#fermented mess

[putridintercourse]

fermented mess - demo

[yant0tnay]

Music is the ONLY thing that helps me feel things to the fullest.

I've always had a hard time processing and expressing feelings. As a late diagnosed auDHD, I never understood why I could never feel things like others. Usually, I can only truly express what I'm feeling through the right songs. The lyrics, the instrumentals, the pain/excitement/rage in the vocalist's voice... it all combined has the key to unlock whatever I cannot open myself.

Below is the current song my brain needs on repeat at the moment.

[naritaren]

Random 2am food thoughts. Watching other cultures and their normal meals has helped my relationship with food more than anything.

We joke that "haha as an adult we can have ice cream for breakfast!", but it feels like there is this thing where you need to have "breakfast" foods at breakfast. But hey! If you're an adult you can live out your inner child once for funsies.

Except. We don't talk about how freeing it is to see other people around the world just eating cup noodle ramen for breakfast. Like. Yeah. I can just straight up have ramen for breakfast. It's still food! It doesn't have to be "breakfast" food. Eating what you will eat is better than going "I don't like most breakfast food" and not eating anything.

And I don't have kids, but man if I had a kid with food aversions and would only eat like chicken nuggets for breakfast, then I would just let the kid eat them. It's better than not eating at all. Fed is best.

So yeah. Watching random travel and camping vlogs helped open my third eye and my relationship to food. I don't *have* to eat certain foods for breakfast and nothing but those certain foods. I can just eat whatever, whenever. Egg sandwich at 3pm? Sure! Pasta and sauce for breakfast? Sure!

I dunno. It's just something that is sticking with me.

[vampirecatprince]

I think Mom accidentally triggering me again interrupted an impending panic attack. Like- I'm feeling better from that Insta-Escalation moment I just had and the panic I was feeling about money is... Managable now?

Still feel like I got run over by the mental illness bus though.

[goth-link]

i may have brewed these batches of mead i have going a little TOO well… both in the “wow this is delicious!” and in the “woah, this sure is fermenting”

[cumironi]

BLESSED BY THY CLEAVAGE, AMENNN ᵎᵎ

feat. geto suguru, shoko ieiri

sum. “daddy got them for me yesterday.” you said. and daddy you mean is geto suguru and shoko is your friend. and friendship so fucked up you let her sit on your face while geto got his dick inside you. it is the power of your tit$? maybe..

wn. non-sorcerer au, college setting, geto is a mess, reader is shameless, tits are a weapon, pu$$y-drunk geto, shoko is hot and mean, worship-level oral (reader receiving), face-sitting, titfucking, deepthroating implied, unprotected vaginal $ex, internal ejaculation, cumplay (leaking, smearing), overstimulation, reader squirts (multiple times), finger $ucking, nipple play, cum on tits, aftercare / caretaking, slowburn smut, power dynamics (passive reader / active partners), possessive geto, bratty reader, filthy dirty talk, praise kink, mild degradation, shoko joining mid-act, threesome dynamic (ffm), oral fixation, reader is overstimmed and praised for it, physical restraint (holding reader down), swearing / explicit language.

a/n. let’s be real, i think both of them like girls with big tits.

geto’s apartment was the kind of place that looked cleaner in the dark. it was one of those college-boy hovels that had clearly been nice once, or maybe it was just expensive, which was not the same thing. the lights were warm but shitty, one too-yellow bulb flickering like it owed rent. outside, the sky was a bruised sort of purple, summer clinging to the air like spit, like the whole world had been licked and left to ferment. a sliding balcony door was cracked open to let in the sticky summer air, but mostly just let in moths and city noise. there were half-empty mugs on the table, a bong under the couch.

when you get there, the door was already unlocked because geto thought locks were fascist, or maybe he just liked tempting fate. either way, it creaked open with the familiar little ghost-sigh of a hinge that hadn’t been oiled since second year. the first thing you saw wasn’t geto.

it was shoko, half-draped across the floor like roadkill, holding a lit cigarette above her face while she let ash fall dangerously close to her bare stomach, and she had one boot up on the coffee table. the tank top she wore was black and paper-thin, no bra, naturally, her shorts undone like she'd given up halfway through peeing. she tilted her head toward you like an owl on ketamine.

“about time,” she said without looking at you, exhaling a lazy spiral of smoke that drifted straight toward the ceiling fan. “was starting to think you choked on your own tits walking here. and what the fuck are those.”

the loud clack of your boots on the hardwood echoing like you were making a goddamn entrance. which, to be fair—you were. your tank top wasn’t even that low-cut. okay. it kind of was. maybe a little slinky. maybe a little too tight, the kind of tight that rode up when you breathed, and you had to tug it down with a crooked hand and pretend not to notice. your skirt wasn’t helping either—barely longer than a wide belt, paired with boots too heavy for the season, but fuck it, you looked hot. like dumb hot. like, failed-a-midterm-and-still-smirking hot.

“shoko,” you said, stepping into the thick warm air of geto’s living room, “is that any way to greet a friend? and they’re boots,” you said, posing just enough to make them creak a little. leather, knee-high, chunky heel. dangerous. like if a stripper got possessed by a demon and still made rent.

“friend?” she snorted. “you show up to suguru’s place dressed like that and call it friendship?”

“maybe i just like the ambiance.” you dropped your bag by the floor next to the bong. “and talk about your boots,” shoko said, dragging smoke into her lungs like it owed her something, eyeing the expensive material. “what are they doing in my eyes.”

you didn’t even take them off. you walked around like you owned the fucking place, clomp clomp, tits bouncing with the rhythm of a woman who knew exactly what she was doing and didn't care if she gave someone a cardiac episode. you stood over shoko like you were presenting a thesis. “daddy got them for me yesterday.”

she stared up at you. blinked. blinked again.

“…you’re gonna have to specify which daddy.”

“the one who’s not your sugar daddy yet,” you grinned, toeing at her thigh gently with your boot like you were about to step on her for fun. “suguru.”

“jesus christ.” shoko rolled away from your leg, smoke curling behind her. “suguru! your bimbo just tracked hell into your apartment!”

“they’re not shoes,” you shouted toward the kitchen. “they’re boots! it’s different!”

geto’s voice filtered through the apartment, hoarse and half-laughing. “they’re still from outside, babe.”

you turned to the kitchen archway with your hands on your hips, tits practically launching a coup from your neckline. “they’re not dirty! they’re special! they match my tits!”

a pause.

then, “…what the fuck does that mean,” shoko said, sitting up.

“they’re both dangerous,” you declared, and then promptly posed like you were in a perfume ad designed by perverts. you even did the little bounce. the one that made your chest jiggle in that perfect, slow-motion, anime-opening kind of way. “anyway, this place smells like feet and bad decisions.”

“you forgot dick,” came geto’s voice from the kitchen. he was shirtless. not like he was trying to be sexy about it—just wore those threadbare gray sweats, low on his hips like they had a personal vendetta against dignity. hair half-tied, face flushed from leaning over a rice cooker. “and curry. i reheated the one we got last week. it’s probably fine.” and he turn back to the kitchen.

“probably?” you echoed, walking with your boots across the carpet that had definitely seen better years. you passed shoko, who gave you a long side-eye, then a longer front-eye when your boobs jiggled as you bent to pick up a pillow off the floor.

your tank top was obscene in a very “this was never meant to be outerwear” way, and your mini skirt had no business doing the bare minimum. not that anyone was complaining. not really.

“jesus,” she muttered, flicking ash into an old instant ramen cup. “how the fuck did your tits get so big? those weren’t like that last semester.”

“i worked out.”

“with what, gravity?” she made a circling gesture toward your chest. “you bench-pressing planets?”

you flopped onto the couch behind her, letting your arms fall over the backrest like you were trying to get arrested for indecency. “they just... grew. maybe i hit second puberty.”

shoko reached over and tugged at your tank top like she was checking a label. “second puberty’s a myth. you’re lying. you either got implants or a demon’s blessing. spill it.”

“you wanna feel them?” you offered sweetly, voice honeyed and shameless.

“i always want to feel them. that’s not the point.”

from the kitchen, geto said, “do i need to be here for this? or can i just watch?”

“shut the fuck up,” shoko called, “you’re already shirtless, pervert.”

“you’re in my apartment,” he called back, emerging with three mismatched bowls of steaming curry, one chopstick set already missing. he dropped the bowls on the coffee table and gestured vaguely to the mess. “eat before i change my mind.”

shoko didn’t move. she was still staring at your chest with the intensity of a scientist trying to understand a new species. “okay but seriously,” she said, “you used to have, like, regular tits. now they’re... menace tits.”

“menace tits?” you repeated, grinning.

“like if you leaned forward too fast someone might get a concussion.”

geto sat on the floor, too tall and too casual, already scooping curry into his mouth like he hadn’t slept in two days. you follow to sit beside him. “they are kind of violent. like, threatening. in a good way.”

you pointed your spoon at him. “you’re just mad they didn’t happen to you.”

“i’d kill to have tits like that,” he said around a mouthful. “i’d start a cult.”

“you did start a cult,” shoko said, mouth twitching.

“not for tits, though. that was ideological.”

“sure,” you said, “ideologically horny.”

geto shrugged like you’d just handed him a compliment, licking curry from his thumb before he reached over to grab a napkin—and grazed your thigh with the back of his fingers like it was an accident. it wasn’t.

you pretended not to notice. shoko absolutely noticed.

“you two gonna fuck right here or should i go smoke on the balcony?”

“please,” you said, already giggling, “you’d just press your face to the glass like a cat.”

“damn right i would,” she said, dragging her cigarette to the filter. “free porn and curry? i’m not moving.”

and somehow, that was the real vibe of geto’s apartment: filthy, sweaty, comfortable. you’d never been somewhere more disgusting that still made you feel like curling up and letting the night rot slowly around you. the air was hot, the curry was too spicy, shoko was drunk off her second beer and already making plans to fight god, and geto kept looking at you like he knew exactly how that tank top was going to end up by midnight.

and he wasn’t wrong.

geto finished his curry with the kind of single-minded focus you’d expect from a man who’d been fasting for enlightenment but gave up when he smelled something fried. he licked his thumb again, sucked a speck of rice off his knuckle, and looked up at you through his lashes like he knew. like he always knew. like he was in on some joke your thighs were telling in a language only perverts spoke.

“you still haven’t taken those boots off,” he said, voice slow and syrupy, the kind that soaked into your spine.

“and i won’t,” you said primly, crossing your legs just to watch his eyes track the motion like a dog waiting for a treat. “they’re part of the outfit. they’re a lifestyle choice.”

“they’re a threat,” shoko muttered, setting her empty bowl on the floor and lighting another cigarette with the dying embers of the last one. “to national security. to mental health.”

“you’re just mad they don’t match your tits,” you replied sweetly, leaning back into the couch cushions and pulling your tank top up in a useless attempt at modesty that just made everything worse. “they couldn’t,” shoko said. “your tits are... chaotic evil.”

“they’re misunderstood,” you argued, grabbing your beer again. “they just have ambition.”

“they have range,” geto added, finishing the last of his beer. “you could balance a wine glass on them or smother someone to death. versatility.”

you raised the can in salute. “exactly.”

shoko stood, suddenly, like the couch had become spiritually uninhabitable. “i’m going to smoke something illegal on the balcony before i get emotionally invested in whatever’s about to happen here.”

“too late,” you called as she slid the glass door open with a screech and stepped out into the heavy night.

then it was just you and geto. the apartment hummed around you—dim, hot, cluttered. the fridge buzzed like it had trauma. the clock ticked unevenly. somewhere in the building, a dog barked once and then gave up. and geto... well.

he shifted closer. not much. just enough that his knees brushed yours, and his hand landed lightly on your bare thigh. not high. not low. just... there. a placeholder. a punctuation mark between all the things you hadn’t said out loud yet. “you know,” he said, thumb stroking a lazy arc across your skin, “i keep thinking about what you said earlier.”

you blinked, faux-innocent. “i said a lot of things.”

“the part about your tits matching the boots.” he looked so serious, and that made it worse. “i didn’t get it at first. but now... now i see it.”

“do you?”

“yeah.” his voice dropped lower, like it was dragging itself across velvet. “they’re both dangerous. built for worship. you don’t walk into a room with those things—you arrive.”

you let your head fall back, laughing—breathless and soft, because of course he was turning your bullshit into poetry. you could feel the heat of him next to you, his palm heavier now, fingers edging higher with that slow, reverent menace he was famous for. “what are you doing, suguru,” you asked, tipping your head toward him.

“just appreciating a gift from god,” he said.

“you’re not even religious.”

“i am now.”

you snorted. “oh, please.”

he looked at you. really looked at you. eyes dark and steady, like they were made to stare, made to drink in slow details—the glisten of sweat at your collarbone, the delicate strain of fabric over full curves, the way you were smiling like you hadn’t already decided how this night was going to end.

then his voice dropped even lower. almost a whisper. almost holy.

“can i touch them?”

you raised your eyebrows. smirked. leaned in close enough for your breath to touch his jaw.

“which one—boots or tits?”

his smile split like a secret, soft and wide and so full of bad ideas it made your thighs twitch. “both,” he said, already sliding his palm higher. outside, shoko lit something that smelled like it should be illegal in three prefectures and muttered, “god damn it,” to the city below.

and inside, geto’s hands found reverence.

geto’s hand not moving fast. just pressing—heat through skin, weight through muscle—like he was waiting for permission he already knew he had. and maybe he did. maybe you were both just playing the long game because drawing it out was part of the sick pleasure, like edging a conversation until the whole room ached from the subtext.

the air was heavy. smelled like smoke and leftover curry and something warmer, muskier. something you. sweat and perfume and laundry detergent from your tank top. geto inhaled like it was the first real breath he’d taken in hours. like it was better than any spell he’d ever learned.

you were watching him watch you, and it was stupid. it was so stupid, the way he looked at you like your tits were preaching. like your whole chest had something to say, and he was ready to listen. eyes locked, lips parted, and that thumb of his drifting higher now, tracing the hem of your skirt like he was testing gravity.

you didn’t stop him.

“you’re being weird about this,” you murmured, voice sticky with amusement. low and lazy, like you’d just woken up in a stranger’s bed and decided to stay. “i’m being respectful,” he said, immediately. “these are divine objects. you don’t just rush in.”

“you’ve seen me naked before.”

“yeah,” he said, dragging his gaze up your body. “but not like this.”

you cocked your head. “what’s different?”

he didn’t answer immediately. just slipped his hand under your skirt, high on your thigh now, palm curved like he wanted to hold all of you there, in that handful of skin. “you know what’s different,” he said finally, soft and dark and smiling. “you’re dangerous now.”

you snorted. “i’ve always been dangerous.”

“yeah. but now it’s weaponized.”

you leaned back into the couch, legs spread enough to make it a problem, your boots still on like a crime scene waiting to happen. “you gonna make an offering to the tit gods or what?”

“i said respectful,” he repeated, but he was already moving. already shifting his weight, one knee between your thighs on the couch cushion, the heat of him crawling up your body like ivy in a horror movie—slow, creeping, inevitable.

his hands, finally, found your waist. slid up. thumbs brushing the underside of your tits where the fabric clung indecently tight. he didn’t grope. not yet. he held, like they might break. like they might bite. “jesus christ,” he breathed, reverent and stupid and hungry. “they really are bigger.”

“i told you,” you said, pleased with yourself. “second puberty.”

he made a noise in the back of his throat. it might’ve been a laugh. might’ve been a death rattle. “i can’t believe i get to live in the same timeline as these.”

“you’re welcome,” you said sweetly, and arched just enough that they pressed against his hands more firmly—soft, heavy, straining through the thin, sweat-damp tank top.

his breath hitched.

“you gonna cry?” you asked, almost teasing, but there was something soft in it too. “need a minute?”

he shook his head slowly. “nah. just... giving thanks.”

and then he leaned in.

not to kiss your mouth. not yet. no. he dipped lower—lower—mouth brushing your chest like it was sacred ground. lips parting, breath hot through the fabric, and then a kiss, gentle and obscene, right between your tits. not biting. not even licking. just pressing his mouth there, full and warm, as if he could pour something of himself into the space and let it stay.

“okay,” you whispered, voice shaking just enough to feel real. “now you’re being weird.”

“can’t help it,” he mumbled into your skin. “they’re majestic. it’s like looking into the sun. if the sun had cleavage.”

“do you want me to take the top off or are you planning on praying through cotton all night?”

he looked up, eyes dazed and adoring and wrecked.

“i think i want to die between them,” he said.

and you believed him.

he didn’t look away when you pulled the straps down.

you hadn’t even said anything, hadn’t made it a moment—no dramatic glance, no cheeky little tease. just lifted your hands with lazy grace and tugged both straps of your tank top off your shoulders, letting them slip down your arms like they didn’t matter. the neckline fell low—too low—and then lower still until the thin fabric couldn’t hold on anymore. your tits spilled free like they were tired of waiting, heavy and flushed, nipples drawn tight from the heat, the sweat, the way geto was breathing.

his mouth parted like it was automatic. like he needed more oxygen just to process them.

“holy shit,” he muttered, voice dropped into that ruined octave of someone who’d just witnessed the divine and was trying not to weep about it. “okay. okay, i get it now.”

you hummed like you were bored, even as you shifted your hips slightly, thighs parting wider, the skirt barely clinging to your dignity. “get what?”

he didn’t answer. just leaned forward again—lower this time—and pressed his face into your cleavage like he was returning home after war. both hands came up, cupping, lifting, reverent but not shy anymore. his thumbs circled your nipples, brushing them soft at first, then with a little more pressure, watching them stiffen under his touch like they were shy at first but warming to the attention. his mouth followed, lips parting, tongue flicking once against your sternum before he just let his whole face sink between them.

you laughed. a breathy, stunned thing, disbelieving. “you okay down there?”

a muffled, “no,” came from his mouth, buried in the valley of your chest.

you tilted your head back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. the heat of his breath, the scratch of his stubble, the weight of his body leaning into yours—all of it made your skin feel too tight, too present, like you’d been reduced to sensation and tits and the ache between your thighs.

and then—

the sliding door screeched open again.

“oh my fucking god,” came shoko’s voice, flat and annoyed and high as sin. “i was gone for five minutes.”

you cracked one eye open. “welcome back.”

she was standing there, one hip cocked, a half-finished joint between her fingers and the most unimpressed expression you’d ever seen on a human face. “suguru, are you motorboating our friend’s tits?”

he didn’t move. just gave a muffled, “mm-hmm,” from the plush safety of your chest. “you’re so fucking weird,” she muttered, stepping back inside. the glass door clicked shut behind her. “both of you. all of you.”

“don’t act like you weren’t thinking about it,” you said, breath hitching as geto’s hands slid up to cup the full weight of your breasts, squeezing experimentally. “thinking about it and walking in on it are two very different emotional experiences,” she said, dropping onto the arm of the couch again, her usual throne. “and i don’t remember giving consent to a live sex show.”

“we’re not even fucking yet,” you said, voice going soft around the edges as geto’s tongue finally found your nipple, slow and obscene. “it’s just—appreciation.” shoko exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “you’re treating her like a museum exhibit,” she muttered. “a slutty one.”

“interactive,” you corrected, arching just a little when geto sucked harder. “like the science center.”

geto finally lifted his face, lips slick, eyes unfocused. “shoko. give us a minute.”

“give you a minute?” she echoed. “you’ve been face-deep in titties for the last ten. what’s left?”

“spiritual awakening,” he said without hesitation.

shoko rubbed her eyes like the conversation itself was giving her wrinkles. “i’m too high for this. also not high enough.”

“you’re free to join in,” you offered sweetly, not really expecting anything, just basking in the ridiculousness of it all—legs spread, tank top around your ribs, one of jujutsu tech’s finest licking your tits like he was trying to memorize them with his soul, and shoko sitting five feet away like this was normal.

she blinked at you.

paused.

then said, “no, i’m emotionally married to apathy. but thanks for the invite.”

and then, because she couldn’t help herself, her gaze dropped. lingered. for a second too long. at your chest, at geto’s tongue flicking your nipple again just to make you squirm. her eyes narrowed, calculating. critical. “okay,” she finally said. “i’m sorry, but they really are too big. it’s not natural. you need to get them registered.”

“they’re emotional support tits,” you breathed, barely able to speak through the pleasure curling up your spine.

“they’re a threat to public health,” she shot back. geto just groaned, nuzzling back between them like he could disappear there, like there was nowhere else in the world worth being. and honestly? maybe there wasn’t. geto had your tits in his mouth like they were the last goddamn miracle on earth.

and he was so slow about it. he wasn’t even sucking anymore. just licking—flat-tongued, reverent strokes like he was trying to commit the taste to memory. one hand held you steady, splayed wide across your ribs. the other was still tucked under your skirt, palm heavy on the outside of your thigh, fingers twitching now and then like he was thinking about moving them up, and then deciding not to—yet.

your head was tipped back against the couch, mouth slack, one boot heel digging into the cushion like you needed leverage against the slow drag of his tongue. you weren’t making a sound. not a moan, not a whimper. just breathing. open. ruined.

and to the left—there she was.

shoko. leaning against the far arm of the couch, still in her half-buttoned shorts, one leg folded under her, the other kicked out wide with a casualness that didn’t match the way her eyes were pinned to your chest. the joint in her hand had gone out. ash clung to it. she hadn’t moved to relight it. “you’re both disgusting,” she said finally, voice dry, eyes not leaving your tits.

“takes one to know one,” you murmured, without looking at her.

she scoffed. shifted her weight to near you. her shoe knocked against the side of your thigh, not gently. “and what, i’m just supposed to sit here while he acts like he’s breastfeeding?”

geto didn’t even lift his head. just muttered, “she taste better than milk.”

shoko made a noise like she was going to throw up, but her fingers were already toying with the hem of your skirt, just to the side of geto’s hand. you didn’t stop her. didn’t even flinch. your whole body was heavy and humming, caught in that low, thick pulse of being watched.

and fuck. it was hot.

because shoko didn’t move fast. she didn’t push. she didn’t grope. she touched you like a scientist dissecting a problem she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve. her knuckles grazed your thigh. then her nails. light, precise, tracing the edge of where your skirt had rucked up. you could feel the bite of her rings against your skin, cool and sharp and utterly deliberate.

“you’re just letting this happen,” she said, not even trying to sound surprised anymore.

“you’re doing it,” you breathed, finally turning your head toward her. “you joined in.”

she raised an eyebrow. “and?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t, really—not with geto sucking one nipple deep into his mouth, tongue circling, slow and obscene. your hips jerked once, involuntary. shoko’s hand slid higher in response, palm settling flat against the bare skin of your inner thigh, her thumb just brushing the crease.

there was a pause.

a long, thick silence, broken only by your breath catching and the faint, wet sound of geto’s mouth. “you want her to beg?” shoko asked, voice low now. lower than you’d ever heard it. geto’s mouth popped off your chest, lips wet and kiss-drunk. he looked up, blinking slow, his hands still warm on your ribs.

“she doesn’t have to,” he said.

and then, to your utter ruin, he added—

“she’s already praying.”

shoko looked at him like she was about to punch him in the face. or kiss him. or both.

“you are so full of shit.”

but her hand stayed where it was. her thumb slid closer. you could feel the heat building between your thighs, throbbing in your chest, crawling up your spine. you wanted to say something snarky, something flippant, but all that came out was a shaky exhale and a noise that wasn’t quite a moan.

geto leaned over, resting his head between your tits again like he belonged there. one of his hands found your waist and squeezed, grounding you.

and shoko, that bitch, just watched.

watched your mouth go slack. watched your chest rise and fall with each breath. watched the place between your legs ache for attention. and then she smiled—sharp and slow and awful.

“i want to see what you do when he fucks your tits.”

you blinked at her.

“i want to see,” she repeated, voice soft now. almost curious. “what that looks like.” geto made a low sound against your chest. something dark. pleased. possessive. “you can watch,” he said, shifting, finally moving back—his lips leaving your skin, his hand slipping down to your skirt. “but only if you’re good.”

“define good,” shoko said, eyes hooded, fingers still resting between your thighs like a threat.

you swallowed.

and spread your legs a little wider.

geto shifted back with the kind of gravity that only belonged to people about to be adored.

he slid off the couch cushions and settled on the edge of the couch like a god descending to be fed — legs wide, jaw loose, hair slipping from the mess of his tie like it wanted to watch you too. there was something careless about it, the way he sprawled there, cock still hidden behind the slouch of gray sweats that clung low and soft and damp at the waistband. his bare chest gleamed faintly under the shitty yellow light, marked by heat and your mouth, a smear of your lip balm still ghosting the edge of one pec.

“here?” you asked, already slipping off the couch with your knees hitting the shitty carpet in one dull, obedient thud. it was hot. stupidly so. your thighs still trembled from where shoko had touched you, still open just a little too wide as you knelt between his legs like the position itself was enough.

“right there,” geto said, voice low and thin like it was being dragged out of his lungs. “fuck, baby, look at you—just right there.”

you looked up through your lashes, tits still bare and high and flushed, your top bunched under them like it had surrendered hours ago. he hadn’t even pulled himself out yet, and the heat between your thighs was already stupid, embarrassing. shoko made a quiet little noise — not a word, just a breath, the sound of someone watching and refusing to blink.

then she moved.

she didn’t say anything. just slinked off the arm of the couch and dropped beside geto like it was her seat all along, one bare thigh brushing his, the lit joint still smoldering between her fingers. she didn’t look at him. she looked at you — on your knees, eyes bright, breathing hard — and for once, she didn’t say anything shitty. no joke. no sarcasm. just… watched.

“you gonna be good for me?” geto murmured, voice wrecked now, sweet and fucked and soft, dragging one hand through your hair while the other braced against his thigh. “you gonna make me lose my mind down there?”

you smiled with teeth. “only if you ask nice.”

he laughed — a short, broken thing — and leaned his head back against the couch.

“please, baby,” he said. “come make this cock feel like a blessing.”

you didn’t rush.

your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweats, thumbs tucked in slow like you were pulling apart the final seal on something dangerous, something volatile. the moment the elastic gave, his cock spilled out like it couldn’t wait — tall, heavy, flushed an angry dark pink at the tip and thick in that rude way that felt like a punchline. veiny, twitching, needy — and absolutely aware of the way your mouth parted.

shoko whistled low under her breath. “jesus christ, suguru.”

“don’t act like you haven’t seen it,” he said, breathless.

“not like this.”

you dragged your eyes back up his body. his abs were fluttering. his jaw was clenched. your hand wrapped around the base, and he groaned — full chest, full throat, like the touch alone was too much after being teased between your tits for so long. your thumb circled the head, slick already leaking at the tip like he’d been waiting for this the whole fucking night.

“look at that,” you murmured, voice low and thick. “he’s already crying for me.”

“he’s sensitive,” geto breathed, hand still tangled in your hair. “needs to be treated right.”

“don’t worry, baby,” you said, leaning forward now — mouth open, tongue just barely flicking the swollen head. “i’ll take real good care of him.”

you licked the tip. slow.

not a suck — not yet — just the soft lap of your tongue over the bead of precome, circling, savoring, letting it smear across your lips like gloss. he gasped above you, thighs twitching, and shoko’s breath hitched beside him.

you looked up. caught his eyes.

then pressed your tits together — full and warm and heavy — and lowered them onto his cock like a curtain falling on a final act.

he exhaled like he’d been holding it all night.

his cock fit too well between them, the weight of it obscene, the head nudging up near your collarbone while the rest disappeared into the soft press of your chest. you gave a slow little squeeze, letting your cleavage swallow him, letting that thick shaft pulse against your skin while you kissed the tip, sweet and patient.

“you see this, shoko?” geto’s voice was wrecked now. one hand cradled the back of your head, the other gripping the couch cushion beside him. “fuckin’—she’s spoiling me.” shoko didn’t answer immediately. you could feel her looking — the heat of it, the scrutiny, the way her silence felt like approval.

“i’m jealous,” she said finally, voice quieter than it should’ve been.

you grinned against geto’s cock. “you can help.”

she didn’t move. not yet. just exhaled and watched, breath held like prayer.

you rocked your shoulders slightly, dragging his cock through the cleft of your tits, slow and steady, the friction just enough to make him curse. each pass painted your skin with precome, messy and sweet, and when you leaned forward to take the head into your mouth again — just a kiss, just a taste — geto moaned like he was already halfway to heaven.

“f-fuck, baby,” he gasped, hips twitching. “you’re perfect. you were made for this. look at you — down there, all soft and fucking beautiful — you’re gonna kill me.”

you let the tip pop free of your lips, smiling up at him like it wasn’t already insane how hard he was shaking. “i’m just getting started, daddy.”

shoko made a low sound beside him.

and your hands pressed your tits tighter, welcoming him deeper into the heat.

shoko had been silent for too long.

not like her. she usually filled the room with snark when things got too heated — cracked a dirty joke, rolled her eyes, insulted you just to keep the tension manageable. but now? now she was watching — watching the way your tits cradled geto’s cock, how the thick shaft dragged slow through the valley of your chest, slick and twitching and pink at the tip. watching your shoulders flex, your fingers sink deeper into your own skin to press them tighter together, to make the pressure unbearable.

geto was falling apart.

you could hear it — in the little gasps, the way his voice kept cracking when he tried to speak. the praises fell in fragments now, choked off between moans, soft-spoken worship turning sloppy. “fuck, baby… so warm, so fucking soft, can’t—can’t think—”

you had your mouth open, waiting for the head of his cock to peek up again, and when it did, you licked it. just a tease, tongue swirling around the ridge like it was a spell. he shuddered violently, thighs flexing under your knees, one hand gripping your hair like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

and then shoko moved.

she didn’t ask.

she just leaned in, slow and quiet and deliberate, the way she always did when she made up her mind about something she shouldn’t want. her hair fell over one shoulder, long and messy and smelling like smoke, and her face came level with yours — so close your cheek brushed hers. her eyes flicked down. locked on the head of geto’s cock as it swelled thick and flushed, smeared with your spit, slick with arousal.

and then she opened her mouth.

you paused. just for a second. lips parted. breath caught.

and watched her take the tip in.

geto made a sound that wasn’t a word — just a broken, animal fuck dragged out from the base of his spine. his head slammed back against the wall behind the couch, one hand fisting in the cushion, the other still clinging to your hair like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality.

“holy shit, shoko—what the—fuck, are you—fuck—”

but she didn’t speak.

she just closed her lips around the head of his cock — your tits still wrapped around the shaft, still moving — and sucked. hard.

you felt it. all of it. the heat of her mouth at your chest, the way her tongue flicked against the slit, the obscene, wet sound of her lips wrapped tight around the crown while your tits moved in tandem, gliding up and down the shaft like a prayer answered in motion. your hands pressed together tighter, pushing the flesh in just enough to squeeze him more, just enough to feel the way he pulsed and twitched with every pass.

“oh my god,” you whispered, watching her work — the elegance of it, the intent. “you’re so fucking good at that.” shoko didn’t reply — just looked at you out the corner of her eye, cheeks hollowed around the tip of his cock, eyes gleaming with something far too smug.

geto was gone.

“please—please don’t stop—fuck, you’re both gonna kill me—shit, just like that, don’t stop—”

you didn’t.

you kept your rhythm, slow and steady and mean, sliding your tits up and down as shoko suckled the head of his cock like she was feeding on it. her tongue flicked, circled, coaxed more precome to spill across your skin, wet and messy and obscene. you could feel it dripping now, collecting in the curve of your cleavage, sliding down your sternum. you pressed them tighter, kissed his base, licked the skin where your chest met his body.

his hands were everywhere — on your head, in shoko’s hair, clawing at the couch, grabbing nothing. his whole body trembled with tension, hips rocking up now despite himself, fucking into your tits and into her mouth in short, desperate little jerks.

“fuck, i’m—i’m gonna—i can’t—” his breath was breaking apart, fingers clenching, voice nearly gone. “gonna cum, fuck, fuck, i’m—”

you squeezed. shoko sucked harder.

and he broke.

he cried out — high and wild and helpless — and came between your tits and into her mouth, cock pulsing hard against your skin as he jerked forward, hips twitching, thighs tightening under your hands. his whole body bowed forward, gave in, as ropes of hot come spilled over your breasts and into shoko’s mouth, messy and loud and filthy.

shoko pulled back with a long, wet slurp, licking her lips like she’d just tasted something rare. she looked at you — and then at him — and smirked.

“you boys never know how to shut up when it counts.”

you were still holding your tits around him, come dripping between them, breath coming fast.

geto was a wreck.

slumped back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, chest heaving, hair sticking to his face. he looked like he’d seen god and survived — barely. “holy fuck,” he whispered, hoarse and raw. “i’m in love with both of you.” you glanced at shoko. she rolled her eyes. “you’ll still be in love after we make you do it again.” you smiled. and licked your lips clean.

geto was still catching his breath.

he looked like sin and salvation rolled into a single man-shaped pile of regret, sprawled on the edge of the couch like his spine had given out. one hand was limp in your hair, the other sliding down shoko’s thigh like he forgot what limbs were for. his cock twitched weakly between your tits, still glossy, still twitching like it hadn’t accepted it was finished yet.

and then, very calmly, shoko stuck her tongue out.

held it there. eyes half-lidded, amused.

and let a thick, glistening bead of geto’s come drip off the tip — slow, heavy, obscene — until it landed with a wet little pat against the top of your breast.

you blinked up at her.

she looked like she was tasting irony.

you didn’t move. just raised an eyebrow, still cradling his softening cock between your breasts like it was a religious relic. “seriously?”

“waste not, want not,” she said, shrugging. and then she leaned in.

her mouth met yours with no warning, no lead-in, no tenderness — just heat, the sharp edge of her teeth against your lower lip, her tongue slick and tasting like smoke and the faintest aftershock of geto. you groaned into her mouth, and she kissed you like she wanted to shut you up, hands sliding around your waist, one rising boldly to your chest.

geto groaned. a helpless, ruined sound. “that’s so hot.”

“shut up,” shoko muttered against your lips, not meaning it, not stopping.

her palm dragged upward, slow and obscene, smearing the mess across your breasts — his mess, still warm and slippery — until it streaked across your sternum, your nipples, slicked your skin in some holy combination of filth and fondness.

you gasped against her mouth, and she grinned.

“look at this,” she said, sitting back to admire her work. her fingers gripped both tits, lifted them, gave a squeeze that made you gasp again. “fucking disgusting. you look like a crime scene.”

“thank you?” you said, trying not to laugh.

but then she added — with her chin resting in her hand and her eyes full of smugness so rich it was practically spilling over —

“you look like someone just tried to baptize you with his cock.”

and you snorted. violently. choked on your own breath, bent double with a laugh so loud it startled even you. geto, still too weak to speak, wheezed out something that might’ve been “holy shit” and covered his face with one hand.

“shoko,” you gasped, clutching at your ribs, “you’re a demon.”

“a sexy one,” she said, licking her thumb clean with deliberate slowness.

geto, blinking slowly from his position of post-nut devastation, peeked between his fingers. “if i die right now, i want my tombstone to say ‘death by tit and tongue.’”

you dragged a pillow off the couch and threw it at him. he caught it with his chest, groaned, and collapsed backward like it had been a mortal wound. “okay. round two in… twenty minutes.” shoko lit another cigarette, perched back on the armrest like nothing had happened. “that’s generous.” you laid back against the carpet, chest bare, skin glistening, heart still racing.

filthy. loved. ridiculous.

somewhere in the corner of the room, a moth slammed itself into the glass door and bounced off. “this place needs to be burned down,” shoko said. you sighed. “but it’s kind of… home.” she looked down at you, chest marked with sweat and spit and a stupid amount of affection.

“…yeah. unfortunately.”

twenty minutes didn’t pass.

maybe ten. twelve if you were being generous. it wasn’t like anyone was counting.

you were still half-sprawled on the floor, your body sticky with evidence, one leg cocked up against the couch while shoko rested a heel on your thigh like she was claiming territory. geto had relocated to the floor, slouched against the couch frame beside you with his sweatpants pulled up only halfway, looking more like a mythological burnout than a man.

nobody was saying anything. not yet. the air was full of post-orgasm haze — too hot, too heavy, the kind of silence that buzzed just under the skin.

then geto shifted.

just enough that his thigh brushed yours, and your eyes dropped automatically to where the waistband of his sweats was tugged halfway down, revealing the start of a cock that had no business twitching again already.

you didn’t say anything. you just tilted your head.

he caught the look and grinned.

“what?” he said, voice low and wrecked. “she kissed you, your tits are still covered in my come, and i’m not supposed to get hard again?” you rolled your eyes, but your stomach flipped traitorously, heat climbing again with that lazy, stupid inevitability. your thighs pressed together. your voice came out drier than intended. “you sure you’ve got another one in you?”

“baby,” he said, dragging his palm down the flat of your stomach, “i haven’t even started yet.”

shoko snorted from the armrest. “someone’s cocky.”

“someone’s confident,” he corrected, already crawling forward on his knees, palms bracketing your hips like he’d never stopped touching you. you lay back willingly this time, arching under the weight of his hands, your whole body humming with anticipation, the ache between your legs reigniting like it never left. you expected him to go for your mouth, your tits, your thighs—

but instead he leaned in close. lower.

and breathed against your navel.

his hands slid under your thighs, pushing your legs up, open, spread and vulnerable, and then— “wait,” shoko said lazily, “before you ruin her again—” geto paused, blinking up from between your legs like he was being interrupted mid-prayer. shoko leaned forward, flicking your nipple with the tip of her joint. “are we switching this time? because if i don’t get some of this, i swear to god—”

you let out a breathy laugh, half-moan. “you want top billing?”

“we co-lead now,” she said, and flicked the nipple again for emphasis.

geto didn’t protest. just pulled back and looked at her, then at you.

“fine,” he said, and leaned over to kiss you, really kiss you this time — deep and full and tasting like your own breath, like smoke and salt and the ghost of your earlier laugh. “but I get to fuck her with your tits again when we’re done.”

“babe,” you whispered against his lips, “we can do that in the morning.”

“or in the shower,” shoko added, already crawling over your legs, straddling your thigh like she didn’t care that the floor was still sticky. “or while you’re eating breakfast. multitask.” you opened your mouth to say something smart, something stupid— but her mouth found your throat, and the words turned to noise.

geto leaned back to watch — one hand still stroking your thigh, the other fisting gently in his sweatpants as his cock swelled again, so hard so fast it almost looked painful. “fuck,” he muttered, “this is gonna be worse than the first time.”

“worse?” shoko said, licking a stripe up your neck.

“worse,” he said, voice gravel and heat and promise. “like… begging level.”

you groaned.

“good,” she said, cupping your tits again, smearing the leftover mess with a grin so sharp it could gut. “i like when she beg.” shoko's mouth on your neck was sharp, almost mean — no build-up, no tender teasing. she didn’t kiss you like a lover. she kissed like she meant it, like she had something to prove. her teeth caught your pulse just to feel it jump beneath them, and her tongue followed, hot and rough, tasting the salt of your skin like it was hers to devour.

and fuck — maybe it was.

you were pinned under her hips, her thigh between yours, the weight of her pressing down just enough to make your back arch and your breath catch. her hands were already on your chest again — still slick, still marked from earlier — squeezing your tits like she wanted to see if the memory of geto’s cum was still warm on your skin. it was. the smear of it caught her fingertips, and she laughed, dark and quiet and thrilled.

“you’re a fucking mess,” she said, dragging her thumb across one nipple, watching it pebble under her touch. “and you love it.” you whined something that might have been a yes, but your voice cracked too hard in the middle.

geto was still kneeling off to the side, half-forgotten in the haze, but his gaze never left you. his cock was heavy in his hand again, long fingers stroking slowly from base to tip, his other palm flat against the floor like he needed to ground himself or he’d float. his eyes followed shoko’s tongue — the way she licked across the top of your chest like she was tasting the aftermath, chasing the flavor of earlier sins.

“i’d say i’m jealous,” he murmured, voice rough and thick, “but watching this? might be better.” shoko didn’t even look at him. she just leaned down and bit your tit — not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to make you jolt. “stay still,” she said, mouth full, voice sticky with mischief. “i’m not done feeding yet.”

your legs twitched. your fingers dug into the carpet. and still — you stayed.

because you wanted to. because her voice in your ear was pure fucking command, and her mouth on your chest was making your pussy throb in a slow, devastating pulse. she moved lower — lazy, sliding her body down yours like she was melting over you — and kissed the underside of your breast, then your ribs, then your stomach, each press of her lips hotter than the last.

you looked down just in time to see her part your thighs.

and grin.

“ohh,” she breathed, like a dirty secret. “you’re dripping.”

your hips bucked.

“i haven’t even touched you yet,” she murmured, dragging one finger up the slick mess between your legs, slow and easy, spreading you open with the kind of casual confidence that made your spine bend. “this is all from getting your tits licked? that’s so fucking cute.”

geto groaned, a real one — helpless, reverent. “don’t tease her too much.”

“she likes it,” shoko said, then turned her head just enough to make eye contact with you. “don’t you, baby?”

you nodded. too fast. too breathless.

“use your words,” she said, slipping one finger in. just the tip.

“yes,” you gasped, voice cracking. “yes, i like it — please, shoko—”

she rewarded you by sliding in deeper.

slowly.

her finger curled inside you just right, and her mouth returned to your tits, tongue wet and unhurried, licking the slick remnants of earlier off your chest like she wanted to clean you with her mouth. geto’s hand was working faster now, his breath coming in shuddering waves, his eyes locked on where shoko’s fingers disappeared into your cunt, where your thighs trembled against the floor.

and still, no one rushed.

because this was worship. this was slow destruction. this was filth as intimacy. shoko added another finger, kissed the tip of your nipple like an apology, then leaned back to watch your face while she curled her hand — hard and sudden, precise.

you cried out.

“fuck,” geto whispered, like it was being wrung out of him. “she’s so—fuck, shoko—don’t stop, don’t—please—”

“shh,” she said, not looking at him. “you’ll get your turn.”

and then, to you, “you ready to come, sweet thing?”

you didn’t speak. couldn’t. just nodded, body slick and arched and soaked in need, begging in every line of your skin. shoko’s smile turned vicious. “good.”

and her mouth went down.

shoko’s mouth met your cunt like she knew it — like this was muscle memory, like she’d dreamed it before and memorized the weight of your thighs and the shape of your hunger without ever admitting it out loud. her tongue slid against you slow, too slow, a hot wet stripe that made your hips jump off the floor and your hands fist in the tangled couch blanket beside you.

you moaned — long, drawn-out, cracked open like prayer — and she didn’t pause. just grinned against you, then did it again.

“holy fuck,” you gasped.

geto had gotten to his knees. his hand still on his cock, lazily stroking, and his other hand drifted to your breast, thumb brushing your nipple with that same devastating softness he'd started with. the contrast of her tongue between your legs and his hand on your chest was maddening — soft and hard, sharp and slow, together like they were building you up to collapse.

“you taste like you’ve been waiting for this all day,” shoko muttered between licks, her voice muffled but smug. “she has,” geto murmured, leaning down to kiss your jaw. “kept those legs closed through a whole dinner and half a blunt.”

you groaned helplessly. “i’m gonna fucking die.”

“not yet,” shoko said, and sucked.

your back arched, thighs twitching against her cheeks. her tongue flicked, circled, teased your clit like it was a secret she was trying to coax out, and her fingers never stopped — two of them buried inside you again, curling with every slow drag of her mouth, pushing up into you with devastating rhythm.

geto kissed your neck. your shoulder. his cock nudged your hip now, slick and pulsing and ready, but he wasn’t rushing it. he watched you come apart under shoko’s mouth, eyes hungry, reverent, overwhelmed. “she looks so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered, brushing your sweat-stuck hair from your face. “you gonna come for her, baby?”

you nodded, whined, bit your lip until it stung.

“use your words,” shoko growled against your cunt, and the vibration made you twitch.

“yes, yes, please, shoko—don’t stop—”

she didn’t.

she doubled down.

mouth moving faster, tongue flicking harder, fingers fucking up into you with that sharp, perfect curl, over and over, and geto’s hand rolled your nipple just right, pinching it gently as he whispered filth against your ear, “you’re gonna soak her fingers, aren’t you?”

“gonna scream for us?”

“go on, baby — make a mess. be loud. let her taste all of it.”

and god, you did.

your orgasm slammed through you without warning — sudden and hot and full-body, hips bucking into shoko’s mouth, hands scrabbling at the floor, voice breaking into a cry that filled the whole disgusting, beautiful apartment.

shoko moaned when she felt you clench.

kept licking.

kept fucking you through it like she wanted everything, and you gave it, gasping and twitching and almost sobbing with how good it was. geto was breathing harder now, his cock wet at the tip, hand jerking faster. “shit,” he said, “fuck, i’m gonna—fuck—” and when shoko pulled her mouth from your cunt, she turned to him, hand still fucking you lazily — and said, “then come on her tits again. she misses it.”

and geto broke.

he leaned over you, panting, cock sliding between your sticky breasts with practiced ease. you pressed them together for him, still dazed from the orgasm, still shaking — and watched his face collapse as he thrust twice, once more, and spilled everything all over your chest with a strangled groan.

heat. wet. everywhere again.

you laughed — half-crazed, half-gone. shoko just wiped your brow with the back of her hand, like she’d done something generous. “you’re welcome,” she said, casual as ever, smearing the mess across your tits again. geto dropped beside you, spent and grinning like a man reborn.

you, somewhere between them, a ruined shrine in boots and sweat.

you could still taste her on your lips. or maybe it was your own orgasm, lingering bitter-sweet under your tongue. either way, the air was hot again — hotter, somehow — and your body wasn’t yours anymore. it was theirs. sore, open, glowing. you were slick in all the places that mattered and some that didn’t. your chest gleamed with geto’s second confession, still drying sticky under the curve of your tits.

and still — you wanted.

shoko sat next to you, her breathing steady but deep. her hair stuck to her neck in damp strands, lips wet, her face unreadable in that dangerous way. she was flushed — not just from exertion, but from wanting. she hadn’t come yet. neither had geto, this round. and that heat, that tension, was everywhere. it clung to the room, thick as sweat on skin.

you pulled your hand down from your breast and dragged a finger through the mess. held it up for her to see. “you look like you still need something.”

shoko didn’t answer. not with words. she just stood.

she pulled her shorts down slow, like a dare, one inch at a time, revealing black cotton underwear soaked through with wet and the bold indifference of someone who knew exactly what she wanted. she didn’t make it sexy. she made it inevitable. “i haven’t come,” she said, stepping out of them. “and you have a mouth.”

geto groaned. “fuck.”

you smiled. wide. wrecked.

and then, slow, still lying back on the floor, one leg bent, body open and welcoming — you looked up at her and said, “then sit on my face.”

the words hit the air like a punch.

shoko blinked once. her mouth twitched. and then — she grinned.

“don’t mind if i do.”

geto was already moving — kneeling between your thighs now, hands on your knees, spreading you open with that same reverent touch he’d used all night. but there was something hungrier in it now. something deeper. he was still hard, thick and flushed and dripping against his stomach, his cock slapped up against your pussy with a wet sound that made both of you twitch.

“fuck,” you muttered, looking up at him. “you’re still hard?”

he leaned over you, hands framing your hips, voice dark and too calm.

“i told you,” he said. “i haven’t started yet.”

and then shoko straddled your face.

no warning. no hesitation. her knees hit the floor on either side of your head and her cunt hovered inches above your mouth — glistening, soaked, swollen from teasing and denial and her own fucked-up sense of control. you reached up, bracing your hands on her thighs, and pulled her down.

you licked her first.

your tongue dragged up the full length of her pussy, from her entrance to her clit, slow and hungry, and her whole body shivered above you. “jesus—fuck,” she gasped, one hand flying to your hair, gripping hard. “okay. okay. yeah, like that—”

geto groaned like he was going to come just watching.

he lined his cock up with your entrance, dragging the head through your folds, teasing the opening — already so open, so slick from earlier, that you twitched beneath him the second he touched you.

and then he started to push in.

slow. so slow.

his cock stretched you with aching, unrelenting pressure, inch by inch, and your moan was lost against shoko’s cunt, muffled and vibrating into her as she gripped your hair tighter and rolled her hips into your mouth.

“holy shit,” she gasped, voice going thin. “she’s good at this.”

geto gritted his teeth, sinking deeper, breath ragged.

“she’s good at everything,” he muttered, hips pressing forward until he was fully buried. “fuck, you’re so tight, baby—still? after all that? fuck.”

you moaned again — helpless, overwhelmed — as shoko began grinding down on your mouth and geto began to thrust, slow and deliberate, hips rolling into you with the full weight of his desire. every drag of his cock sent sparks through your spine, pressure building again already — your clit brushing his base, your thighs trembling open wider.

shoko was shaking above you, panting, one hand braced on the wall, the other tangled in your hair as your tongue circled her clit and your lips sucked, steady, intent.

“fuck—fuck, she’s gonna make me come like this,” shoko gasped, hips rocking harder now. “god, you—you're filthy. so fucking good—yes—just like that—don’t stop—”

geto was still watching.

watching your mouth get used like a toy. watching your tits bounce with every thrust. watching you give everything and ask for nothing but more.

his thrusts picked up — still slow, still deep, but harder, more claiming now. his hands held your hips in place, fingers digging into your skin, dragging you down onto his cock with every snap of his hips. “you’re gonna make her come,” he whispered to shoko, voice dark with pride. “and she’s gonna take me like a good fucking girl while she does it.”

you moaned — a wet, desperate sound lost in shoko’s cunt — and your hands tightened on her thighs, holding her down, eating her out like your life depended on it, tongue moving faster now, deeper, swirling, flicking.

she cried out.

and her whole body tensed.

“fuck—i’m—don’t stop—fuck, i’m coming—”

her orgasm hit like a slap — sharp, sudden, full-body — and she gasped, legs trembling, hips frozen as your tongue dragged her through it, still licking, still devouring. she came hard, grinding helplessly into your mouth, and when she finally started to breathe again, she collapsed forward, catching herself on the couch, hair falling around your face like a curtain.

“holy shit,” she breathed. “she just ate my soul.”

geto groaned above you — hips stuttering.

“fuck,” he panted. “don’t say that, i’m—i’m so fucking close—”

but he didn’t let go yet. you were still wrapped around him, shaking, wet, ruined under both of them. and he wasn’t finished. you didn’t stop.

shoko’s orgasm pulsed against your mouth, her thighs trembling around your head, her hips jerking slightly as sensitivity spiked in all the places she could no longer guard — and you kept sucking. kept your lips wrapped around her clit, kept your tongue moving in tight, precise circles like you had something to prove.

because you did.

you wanted to ruin her. you wanted to see what she looked like when she couldn’t stay sharp — when her sarcasm melted, when her voice cracked, when her body begged in place of her mouth.

and you were close.

she gasped above you, breath caught in her throat, one hand clawing blindly at the couch cushion behind her while the other braced on geto’s shoulder, fingers digging into the meat of him just to stay up. her legs twitched around your head, threatening to clamp down, but your arms were already locked around her thighs, pulling her down, keeping her there, refusing to let go.

“fuck—fuck—baby—” she choked out, hips trying to escape the pull of your mouth, “she won’t stop—suguru—fuck—”

geto was still between your legs, his cock sliding in and out of your cunt with a rhythm that was deliberate and slow, every thrust sinking deep, stroking that soft, unbearable place that made your toes curl. his hands gripped your hips, thumbs digging into the flesh just above your pelvis, keeping you anchored while he watched the way you devoured shoko like it was instinct.

his voice came in a rasp. “she’s fucking addicted to you.”

shoko didn’t answer. couldn’t. her head dropped forward, her forehead brushing geto’s chest, and you felt the moment it broke her again — the whimper, the involuntary twitch, the choked sound that slipped from her lips when she tried to say stop and it came out as please instead.

and then, shaking, she leaned down.

not away. down.

her spine curved forward, folding over you, one hand catching herself on your chest, fingers brushing the slick mess of geto’s come from before. her head rested briefly against his stomach, sweat-slick hair tangling against his abs, and then—

then her mouth opened.

and she licked his cock.

he groaned, deep and shocked, his hips faltering as her tongue dragged across the base where it disappeared inside you. you moaned against her cunt, thighs clenching around his waist, body arching from the floor at the double heat of them — him inside, her on top, and now both of them touching.

shoko’s mouth was slow. exploratory. she kissed the base of his cock where it slid into your pussy, wet and obscene, then flicked her tongue lower, just beneath the ridge. your cunt clenched in response, fluttering tight around him, and geto’s hands flew to her hair before he could stop himself.

“fuck, shoko—”

he gripped the back of her head, not pulling, just holding, tangled in the mess of her hair like he needed something to hang onto. she looked up at him from under her lashes, still licking, then reached between your legs with her free hand and dragged her fingers straight through the slick mess between your folds — your wetness, his come, her spit — and pressed her thumb hard to your clit.

you screamed into her cunt, back bowing off the floor.

she gasped. “fuck—she’s twitching—”

“don’t stop,” geto said, voice hoarse. “don’t you fucking dare.”

and she didn’t.

her mouth dipped lower, licking your clit from time to time with little, almost tender kisses between her filthy worship of geto’s cock. her thumb circled faster now, rubbing your clit in rhythm with the thrust of his hips, in rhythm with the shake of her own thighs as she stayed on your face, even as her cunt trembled with aftershocks. your arms were still locked around her legs, holding her there, and now your fingers slid down to grip her ass, pulling her tighter, closer, mouth still sucking, still devouring.

you could barely breathe. you didn’t need to.

this was oxygen. this was saturation.

geto was panting now, close to the edge but holding himself back by some shred of control, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your chest, hips rolling in slow, grinding circles as he watched shoko lick where he entered you, rub your clit while you moaned into her pussy like a prayer on repeat.

“you feel her?” he whispered, teeth clenched. “feel how fucking tight she gets when you do that?”

shoko didn’t answer.

she just licked again.

and your body shook.

geto wasn’t thrusting anymore.

he was grinding.

his cock still inside you, deep and hot and so fucking full, but his hips rolled instead of slammed, his pace thick and deliberate — like he was sculpting your pleasure with his body, building it slow so you could feel every inch of what he gave. every pass of his cock dragged over something in you that made your spine curl and your thighs twitch, and the weight of him, the heat of him, the tension just below breaking — it was fucking suffocating in the best way.

you could hear him breathing. every exhale a prayer. every inhale like he was tasting you through the air itself. “you hear yourself, baby?” he murmured, voice barely stable, grinding deeper. “you hear how fucking wet you sound? how messy you are? jesus fucking christ…”

and you could. it was obscene — the wet, slick noise every time he moved inside you, the soft suction of his cock parting your walls, the way your cunt fluttered around him as shoko rubbed your clit and kissed the slick joining of your bodies like she was blessing it.

your mouth was still on her — your tongue still buried between her folds, licking her through the afterglow, drawing out every little tremor her body gave you in return. she twitched every time you circled her clit, hips rolling gently, almost helplessly, but she didn’t move away.

she gave it to you.

shoko’s thighs framed your face, sticky and flushed, and your arms stayed locked around them, holding her down — not just because you needed her, but because she let you. and now, her mouth was moving again — slow, lips parting in gasps, her cheek pressed to geto’s stomach, her forehead against the slick lines of his abs, mouthing the base of his cock where it stretched your pussy wide.

and her voice — her voice was finally wrecked.

“she’s—fuck—she’s still licking me,” she gasped, shuddering as your tongue slipped against her clit again. “i can’t—suguru, she’s not stopping, she’s fucking—”

“don’t make her stop,” geto growled, one hand tightening in shoko’s hair. “fuck, she’s so good like this. let her eat you like you deserve it.”

you moaned into her, a broken, feral sound, your mouth slick with her, your whole body pulsing with heat — and she felt it, the way your moan buzzed into her cunt, and she trembled. her grip on your breast tightened, and she let out this raw, real sound that barely resembled a laugh.

“she’s—god, i think she likes being used like this,” she panted, pressing her fingers harder against your clit now, fast little circles that made your hips buck against geto’s cock. “fuck, baby, you’re dripping—like, pouring, you’re—how are you still so wet—”

geto leaned in then, voice a low rasp at her ear.

“because she wants it.”

his words landed like lightning.

“she wants to be filled again,” he hissed, driving his hips in deeper with that same agonizing slowness. “wants you on her face. wants my cock in her pussy. wants us to take her apart, shoko. over and over.”

“fuck,” shoko breathed, hand jerking slightly between your legs now, thumb catching your clit just right.

and you screamed into her.

not because you came — not yet. but because it was so close now, it was right fucking there — and every word they said, every stroke, every flick of tongue and hand and cock just stacked it higher, made it worse, better, everything. you pulled your mouth away just long enough to choke out, voice slurred and ruined beneath her:

“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—please, i’m—i’m almost there, fuck—”

“we’ve got you,” geto said, kissing your thigh, mouth tender against your shaking skin. “we’re right here, baby. gonna make you feel everything.” shoko was panting again, her hand messy now, dragging through the slick between your folds, smearing it over your clit and back down again, her mouth soft and wet at the base of geto’s cock.

“she’s twitching,” shoko whispered. “suguru—fuck—she’s gonna come.”

“not yet,” he growled, fucking in just a little harder now — still slow, but firm, deep enough to make you see stars, deep enough to make your breath leave you in bursts. you sobbed beneath them, your legs shaking, your pussy gripping him with every slow thrust. “you can take it, baby,” he said, voice molten with praise. “so fucking good for us — mouth open, cunt open, just taking everything.”

you whimpered. body thrumming.

and still — still you hadn’t come. not yet. but the edge was right there. and they weren’t letting you fall. not yet. they were going to hold you at the edge until it was deserved. your entire body was shaking.

legs trembling uncontrollably, arms still locked around shoko’s thighs, mouth open against her cunt, lips wet and swollen, tongue still lapping despite the way your moans kept breaking the rhythm — and above you, they kept going.

shoko’s fingers moved faster now, circling your clit with relentless accuracy, each pass dragging sparks through your nerves like they were wired directly into your spine. she had her whole weight settled against your face, her voice cracking now, no longer smug, just wrecked — gasping your name, cursing under her breath, begging you to keep going even as she ground against your mouth with uneven, desperate rolls of her hips.

“fuck—fuck—baby—your tongue, oh my god—”

and geto — geto was a problem. a sin. a punishment and a reward.

his cock was still deep inside you, every slow, thick thrust making you feel like you were being split in the sweetest, most unbearable way. and he hadn’t lost his rhythm. he never did. his hips snapped forward at just the right angle to drag across everything you needed, his fingers holding your hips open, tilted up just so he could fuck into the deepest part of you.

and he knew.

he could feel it.

the way your cunt clung to him tighter with each pass, the way your thighs twitched, how your breath kept coming in those high, gasping sobs, how you couldn’t even form a word anymore — just sounds. raw, honest, helpless.

“baby,” he panted, sweat dripping down his throat, his hair stuck to his face, voice gone thin, “you’re—fuck, you’re right there, aren’t you? can feel you fucking clenching—so tight, shit, just a little more—shoko, don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

shoko moaned. “i’m not—I’m not—she’s so fucking wet, suguru—she’s gushing already—”

“do it, baby,” geto said, thrusting harder now, deeper. “fucking come for us. let it go. let it all out—”

you choked. a soundless scream.

your whole body snapped.

and then — it hit.

your orgasm tore through you like an earthquake — sudden, violent, all-consuming — your back arching off the floor, mouth pulling away from shoko’s cunt with a desperate sob as your body convulsed between them. your legs kicked out, your arms went rigid, and your cunt squeezed around geto’s cock so tight it knocked a guttural moan from his throat.

“fuckfuckfuck—she’s coming—!”

and then—

you squirted.

it burst out of you in a hot, wet gush — sudden and unstoppable, spraying across his cock, down your thighs, splashing against his stomach and pooling under your ass. your whole body jerked with it, hips lifting, stuttering, grinding helplessly as you cried out — loud, high-pitched, fucking ruined.

“oh my god—” shoko gasped, yanking her hand away as wetness drenched her wrist before she move from your face. “she—she fucking squirted—suguru, she—”

geto groaned so loud it echoed. “fuck, that’s it, that’s it, baby—good girl, holy shit, look at that, look at how messy you are—so fucking beautiful—”

your chest heaved, your mouth hung open, hands shaking as you tried to ground yourself — but you couldn’t. your body kept twitching, little aftershocks ripping through your core, pussy still fluttering around geto’s cock, thighs still wet and spread, and the air smelled like heat and sex and you.

shoko leaned over you again, kissed your mouth, slow and messy and open, and whispered against your lips, “that was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

geto was still inside you, still holding you open, voice shaking.

“you okay?” he asked softly, forehead brushing yours. “you with us?”

you nodded — barely. barely.

your voice was wrecked. but your smile was satisfied.

“…fuck.”

and from the look in their eyes, they weren’t done yet.

not even close.

your lungs were still catching up.

your legs had lost the concept of tension.

your mouth was parted, your whole body twitching in these soft, unsteady ripples of after, and yet —

they weren’t letting you go.

shoko had moved behind you like smoke curling under a door, slow and smooth and suddenly there, her bare skin hot against your back, her breath brushing your neck. and before you could fully realize it, her hands were on you — one on your chest, cupping a tit like it belonged to her, the other sliding down your stomach with unhurried purpose.

and geto… he was still inside you.

he hadn’t pulled out, hadn’t stopped moving. his cock was still seated deep in your soaked, fluttering cunt, his hips rolling in lazy, dragging circles that made you clench involuntarily every time he bottomed out — like your body couldn’t decide if it was overstimulated or starving for more. he was warm, panting, his hands bracing on either side of your hips, fingers flexing against your skin like he was grounding himself just to stay in.

“look at you,” he said hoarsely, voice all grit and honey and awe. “still dripping.”

and it was true — your inner thighs were glossy, slick with the aftermath of your last orgasm, the floor beneath you tacky with it, and yet the drag of his cock only made it worse — made it better. you felt too open. too full. and when shoko’s fingers brushed your clit again, featherlight and precise, your whole body twitched forward like someone had pressed a button.

“s-sensitive—” you gasped, barely audible, body jerking instinctively.

“i know,” she said into your neck, kissing just behind your ear. “but that’s the best time, isn’t it?”

you whined — high-pitched and fucked-out — as her fingers dipped lower, sliding through your folds like they were testing the temperature of a pool she already planned to dive into. she circled your clit, slow and measured, drawing soft, spiraling patterns that sent lightning through your belly.

“you’re still so wet,” she murmured, voice low and amused. “so soft. open. fuck, you feel like something blooming.”

geto groaned behind you, voice wrecked. “she’s perfect.”

and then — like it was choreographed — they moved together.

geto’s hips began to thrust with more intention, more pressure, the thick drag of him stroking deeper now, less teasing, more claiming, his cock hitting that spot inside you with brutal accuracy. and shoko’s hand on your pussy didn’t let up — her fingers sliding lower, pressing inside you with his cock, feeling how he moved within you while she curled her touch just right to grind your clit from below.

you cried out — an honest, desperate sound — your body pulled taut again in an instant.

“you’re gonna give us one more,” geto whispered, leaning forward so his forehead met yours. “you’ve got it in you, baby. just one more. come on — let it go for us.”

shoko moaned against your neck, her mouth open, her breath hot as her hand on your tit squeezed harder. “let us see it, baby. let us feel you come again. make a fucking mess.”

and god.

you did.

you shattered.

the pressure coiled so fast it almost hurt — a surge of heat and friction and wet crashing through your body like a wave, and then you came again, harder this time, your cunt seizing around geto’s cock, your hips jerking forward against shoko’s hand as another rush of liquid burst from you — gushing — spraying down over geto’s thighs, soaking your own, a high, keening moan escaping your throat as you lost control completely.

geto’s hands flew to your hips, holding you down as he groaned, voice breaking, and thrust once — twice — and then came inside you, deep, spilling himself with a sound that bordered on worship. his cock twitched inside your soaked, fluttering pussy as your squirt ran down both of you, his come mixing with yours, messy and thick and perfect.

shoko’s arms tightened around your waist, anchoring you, and her mouth kissed your temple, your shoulder, your jaw — little grounding points as your body kept shaking.

“there she is,” she whispered. “look at that. fuck, look at what you gave us.”

geto’s forehead was pressed to your collarbone now, breath hot and uneven, and he was still buried in you, his cock softening slowly in the slick warmth of your cunt.

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

but you smiled.

and you let them hold you there — fucked-out, soaked, trembling — with their hands on your skin and your breath still coming in ragged gasps.

and for now, that was enough.

you didn’t even know you could come like that again.

your whole body was already trembling — pulled taut between geto’s cock driving into you so deep, dragging through your soaked cunt with that thick, deliberate rhythm, and shoko’s fingers slipping tight over your clit, her palm warm against your pussy, her mouth still pressing hot little kisses to your neck like she was winding you back up just to tear you open again.

and you were already wrecked — thighs shaking, breath stuttering, jaw slack — every nerve fried and buzzing, the echo of your last orgasm still burning between your legs like a brand. but they didn’t stop. they wouldn’t stop. not with the way geto’s voice had gone soft and fucked and mean, whispering right against your cheek, hips rolling slow, dragging moans out of you with every push.

“you’re gonna do it again,” he breathed, panting now. “you’re close, baby, i can feel it—she’s twitching, shoko, fuck, she’s already so tight—”

“come on, sweet thing,” shoko murmured behind you, her hand dragging up your stomach to palm your tit again, squeezing like she needed something to ground her. “just one more. let us have it. be good.”

you whimpered — a ragged, high sound — and your legs kicked out a little from the floor, your thighs starting to tremble uncontrollably again.

“fuck,” you gasped, eyes squeezing shut. “fuck, i can’t—i can’t—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” geto growled, fingers digging into your hips. “do it. let it go, baby—let it go for us—”

and then it hit.

your body snapped forward — back arching hard, mouth falling open in a scream you couldn’t hold back — and your cunt clamped down around his cock so tight it felt like you were trying to keep him inside forever. your whole body shuddered, and then —

it spilled out of you.

a burst — no, a flood — soaking everything.

you squirted so hard it splashed audibly against geto’s thighs, sprayed down both your legs, a rush of hot, wet release pulsing out of you in waves, soaking the floor, your thighs, him. it didn’t stop — your body kept pulsing, clenching, jerking — another gush pouring out, and another, until your skin was wet, slick with it, and your voice cracked in a gasping sob.

“oh my god—fuck—i’m squirting, i can’t—i can’t—fuck, fuck—”

“fuck yes,” geto moaned, frantic now, his rhythm faltering, eyes locked on the way you fell apart around him, the way your slick poured down over his cock, milking him, drenching him. “you’re so good, so fucking perfect, oh my god—fuck, i’m—”

and then he snapped too.

his hips slammed deep one last time, hands gripping your waist so tight it left finger-shaped bruises, and he came with a broken, breathless groan — hips twitching, cock pulsing deep inside you, hot ropes of come spilling into your still-spasming cunt, mixing with your slick in a messy, thick flood that made your legs jerk again.

“fuckfuckfuck—i’m coming, baby, i’m coming—so deep, you’re taking it all—jesus fuck, you’re so tight—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

your body was still twitching.

you couldn’t breathe right. your arms had gone weak. your cunt was still pulsing around him, squeezing like you wanted to wring out every last drop of him, and your chest was heaving, your mouth open, spit on your lips, thighs spread and wet and still leaking.

your orgasm hadn’t even ended when he started to come undone.

he was still inside you, deep, buried, the warmth of your pussy wrapped tight around his cock, spasming with each violent aftershock of your release. you’d soaked him — he was dripping, thighs slick from the flood of your squirt, skin sticking to yours as your body jerked and twitched beneath him, helpless and holy and fucking perfect.

and geto was gone.

he was gripping your hips like he didn’t know what else to hold, knuckles white, arms shaking, trying so hard to keep his rhythm — but he couldn’t. he couldn’t stop watching the way you fell apart, the way you cried out, the way your cunt pulled at him like it was begging for every drop he had.

“fuck, baby—fuck—fuuuck,” he gasped, voice climbing a full octave. “you’re—you’re milking me—you’re gonna make me fucking explode—”

shoko was still behind you, one arm around your waist, her hand splayed low across your stomach to hold you in place. she was panting too — from the effort of keeping you upright, from watching the way he broke over you.

geto slammed in deep once — a shuddering, desperate thrust — and froze, his whole body locking up like it couldn’t handle the weight of what was coming.

“oh my god—fuck, i’m—i’m gonna cum—i’m cumming—fuck, fuck, baby—”

and then he did.

his mouth fell open and he cried out — loud, high, helpless — like the sound had been ripped from somewhere inside his chest. his cock throbbed hard inside you, thick pulses that you could feel against your walls, and his come spilled into you in long, hot spurts — so much, too much, filling you until it started to leak out around his cock, dripping down onto the floor already slick with your mess.

“take it—fuck, take it, baby—look at you—taking all of it, holy shit, i can’t—i can’t—oh my god—”

he was moaning through it, voice cracking, hips twitching with each contraction, his head dropping to your shoulder like he’d just run out of strength. every little movement pulled another whimper from him, another twitch of his cock, like your body was still squeezing more from him, not letting go.

you were barely breathing. limp. fucked-out. but god, you could feel it — the way he gave in to you completely, the way his voice broke, the way his body collapsed against yours like you were home.

and in the silence that followed — your heart pounding, his breath shaky against your throat — shoko whispered into your ear, breathless and hoarse: “you broke him.”

and geto, still shaking, still deep inside you, laughed a little. a broken, stunned sound.

“yeah,” he said, voice wrecked. “she did.”

the room was quiet now.

not silent — not completely. the hum of the old AC unit sputtering through the vents, the buzz of the city bleeding in from the balcony, the occasional drip of something onto the floor — maybe sweat, maybe come, maybe just time catching up.

you weren’t moving.

you couldn’t.

your legs were still spread, your body trembling in slow, confused pulses. your cunt was soaked — full of him, leaking from the stretch of geto’s cock still softening inside you, and the mess was a problem that no one seemed interested in solving. you could feel it sliding down your ass, thick and warm, pooling on the floor beneath you, mixing with what you’d already given. and above it all — the heat of shoko’s body, still wrapped around you, her breath damp against the shell of your ear, her hand lazily stroking your stomach like she was grounding you back to earth, one slow touch at a time.

geto hadn’t moved either.

he was slumped against your front, cock still inside, head resting between your breasts, mouth open, breath dragging in long, exhausted pulls like he didn’t know how to recover yet. his hands were on your hips, thumbs absently drawing slow circles into the meat of your skin, like he was still feeling you come — or trying to convince himself it had actually happened.

none of you said anything. not for a while.

and then shoko sighed.

“...we're gonna need to mop.”

you laughed. or tried to. it came out more like a wheeze.

“fuck off,” you mumbled, voice hoarse. “your fault.”

“you’re the one who squirted like a busted pipe,” she muttered, but there was no bite to it. just warmth. she kissed your temple. “you’re also the one who let me sit on your face like it owed me money. so maybe we call it even.”

geto made a soft noise against your chest. something between a laugh and a whimper.

“i think i died,” he murmured.

you tilted your head to glance down at him. his eyes were closed. his hair was stuck to his face. he looked wrecked. gorgeous. “you didn’t die,” you said, softly, fingers brushing through the strands at the back of his head. “you just got fucked like you deserved it.”

he groaned. didn’t even argue.

shoko snorted. “you look like a priest after a very bad exorcism.”

“shoko,” he said, muffled against your skin, “please shut the fuck up.”

you smiled. you couldn’t help it.

and even though your body ached, even though your thighs were sore and your mouth was raw and every part of you was coated in sweat and spit and come — you felt good. warm. surrounded. held. you shifted a little, enough to make geto groan and finally, finally slide out of you with a wet, obscene sound that made you all flinch and laugh at the same time.

“jesus christ,” he mumbled, sitting back on his heels, staring down at your cunt like he’d just watched something sacred happen. “look at you.”

shoko reached around and smacked his chest.

“stop being weird about it,” she said. “we already ruined her. no need to narrate it.”

he held up his hands, mock-surrender. “sorry, sorry. it’s just… beautiful.”

“gross,” she said. “also accurate.”

you exhaled, finally sitting up, wincing as everything shifted inside you, dripping out with gravity. shoko helped, her arms still around your waist, keeping you upright even as your muscles protested. your skin stuck to hers. geto leaned in and kissed your shoulder, then your chest, then your stomach — each one slow, sweet, like thanks. like apology. like devotion.

no one rushed.

no one cleaned up.

you sat there together, sticky and stupid and smiling, soaked in everything you’d done.

“so,” shoko said finally, yawning. “we ordering food, or…?”

you were on the couch now.

well — in the couch, really. sunk so deep into the threadbare cushions that your spine was probably imprinted on the frame. your legs were folded weirdly under you, thighs still sticky, hair still damp with sweat. your body felt like it had been used as a chew toy by god and then left to ferment.

but you were warm. and clothed. sort of.

geto’s shirt — the long, oversized black one that smelled like laundry detergent and weed and boy — hung off you like a flag of victory. nothing underneath. nipples occasionally ghosting against the cotton. thighs on full display. but it didn’t matter. you were fed. or about to be.

the pizza box was open on the coffee table, steam still rising from melted cheese and garlic butter crusts. one slice in your hand. three bites in. you chewed slowly, like every fiber of your soul depended on this exact triangle of bread and grease.

across the room, shoko was on all fours in her sleep shorts and an old tank top, holding a damp towel and grumbling audibly as she wiped the floor near the couch legs. the puddle she was crouched over definitely hadn’t come from spilled water.

geto — completely naked, still glowing like a house spirit who just got laid by a god — was on his knees nearby, using one of his bath towels to blot a dark patch that probably counted as a biological hazard. “shoko,” you said sweetly, mouth full, gesturing toward the corner of the room with your slice. “you missed a spot. right over by the speaker. there’s like… a whole-ass trail.”

her head snapped toward you.

you didn’t even flinch. just took another bite.

“are you kidding me?” she barked, sitting back on her heels and letting the towel fall to the floor with an exaggerated flop. “you’re just sitting there like a little royalty gremlin in his shirt while we mop up the trail of fucking devastation you made?”

you nodded, chewed. swallowed. “mm-hmm.”

“bitch.” she dragged a hand down her face. “you’re the one who squirted like a popped soda can.”

“well,” you said, licking grease off your thumb, “i’m too weak to clean.”

“too weak?”

“i’m sensitive.” you patted your own thigh gently. “my pussy’s still trembling. it’s tragic, really.”

“tragedy would be if i smothered you with this pizza box.”

“shoko,” came geto’s voice, soft and half-laughing from the floor. “let her be.”

he didn’t even look up from where he was scrubbing a mysterious corner with one hand and balancing a slice of pizza in the other. he looked unfairly serene. still naked. still glowing. like post-nut enlightenment had lifted him to a higher plane and now he was just… chill.

“she made the mess,” shoko snapped. “she should clean it.”

“you helped make the mess,” he said calmly, biting his slice. “and i don’t see you complaining when you were riding her face.”

shoko froze. looked back at you. then at him.

“okay,” she said after a beat. “valid.”

you gave her a smug little grin, then groaned and curled sideways on the couch, tucking your legs up and pulling geto’s shirt tighter around your thighs. they“plus, if i try to get up right now, i’ll probably fall over. i’ve got post-orgasm jelly spine. you want me to faint in the puddle?”

“god, you’re insufferable,” she muttered, going back to wiping with a vengeance. “geto, this is your fault.”

“i’m not complaining,” he said, still on his knees, wiping slow, humming under his breath like a man who’d just emptied every ounce of himself into someone he loved. “this was the best kind of crime scene.”

“disgusting,” she said.

“you’re welcome,” you offered from your seat.

shoko wiped aggressively at the corner spot you pointed out, muttering something about bodily fluids and the price of friendship.

geto laughed, low and warm.

you took another bite.

and for a long, sticky moment, everything in that fucked-up apartment was perfect.

[gothamite-rambler]

Clark and Diana must've had a field day at Damian's existence

*and the rape part was a second canon that I think was retconned again. comics are weird*

Clark: I'm sorry… You have a child… again?

Bruce: Yes.

Clark: And he's yours… like DNA test, yours?

Bruce took a deep inhale and then sighed.

Bruce: Yes.

Clark: And the kid is also related to Talia Al Ghul?

Bruce: Yep… Yep… I thought the condom wouldn't break.

Clark: I… I… I'm— You thought the what wouldn't break?

Diana (amused): I'm surprised you didn't try the pull-out method with that thought process. You had a child with Talia and he's the new Robin, did I miss anything?

Bruce: No... no. You're about right.

Clark: I'm not sure how to react.

Diana: I got you on this. The dark knight, master detective, stoic emo billionaire had a child with one of your arch-enemies? The one you said you'd never have relations with again?

Bruce: …Yep.

Diana nodded and pointed at Bruce, laughing accordingly. The man covered his face, embarrassed.

Clark: Ignore her. You said you weren't even aware he was… alive. That there was a being that shares your DNA? You have plans that can defeat us, but you never thought to check in on the woman you slept with eight years ago?

Diana laughed harder, falling out of her seat in hysterics. Clark shook his head.

Bruce: Okay, at first I was aware she was pregnant, and then she said she lost the baby, so… I never called her about that. You can stop laughing, Diana!

Diana: I can't stop! This is too funny! It’s funnier than when Hermes tricked Zeus into drinking fermented wine. I can't breathe! Wait, wait— when Zeus found out about his child…

Clark (jokingly): Which one?

Bruce: I wasn’t aware he existed! I didn’t know the child I had with a crazy woman was around! Can she not laugh at me? I’m now linked to Ra's Al Ghul! This is a lot for me! Can you show me some pity?

Clark and Diana: No!

Bruce: Why are you judging me?!

Clark: Because you look hypocritical in the funniest way possible.

Diana: Exactly! You had a kid from a booty call. Wait, wait, serious time.

Diana got back in her seat and cleared her throat.

Diana: It was consensual, correct?

Bruce: Yes.

Diana: And you used a condom from where?

Bruce: …A gas station.

Diana: And you thought it would do the job? A gas station condom?

Bruce: I was hoping it would, or at the very least she'd have protection. I didn't know she wanted kids!

Diana (chuckling): You thought the woman who's been wanting to marry you for years wouldn't want kids?!

Clark (laughing): We listen and we judge!

Bruce: I hate you both. Stop judging me. I'm the Dark Knight.

Bruce covered his face, groaning.

Clark: We're just messing with you. I, for one, am happy you took the kid in. I imagine being raised around the Ghuls wasn't great… or safe.

Bruce: Um… okay, he wasn't just raised around them… Jason helped babysit him. He’s known for eight years.

Clark and Diana (mocking him): We listen and we judge!

Diana burst into laughter again.

Diana: I knew there was a reason I like him!

Clark: I'm pretty sure she's happy for you too. Just the—

Bruce (mortified): Yeah, the situation is humorous because it's at my expense and ironic that I fumbled like that. I'm going to be dealing with this a lot now. I do love him, though. He's a cute kid… He's neat, like all my other sons.

Clark: Aww, that's sweet and reassuring, honestly. A rich white man with a baby from a booty call usually doesn’t go well.

Bruce: The fact I know that's true really says something, but thank you for the compliment.

[starboye]

Kinktober Day 7

starring: simon "ghost" riley x male reader

request: Simon Riley breeding male reader over and over till you're filled with his delicious cum

warnings: smut, overstimulation, mention of male pregnancy, rough sex, breeding, stomach bulge, cumfilation, simon being a softy, big dick!simon, dub con if you kinda squint, butt plug, aftercare

simon had been fucking you for hours at this point, dumping load after load into your still tight hole, and it didn't seem like he was going to stop anytime soon, you were just so addicting and seeing you at the teams dinner tonight with that handsome suit on made him want you so much more than he already did.

but for you it was becoming unbearable every passing minute, your ass bruised and sore from the rough plaps of skin on skin contact making you more and more sensitive and you cock now gone limp after simon fucked each load out of you, face littered with tears and sweat from over stimulation.

no matter how hard you tried to push him off of you he pulled himself back into you and continued his assault on you plump ass "please simon just give me a break" you plead feeling you mind melt by the second "i promise this is the last one pup" he huffed gripping your thighs tighter against his chest as he stared down at you with hazy vision.

"you said that hours ago" you retort trying to push him off but he just keeps going, not even a little bothered by your attempt to stop him, he just wanted to fill up your tummy nice and big with his cum like you were pregnant with his babies that he always dream of you having.

"this is the last time okay love i fuckin' swear on my life" he groaned throwing his head back as he fucked you on his cock like a toy, did you believe that this was gonna be his last time? no but hopefully it was because it felt like one to many more loads and you were going to pop.

"y'know i love you so much right lovie, so fucking much, i wanna start a family with you and move to the middle of the woods where you can moan my name as loud as you want" simon cooed running his hand up and down your inflated cum filled stomach while occasionally squeezing your bruised hips from his over bearing grip.

but this usually did happen when simon would fuck you for hours on end, his thoughts running crazy as he feels this tightness of your hole he'll start spewing his thoughts about how he wants to make you a baby daddy and give you triplets, he knows you can't have babies but who says he can't challenge the laws of human anatomy and you know damn well he would if it came to you.

"mhm si i want all you babies, pump this pussy full of your cum" you moaned out leading to his doing one more deep thrust before cumming in you, his cum pushing out your belly even more making you whine at the sight and feel of his cock pulsing in you.

when he pulls out it's a fucking mess dripping out of you, cum pushing out like a fountain but how could you get pregnant if it doesn't all stay in to ferment into a little baby so he plugs you up with his favorite pretty butt plug before crawling into the bed to cuddle next to you.

for you the room was spinning and you were to tired to do anything but you still cuddled into his warm chest "i love you y/n" simon deeply spoke rubbing your back to comfort you and before you could speak you were fast asleep after being tuckered out with his cock.

taglist:@mailmango@spermeboy@ghostking4m@gayaristocrat@addictedtomalepits@staarb0y@crispysoup318@its-ares@gargoylesworld09@kadenvatsune@fuckshft@wompwomp-1mh3re

[electronicrobotdreams]

Anyone who has seen wild animals get staggeringly drunk off wild naturally fermented fruit knows the above statement is BS.

[angelaness]

020525

Cycle Syncing 101: How to Stop Fighting Your Body and Start Flowing (🌚) With It

alright girls, gather ‘round. this is the full post i promised - the one about periods, moods, energy, and how to actually live in sync with your cycle instead of feeling like a chaotic mess every month. because once i started tracking and understanding my cycle… it changed everything. for real. my workouts, my eating, my planning, my self-talk all became softer, smarter, more strategic. so let's break it down.

your menstrual cycle has 4 main phases, and each one brings its own vibe, mood, superpowers, and kryptonite. when you know which phase you’re in, you stop blaming yourself and start working with your body, not against it. ready?

1. Menstrual Phase (Bleeding / Days 1–5ish)

Vibe: hibernation queen. inward. reflective.

Body: hormones (estrogen + progesterone) are at their lowest = low energy, fatigue, cramps, sensitivities.

Mind: introspective, quiet, intuitive. this is your “truth-telling” time.

What to do:

Exercise: restorative yoga, stretching, slow walks. if you need to skip your workout? skip it. your body is doing enough.

Food: iron-rich foods (spinach, lentils, beef, dark chocolate), warm meals like soups and stews. magnesium-rich snacks can help with cramps.

Routines: go slow. journal. say no to extra plans. light candles. wear comfy clothes. treat yourself like you're sacred.

Study/work: focus on review, reflecting on past tasks, journaling ideas. let your brain rest a bit—don’t force deep concentration.

Self-care: warm baths, heat pads, soft music, no loud people.

Mental tip: you’re bleeding out the past month. literally. let go of what didn’t serve you. Zdont feel guilty.

2. Follicular Phase (Post-period / Days 6–13ish)

Vibe: fresh start. springtime energy. main character in a coming-of-age film.

Body: estrogen rises. energy builds. skin glows. you feel light, optimistic, social.

Mind: creative, motivated, open to new ideas.

What to do:

Exercise: try something new—dance, pilates, running, gym sessions. you’ll feel strong and energetic.

Food: fresh and light—greens, fermented foods, seeds, citrus. boost that metabolism.

Routines: this is your reset phase. declutter. plan your week/month. start new habits. your brain wants structure right now.

Study/work: brainstorm, start new projects, prep for heavy tasks ahead. your memory and focus are sharper.

Self-care: vision boards, hair masks, cute outfits. say yes to life.

Mental tip: this is your most productive phase. take advantage but don’t overbook. pace yourself.

3. Ovulation Phase (Middle of Cycle / Days 14–16ish)

Vibe: glowing goddess. seductive. unstoppable.

Body: estrogen peaks, testosterone joins the party. libido spikes. you’re magnetic and bold.

Mind: communicative, charming, high-confidence. great time to network or confront someone (with love, of course).

What to do:

Exercise: go hard—HIIT, lifting, cardio, group workouts. you’ve got power and endurance.

Food: fiber-rich foods (quinoa, carrots, berries) and antioxidants. hydrate well.

Routines: do your “hard” things here—presentations, big meetings, social stuff, shooting your shot.

Study/work: speak, pitch, debate. you’ve got clarity + persuasion.

Self-care: romanticize yourself. take hot pics, go out, flirt with life.

Mental tip: your confidence is real. don’t downplay it. enjoy this phase but stay grounded.

4. Luteal Phase (Pre-period / Days 17–28ish)

Vibe: cozy but moody. nesting energy.

Body: progesterone rises after ovulation. if no pregnancy happens, hormones start to drop = PMS hits.

Mind: detail-focused, critical, sensitive. easily overstimulated.

What to do:

Exercise: lower the intensity. pilates, strength training, long walks. listen to your body.

Food: complex carbs (sweet potatoes, oats), calming teas, B6-rich foods (bananas, salmon). eat more often to manage cravings + blood sugar dips.

Routines: finish tasks. organize. clean your space. prep for your period like you’d prep for a storm—lovingly.

Study/work: editing, detail work, wrapping up loose ends. less is more.

Self-care: limit caffeine, go offline if needed, soothe your senses.

Mental tip: don’t trust every thought. the inner critic is loud but not always right. softness wins here.

General Tips:

Track your cycle: use apps like Clue, Flo, or just a paper calendar. know when each phase starts so you can plan smarter.

Plan around your phases: big goals in follicular/ovulation, rest + review in menstrual/luteal.

Cycle syncing ≠ perfection: life doesn’t always let you live like a hormone princess. do what you can. forgive what you can't.

Be kind to yourself: if your body is low-energy, that’s not laziness—it’s biology. honor it.

Final Thoughts:

nobody told us this. nobody said “hey, your whole system is a monthly pattern, learn the rhythm and life gets easier.” instead, we got shame, pain, and whispers. but no more. now we know better. and syncing your life to your cycle is not about being soft—it’s about being smart. strategic. in tune.

girlhood isn’t chaos, insanity, it’s coded. and when you read the code, you stop feeling like a mess and start feeling like magic.

if you made it this far, you’re already syncing, baby.

go be soft when you need, strong when it calls, and sacred always💕

[thescarlettbitch]

Honoring Forgotten Gods

I made a post about Gods Lost To Time, and a couple people expressed how sad it made them, how it feels bad, how they wish they could worship forgotten Gods.

You can. I do, here is how I do it. (A reminder: I am not a priest or a priestess, I am by no means an expert. I myself have only recently started worshipping and honoring these Deities.)

But first, I will say this once and not again

This is an incredibly intuitive practice. If you are going to comment "how do you know you're not working with demons faking being gods to steal your soul?" Your comment assumes two things. 1) that I believe in demons 2) that I believe demons are inherently malicious. I don't believe demons are inherently malicious. My mother believes I was possessed by one when I was a child, but I don't. I believe they are a spirit in this world like everything else and that they deserve respect. If they want to come to my altar, that is fine by me. As long as they are respectful to me and my Gods, all are welcome.

Next,

What are the Forgotten Gods?

Forgotten Deities are the Deities that existed in ancient times who's names and practices have been lost to time. Could be from a not-yet discovered civilization, or maybe they're older than the written word, or even older than humans as we know them, or maybe they were lesser-worshipped in known civilizations. There is no way to know for sure if these Deities did or did not exist, we have no way to ask Neanderthals if they had a God. Their names haven't been spoken in centuries. They haven't been honored in centuries. But if we, as humans, have always had some sort of religion, it's not a far stretch to assume that pre-humans did as well. ("How do you even find out about a forgotten God?")

Prayer

Obviously the prayer is going to be a little different from how you pray to your main deities. We don't know the names of these Gods. We don't know what they represent, or anything about them. I usually start the prayer with "To all who have been lost to time" and go on to my appreciation. "Thank you for keeping our ancestors safe. For teaching them how to farm and how to use the land. For giving them fire and animals and plants to nourish their bodies." Etc etc. Then I give them an offering and say a final thank you, or I express my condolences for them having been lost, say a final thank you, and give an offering.

Building an Altar

My altarspace is currently a mess as I'm prepping to move (not moving yet, still finding a place) so I haven't "built" one yet, but I have a few ideas.

I'd start with a space, obviously, set up a place for offerings, and a candle. It could be on your major altar, or it could be its own space. I'd keep it simple, at least while starting out. Maybe something for the elements, but nothing too big or flashy. As you build relationships with these Deities, you can add and change and remove items at will.

Offerings

I do libations, the act of pouring a liquid directly on the ground, but if I had the means I would 100% burn the offerings. Leaving offerings on your alter space is also a good idea.

Here are some ideas!

Water - water has been around as far back as we can tell. Seems like a pretty neutral and safe offering idea to me.

Fruit - figs are the oldest fruit, but anything. Food is important to life, and for all we know, these Deities are the reason we have them.

Berries and nuts - see above - vegetation was an important part of the diet in ancient evolutionary periods.

Flowers - natural, neutral in my mind.

Wine/Mead/Beer - wines, beers, and meads have been around for lots of years, humans have always been fermenting foods to get drunk.

Bread and cheese - also been around for a very long time

As you grow and build relationships with these Deities, you'll learn to differentiate their energies, you'll learn who likes what, who identifies with masculine or feminine pronouns, you may even be able to give them a nickname to differentiate them from the others.

My Own Worship

Currently, my worship with Forgotten Gods does not stray far from a simple thank you, I'm sorry, and a libation. I don't work closely with any one specifically but rather the idea of them as a whole. I try to say a thank you to them once a day.

[commandershepardvasfuckit]

An Arranged Marriage, part 2 (first part here)

1.6k words m!troll x f!reader, sfw but later parts will be nsfw

It’s the first morning in your new home with your new husband and nothing is like your old life in your human kingdom, not even breakfast.

————

Sounds of a crackling hearth and cooking woke you up, still self swaddled in blankets and furs in the middle of the bed. You were upset but not surprised to find everything had not just been a nightmare.

Zen’jan was sitting on the ground by the hearth, a pot was bubbling away over the fire while he delicately skewered a few small fish. He looked over to you when he saw you stir, watching you for a few moments before going back to what he was doing without saying a word.

It was quiet, weirdly quiet, at least to you. There should have been the bustle of servants helping you dress, bringing you breakfast or escorting you down to the main hall. Instead it was just Zen’jan, someone supposedly pretty important, sitting on the floor cooking breakfast himself.

Without looking up at you he spoke, “Bira told me you did not eat last night, you really should come and eat breakfast”.

The room was bright and warm with the early morning sun streaming through the windows in the front of the house and the fire going, warm enough to make hiding under the blankets a bit uncomfortable. You shuffled out from under your security blankets, dragging one with you so you could keep feeling of having a barrier.

Sitting opposite of him at the hearth you watched as he finished cooking; some sort of porridge simmered away in the pot, skewered fish roasting over low coals, and a platter of fruits, some familiar and some not, sat to the side.

Zen’jan handed you a bowl of the porridge and pushed a few small dishes, spices and honey by the look of it, towards you. Tentatively you gave the bowl a sniff and scowled over its sour smell.

“You can sweeten it, if you want” he said, barely looking in your direction.

Immediately you dumped the whole dish of honey into your porridge, though a sour, fermented flavor still persisted under the honey.

He handed you one of the fish, entirely intact with fins and head included, which you took and just stared at. You looked to him to see what he was doing, and you watched him carefully remove the meat from the bones with ease on his. Even with your smaller hands and extra fingers you were just making a mess of yours, accidentally mashing the soft meat instead of removing it as you tried to get through the skin.

He reached back out and gently took the skewer from you and set it aside, instead grabbing a fresh one and quickly getting to work and pulling the meat off and setting into a dish before handing it to you.

“Thank you” you muttered.

He only gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

Curiously you watched him as you ate your fish as he picked up a large green fruit and dug his thumb into it to peel it, ripping the peel off to reveal segments of bright green insides.

Sitting your fish aside you tried to mimic his fruit peeling technique, pressing your thumb into one of the same fruit to no avail, unable to tear through the peel. Annoyed, you jammed your thumb into it with more force, sending your finger clean through the peel and rupturing a few of the segments inside, making a sticky mess of things as the juice dripped down your hands.

Zen’jan sighed and took the massacred fruit from you and handed you his cleanly peeled one instead.

The two of you ate in silence for a while, neither making eye contact or even looking the other’s way.

“You washed the markings off last night before I got back” he interjected flatly, still not looking at you.

“Yeah? Did you just expect me to stay like that?” you snapped at him, “And I don’t really want to ask, but it was blood, wasn’t it?”

“It was, but I was supposed to wash your face and arms”.

“Well, you’re the one who sent me off right after and didn’t say anything, so I really don’t know what you expected. And I wasn’t going to just sit here for hours covered in blood just waiting around for you anyways! That’s disgusting!”

“It is not disgusting” he snapped back, “It is just blood! And it was mine anyways, it is fine!”

You glared at him, feeling nauseous now knowing for certain that it was blood you were painted with yesterday. You were not feeling particularly warm towards him before and this certainly was not helping. “It’s not a big deal that I washed myself off” you added.

“It is. I was supposed to do that for you” any anger in his voice had faded, he just looked sad now, “It was supposed to be my first act of service to you” he trailed off.

Finally you looked up at him across the hearth. He was looking down at the fruit in his hand and fidgeting with it, looking defeated. Part of you wanted to feel pity for him, he was clearly really distraught over this, but it did not change the fact he was getting annoyed with you for something you were never told.

“Well, I didn’t know, so it’s not like I’m offended that you didn’t do it. It’s fine” you relented. You were not sure why you were trying to comfort him, but it just did not feel right to kick him while he was down.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you” he apologized, “That was no way to talk to my wife, there is never any excuse for that”.

For someone eight and a half feet tall he looked small sitting there with his shoulders hunched over and head down.

How quick he was to apologize caught you off guard. As far as you remembered, you could not recall your father ever apologizing to your mother for snapping at her or getting cross over something. You were not willing to forgive him for snapping at you and expecting you to read his mind, but you could at least accept that he was truly sorry about it.

By now your anger had fizzled out for the most part, “It is what it is” you acknowledged his apology.

“Can I have a do over?” he asked.

“Of what?”

“Washing your arms and face, I mean. I know there is nothing to clean off, but I would still like to make the gesture, if you would allow me”.

Particularly, you did not want him to touch you still, but his request was reasonable and seeing how guilty he was over it all was eating at you more than you cared to admit.

“Fine” you agreed.

He gave you a weak smile before getting up and padding to the bathroom, returning shortly with a bowl of water, washcloth, and towel to sit by you.

“May I?” he asked.

You offered your arm to him and he took your hand, he dipped the washcloth into the bowl and slowly began to wipe off your arm. He was meticulous with his cleaning despite there being nothing to actually clean off, periodically pausing to look up to check your facial expression, seemingly making sure you were still alright.

Every time you caught his gaze he was looking at you with such deference. With the exception of him snapping at you he had been extremely respectful, and as different and monstrous as he appeared he did seem to be a decent person.

“The other, please” he requested once he finished with the first. He repeated the process in its entirety, inspecting your skin carefully to make sure it really was clean just as if he was really was wiping the blood off.

“So,” you broke the silence, “Why blood?”

“There is power in blood, and the eyes of my people and our gods you are my blood now. Your face, please” he paused and reached to place his hand under your chin, you still flinched back instinctively.

“I woke up early yesterday morning and visited my gods, spoke to them, prayed and made offerings, and gave them my blood to bless so that I may pass their blessings to you. You wore their marks and the marks of my tribe, in my blood, so now we are bound”.

He was so delicate with your face, his touch was soft as he slowly wiped down your forehead and nose. He was also much closer now to see what he was doing.

Up close his eyes were so vivid, a shade of green you had never seen on a human and you could really see all the carvings on his tusks, all the elaborate patterns and runes.

“You said this was supposed to be your first act of service” you broke the silence that hung in the air, feeling awkward and uncomfortable with how close he was, “What did you mean by that?”

“A spouse should always do what they can to make their partner’s life better, anything they can do to help. Washing the blood from your partner is traditionally viewed as the first act of service, it reinforces that promise. It is something small that someone can do on their own, but it represents that just because something can be done alone it does not mean it must be done alone. That no matter how small, I will be there to help you, and I have done a poor job of that”.

Once he finished with you face he scooted back away from you, giving you your space once more.

“I am not a fool. I know there is no love here, and I do not ever expect it, neither of us wanted this. But maybe one day you will not flinch when I move, and maybe one day we can talk as friends at least”.

Part 3

[ailurinae]

Causes great back pain, I'd presume. Human spines are bad enough due to being reoriented for the vertical. Having a 90° turn and another whole length of spine is bound to cause even more issues.

Guys do centaurs have to eat both horse food and human food?

[prisvvner]

Free Shipping, Internal Screaming

pairing: massage gun!sukuna x broke college student!reader

content: you're a broke college student whose last resort of stress relief is a shipping-free, cheeky looking massage gun from amazon. turns out it was worth the money, just in ways you did not expect!

warnings: CRACKFIC!, MDNI, object!kuna or whatever we call this menace, lots of smut with barely any plot (if you squint), missionary, kuna giving mean backshots, mating press, dirty talk, reader losing the will to resist (and walk)

author's note: blame @yenayaps for this shit i couldn't get it out of my head- but whatever object!kuna is, i'm so glad you introduced it to us T.T anyways proceed with caution and read to fulfill your naughty dreams! <3

You’re officially at your wit’s end. Finals week has been an unrelenting beast, gnawing at your sanity with a relentless, merciless grip. Your sleep schedule isn’t just messed up, it looks like a Jackson Pollock painting: chaotic, splattered with irregular bursts of insomnia, naps stolen on grimy library benches, and late-night panic scrolling through lecture slides. Your brain feels like overcooked spaghetti—tangled, mushy, and utterly useless.

And then there are your roommates. You love them, kind of, but right now they’re driving you straight to the edge of madness. Between their midnight karaoke sessions, which sound suspiciously like an off-key tribute to every 80s rock ballad ever written, and their “study breaks” that suspiciously align with every hour on the clock, your stress meter has officially exploded. The walls of your tiny dorm room seem to close in, suffocating you in a cloud of noise, caffeine, and desperate tension.

You collapse on your cluttered bed, staring at your phone with dead eyes, desperate for a miracle. And then you see it: an online ad for a “miracle massage gun” promising to “release all your tension and bad vibes.” The price? So low it might as well be a joke. And FREE SHIPPING! The product photo looks like it was snapped with a potato, and the seller’s rating is suspiciously perfect. But hell, at this point, you’re desperate enough to ignore every warning bell ringing in your head and hit buy.

Days later, the package arrives. A small, squarish box with questionable tape sealing the edges, like it’s been shipped via a conspiracy of raccoons. You tear it open, and the first thing that hits you is a strange smell. It’s this weird hybrid of old gym socks fermented in motor oil and something chemical, sharp and unsettling. You pull out the massage gun, and immediately, your eyes narrow.

It’s a bizarre, bulky contraption that looks like someone glued together random parts from a junkyard. The plastic is scratched and peeling in places, with stickers half-lifted like ancient relics. Wires poke out at awkward angles, twitching like nervous fingers. You grimace, your fingers itching to drop the thing back in the box and forget you ever saw it.

Then you grab the manual. The thing is a masterpiece of confusion—pages full of cryptic symbols, nonsensical instructions, and what looks like a half-hearted attempt at translating from a language no one quite remembers anymore. You squint, trying to make sense of the diagrams that might as well be hieroglyphics.

But hey. You’re not exactly picky. If it even sort of works, you’ll consider it a win.

You set the thing down on your cluttered desk, your textbooks and half-empty coffee mugs crowding around it like uninterested spectators. You eye it suspiciously, feeling a knot of dread and hope twisting inside your gut. With a deep breath, you flip the power switch.

The moment it buzzes to life, the noise assaults you. It’s deafening—a harsh, unholy symphony of blender blades whirring, a swarm of angry bees trapped in a tin can, and the relentless pounding of a jackhammer. The vibrations shake through your fingers, the entire device thrumming so violently it nearly slips from your grasp.

A sharp jolt shoots up your arm, electric and raw, making you flinch and squirm. Instead of soothing your knotted muscles, it feels like a tiny electric beast gnawing at your nerves, sharp teeth sinking into every fiber of your being.

You grit your teeth, willing yourself to tough it out. “Okay, maybe it just needs to warm up,” you mutter, voice tight with skepticism.

You're on your last brain cell. Maybe even past that—this is ghost-of-a-brain-cell territory now. Finals have turned your spine into a Jenga tower of regret and muscle knots, and if one more roommate belts out Celine Dion at 1 a.m., you will commit karaoke-related crimes.

Which is why you're now lying belly-down on your bed, propped up by a questionable number of pillows, trying to angle a sketchy "miracle massage gun" at your lower back like some desperate gremlin. You’re already regretting the purchase, but your spine makes a noise like a crumpling soda can every time you move, so here you are.

The thing groans to life with the sound of a malfunctioning blender and the subtle grace of a jackhammer. It's vibrating so violently your whole arm jiggles. "Okay, calm down," you mutter, aiming it at the middle of your back.

It makes contact.

And then you—God help you—moan.

Loudly.

Eyes wide, you slap a hand over your mouth, completely mortified. "No. Absolutely not. Nope."

You fumble with the switch, but the thing won’t turn off. It’s buzzing like it’s possessed, hopping in your grip like a deranged robot chihuahua, and you have to wrestle it to keep it from drilling a hole into your hip.

"This is not tension relief!" you shriek, flinging it away from you like it’s cursed—which, honestly, at this point? Would track.

With a theatrical WHAM, you hurl the massage gun against your bedroom wall, expecting a satisfying crack or snap. Instead, a low hum fills the air, growing louder and deeper, vibrating through the plaster like a pulse.

The thing glows—first a faint shimmer, then a dazzling, blinding light that floods the room. The massage gun fractures into a swirl of radiant fragments, spinning and twisting, each shard catching the light like stars caught in a tempest.

You stand up and grab the box from the desk in an attempt to hide.

But then—

You stare.

Your brain is still buffering, absolutely refusing to comprehend what your eyes are seeing: the broken remains of the bizarre massage gun now completely gone, replaced by a man standing in the middle of your bedroom like a storm dressed in skin.

A very naked man.

And not just any man. He looks like a painting that came to life and decided to ruin yours. Every line of his body is sharp and divine, sculpted like a cruel deity carved from obsidian and arrogance. Broad shoulders taper into a trim waist, cords of muscle shifting smoothly under pale, flawless skin. Dark markings twist and slither across his body in hypnotic patterns, wrapping around his arms, slicing down his chest, disappearing along the deep V of his hips.

You blink.

Then blink again.

“I’m hallucinating,” you whisper, voice dry, eyes wide as dinner plates. “This is a stress-induced hallucination.”

He tilts his head, smirking like the cat that not only ate the canary, but seduced it first.

“Cute,” his voice rich and warm and laced with something ancient. “Is that what you humans tell yourselves now? Must be finals week.”

You’re still frozen in place, backed against your desk like it might absorb you if you wish hard enough. Your gaze drops— obviously against your will—and there it is: the thick, heavy curve of him hanging between his thighs, long and shameless, already semi-hard and stirring slowly to life.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, panicking quietly, brain spiraling. “You’re naked. There’s a naked hallucination in my room. I need sleep. I need a priest. I need a psych eval.”

He laughs—actually laughs—a low, velvety sound that curls around your spine and pulls tight. He steps forward and you instinctively back up, hitting the desk harder this time.

“You’re not dreaming, little thing,” he murmurs, crimson eyes gleaming. “You summoned me. Or maybe it was more of a... release.” His gaze lowers, flicking to your parted lips, your chest rising with each ragged breath. “And you seemed so eager to throw me around.”

You gape at him, mouth dry, heart hammering. “You were a massage gun.”

Another step. He’s close enough now that the heat from his body wraps around you like a blanket made of sin. “Mmm. You were grinding on me like one, weren’t you?” he purrs, voice dipping low. “Maybe I liked it. Maybe that’s what woke me up.”

You open your mouth to protest but his hand suddenly lifts, two fingers catching your chin and tilting your face toward him. His touch is warm, too warm. Not human. Not safe.

But god, your knees nearly give out.

“You threw me,” he repeats, smirking. “Do you know what happens to girls who try to manhandle a curse?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t know if it’s fear or something much worse. Much more dangerous.

“I—I didn’t know you were cursed,” you whisper.

“No,” he agrees, voice dark and pleased. “But you do now.”

And then he brings your hand to him. Presses it low. Makes you feel exactly what kind of monster you’ve just unleashed.

Your fingers curl instinctively, brushing against hot, velvet skin stretched over iron. You gasp, the sensation is jarring, electric, far too real to belong to a hallucination. He's thick, heavy, growing impossibly harder beneath your touch, and the pulse of heat radiating from him is unmistakable. Not imagined. Not a dream.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, voice curling like smoke around your spine. His fingers are still under your chin, tilting your face up, eyes gleaming like molten garnet. “Still think you’re imagining me, sweetheart?”

You try to pull your hand back, but he holds it there, firm, not painful—just enough to remind you who's in control now.

"I—" you start, but the words dissolve when he leans in, lips brushing your ear.

"Shhh. Let me show you just how real I am."

The moment stretches, impossibly tense— and then he kisses you. Not gently. Not sweetly. He kisses like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. His mouth claims yours, demanding, coaxing, consuming. His tongue slides against yours like he already knows every secret you’ve never told, dragging a desperate moan from your chest before you can stop it.

You don’t remember your legs wrapping around his waist. You don’t remember how he carried you, how the world blurred— just that suddenly your back hits the mattress and he’s above you, caging you in with his body, heat radiating off him like a fever.

"You're soaked already," he growls against your neck, one hand sliding down between your thighs. His fingers drag up the inside of your thigh until they press against the damp heat waiting for him. He groans darkly, almost reverent. "And I haven’t even done anything yet.”

You’re squirming, panting, caught somewhere between protest and begging, but his touch is relentless, rubbing, circling, coaxing your body into betraying every ounce of logic left in you.

He moves lower, eyes never leaving yours as his mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, over your chest. Every kiss is hot and slow and just shy of cruel, lips brushing, teeth grazing—enough to make your back arch, to make you whimper his name even though you haven't said it aloud.

"Sensitive little thing," he murmurs against your skin, licking a stripe over your nipple before sucking it into his mouth. His fingers slide lower, slipping between your folds, rubbing slow circles that make your hips roll against his palm without permission.

"You're going to take me so well," he says, voice dropping like a stone into your stomach. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance, not pushing in yet, just teasing, just enough to make your thighs shake around him.

“Ready?” he asks, tone mocking, almost smug,  but his gaze flickers with something deeper. A hunger you’ve never seen before. A need barely leashed.

Your breath catches. “Yes,” you whisper, not even recognizing your own voice.

And then he pushes in.

He pushes in slowly—agonizingly slow—like he wants you to feel every inch, every stretch, every second of what you’ve just allowed into your bed. Your body yields, tight and fluttering around him, and he groans low in his throat, head dropping for a moment like he’s savoring the moment as much as you’re unraveling beneath it.

You gasp, hands fisting in the sheets, thighs trembling as he sinks deeper. The sensation is overwhelming, hot, full, an exquisite pressure that makes your toes curl. It’s too much, and not enough. You barely recognize the sound that leaves your mouth—half-moan, half-shock—as he bottoms out, filling you completely, the curve of his hips pressing against yours.

"Look at you,” he growls against your throat, breath hot. “Stretching so sweet around me... all for a cursed little relic you tried to throw against the wall.”

His words make your skin prickle, heat pooling low in your stomach like wildfire. He rolls his hips once—just once—and your back arches off the bed like you’ve been struck by lightning.

He finds a rhythm next, slow at first, teasing, dragging his length out before driving back in with a smooth, devastating thrust. Your breath stutters with every movement. He watches you like a man possessed, his eyes never leaving your face, drinking in every twitch, every shudder, every quiet, desperate sound you make.

"You keep clenching like that," he warns, voice gravel-thick with restraint, "and this isn't going to be gentle for long."

You don’t reply. Can’t. All you can do is move with him, meet each thrust with rising need, fingers clawing at his back, at his arms— anywhere you can reach. His muscles ripple under your touch, hard and warm, tattooed with markings that pulse faintly with each deep, rhythmic snap of his hips.

His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding that aching spot between your thighs with maddening precision. He circles it with calculated, possessive attention, pushing you higher, closer, unraveling you with expert ease.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “Let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart.”

You’re already there—your body taut, trembling, slick with sweat, the pressure building impossibly fast. Your breath hitches once, then breaks completely as your climax crashes over you in a wave of heat and sensation that leaves you trembling.

He doesn’t stop, not immediately. He rides you through it, your name low and filthy on his tongue, hips still working until he groans deep and curses into your skin, finally following you over the edge with a growl like thunder.

He doesn’t stop at one climax. Not even close.

You lie beneath him, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like a storm surge. Your hips twitch involuntarily, still echoing with tremors you didn’t know your body could hold. The aftershocks ripple through you, hot and raw, and just when you think you might finally find a moment of peace, he leans down—not with tenderness, but with a slow, deliberate possessiveness that makes your skin prickle.

His mouth presses against your throat, lips grazing over the delicate pulse point with a weight that demands your attention. It’s not a kiss, it’s a claim, slow, knowing, marking. His teeth trail along your skin like a predator savoring his prize, and the slight scrape makes you shiver in spite of yourself.

“You break that easily?” His voice is a low murmur, thick with amused contempt as he nips at the soft skin just beneath your ear. “Tsk. I thought you had more bite.”

You manage a sound somewhere between a breathless laugh and a trembling whimper—part defiance, part surrender. Before you can fully gather yourself, his hands are already sliding beneath your thighs, lifting you up with effortless strength. The shift in angle is immediate, deeper, sharper, like a secret key turning in a lock you didn’t know existed. The sensation settles deep in your bones, in the arch of your back, in the trembling of your legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

His pace slows. Not gentle— no. Deliberate, calculated. Every movement measured, like he’s testing the limits you didn’t realize you had. Each thrust carves itself inside you, claiming space, staking a territory you never agreed to give but now can’t imagine ever reclaiming.

“Eyes on me,” he growls, his tone sharp when you begin to let your head fall back, overwhelmed. One hand cups your jaw, tilting your face toward his, demanding submission as his hips roll in with purpose. “I want to see the exact moment you come undone again.”

And come undone you do. Harder this time. The pleasure crashes through your body like a tidal wave—your spine arches instinctively, fingers digging into his shoulders with desperate claws, your mouth parting, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a cry. The crescendo builds and breaks over and over, unstoppable, consuming.

His groan vibrates deep and guttural, a sound that seems to reverberate from his very core, reserved just for you, for this. You tighten instinctively around him, and he grips you harder—a low, rumbling growl escaping him, thick with possession and hunger.

But he’s far from finished.

In one fluid, seamless motion, he pulls out, flips you over onto your stomach, and drags your hips back toward him. His chest presses flush against your spine, breath hot along your neck.

You yelp—or maybe it’s a moan—lost in the sudden shift. Then he slides back in from behind, burying himself so deep you feel every inch with a raw, exquisite sting. This new angle is merciless, devastating in its precision. Each thrust drives into you, hitting some hidden place so perfect it steals the air from your lungs and sends your thoughts scattering into a white-hot blur of sensation.

He growls something filthy into the shell of your ear, voice rough and demanding, but your mind is already too tangled in heat and need to catch the words.

His grip tightens around your hips, anchoring you firmly to the mattress as your legs tremble uncontrollably beneath him. You dribble sweat and breath into the sheets, utterly broken, like every defense you thought you had has crumbled under his touch.

Then, without warning, he shifts again.

You don’t know how he does it, some impossible feat of strength and precision, but suddenly your knees are pulled up, pressed tight to your chest, and his body folds over yours like a dark, unyielding weight. He holds you open, deep, utterly locked inside you.

His thrusts now are brutal, surgical in their intent, each one angled perfectly to find that one soft, perfect spot that makes your fingers dig into his back and your throat catch on choked sobs of desperate pleasure.

He is everywhere—in your head, beneath your skin, beating like a second pulse inside your chest.

And through it all, he watches you.

Smirking.

Growling praise and filthy words in the same breath.

“You were made for this,” he murmurs against your throat, his voice dropping just low enough to make your skin crawl. “Look at you… ruined for anyone else.”

You nod, or maybe you whimper, the distinction no longer matters. You’ve let him in, utterly and hopelessly. Your mind is wiped clean by heat, need, and sensation, a blank canvas painted only with his touch.

You can’t remember who you were before this.

You can’t imagine who you’ll be after.

All you know, with every shuddering breath and every aching, trembling inch of your body, is this:

He owns you now.

Every inch.

Every breath.

And he’s not letting go.

The silence afterward is… thick. Not peaceful. Not quite comfortable.

Just heavy.

Your chest heaves, skin slick with sweat and barely cooling in the still air of your bedroom. The ceiling looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago, but you feel like you’ve been flipped inside out, turned into someone else entirely. Someone who just had mind-shattering, leg-shaking sex with an ancient cursed being who was, until recently, a defective massage gun.

You lie there, dazed and spread across your sheets like a crime scene, limbs tangled and useless. He’s still above you, propped on one elbow, watching you like he’s not even winded.

Of course he isn’t.

You glance at him, regrettably, and immediately regret that too. Because he’s smirking again, lazily, like he just took your soul and is wondering what’s for dessert.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, dragging a pillow over your face.

“Like what?” he says, feigning innocence in a voice that could cut diamonds.

“Like you knew that would happen.”

He chuckles—a low, dangerous sound—and reaches over to casually tug the pillow off your face, pinning you with those molten crimson eyes.

“Oh, sweetheart. I did know. The moment you straddled that poor little machine and started whimpering? I knew exactly what you needed.”

You gape. “I wasn’t—! That thing was attacking my spine!”

“Sure it was,” he murmurs, brushing a knuckle slowly down your collarbone. “But you didn’t stop. Not even when it was vibrating like a demon in heat.”

You let out a strangled groan and cover your face again. “I can’t believe I’m going to be haunted by this for the rest of my life.”

He hums thoughtfully. “You’re not haunted.”

Pause.

“You’re owned.”

Your hand slides down your face slowly. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “You activated a cursed object using body heat, desperate frustration, and what I’d generously call light dry humping. The contract is sealed.”

You sit up a little too fast. “There’s a contract?!”

His grin widens, wicked. “Unwritten. Intimate. Binding.”

“Binding my ass—”

“Oh, I did.” He glances at your hips, then meets your gaze again with a sinful smile. “Thoroughly.”

You’re torn between smacking him and pulling him back down for round two.

Instead, you sigh and flop back down onto the mattress, one arm flung across your eyes.

“…So what now?” you mumble. “You live in my room and I pretend you’re not a walking red flag with tattoos and attitude?”

He stretches like a lion, clearly pleased. “Darling, I am the red flag. But lucky for you…” He leans in, lips brushing your temple, voice a low promise.

“You’ve already surrendered.”

Your stomach flips in a way that has nothing to do with fear—and everything to do with the fact that, for better or worse, your life just got a hell of a lot more interesting.

✧･ﾟwritten by @prisvvner ⊹ dividers by @strangergraphics-archive ⛓️ do NOT repost, steal, translate, or claim as your own. 🖤 reblogs are love — theft is not.

[draconesmundi]

Probally not canon I'm just messing around - trying to design what the pear-shaped cartoon dragon archetype would look like in Dracones Mundi then went wild with the colours.

This dragon would be related to the firedrakes, but ?herbivorous?, nibbling at vegetation with it's beak and letting it ferment/digest in it's round belly. In my mind it's similar to ground sloths and Therizinosaurus.

I probably won't include this dragon in Dracones Mundi, I don't think it fits folklore as well as my firedrakes. It does fit modern pop culture, which is a sort of folklore, but I already have too many pop culture dragons.

...I could add this to the roster of extinct dragons (and say "oh we don't know what colour they were" and use it as an excuse for more purple monstrosities, along with any other fun colour schemes I come up with). If this dragon makes it into the final Dracones Mundi project it'll probably be a brief mention.

[boneblushed]

do you still have the fic where cruel summer rafe accidentally bails on polaris and she’s pissed at him? that was my FAV. can’t express how happy i am that ur back 💗

Omg yes I do! 💐

—

The only hoax I believe in

You just aren’t this girl.

You haven’t ever been this girl — the sit primly on the porch steps with your hands clasped in your lap sort of girl, the sweetheart-next-door that’s always been there, always will be.

The convenient option; the one that’ll wait around forever.

You consider yourself the exact opposite, especially when considering the forbidden fruit-esque circumstances that have underpinned your… well, your whatever it is this summer fling is meant to be.

And you know that this is unfair of you to do; you’d agreed to keep it casual — the pair of you may as well have shook on the no-strings-attached terms.

Which means, Rafe Cameron doesn’t owe you anything. If he bails on a date—is it a date, really? Suddenly, you aren’t sure whether it’s worth of the title—that’s entirely his prerogative. You know this. It doesn’t mean that his jilting hurts any less than it does.

You wait under your ugly porch light for an entire, pathetic hour before you admit defeat and retire inside. There’s a book tucked under your arm that you’d been pretending to read as you sat outside, a silly attempt at nonchalance for when he’d arrive in his pick-up truck. An illusion of half a heart, as if you weren’t already falling for Rafe Cameron and his small town charm. It feels even worse as it presses into your side now, once bathed in yellows, then deeper oranges, holding every hue of dusk until velvet obscured the pages.

Whatever. It isn’t as though you’d been looking forward to seeing him all week long. (You had. Mid-way through summer with enough Rafe in your bones to make them ache when he wasn’t around, you’d been yearning for a midnight rendezvous, the sort of skin-on-skin that burned as much as it buzzed. He’d been awfully cagey since that party he’d hosted at Tannyhill last week, and you had a funny feeling it had something to do with that dodgy drug dealer who’d been ushering him into private meetings all evening.)

You beeline for the kitchen and retrieve a bottle of wine from the fridge, placing it onto the counter before hopping up onto it yourself. The book replaces it as you uncork it to take a generous pull, a sharp tang to it that makes you wince a bit. You pry your phone out of the back-pocket of your denim shorts, taking another swig.

Rafe Cameron: nearly there. I’ll explain everything, I promise

You wince some more, a funny twinge in your chest that has nothing to do with the over-fermented wine.

Polaris: don’t bother loverboy, I’m heading to bed

His typing bubble appears at an alarming speed, but you lock your phone and throw it onto the counter before he’s able to respond. You aren’t interested in reading his excuses. You tell yourself that this is because your situationship doesn’t call for any, as if the odd hankering in your ribcage isn’t a direct result of his behaviour.

You frown stubbornly, tipping back the bottle of liquor for the third time tonight. It’s cool on your lips but burns as it goes down, a rim of clear gloss encircling the glass finish. It glints yellow in the sconce lighting.

Underneath your porch lamp, Rafe Cameron’s signet ring blinks back in acknowledgement. You jump when he raps his knuckles against the window.

He has this miserable, almost pleading look on his face that shouldn’t make him look as handsome as it does. His thick eyebrows are furrowed, blue eyes muted by chagrin, and the way his shoulders fold forward makes his figure look smaller than normal.

He’s holding a bottle of wine in his hand that’s definitely as expensive as it looks. In the other, there’s this stupid-looking bouquet of flowers that appears as though it’s been thrown together by a toddler. Roses with wilted thorns, daisies with petals missing; it’s a mess of rouge and buttery white, a sheet of crinkled cellophane holding it together.

You raise your eyebrows at him, your gaze skating over the makeshift peace offerings with skepticism.

He holds them up hopefully, nodding at the discarded phone beside you. You pick it up and turn it over to find another text from him.

Rafe Cameron: bet this prosecco’s better than the shit you’re drinking

You send him a too-weak glare in response, taking another stubborn pull of the wine and trying not to make a face.

“Let me in?” He mouthes, looking a perplexing mix of gallant and repentant. He taps the rim of the bottle against the glass window again. “Please?”

You tap your own bottle against your wrist. “It’s late.”

“I don’t care.” His arm drops. “I’ll sleep here.”

You frown. “No you won’t.”

As if to prove his point, Rafe replaces the Prosecco in his hand with a porch chair pillow. It’s old and weather-beaten, the flaxen cover as rough as his calloused palm. “I’m not leaving.”

You sigh tiredly, jumping off the counter with the liquor held against your chest protectively. Makeshift armour that makes your thoughts a little hazy.

Rafe’s cologne makes it hazier. It’s an onslaught of patchouli and musk when you open the door to him, body-heat and closeness pressing over you in waves. He steps over the threshold quick, scared that you’ll change your mind, a safe distance away a second ago and now chest to chest with little regard for personal space.

You startle at his proximity, reaching around his torso to close the front door. He swivels in tandem until you’re backed up against it, splaying his hand on the hardwood beside your ear. The handmade bouquet is still held within his clutches, stalks and cellophane crinkling noisily as he squashes them. The other is still by his side. He wants to press the Prosecco in it against your waist, make you shiver and fall into his arms, but he knows that he’s already pushing it by how close to you he’s standing.

“Rafe Cameron,” you sigh, once over the initial surprise. You glance up at him reproachfully. “I’m not in the mood tonight, alright?”

Rafe’s chest aches, and his harried features crumple on instinct. “I know. I — shit, I know I should’ve called, but it was such a last minute thing and I didn’t think it would take as long as it did.”

“What was?” You ask, raising your eyebrows up at him.

Rafe grimaces some more. He already knows that you aren’t going to like what he says next. “Uh… I’m not at liberty to say?”

“Right,” you scoff, shaking your head. “Of course you aren’t.” You cross your arms over your chest, wine bottle tangled within the soft limbs, and attempt to duck under his shoulders and wriggle past his figure.

He doesn’t let you. Rafe drops the bouquet, save a rose with some petals missing, tucking it into your hair to free his hand and cradle your jaw. It’s a sloven pressure, almost desperate. His thumb swipes over your cheek, the rough and cold to your soft and hot. “I’d tell you if it was important,” he says then, his voice quiet. “I would. But it isn’t.”

You sigh again, forcing yourself to look up at him. “You realise that that makes no sense, right?” You whisper, leaning into his touch without meaning to.

“Can we pretend it does?” He asks, ducking his head to eye level. His places the Prosecco onto the ground too, allowing his hand free purchase on your waist, bare and exposed. He’s closer now than he was a second ago, every ridge of his abdomen on your singlet as he presses into you. “Shit — please? Because right now, you’re the only thing that’s even remotely important to me.”

Your heart twists. You break eye contact. “If that was true, you wouldn’t have bailed.”

“I didn’t mean to.” His hand slips under your singlet selfishly, kneading the bare skin of your waist. “I — shit… it was a business meeting, alright? Barry organised it without telling me, and I didn’t think it’d go as late as it did.”

“Oh,” you exhale, looking up at him again. God, you’re so beautiful it makes him ache. He can see your features softening in real time, this slow motion film of all the way that he’s bad for you. “What kind of business meeting?”

Rafe grimaces helplessly. “I’m —”

“— not that liberty to say, right,” you finish grimly, pulling his arm away from your waist. “But you are at liberty to expect forgiveness after standing me up?”

Rafe runs his fingers over his buzzcut, looking reasonably chagrined. “I guess not.” His other hand, the one that’s cradling your jaw, drops to his side as he takes a step back. You ache. And then you hate yourself for it.

“Whatever,” you mutter, scrubbing your cheek absentmindedly. His thumb was there once. You miss it already. “It’s not like you actually owe me anything, Rafe Cameron.”

He frowns. “Huh?”

“I mean,” you gesture between your figures vaguely, avoiding eye contact, “this… we aren’t together, right? You’re allowed to bail on me without it becoming a thing.”

A pause. If Rafe had a bit of common sense, he’d probably take the out you’ve given him and escape any more admonishment. But between your bare limbs and glowing skin, the fading hickeys on your collarbones, the way your full lips shine, he isn’t sure he’s capable of doing so.

Because Rafe Cameron wants this to be a thing, bad. He wants to be reprimanded for standing you up. He wants an incentive to say no the next time Barry demands an eleventh-hour business meeting.

Especially since he was distracted for the entirety of it, anyway. Your pretty eyes, something about a treasure, your prettier smile, something else about a deal. You on the porch, you in his pick-up, you straddling his lap and he sponged lazy kisses along your neck. The fond look on your face. The way your skin feels when his rough hands skate over your thighs. You, you, you, with no space left in his brain for anything else.

He doesn’t deserve it. You. If he’s already letting you down now, he can’t imagine the hurt he could cause were this to turn into something real.

“Right,” he says after a beat, taking a reluctant step backward. He doesn’t deserve you. He runs his fingers over his buzzcut again, more to keep them busy than anything else. “So… I mean, we…?”

“It’s fine,” you lie. “Just… can you just text me if you’re going to be late, or something? I don’t know. Keep me in the loop.” You wince, hating how needy you sound. “Or… I don’t — whatever. It doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” Rafe murmurs, furrowing his brow. “Polaris. It isn’t. I really am sorry, y’know that? I don’t say that shit to just anyone.”

“Ah.” You smile weakly. “That I believe.”

The ache ebbs a little. “Can I see you tomorrow?”

“Busy,” you lie. You think you may need a day or two to make sure that you have your priorities straight. Ensure that any budding feelings are squashed before his closeness has them growing.

“The day after, then,” he says, sounding hopeful. “I’ll pick you up same time?”

You raise your eyebrows. “You tell me. Will you?”

“If you’ll let me,” he says, reaching forward and pinching your waist absentmindedly. His hand lingers.

“I shouldn’t, huh?”

“Probably not.”

You look over his features carefully. “But…?”

“No buts,” he murmurs back, stepping closer again. His pupils are inky black and a little blown, any prior chagrin giving way to something stronger. Maybe because he can feel you softening, maybe because he’s impatient and really yearning. His eyes dart to your lips, and he licks his own absentmindedly.

“Rafe,” you whisper, your eyes widening in anticipation.

“Christ, can I kiss you?” He asks them, his voice low, rough around the edges. “All I’ve thought about all day is kissing you.”

“Huh,” you say, swallowing slightly. “Must’ve been some meeting if it’s taking you away from all you’ve been thinking about today.”

“Can’t even remember what we talked about,” he mumbles, inching closer.

“What a waste,” you mumble back, though as he leans in, you turn your head to the side abruptly. His lips brush over your cheek, a featherlight pressure.

“No,” you add, smiling when he groans. His head drops to your shoulder, and the low, rumbling sound vibrates through your ribcage intently. “Going to have to keep thinking about kissing me until the day after tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

“I deserve that,” he murmurs into your bare skin, defeated.

“You deserve that,” you agree, pushing him away. “Now get out of here. I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rafe allows you to do so reluctantly, pressing another kiss to your jaw before angling back fully. It’s wet and rough, his stubble on your throat.

“The day after tomorrow,” he promises.

You fold your arms across your chest faux-sternly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

He nods and stumbles back through the door with a sheepish grin on his face, arms raised in surrender. “Enjoy the Prosecco, yeah?”

“And if I don’t?”

“Don’t think I’d survive it, Polaris.” Don’t think I’m going to survive this, either.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” you say.

“Maybe it is.” A pause. “Maybe it doesn’t matter.”

—