

That's why, when the Eagles absolutely kicked ass this Super Bowl in a rematch against the Chiefs, beating them out at a whopping 40-22, you thought it was your well-deserved right to rub it in Rafe's face, much to his dismay.

One thing about Rafe is that gloating is only okay when he does it—much like a lot of other things (he's a very hypocritical guy), hence his growing anger when you wouldn't stop talking about how the Chiefs absolutely threw the game with all their fumbles, making jokes the whole time about how it seemed like they weren't even playing.

Another thing about Rafe? He tended to get violent when he was angry. With other people, this meant he'd kick their asses, but with you, it meant you were in for a long night of rough fucking to make him feel better and put you in your place for your "bratty attitude."

Though, if you tried to point out the hypocrisy with him finding your actions annoying when he had done the exact same two years prior, he would only get more annoyed and very, very defensive.

You'd learned at a very early stage in your relationship that some battles were not worth fighting with Rafe, and besides, you kind of liked it when he was all rough with you, manhandling and degrading you deliciously.

"Not so mouthy now, huh?" He taunted, pounding into you from behind. Each thrust pushed you forward a little bit, your face burying further into the pillows as you moaned. A sharp slap to your ass had you gasping, the pain sending a jolt of pleasure to your core that had you practically gushing around Rafe's thick length. You didn't know how long you'd been going at this with him, but he hadn't let you cum, nor had he let up the brutal pace.

"Look at you," he sneered. "Can't even think of anything to say back to me, huh? Thought you were gonna gloat all night about how the Eagles won." His words were cruel and biting, revealing the depth of his anger, which wasn't about the football game. It was more so about being challenged, his ego hurt after talking such a big game about how the Chiefs were going to dominate.

You couldn't form a coherent sentence. Your brain turned to mush as the only thing you could focus on were his rough hands on you and his length stretching your velvety walls. You could practically feel each ridge and vein of his cock as it slid back and forth, his tip nudging your cervix roughly with each pass.

"What happened to that smart mouth, huh?" He mocked. "Your dumb little brain's too desperate for cock, huh, bunny," he cooed, his tone patronizing as he continued to pound into you with rough strokes, making your back arch and eyes roll back.

He was so mean, but you loved it.

He was right. You couldn't respond to him anymore. You had lost your ability to form a single word, dumbed down to a mess of please sounds as he hit that sweet spot inside of you so perfectly. He took that as a victory, seeing it as proof that you knew your place. He loved it when you whimpered underneath him, completely at his mercy. "Look who's behaving now. You're lucky you're so pretty, honey," he continued, enjoying this little game of his. "Otherwise, I wouldn't put up with such a bratty mouth."

"Fuuuuuck," he groaned, giving your ass another sharp smack before his hands found your hips again, his grip bordering on painful. "And this fuckin' love this pussy. Fuckin' perfect, baby."

He was getting close. You could tell by the way his pace started to falter, and his words switched from degrading to praising. One hand slipped down to your clit, rubbing firm circles. Even when he was pissed, he still tried to make you cum first.

It didn't take much more effort on his part. Your thighs were already trembling, desperate for release from the moment he'd thrown you onto the bed and ripped your clothes off.

"You're gonna be a good girl now, huh? You're gonna stop being such a pain in the ass, aren't you?" He questioned, punctuating each question with a thrust. "No more running your mouth and riling me up, right?"

"Uh huh," you whined pathetically, needy and desperate to cum.

He knew he had you right where he wanted you, all pliant and begging. "Yeah, you gonna stop talking back, huh? You can be a good little bunny for me, can't you?" He cooed, his words sounding a little bit less harsh. He was enjoying having you like this, completely at his mercy.

All you could muster was a weak nod, your fingers gripping the sheets and mouth parted in ecstacy as you reached your peak, blinding pleasure overtaking your body as your walls clamped down around his cock.

"That's it, baby, just like that," he groaned, pumping a few more times before pushing deep inside you and releasing spurts of hot, sticky cum into your eager cunt.

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starrdream · 4 months ago

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A sam smut fic like he hears u talking to ur friends about how "sex is overrated" and he proves reader wrong

hope u like it xoxo

Sam Monroe x f!reader summary: Sam overhears the conversation you had with your friends.. includes: SMUT, rough sex, overstimulation, dirty talk, idk what else

This isn’t exactly a conversation you have at your lunch table at school.

"No, I’m telling you, it’s not that fun." You shrug, taking another bite of your sandwich. "People hype it up too much."

"Oh shut up, y/n." One of your girlfriends groaned, rolling her eyes. "You just hadn't had your guts rearranged yet and that's okay."

Nor in any public space to be honest.

"Jesus could you be any more graphic?" You snort. "Besides, I still think it's overrated."

"No but seriously, I don't think it's as bad as you take it to be." Another friend chimes in. "Maybe the guy was just bad."

"I don't think so." You shake your head.

"Yeah I don't know..you always get with fugly guys I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case.." The first friend chuckles.

"Yeah your taste in men is awful." The second friend agrees. "They probably don't even know what they're doing.."

"Aren't you a virgin?" You ask the second girl, tilting your head. That shut her up real quick.

Unbeknownst to you, Sam was sitting at the table behind you, soaking up every word from the conversation you just had with your friends.

A part of him was sure he could change your mind. What even were the odds that you actually didn't enjoy it as much as any other horny teenager?

Mustering all the courage he had, Sam decided to shoot his shot...

The room was thick with heat. Every thrust sent shockwaves through your body, the slick, wet sounds filling the space between breathless moans. Your fingers twisted into the sheets, knuckles turning white as you braced yourself against the force of his thrusts

"Fuck, fuck, fuck.." You yelped as Sam's thick length kept thrusting in and out of you at a steady pace.

"Yeah? What was that?" Sam teases you, leaning against your back to nip at your neck. His voice is a deep rasp against your ear

"Please Sam.." You moaned, voice shaky, pathetic-desperate.

"Please what? You want it harder? Is this not good enough?" He coos breathlessly.

"Ngh-Sam.." You gasp.

"Mid stuff right? Well I'm about to fuck the doubt right out of you." He groans, gripping your hips tighter as he pounds into your throbbing pussy.

Your moans and whimpers become muffled as you bury your face in a pillow, arching your back and pushing your hips back to meet his thrusts.

The pressure built inside you, twisting and coiling, ready to consume you whole.

"Yeah? I think you're really starting to enjoy it now." He chuckles, one hand caressing and softly squeezing your ass.

Spreading your knees further with his knee, he allows himself to take you deeper.

"Oh right there-" You whine, pushing your head further against the pillow.

"Ah-ah-ah, can't have any of that.." He scolds. Sam’s hand suddenly tangled in your hair, yanking your head up.

His pace stuttered for just a moment before he recovered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Let me hear you pretty girl." He teases softly.

Sam continues to pound into you from behind, strained grunts and soft whimpers escaping him every now and then. He's painfully hard inside you-the view of you arched and spread out before him only making it worse.

You convulse around him, gripping the sheets tighter as you babble nonsense. Seems like he did fuck your brains out because not a single coherent sentence left your mouth from that point on.

"You gonna cum f'me? Hm?" Sam asks, voice hoarse and rough.

"Fuck..mhh, gonna.." You mutter, words interrupted by pathetic whimpers and wails.

"I didn't quite catch that.." Sam repeats teasingly, but the way he was thrusting into you was anything but gentle.

"Nghh" You mewl in response, loosing your mind at the sensations.

"Mhm, that's what I thought." He tilts your hips up, changing the angle and rubbing against your spot repeatedly.

Sam.

The only word you could say out loud and the only thing on your mind as your eyes welled with tears. He kept rambling something but you were too lost in the pleasure to make out what he's saying.

Your walls flutter and clamp down on him, causing him to let out a soft moan. And that was enough. An orgasm crashed over you-hips bucking, thighs shaking and lip quivering.

Sam wasn't far behind you, unleashing his load into your pussy before pulling out and leaving you aching and sore.

"Fucked you stupid, didn't I?" He snorts as he turns you over, wiping some of your tears away.

"Don't cry. You did so good for me." He coos 'innocently' as his fingers trail down to your sensitive hole.

"Sam-" Your weak and meaningless protest is interrupted by Sam shoving two fingers inside of you, curling and pumping in and out steadily.

Was it too much? Yes. But gosh you never wanted him to stop.

#sam monroe #sam monroe x y/n #sam monroe x you #sam monroe fanfiction #sam monroe x reader #sam monroe smut #life as a house #anakin skywalker #scott barringer #james kelly #stephen glass #haydenchristensen #clayton beresford #hayden christensen

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blueflipflops · 1 year ago

Text

I love how you usre modern phrases here and there. Gives a new light to dialogues. 'His legs grew wings' love that.

Oh the first scene reminds me of our prev talk about Helen and Aphrodite with how Odysseus blames the gods for 'lulling him to sleep' but if one took the time and think about it, it is HIGHLY likely that him falling asleep back then was not, in fact, divine intervention but actual literal exhaustion and stress. I was once again carried away by Homer's storytelling to see beyond the mythicism when I should've given that the main character is a mere mortal in a time and culture that uses gods as part of their everyday expressions.

Oh the immortal cattles really freaked me out reading. Like, the flayed meat still moo'ed. I understand the desperate hunger, they've been there for days because if the storm but god the chills i got. man. Love that Odysseus couldn't even blame them brcause he's also so hungry too and the cattles are just right there. Ohohoho there it is. The delicious guilt. Oh the downward spiral. Oh he's going in deep. The starvation and exhaustion likely doesnt help either cause god everything is crashing down on him and he can't move.

I could almost see him losing fight midway, the emptiness in his eyes as almost contemplates giving up, scaring whats left of his men when he suddenly snapped out of it and tried to do whatever damage control he can. Oh shit Eurylochus is not dropping this. Amazing way to show how the journey changed not just Odyssues but also those around him. Making then not just side or background characters to make the mc look good but people who develops along the story and make it more full or complete. I love how you put it all that in one derisive line and our clever boy quickly catches on even with exhaustion and starvation.

Oh now they're pointing fingers. Its all about the blame, isn't it? I don't think Odysseus is even mentally present enough to be part of that convo. Time and time again Odysseus has kept vital info from his men. Starting with the bag from Aiolus which was at the time was logical enough for past!Odysseus and was not urgent nor dangerous enough info to could possibly go wrong but it still did. Go wrong. And from then on, trust between both sides became strained. It came until they arrive with Scylla but also kinda logically makes sense he didn't say anything because weren't they using like some kind rowing ship with a sail? Pair that with them skirting just away from Charybdis' range of destruction, the sacrificial 6 men would have to be nervous and too tense that when Scylla comes to collect her toll, the men on Scylla's side of the ship would panic and might row them too close to the pull of Charybdis and would kill them all in the end. That's not even taking in the fact of whether or not these 6 men would LET themselves be sacrificed because then they would not coorperate so then would not help row which then make it VERY hard to voyage with a ship with only few men rowing when theres only a handful left of them too. Its was a objectively a dick move, sure, but it was the best and most logical solution Odysseus could find when pinned between two hard situations. Should he have had talked it out with someone at least? Maybe. He could but like I've said, it started with Aiolus' bag, Eurylochus was supposed to be his right hand man, his most trusted person and he was one of the people who opened the bag. He already lost his trust or at least planted seeds of doubt in Odysseus' mind so why should he trust him with this info now? God i could only imagine how rancid vibes they are having right now adding up to the fact that it must have been so hot out there. I just gone out in the summer sun for a while and I'm already irritable. Odysseus and his men are stronger than me tbh. I would've already gone mad at their stead. The series of musfortunes has relentlessly beating them down that outside of the adrenaline causing situations, they've gone past fear and can only rage now because what else do they possibly have left? Even Polites can't help but blame Odysseus even as he tries to rationalize the sacrifices he made after polyphemus. The tension is is so thick that no one in that ship is in the right mind to make major decisions.

Holy fuck the panic and fear overtaking Odysseus got me on chokehold and brought me with him. I could feel my heart sinking as I, too, realized. Lulled by the chatter of conversation between Eurylochus and the others, i let down my guard only now remembering what is going to happen. The sudden switch flip between clear skies to storm caused by divine hand. Oh god i LOVE the imagery here. I could almost HEAR the crashing waves and thunder. 'Like a cape of a dethroned king' Oh i LOVE that comparison. That is very delicious, thank you. Oh this is familiar, isn't it? The feeling of uselessness in the face of doom. It was there when he watched his men get eaten by thr cyclops, it was there when he slowly lost sight of his birth land when they were just so close, it was there when the Laestrygonians speared his men like fishes on a pond, it is here as he watch his remaining men die one by one a gruesome death in punishment for the insult against Helios. Useless to change the scene in front of him time and time again.

As Odysseus watches his people get washed away, I was reminded of Polyphemus' curse, "... may he never reach his home in Ithaca. But if he is destined to reach his native land, to come once more to his own house and see his friends again, let him come late, in evil plight, with all his comrades dead, in someone else's ship, and find troubles in his household."

'But if it was Fated that he is to return...' because he sure is destined to return, it is only to dead comrades and on a foreign ship. I'm sure those words echoed within Odysseus' mind as well. 'Why them and not me?' He asks as he holds on for dear life too stubborn to die, will to survive too strong, but it was really only he who was destined to return not his men. The feeling uselessness once again hooked its claws in his soul as heavy guilt eats beside it. Washed away like nothing. Like they weren't something to someone, a son, a father, a husband, a brother, a friend. Consumed by the dark sea like a singular beat buried under the melody.

Oh! Wasn't it framed that the war with the Trojans was supposed to be a short one like, 6 months tops that streched out to 10 years because of the wall? Not sure abt that but i think i read it somewhere. So the anger, the frustrations would be so well marinated in over the years more that Odysseus promised to take them back home safely.

Even in desperation, he calls out to gods. Or maybe it was because of desperation. But in the end it was he who saved himself. No divine hand to help. Only him and his uncanny luck and cleverness.

'Made to endure' indeed. But to what cost? To what end? A bough can only bend so far before it snaps and Odysseus has long time felt bounded past his limits

I'm surprised he didn't die out of hypothermia there but then again this is an epic and Odysseus is our hero.

Even then, his granfather was right he was made to endure, even against his wishes he endures, against the sweet whispers of death he endures, for the 600 men he failed to return home he endures. He endures until he reaches an end to suffering in the form of sandy beaches, the shore of paradise.

This was great it was amazing i am once again in love with odysseus he is decidingly human yet very obviously different and seperate from other mortals as he is strung around by fate. I love stories that makes me fall in love with same character all over again.

Survivor's Guilt and Survivor's Duty (P1)

Odysseus was hungry. That much he knew. Gods were really cruel with them the days that went through. He had returned from yet another hunt without any success. Not even a single rabbit was visible to Helios’s island. He was already feeling weary and light-headed with hunger; which was why he thought he was hallucinating when he smelt the finest smell of roasting meat he ever met in his life. However it took him no more than two brain cells of his infamous mind to connect the dots and realize what had happened.

“No! Gods no, let it be not what I think it is! Please gods no!”

His legs grew wings as he began sprinting towards the direction of the smell.

“Why did you lull me to that pointless sleep?! Why! It was all to ruin me? To ruin them?!”

He ran with all the strength of his feet to the field only to find what he hoped in all gods he believed in to be a hallucination. He saw what remained of his men from that eventful 3 year journey having lit a fire and roasting a fine cow to the pike, happy and well-fed. In the past days his men just broke. They could withstand hunger no longer and understandably they had only one source of nutrition on that island; those fat, well-kept cows that seemed to be mocking them. Of course his men would do that! Odysseus could not blame them and yet he pulled his long hair in desperation seeing the scene.

“ARE YOU ALL MENTAL? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MINDS?!” he yelled desperately drawing their attention, “I told you not to do that! These sacred animals will be our doom!”

Eurylochus, his trusted commander came forward. His eyes were full of snare and gathered anger.

“Captain,” he started, “did you expect us to starve to death? Not even one little bird was flying around and all the grass in this place turned poisonous for us! We would die anyways! This time we were doomed either way!”

The loud voice of the furious man was cut off from the sound of flesh striking against flesh and then Eurylochus’s head turned to the side. Odysseus was huffing and puffing; nostrils flattering aflame as he gathered his strong hand back.

“You fools!” he growled tears burning his onyx eyes, “you damned fools! This was a test! A test for our faith and we failed! We failed miserably! Haven’t you learnt anything? Insulting the gods is never a good idea! We should rather die of starvation than this! The gods will show no mercy on us now! We are doomed!”

“You would know of that!” Eurylochus suddenly bellowed beyond himself, “You doomed us all, Odysseus! If you haven’t done that we would be in our country by now! These three years happened because of you!”

This time it was a punch that stroke his cheek, not a slap. Eurylochus fell on the sand but he had no time to breathe for Odysseus grabbed him by the shirt lifting him up to his feet again. The comrades rushed there to grab him (oh they remembered his rage the other time nearly cost Eurylochus his life!) however Odysseus was almost as unmovable as a statue at that point. His face was red with fury.

“I tried to save us all!” he yelled, “Ungrateful bastard, I tried to save us all! I faced the beast that could have eaten us all! After everything I did for you! I-…”

He stopped. He shivered from top to bottom. Eurylochus was right. All had happened because of him. He had insulted Poseidon by blinding his son; he was arrogant enough to brag about it…no, even further back; Troy fell because of him. So many men died because of him. Ten years they fought a brutal war; they had endured the weather, the living conditions, the battles… More than 600 men started and finished the war with barely any loss…and now…less than 3 years out in the sea and… They started 12 ships and now they were one…less than 40 men left in one final ship…and all was initiated because of him…he could not deny it. He found no words to defend himself. Gradually he let go of Eurylochus, who wiped the blood off his lip with his fist. He noticed his men had gathered around to separate them from each other but it didn’t seem necessary anymore. The comrades had let him go, noticing he was almost limb in their arms. His onyx eyes were bottomless. No, it shouldn’t end like that! He had committed hubris to save his men and he doomed them, he had forced himself to bed a woman for one year after gods requested to rectify it and yet here they were again. None of the sacrifices seemed to be enough to wash that sin away. No, he couldn’t let them die like that! He had to try! He had promised he would repent! He had to save them before that happened!

“Gather up your stuff, men!” he ordered, eyes still shadowed by his hair, “We must go as soon as possible!”

“Go?” Polites asked, “Go where?”

“At ANY land!” Odysseus whispered, “Anywhere but here! We must offer a sacrifice of some kind! We must wash away this hubris!”

As he turned his back at them –oh he couldn’t face them now!- Eurylochus stood up and looked at him with eyes resembling knives.

“Should we take the rest of the meat too…Captain?” that word was almost spat like an insult, “Or shall we hope Poseidon will grace us with a meal?”

Odysseus winced. Eurylochus; his brave and loyal friend; the type of person that sure, didn’t tell him always nice things but he was always honest with him and always told him some things that needed to be said; now he seemed gone; All their adventures and torments had hardened him, killing his old comrade and giving him in his place a bitter, hateful man who could understand no longer the difference between insolence, disrespect and honesty or couldn’t care less to tell them apart. Odysseus couldn’t blame him but at that moment he found his transformation disturbing and concerning. He glared daggers at him. The mention of the meat of the slain animals made even his mouth water. He was hungry too. They wouldn’t survive without food and yes, Poseidon sure wouldn’t allow them to fill their bellies with his fish given the situation and the sea birds even if they graced them with their presence, which he doubted, were inedible and poisonous. Gods forgive me, he thought, but I am just a man!

“Damn you!” he cursed under his husky breath, “Take what you wish! If we survive this, pray to all gods that I will forget this because by all gods one day I’m gonna kill you!”

He could hardly remember the process but he knew they were on their way again; so fast and so hastily inside their last black ship in the openness of the Mediterranean Sea. If it was in his hand, Odysseus would have stayed close to the shore but of course gods were cruel for yet another time as Helios’s magnificent isle lay in the middle of open sea. He had no choice but to head for the sea and hope for the best. He knew there were lands close by; if they could reach them… For six days the trip was uneventful and his comrades had as provisions the meat from the slain animals to feast upon. Even Odysseus had to admit he had tasted the magnificent flesh of the animals, for he could withstand hunger no more. However six days of such a trip and he was always expecting the worst, which never seemed to be coming. His nerves just broke. It was the seventh day of their journey; still no sight of any land and still he hadn’t spoken a word. He was staring at the endless blue of the wine-dark sea and he didn’t speak a word. He could sense his comrades’ tension in the air; he could almost cut it with a knife! And yet, Odysseus could not focus on that. Polites looked up from the deck towards him and then towards Eurylochus who still had his cheek swollen.

“He’s so lost in thought…” Polites commented

“He should be!” Eurylochus replied bitterly, “He might be our king but sometimes he has a lot of nerve to talk to us that way! It was HIS hubris that brought us to this position!”

“Now that is both unfair and blasphemous to our king!” Polites replied

“He is no god for me to perform blasphemy!” Eurylochus replied as a matter of fact

Polites sighed.

“We have our own share of responsibility, you know! If we hadn’t opened that damned sack we might have reached home as well!”

Eurylochus winced at the reminder of Aiolus sack. Yes, that truly was their mistake. They got overcome by greed and distrust.

“And, besides, what Odysseus said is true. You and I were never there. We didn’t experience the week of seclusion in that hole. Perhaps we would have done the same…”

Eurylochus sighed defeated.

“Yeah…perhaps you’re right. And he DID spend a year entertaining Circe till our comrades healed… However…” his face darkened a bit, “I still cannot shake it off, Polites! It is majorly his fault we ended up like this! And he DID keep secrets from us. Or have you forgotten how he kept his mouth shut about Skylla? Six of our comrades dead…and we didn’t even know what was coming…”

“He wanted to spare us…”

“Yeah I am sure he suffered, alright, but we still had the right to know! Perhaps we could have come up with a plan together. Perhaps we could have fought back!”

“Fight back an immortal six-headed dragon? I am not sure how that would have worked but…even if you are right and he should have told us, that doesn’t change the fact that he is here with us now. If he wanted he could have stayed with the witch, Circe and sent us off and we would have no directions and no warnings.”

“He didn’t do that for us, Polites”

“Not entirely, I agree, but wouldn’t be fair to say that he did it for us as well?”

Eurylochus sighed.

“Fine, but seriously it was such a long trip and even longer way… I just want to go home!”

“We all do…” Polites whispered concerned.

Yes, ten years of war plus three years of wandering and danger…more than five hundred good men dead… Everyone could understand the feeling.

“I agree with Eurylochus, though…” said another man, “It was all a big mess that initiated when Odysseus insulted Lord Poseidon. I had warned him that day! I said, stop provoking him! He didn’t listen… We are all paying the price now…”

Polites sighed. Yes, he couldn’t deny that but still it seemed rather unfair to say it was just Odysseus’s fault. If anything, Odysseus was sacrificing many things along the way to protect and save them. He shivered in disgust remembering that he was told he had turned into a swine because he entered Circe’s palace. He felt grateful to Odysseus for rescuing him from such a fate. And yet… He still couldn’t shake that ominous feeling that something would happen and Odysseus’s silence wouldn’t help. Not bearing it any longer he slowly approached Odysseus. He didn’t acknowledge his presence. The silence was deafening. Only the cricking of the ship and the sound of the waves could be heard. There was no land at sight anywhere. It was quiet…WAY too quiet…

“Odysseus…” Polites started, “we…”

“Sh!” Odysseus harshly shushed him

“Please, I have to say it…” Polites insisted, “We were starving we made a mistake but-…”

“Quiet!” came yet another whisper

Polites gulped soundly, opening and closing his fist nervously.

“Odysseus…” he started, “Have we ruined everything…?”

Odysseus looked at him and he seemed ready to reply but then he raised his head sharply towards the sail and then to the ripples of the waves. All color left his face.

“Odysseus…? What is it…?”

“That is Eastern Wind…” Odysseus whispered almost in a panic, “That is Zephyr that is blowing at us! That’s not normal! Not at this time of year!”

He almost jumped from his standing point, suddenly seen afraid maybe for the first time in a long time if not ever in his life before.

“MEN! PREPARE YOURSELVES! STORM MIGHT BE COMING!”

His comrades didn’t have enough time to question if he lost it or not (given the clear skies around them) because in a few minutes the weather changed so drastically and rapidly that people could only suspect a god was causing it. Black clouds filled the sky in a matter of a few minutes and then suddenly the distant sound of a thunder was heard.

“No…” Odysseus whispered, “No…please, lord Zeus no! Forgive us…please!”

Strong winds raised as a matter of seconds and suddenly the deep blue sea turned into a full-fledged storm. The waves rose in angry white foam and the skies were black like coal with flashes of lightning and thunder. Rain followed that was cold and whipping their faces like needles. The men cried out in fear.

“EURYLOCHUS!” Odysseus bellowed on top of his lungs, “SECURE THE SAIL!”

“SECURE THE SAILS!” Eurylochus transferred the order, “ALL HANDS ON DECK!”

The panic galore was not allowing the orders to properly pass however the soul of the sailor cannot be abided by panic! All hands on deck began to work frantically; they commenced running up and down grabbing the chords and the lines, some of them already climbing to the mast to secure the sail. However it seemed the rage of gods was stronger than the determination of men and their burning wish for survival. A strong current of wind torn the sail to peaces sending quite a few falling on the deck.

“LEAVE IT!” Odysseus yelled as a strong wave splashed over him, “BEFORE THE WIND! HOLD ON TIGHTLY MEN!”

As the ship was played around on the waves like a toy, the terrified warriors and tired sailors would be desperately trying to use the rows to turn the ship; do something, ANYTHING to prevent themselves from crushing on the waves. The sail was now torn to shreds; like the cape of a dethroned king, aimlessly whipping against the mast at the strong wind.

“BEFORE THE WIND!” Odysseus kept screaming over the wind, grabbing the line of the sail in a desperate attempt to keep the material from hitting anyone on deck, “ROW MEN! ROW!”

The ship was being pushed mercilessly upon the waves; creaking and moaning against the wind. Three pairs of rows snapped like twigs leaving the ship spinning aimlessly to the winds. The black ship began to tear apart as cracks and gushes appeared to the sides. The deck started taking water both from below and above from the waves.

“SHE’S TAKING WATER!” one of the sailors cried

“REPAIR THE DAMAGES!” Odysseus cried out in desperation running as he was already ankle-deep in water, “WE MUST KEEP HER AFLOAT!”

It was a pointless order and he knew it. No matter how many times they stuffed torn pieces of the sail in the holes it would be pointless. They were already soaked to the bone, they had no way of lighting fire or softening the wax to fix anything. They were just trying to delay the inevitable and they were failing miserably.

“Lord Zeus…father of all mankind and gods please forgive us!” Odysseus prayed again, “Please, we shall repent! Give us a chance! Poseidon! Oh, Poseidon, please give me a chance!”

The disturbing creaking of wood being slowly broken didn’t need much for Odysseus to understand.

“WATCH OUT!” he cried out

Both the fore-stays of the mast snapped like twigs. The mast began to fall in a disturbing creak and collapsed to the stern. The pilot did not have time but to look up at his upcoming doom as the mast crushed him. Even above the tempest the men heard the disturbing sound of bones breaking as his head was crushed and blood splattered upon the stern. The body fell into the black sea, lifeless and soulless. At the sight of that death there was panic galore. No one heard the orders Odysseus was screaming; no one had any mind but to run up and down aimlessly like ants that were seeing their colony collapse. All they could do was scream their upcoming doom. In a foolish hope or rather a crazy need to survive, Odysseus rushed to the half-broken stern, grabbing the remains of the steer; his hands being died with the blood of the pilot.

“No! No! NO!”

He used all the strength of his mighty hands to do something…ANYTHING to steer the ship away the storm. His hands began bleeding out of the effort upon the splints of the destroyed wood.

“Gods no! Not again! No! No!”

The waves were raising the ship to the heaven and dropping it back down like a walnut shell as people were holding for dear life at the remains of their already tearing apart ship. The steer snapped in the hands of Odysseus and fell into the black sea never to be seen again.

“PREPARE FOR IMPACT!” Odysseus cried out, “HOLD ON!”

Therewith the worst came; a thunderbolt stroke the ship and the sudden flash and tremendous sound left them all blind and deaf. Odysseus screamed in pain shielding his ears. The ship cracked from side to side down in the middle; splintering in the winds like it was a pile of leaves. Ears buzzing and his nose filled with smoke from the fiery fire that lit upon the sad remains of the deck, Odysseus staggered to his feet, struggling to get two steps straight, trying to see through the sulphurous smoke (the only thing he could see was his comrades or what was left of them staggering on the ruins of their ship like drunk) when the last tidal wave came to finish the job. The wave must have been as tall as the remains of the ship as it flooded with tremendous force on the deck sweeping everything…and everyone! Odysseus got violently banged against the hull but he watched in terror through his cloudy from water eyes his comrades falling into the water screaming aimlessly for it was the only thing they could do.

“NOOOOOO!” Odysseus could only cry out as he ran to the rim

He watched the bodies of his men almost like small white dots to the absolute blackness; already almost a mile away, sometimes disappearing under the waves at the force of the tempest. Odysseus nearly lost the remains of his wits as he ran about the ship trying to find literally ANYTHING he could use. Another surge torn apart parts of the keel and the mast snapped from it. Odysseus reacted almost automatically as he rushed to the broken ropes and parts of the keel and mast. His hands and thick fingers began working frantically, almost completely unconsciously as water was hurting his eyes and rain was feeling as if piercing his flesh. All his Being was screaming for him to save himself; to survive! However that tiny part of his brain was tingling to him; maybe there are some men who are still alive! Maybe there is time!

“Please Athena! Please Athena…let me save them! It can’t be too late!” he was mumbling as he was securing the ropes so that the two pieces of wood would tie together, “Please, Pallas please! Let me save just one! Please! Let me return home just one! Please! Please! It can’t be too late! I can’t lose them all!”

Yet another thunder from the skies made him jump and then the remains of his favorite ship were torn apart! Odysseus grabbed upon his last raft of salvation. He jumped into the merciless ocean, rowing frantically with his hand towards the direction he saw his men disappear.

“EURYLOCHUS!” he cried out over the waves, “POLITES! ANYONE! ANSWER ME!”

The only answer he got was thunder and wind. The waves were tall like mountains!

“POLITES!” he called out again

Tears filled his eyes as his voice broke.

“SOMEONE!...P-Please! Anyone! Anyone…!”

There was nothing on site…just waves and storm.

“No…” Odysseus cried, “NOOOOOOOO!!!”

Realization was crueler than what he would expect…there was no one…just himself! He cried…he cried loudly as he never cried before.

“NOOO! WHY! WHY! WHY!” he yelled over the waves, “IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN ME! IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN-…”

His mind and wits nearly escaped him. He remembered that day before their sail for Troy…there were more than six hundred men…waiting for their dangerous trip…

Odysseus was standing before his men; the future fleet that was ready for this uncertain trip. Odysseus, dressed in his fine clothes, his long hair neatly brushed and beard trimmed, was looking at them seriously.

“We are heading for a dangerous trip, my men…” he said, “The road is long and we have no idea how long it will take for us to finish with the holy castle of Troy… If we result in war…there is no guarantee it will end soon…”

His onyx eyes stared deeply within countless others of pairs.

“I cannot lie to you, men…I cannot promise you that we shall all return home safely”

He drew a deep breath.

“However I promise you this; I shall do ANYTHING within my power so we can return home safely! I won’t disappoint you!”

Back to the present Odysseus cried. He weakly hit his fist upon the mast.

“No…” he sobbed, “I won’t disappoint you…!”

Six hundred men…they were all gone…disappeared… He began hyperventilating. No, it couldn’t be true!

“No…No, Athena! No Athena!” he cried trying to fist the water beneath him as if it were sand, “No, Pallas…! No… No, my men…! NOOOOO! NOOOOOOOO!”

He yelled till his throat was sore…till his voice was gone…he sobbed and cried tears almost as plenty as the waves of the sea. The storm was roaming around him… There was no one there to hear his lament… His voice was carried around by the wind…his tears were washed away by sea and rain…His body was borne by the direful winds…

Six hundred men had started that fateful journey…

Now there was only one…

Now he was alone.

The tempest began slowly to subside and the eastern wind gave his place to a breeze from the south. Odysseus was hanging helplessly upon his supposed raft. The nightly fight with the waves had exhausted him and his tears had long now dried out like the salt in his curly hair. His head was already dropping in fatigue when something made him look up. His eyes widened in terror.

“No…” he whispered

He recognized the location. In his pure terror he recognized the narrow path of Skylla and Charybdis; the passage he had struggled so much to get his men out of; the passage that cost the life of six of his comrades. What was worse…he heard an unworldly moan from deep down the sea. His feet felt the low frequency vibration…and then there was a whirlpool. Charybdis had awakened!

“No!” Odysseus cried out, “No, gods, no!”

The merciless current and the frightening groaning from deep down the sea started drawing him. Odysseus at the edge of his wit began frantically rowing with his hand; desperate in his fear to get away from the deathly current that would suck anything to its path! At that moment he remembered Circe’s warnings;

“You must not be there when she sucks it down; for no one could save you from the ruin not even the Earthshaker himself…”

“I HAVE TO TRY, CIRCE!” Odysseus yelled towards the sky in his panic, “I have to try or else my men’s deaths were for nothing!”

The merciless current though wouldn’t bulge as Odysseus realized in terror his pitiful attempts could never save him from this hellish force. The two pieces of wood that were forming his only salvation were being dragged in the ruthless elix. The water was already foaming when he reached the grotto. In panic he scanned the perimeter. Only then his eyes remembered what his brain had erased in fear; the fig tree! Circe had said there was that fig tree shadowing Charybdis! The massive roots and branches were hanging over him; it was his only hope! With strength only panic and adrenaline could give him, Odysseus pushed himself on top of the last remains of his ship and kicked as hard as he could. He had only one chance. His wounded and red hands grasped for dear life onto the rough branches and thank goodness his fingers closed around them!

“ARGH!” Odysseus cried in pain feeling as though his arms would be uprooted out of his own weight, “GODS!”

His legs helplessly hanging over the abyss were desperately moving trying to find a footing but there was none! His arms didn’t have the strength to pull him up at the tree either so he could only hang and hold for dear life. Odysseus dared to look down and saw in terror the gaping hole sucking in the sea and with it his only safety raft. His wet hands would slip and fall if it weren’t for the sheer determination that held him! He prayed to all gods that he knew and didn’t know that this time, just this time, he would find salvation; that his small raft would be vomited out of that whirlpool otherwise he would be lost… The growling rumble from beneath the watery abyss signaled the begin of the outside movement to what it seemed like an eternity later.

“Please gods…please…please…” he was thinking like a mantra

And then he spotted it! The small brownish outline of his mast and keel. He would have a chance! Fear was biting his stomach as he looked down at the whirlpool vomiting out seawater. He knew he had to act quickly or he would have no hope to swim to his raft in that condition. Charybdis below him seemed ready to swallow him even if she was vomiting out the water. What if she really swallowed him if he let go? What if he would be destroyed by some wave? Odysseus looked and looked and the seconds seemed like eons to his tormented heart that was flattering within his chest. He shut his eyes closed; to not see; to not fear and he made his decision

He let go of the branch.

Gravity claimed his body as he fell to the empty space and within the foaming water. The water was hot; hotter than human body temperature and to the tormented king of Ithaca who was freezing from water that seemed like a boiling cauldron. His ears were filled with the sound of bubbles and the hellish growling of Charybdis. He didn’t dare to look; only he paddled like his life depended on it (and it did!) . The suction force that was pushing him upwards this time was with him. Odysseus felt his lungs burning for air and he nearly breathed in the sea water as he hadn’t got a proper breath before diving in the sea. And he was pushed up and up till he was vomited out of the water and drew a soundly breath. He swam frantically till his raft and grabbed onto it with his wounded hands for dear life coughing salted water; nose and eyes aflame from the salt. He rowed and rowed with his hand almost immediately after he caught some breaths. He turned around towards the OTHER dreadful site.

“If Skylla comes out…I’m lost!” he thought

However the dreadful cave that hosted the monster that claimed the lives of six of his crew remained dark and silent. Nothing came out. Odysseus wasted no time and rowed and paddled like crazy to get as far away as possible from that dreadful area. He didn’t know how far Charybdis or Skylla’s ranges were but he certainly didn’t want to know! That was knowledge that even Odysseus of Ithaca, the Man of many Ways could pass on! After what seemed like a full eternity and when the sun was setting for good at the horizon, Odysseus had covered enough distance to see the grotto from afar. He collapsed onto his mast, drawing raspy breaths till his chest began to hurt. He seemed he had no more strength to move. His hands were full of wounds from the ship and the tree branches and hurt from salted water, his lips were torn from the sea and salt had crusted onto his face and hair. Then Odysseus broke down. He cried silently alone in the middle of the sea; he cried for his men he lost, he cried for his dreams that seemed to becoming fainter and fainter; the dreams to embrace his wife and son and he cried for himself. He had barely any hope to survive. He had no men; sea had claimed them. He had no vessel; the storm had claimed it. He had no food or water; those were gone long time ago. He barely had any clothes on for even those were soaked and already tearing apart from the wind and sea. What was the point to keep going, he thought? What would be the point to struggle? He had slim to no possibilities to escape. He was alone in the open sea without protection in Poseidon’s territory. Any kind of sea creature from the usual sharks till the dangerous creatures he faced so far, could potentially kill him.

“I should have died there!” he thought, “Alas this fate is worse than the death in the ship! This agony! Oh, gods I can’t bear it anymore!”

“You are made to endure, Odysseus…”

That was what his grandfather had told him when he visited him in Parnassus what seemed like an eternity prior; almost in another life. However even the tormented Odysseus had his limits. And now these seemed surpassed. Maybe he should let go; allow the sea to take him and end his torment. Maybe he could meet his family in a few decades in the underworld… Why struggle for the inevitable? And yet a small voice to the back of his head made him think that he could not give up just yet; that he had to keep trying and if the sea would claim him then so let it be written, so let it be done. However he had to try and fulfill the prophecy of Tiresias. He felt like he owned this to the 600 lives that were lost under his command. He looked up at the stars that seemed to have started to form. Yes, he would follow the directions that the night dress of Nyx was pointing at. Finding strength anew, the Man Tormented paddled slowly and steadily away from the dreadful spot…

Odysseus traveled once more; this time alone and grabbing upon the last remains of his beloved black ship… The night came cold and he was shivering. By the morning another storm caught up with him and his mast was once more drifted by the huge waves that resembled white top mountains, tearing apart his clothes and his flesh. And yet his hands endured… It was as if his heart and hands combined turned into oak or stones. The Man of many Torments endured. Next day the sun was merciless over his head, sending him almost to the brief of hallucinations and heat as sweat was running down his already wounded body. The night the gods felt pity on him and sent a drizzle rain. Odysseus raised his head to the heavens trying to grab as much of the fresh god-sent water as if that would be enough to quench his insatiable thirst and the burning of the salt. Once a passing seaweed came close to him to which Odysseus made some sort of imitation of a meal for himself. How many times he nearly slipped off his life-raft he lost count…how many times he probably actually fainted on it he could no longer remember. And yet, the King of Ithaca endured…in strength that he had no idea he had. It was as if both his body and spirit had decided he had a duty to survive. He survived the agony and pain as well as the anxiety and fear every time something touched his foot beneath the waves or a passing fish would bite his legs. He had long stopped feeling much.

By night before the tenth day of his painful journey he had collapsed. He didn’t feel the sand beneath his body as his raft finally beached at a sandy beach. He didn’t move as some crab or beach beetle walked over his sea-beaten body. By dawn some hints of his consciousness returned. It was only for a brief second that the rays of sun touched his salt-crusted cheek but Odysseus saw or at least he thought he saw a tall slender figure picking something up from the beach many meters away from him (maybe a seashell). The figure turned towards him and walked there.

And then everything turned black…

~~~~~

Ooookay guys this the first part from my Odyssey story! Poor Odysseus loses everything and gets beached in Ogygia.

Rhapsody 12 must be the most intense or one of the most intense of all the Odyssey and honest the way that Homer describes how Odysseus survived had to be kept as it was from my part!

Poor Odysseus must have passed from all the stages of grief at once!

Now I get extremely inspired by music and soundtracks for my stories. For example the Charybdis description was heavily inspired by the amazing Disney soundtrack for the movie "Dinosaur" with the title "The End of Our Island"

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For his eventful journey I was partially inspired by Mozart's "Kyrie" from the Great Mass in C Minor and also the scene from the film "Les Triplettes de Belville" for the battle with the elements especially the storm and all.

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For the sinking itself I was inspired by various soundtracks and pieces of music.

For my story I kinda take the hypothesis that Ogygia was in fact the small island of Gozo in Malta

As the other time I shall tag some of my amazing commentors/rebloggers and friends! (again forgive me if I forget anyone)

@loco-bird @aaronofithaca05 @tunguszka20 @doob-or-something @jarondont @prompted-wordsmith @simugeuge @fangirlofallthefanthings @ilov3b00kss0much

#i really enjoyed this one!#I wrote this following thru the story.#Damn this was LONG and I'm only at part 1 #I have no questions as of now because the whole thing felt so deliciously complete #Like you could end it here and I'd still be satisfied with the conclusion of the story #odysseus #the odyssey #greek mythology #odyssey #ogygia #charybdis #skylla #might not be very coherent cuz im a little sleepy rn haha

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