#get joed

[nemyzilla]

MORE JOE

[t-allyitup]

so back 2 what i was sayin ....

hed empty so aged up eddeddy idk i think teen eddy would have spiky nu metal guy hair

[gaybuckybarnesss]

THE WHITE LOTUS 3.06 "Denials"

[lawyerscar]

uh-oh! you’re stuck in double life! spin the wheel to find out which life series member the string of fate has tied you to.

[thecmaly]

pocky day

-

more windbreaker comics

[togament]

𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄.

sakura, ume, suo, kaji, kiryu, endo, togame.

"ever imagined how it'd be like to be in the mood with them but damn it. You're separated by distance? Mhm. I got just the thing for you."

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: PHONE SEGGS UH OH!, language language swearing swearing, AFAB!reader, ume switchy :o, endo's a fucking menace :((((, TOGAMMMMEEEEEEE *howls!!!!! barks foaming at the mouth*, toy usage, your man straight up “jorking it” and by it haha well lets justr say his peanits, degradation on endo's part--general seggsy time stuff and needy boyfriends, NSFW STUFF MINORS DON’T INTERACT PLS.

𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐑𝐀.

✦ gotta guide him through it. At first, he didn’t really see the appeal of it. Why do it over the phone when you could meet up instead. ✦ but OH once he’s in the zone though, ONCE HE UNDERSTANDS? SEES THE LIGHT????? I’m wishing your pussy good luck because you’re doing it often. ✦ your phone rings sometimes at 2 am and you’re met with a panting Sakura. He sounds so apologetic too — he’s fought against calling you and just handling it himself. But he couldn’t help it. He has to call you. To hear you. ✦ “Strokin’ my cock right now. F-fuck m’sorry but can ya touch yourself for me too? Couldn’t get ya outta my head and I—ngh.. Need t’cum. Please, baby. It’ll be quick. Promise.” ✦ narrator’s voice: it was in fact, not quick at all. ✦ he likes sending over voicemails at night when he knows you're alone, when he's needy (which is often). ✦ it's mostly just of him panting into the receiver, recalling the events of the day and how each thing you did turned him on. You often end up sending each other voicemails to quench the thirst but god damn it. That doesn't come close to fucking.

𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐘𝐀.

✦ another one of the ":o I don't see the appeal of phone sex when we could just see each other instead?" gang. He sees the vision real quick when you dropped something while you were talking though. You bent down to pick it up and let out a soft grunt. He couldn't stop his mind from wandering. ✦ BIG ON PRAISE. GRUNTS AND SIGHS INTO THE RECIEVER LIKE HIS LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. LOVES DOING IT WHILE HE'S LAYING DOWN, PANTS HURRIEDLY UNBUCKLED AND MESSY, SHIRT HAPHAZARDLY THROWN TO THE SIDE. PHONE WEDGED IN BETWEEN HIS CHEEK AND SHOULDER WHILE HE STARTS STROKING WITH ONE HAND AND THE OTHER TANGLED IN HIS HAIR, GRIPPING IT LIKE YOU WOULD--(gets dragged off stage kicking and screaming) ✦ big switch. He's Umemiya, after all. He's the feared and respected leader of the Bofurin for a damn reason. Very sweet when he's just in the mood on a random day, chuckling in between because that's just how the both of you are. It's fun! But when he hasn't seen you for a couple of days? Oh FUCK. When his voice would normally grow soft and whiney, has morphed into growled responses with him fucking his fist desperately, trying to remember how your cunt would swallow him whole. ✦ "G-Good girl, my good fuckin' girl. Filling your pussy up with that dildo you bought? Not good enough, huh?" he adds, grunting as he's imagining you fucking yourself with the dildo, panting and unsatisfied, knowing full well you need him filling you up instead. "I really miss you, babe. You'd look so pretty-gh-! Underneath me right now. So pretty." ✦ cums hard every time you're on call, grunting and wheezing out your name so desperately you almost feel like he's trying to summon you somehow. ✦ Thanks you for it too. It's cute!!! Ends with both of you cleaning yourselves up, still on call. You both often fall asleep together with your phones still on.

𝐒𝐔𝐎.

✦ you both call often. He just loves hearing your voice! Thing is, you never know when he's in the mood. But he somehow can tell whenever you are. What gave it away? Was it the way your breathing stilled when he let out a sigh when he stretched? Was it the way you tripped over your words when he lowered his voice just a tad? Was it when you were left speechless when he praised you for finishing a task you were putting off? Was his teasing working on you? Whoopsies. ✦ INSTRUCTIONAL WITH IT. He’s so good at directing you what to do. ✦ “Want you to imagine my fingers, dove. Why don’t you ease just two in for me? That’s my girl. Now curl them up a little. Keep your mind on me." ✦ you want him to feel good too :(((((( so you ask for him to do the same as you. Of course, he lets you beg a little first. Little did you know he was already fucking his fist before you even started. ✦ has one of your clothes or panties close by because he loves smelling them. He loves your scent. It helps him get off. Hell, he gets horny in public when he takes a whiff of your perfume. ✦ he gets more vocal when he cums and that’s when you KNOW for sure he’s jacking off while listening to you. String of expletives and grunts escape his lips while he spills onto his hand, dribbling down his knuckles while you’re riding out your high.

𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓.

𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈.

✦ FILTHY. FILTHY. FILTHY. ✦ doesn't have much toys but he has a tenga flip and uses it whenever he calls you. Can’t just go full hand and lube. (Probably has a warmer for it too. Mhm. Yeah.) ✦ another "clothes stealer". Has stolen your panties and shirts a couple of times. ✦ you can hear the wet squelching through the phone whenever he thrusts. Whether it’s lube or his cum, you could never ever tell. ✦ AGAIN, FILTHY. SO SO SO SO FILTHY. ✦ “y’getting off to this, huh? Listening to me fuck my toy? Fuckin’ know you’re soaking wet for me now. Lemme hear it. Lemme hear my pussy.” ✦ “keep up with me. Don’t you fuckin’ cum until I say so.” He barks, but he ends up cumming before you. He’s still pumping his sensitive cock waaay after he’s released though. He wants to hear you fall apart. ✦ bites back his whimpers but when he cums? Jesus. He’s stuttering out your name, repeating it like a damn prayer.

𝐊𝐈𝐑𝐘𝐔.

✦ HAS SO MUCH TOYS HOLY FUCK. ✦ he sends over photos of them before he calls, wanting you (yes YOU, dear reader!) to pick the toy of the night!!! ✦ he’d much prefer doing your mutual masturbation over facetime but you suggested a voice call. Who is he to deny his princess? ✦ always opens with a syrupy sweet, “How’s my baby?” and eases you into it with him. He never starts without you or without your express approval. If you’re suddenly not in the mood, he gets it. It happens sometimes. You guys could just talk instead. ✦ praise praise praise. Whispers the raunchiest and sweetest things to you. Talks you through it, guides you. HE’S WAY TOO GOOD. ✦ “Need my pretty princess right now. Need ya to sit on my face—taste so good. Fuck… Your pretty little moans too. I’m addicted.” ✦ “Remember when I did that thing you liked with my tongue? Yeah? Want you to do that on your clit with your fingers. Circle around it f’me, princess. Mhm.. Oh? Not good enough? Need my piercing on it? Naughty.” ✦ PORNOGRAPHIC MOANS. SO FUCKING PRETTY??? You’ve asked for his permission to record some of them. Of course he lets you. ✦ sends photos of the aftermath if you want him to. His cum on his still clenched abs, his trimmed happy trail, over his belly button piercing. Yum. ✦ HAS DEFINITELY POSTED ON GWA YOU CANNOT CONVINCE ME OTHERWISE.(it’s JOI too :(((( he’s secretly dedicated some audios for you. May or may not have accidentally whispered your name in one of his jerk off with me audios too :(((((((( man I’m sobbing into my pillow. Nobody touch me.)

𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐎.

✦ you can’t look at this man and say he’s shit at phone sex. You can’t convince me otherwise. You just can’t. ✦ of course, he’s absolutely cracked at talking dirty to you. It’s always a mix of praise and degradation with him. ✦ he’d be happy if you just sent him nudes, really. But he’s over the moon once you suggested to do it over a call. Immediately is palming his hard on through his jeans while he’s waiting for you to pick up. Opens with a casual little, “hey, honey,” you wouldn’t know he’s practically going to town on his cock, hot to go. ✦ with how sweet he could be to you, he could be so, so fucking mean too. ✦ “My, my. That was such a pretty sound you just made. Wanna do that again for me? Wanna hear my pretty little cockslut begging for me while I fuck my fist. Yeaaah, just like that. Louder.” ✦ the type to send in voicemails at random times of the day. You know they’re exclusively for you since he’s practically chanting out your name while he fucks himself. You’ve made the mistake (plenty of times) of listening to some of them in public. Thank god your phone wasn’t on full volume but people definitely heard your boyfriend fucking his fist. ✦ you put him in his place when you get home by tying him down to the bed and edging him to hell and back and back again and back again and back again and—

𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄.

✦ THIS MANNN…. He knows how to use his voice. He KNOWS HOW TO USE HIS VOICE SOMEONE HOLD ME THE FUCK BACK— ✦ he really doesn't like texting. So you both often call each other at the end of the day when you're apart. You're often apart too, with work and with it taking you to different cities. He's home alone at your apartment with your pets, with your clothes beside him on the couch. See where this is going? :-)) ✦ "Miss ya. Fuck, I really miss ya. Even the cats miss yer constant yappin'-" he teases and he's palming his cock through his gray sweatpants when he hears you shoot a clever quip at him. "Mhh-doll, I really do fuckin' miss ya. Especially when we wake up in the mornin'? Yeah. When ya press yer ass up against me, miss how ya know how to touch me just right-" "Jo, are you touching yourself right now?" he has the gall to chuckle. "Wanna see?" He was so ready to switch to facetime, to show you how he's lazily dragging his fingers up and down his throbbing cock, gray sweatpants pulled down just enough to pull it out. But you wanna stay on the call. You're rushing to your bed, hand in your shorts as soon as you lay down. ✦ likes dirty talking. LOVES when you talk dirty to him back. He's whispering phrases like, "mhm, yeah?", "what do ya want me t'do to ya when you get back?", "what else, angel?" prodding you on, urging you to express your deepest desires to him because he's NEEDY NEEDY NEEDY. (He knows you're as eager as he is too) ✦ wants to cum with you so he edges himself until you say you're almost there. Wants to match your pace and tries to by listening to your breathing, the rhythm of your moans. Never fails to tell you he loves you after he cums. ✦ promises a huge surprise for you when you get back :-)

a/n: THESE WERE SO FUCKING FUN TO DO RRRRAAAAAHHHHHHHHHRHRHR!!!!!!!!!!!!! *insert werewolf ripping clothes open meme here* I hope you guys like it. The brainworms are wriggling mighty strong.

[jordiemeow]

Two guys for every girl. Once you boys get started you’ll be at it for hours. Come on boys, I know you’re not damn cowards.

pairing: art donaldson x reader x patrick zweig

summary: vying for one of the bridesmaids at their best friend's wedding gets a little out of hand, but they're tennis players. they aren't above some friendly competition.

warnings: smut, threesome, a trip to paris, throat fucking, drunk sex, tbh i'm lazy just generally 18+

Acting as bridesmaid for a girl you grew out of in college wasn’t really how you planned to spend your summer. Attending dress fittings, rehearsal dinners, bachelorette parties… but hey, free booze is free booze. And Megan’s fiancé Adam (soon-to-be husband) splashed out to pay for all the matching dresses. You reassure yourself you would have felt bad turning her down when she asked you to be a part of her bridal party.

Sure, you hadn’t talked as much over the last few years… but you were inseparable, once upon a time. She clearly hasn’t changed, considering the several breakdowns about table placements and flower arrangements you’ve witnessed over the last few weeks. And you doubt you’ll be best friends after this, but it’s nice to rekindle with someone who was a major part of your life, even if it’s not permanent.

The ceremony itself is beautiful. A beautiful stone chapel, austere lines evoking the early Christian churches of Rome; warm lights bathing the princess gown-sporting bride in an amber glow, stained glass windows glinting behind the wedding party as they read out their “I do’s.” The only modern element of the ridiculously elaborate wedding (yeah, Adam has to be fucking loaded) is the absence of any organ to reflect Megan’s aversion of them. But really, the harp just makes them seem that much more pretentious.

It’s the type of wedding children dream of. But there’s two people who clearly couldn’t give two shits about the white roses or the music being played as your friend walks down the aisle: the groomsmen. One blonde and one brunette, the latter of which is clearly bored of this entire thing, tuning out what the priest has to say and letting his eyes wander.

“Patrick, pay attention,” Art hisses under his breath from where he’s standing behind Patrick, and in clear view of his friend’s lack of interest in the upcoming vows. Considering the congregation makes up of several hundred people (who are definitely just here for the reception and Instagram stories), it’s embarrassing for him to be associated with a disinterested fool.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” Patrick mutters back, with a low whistle that makes Art wince. “Just not to Adam and his gold-digging bride.”

Despite initially feeling the need to jump to their friend’s defence and insist he was perfectly capable of finding a wife—Megan was lovely, as far as Art was concerned—that train of thought vanishes as soon as he follows Patrick’s gaze to the opposite side of the altar. Standing behind the bride and her maid of honour, one of the most beautiful women he’s ever had the privilege of laying eyes upon… you.

He’s not sure how you manage to pull off the bridesmaid dress that the rest of the poor ladies seem to be drowning in, but god, you look gorgeous. A vision in pastel pink, even with that hideously large flower embellishment clinging to your left shoulder. Maybe Patrick had been right about Megan being a bitch for the last two years; nobody who loves their friends willingly puts you in something like that. And yet, against all odds, he’s ready to drop to his knees and worship you right here on the chancel. A true angel, illuminated by the mural of Mother Mary shining through the window. How anyone is paying attention to the bride when you’re standing right there clutching your bouquet of flowers is beyond him.

Patrick’s thoughts are far less pure, of course. Daydreaming about the sound your dress would make when he tears a slit up the back to see what colour your panties are. Fisting his hand in your hair and pulling those ringlets out of your pretty little flower pins, because why would you need those to hold it up when he has a perfectly good hand right here? Bent over the altar, crying out his name like he was your god, and not the Christian deity Father John was currently droning on about watching over Megan and Adam’s nuptials.

Both of them are half-hard in their slacks by the time they hear the priest rejoice, "You may now kiss the bride." Neither of them mention the way they adjust themselves in sync while stepping down to congratulate their friends and take wedding photographs.

Art gets to stand beside you in the pictures. He tries to make small talk about the happy couple, but his throat feels like it's closing up and he already knows he's going to look flushed in the picture album by the end of this. He swears he almost passes out from embarrassment when you regard him with a pitiful look as he stammers over his words trying to tell you he thinks your hair looks lovely.

If the looks Patrick keeps sending his way are any indication, he's royally screwed this up. And that little smirk he flashes as you rush off to gush at the viewfinder suggests he is absolutely going to pay for that fumble later.

He does.

—

"Dibs," Patrick announces, nursing a champagne flute and eyeing you from the opposite side of the reception venue.

Another intricately decorated hall with a local, well-known DJ Adam has connections with. Neither of them would care about the music if it weren't for the fact you looked so fucking good swaying your hips and grinding against another woman to Don't Cha by The Pussycat Dolls. They don't have girlfriends, but yeah, if they did... they'd wish she was hot like you.

"I talked to her first," comes Art's instant protest. He's already downed three glasses by now to quell his nerves, but it's only serving to make him more antsy. At least he probably won't remember any of this come morning.

"Yeah, and look where that got you," he snorts in return, mimicking the pity grimace you had given when Art restarted his sentence for the fifth time. That deflates Art's sails somewhat, and he mutters something about his friend being a dick under his breath.

"Fine. Go talk to her, then. I'll just sit here all by myself and wallow in my own self pity at a celebration of love. Knowing I am forever doomed to be alone."

Patrick shoots him a flat look for that, and Art visibly deflates. Yeah, that was a little dramatic, but he's tipsy and moping about how socially inept he is when it comes to pretty women at weddings. Give him a break.

"Nah, she'll talk to me first. We've been making eyes at each other for thirty minutes. I don't have to do anything."

"So... you aren't going to go talk to her?"

Given Art perks up a little at that, Patrick should probably be a little more sceptical. But he just shakes his head, sipping from his champagne and watching you laugh and excuse yourself from twirling around the floor with that other bridesmaid.

"Cool. Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool…” Art hums in reply. Patrick doesn't even get the chance to reply before he's shooting off across the venue to catch you by the refreshments table.

Oh, that's how he's playing this. But Patrick said he wasn't going to talk to you, so it's his fault, really. That's how Art justifies it to himself as he dodges and weaves through dancing couples, tripping over his feet a few times in a bid to get to you.

"Does dibs mean fucking nothing to you?" Patrick hisses as he catches up to Art, just as the pair reach you.

"Hey," Art slurs, a lopsided smile on his face as he pointedly ignores his friend's complaint. "You look... really beautiful. I know I told you that earlier, but you're like... an angel."

Smooth, Donaldson. That's Patrick's queue to swoop in and save him from embarrassment, while hopefully pulling you in the process. He's not above knocking his friend down a few pegs if he really has to, though.

"We've never seen you before," Patrick says, giving you a quick once over that's far more appraising than it ought to be. It's hard not to blush and match the pretty pink alcohol-induced flush on Art's cheeks. "Friends with Megan long?"

"Uh... yeah," you reply, a little sheepish, plucking a h'ordeuvre from the table as you glance between the pair of them. Art isn't sure if you're wary or just amused. "We go way back."

"Really?" Art says, blinking. "Adam's never mentioned you before. Which is weird because he never shuts his—"

"So she's been keeping you a secret from us, then?" Patrick cuts in. God, his best friend gets so mouthy when he's tipsy. He's more of a lightweight than his fucking grandma. At least Nana can tolerate a few eggnogs without running her mouth.

"We just have conflicting schedules," you smile. "Not teenagers anymore, you know?"

You don't mention the fact you've hardly had contact with Megan since her twentieth birthday, where she deemed your gift lacklustre and cut you out of her social circle over the following weeks. Maybe that attitude is why she had been so desperate to have you as a bridesmaid in the first place—nobody else would stick around to deal with bridezilla.

"What about you and Adam?" You add a moment later, when both men giving little hums of acknowledgement. You pretend not to notice the way Art downs the last of his champagne as liquid courage before he gives his answer.

"Well, Adam's been our—"

"My friend since I was a kid," Patrick interjects again. Art sends him a look of inebriated betrayal, but the brunette is too busy eyeing up your cleavage as he talks to take much notice of it. "Our parents work together. Art's a groomsman because he's an extension of me. Fire and Ice, right, bud?"

A little nudge to Art's side, who looks thoroughly dejected at the depiction of his relationship with Adam. And the fact he's just come off as Patrick's little sidekick. So fucking unfair.

"... Right," he mutters.

"Fire and Ice? What's that?" You offer, in the hopes it'll brighten his spirits. It seems to work.

"We're tennis players. That's our nickname. A little childish, but we've been called that since we were kids."

"So you've known each other a long time?"

"Since we were twelve. Bunkmates at tennis camp," Patrick chips in helpfully, crooked grin permanently plastered on his face as he eyes you intently.

Well, they certainly have the build for it. Not that their suits leave much on display, but you can still see the way Art's muscles strain a little against the sleeves—his suit clearly isn't as tailored as Patrick's—and the way Patrick's ditched his bowtie to unbutton a few buttons of his shirt to give you a peek of his chest hair. And if the way he keeps reaching for h'ordeuvres to give him a peek of your ass every time he leans around you is any indication, that view is definitely intentional.

"So... which one's Fire, and which one's Ice?" You ask, glancing between the pair with a tilted head. Art seems eager to reply with a genuine reply, because he's just tipsy enough to actually be comfortable with you now, but Patrick speaks up before he can open his mouth.

"Why don't you find out?"

And, despite your better judgement, you intend to take him up on that. Spending the next hour at the reception taking candid photos and alternating between dancing with the pair of them; two gorgeous men on your arm, each equally as eager for your attention as the other. Suddenly, the last few months of Megan's temper tantrums feel worth it.

Not to mention you never expected Art to be able to breakdance. Five champagnes in and he's tearing up that floor, a far cry from the man who blushed crimson when the photographer asked him to place his hand on the small of your back after the ceremony.

—

When you all get a little too tipsy, they offer to walk you back to your hotel. You're all staying in the same one, anyways. It's no hassle. No point in sticking 'round here. Party would be boring without you. You can't remember which one of them told you that, but it was flattering nonetheless. Adam placed all of the bridesmaid's on the same floor, insisting it was the least he could do, but Patrick... well, apparently he has a presidential suite, so how could you possibly deny him when he offers to show you? That's the only reason you're going up to their room. Couldn't be anything else.

You trail in after them, heels hanging from your hand as you take in the sight. You're pretty sure this place is bigger than your entire apartment. Hell, the complimentary wine and gift basket on the table probably cost more than one month's rent for you.

"You look like a kid in a candy store," Patrick remarks, lips quirked up into a little smirk as he watches you ogle the sight. Both of them shrug off their jackets and abandon them on two armchairs, leaving you another sight to ogle.

"This place is... nice," you manage, eyes trained on the way Art is removing his cufflinks and rolling his shirt up to his elbows, muttering something about it being way too hot in here before collapsing into one of the arm chairs.

You almost make a remark about how it'd be considerably more tolerable if he just took the shirt off entirely, but Patrick beats you to that idea. Peeling off his own shirt and grinning to himself like a fucking idiot when he catches a glimpse of you admiring the way the muscles in his back flex as he moves. He even gives an exaggerated stretch and a groan to really seal the deal.

You have to take a seat and squeeze your thighs together after that.

"Nice is an understatement, babe," he replies. Babe? He's ballsy. Art is just drunk enough not to mask the exaggerated roll of his eyes he gives at Patrick's choice of words.

The three of you pop open that expensive bottle of wine and pass it around for another thirty minutes (with Patrick gradually giving Art less and less time to hog the bottle the drunker he gets), chatting about Adam and his stupid wife Megan and their stupid wedding. About tennis, and your own career, and who you think is going to win the Olympics this year or whether there are really aliens in the ocean. The kind of stupid shit drunk people discuss just because the conversation is as seemingly bottomless as the wine bottle you're drinking. You somehow manage to persevere throughout it all without staring at Patrick's chest too much.

"Well, I should probably go," you say, standing up (just a little wobbly on your feet) and offering a grateful smile to the pair of them. "Definitely going to be nursing a hangover in the morning."

"Wait—" They both protest in sync, sitting up.

You tilt your head at them, questioning.

"Aren't you going to sleep with one of us?"

Well, that's tactful, Zweig. Art reaches over to smack him up the back of the head, sending you a wordless apology in the form of a wide-eyed look, like a dog that's about to be scolded. But you take it in your stride, laughing as you pick up your heels.

"I don't want to pick between you. Seems mean," you reply. And you don't think you even could choose.

"You don't have to pick between either of us," Art says hastily. Even Patrick seems to be surprised by that. They've joked about sharing girls for years, ever since the Kat Zimmerman incident, but he never thought Art would be the one to actually suggest it. He averts his eyes when Patrick is searching for a towel after the shower, for Christ's sake.

But Patrick recovers quickly.

"Yeah," he chips in. "Don't you wanna find out which one of us is which?"

That gives you pause. Right. Fire and Ice. And judging by the victorious look they share at your silence, all of you are aware of the decision you've subconsciously made.

Your clothes don't take long to disappear. A tangle of limbs backing up into the master bedroom (Patrick's), hair pins discarded in a bid to yank your head back and mouth along the expanse of your neck, both men in just boxers before long. Touching each other in ways that are far from platonic but they'll both blame on alcohol and wanting to get the three of you undressed as quickly as possible.

"This is really ugly. I'm sorry," Art tells you candidly, as you straddle him on the bed. His fingers are tracing the large pink rose pinned to the shoulder of your dress, and you bark out a surprised laugh. The pair of you are giggling like idiots between kisses, insulting Megan's taste in bridalwear before there's a loud tearing sound, and suddenly you can feel the humid air hitting the back of your thighs.

That's Patrick. Doing the things he's fantasised about since he first saw you at the altar and ripping up the back of your dress to reveal your underwear. God, they're even better than he expected.

"Patrick, what the fuck—" Art starts, but his friend makes a kissing sound through his teeth.

"What? She said Adam paid for it. It's fine," Patrick mutters. "Besides, it was so fucking worth it. You should see the view back here, man."

His fingers trail over the dampness of your panties, the lacy white just as pure as Megan's wedding dress. If he wasn't already hard in his boxers (he has been since you entered their hotel room), he certainly is now. Pushing the fabric of your dress further out of the way and leaning in to lick a stripe over your panties, a low groan slipping past his lips at how soaked they are just from kissing. You would be embarrassed but... double the men, double the wetness, right?

Your hips jerk involuntarily at the sensation, a pair of matching moans escaping you and Art as it grinds you down against his clothed erection.

"I don't think Megan would be very happy you wore white on her wedding day," Patrick says, smiling against your clothed cunt as you push back against him.

"Fuck Megan," you reply breathlessly.

"No, fuck you," he shoots back. And he very well intends to. Both of them do, actually, given the way Art is whining and arching his back off the mattress in an uncoordinated attempt to get any friction against you. He's pretty sure he might cum untouched just from the sheer anticipation of it all.

Your panties go next, lost to the heap of the rest of your clothes on the floor. It doesn't take long for strong, calloused hands to rest on your ass, spreading you open so he can tongue-fuck your pussy. Mumbling something unintelligibly about how you taste even better than the wedding cake while your whines synchronise with Art in between sharing lips and spit. Stubble grazing your face and your ass, all three of your mouths too busy for any more wisecracks.

At one point, Art tries to snake his hand in between you and rub your clit, but the front of your dress is still in the way. He still makes the effort to roll his fingers against it over the fabric of your dress, and the sound you make in reply tells him he's at least contributing somewhat to the mess Patrick is making of you. He's content enough to just lick into your mouth greedily and swallow the keening sounds you're making.

"Cumming—" is all you manage to gasp out between kisses before you're clenching around nothing, and Patrick is lapping dutifully at your release. All three of you are groaning like the orgasm is shared between you. It's only when you're bordering on overstimulation and letting out pathetic little whimpers that Art realises he's still circling your clit on autopilot, and his hand falls back to grip the sheets.

"God, she's so fucking pretty when she cums," he moans, and you'd be offended by the fact he's talking about you like you're not here if you weren't so blissed out. "You should have seen her face, Pat."

"I'll see the next one," Patrick says.

Next one? Both a promise and a statement. Just hearing that has you whimpering as Art eases you off of him. Both of them help you out of your dress, a little more gently this time, and you have to ignore the comment Patrick makes about no bra, just for me? You don't have it in you to explain built-in cups and the power of pasties to a man right now. You just want to get fucked. It's only then, when you're all spread out and wanting on the bed, that you realise the wet patches in their matching black boxers (cute, you think) are just as vivid as the one that no doubt stains your lost panties.

"Jesus, you're big." You didn't mean to say that out loud, but you're in too deep to be ashamed about any of the events transpiring right now.

"Which one?" They both ask. The question goes unanswered when you start palming them both through their boxers, a chorus of moans elicited from the pair of them. (You all know the answer, anyways.) Hands grabbing at whoever they can touch, whether it's you or each other, until Patrick has the sense to yank down Art's boxers.

The protest dies on Art's tongue when he sees the way Patrick is eyeing his cock, flushed red tip glinting under the harsh hotel lights with the amount of pre-cum smeared across it. There's a moment where you all think he's going to touch him, wrap a hand around his closest friend's pretty pink dick and jerk him off, but then he simply shrugs off his own underwear. You aren't sure which one of you is more disappointed.

Everything is a haze from then onwards. You can vaguely hear them discussing positions as you kiss at Art's neck, red lipstick mottling his pale skin until it's hard to tell which stains are makeup and which are hickeys.

"We can't ask her to do anal, man. We hardly know her."

"Why not? I bet she'd like it. Fucked in both at once."

"Because that's... it's violating!"

"Oh, right. Because whatever else we're about to do won't be. Real innocent, vanilla sex with three drunk people in our fucking hotel room."

Fucking hotel room. The double-meaning of Patrick's own words makes him snort. The only reason they stop whispering back and forth is because you pull away, settling on all fours. Back arched in a silent invitation, pretty little ass stuck up in the air and arms braced against the silk sheets. They glance at each other, before scrambling to follow, with Art shoving Patrick aside to press himself behind you.

"Why do you get her pussy?" Patrick protests, sitting up and fixing his best friend with an indignant look.

"You said you wanted to see her face when she cums!"

Fuck. He did say that. Stupid logic. Well, it's not as if your throat would be unpleasant; he wonders if your mouth will be as welcoming to his cock as it was his tongue.

"C'mon," you whine, pressing back against Art's throbbing arousal. "Can one of you just do something?"

"D'you want me to use a condom? 'Cause my wallet is in my jacket in the next room—" Art starts, but you're already reaching back to guide his tip between your slick folds. Well, that's an answer if he's ever witnessed one.

Patrick is too busy getting situated in front of your face to make a comment about filthy girls taking it raw. Art's almost disappointed—he'd never be brave enough to make the comment himself. One large palm cupping your face, tilting your head up while the other slaps his cock against your lips. Whatever gloss they'd kissed off was replaced in a new sheen, one that makes him give a soft hum of approval.

"You look pretty," he tells you, and your thanks dies on your tongue when Art pushes into you. Easing himself in inch by inch, until you're practically drooling onto Patrick's tip. "God, what a fucking sight." For a moment, his eyes are on the way Art's face contorts in pleasure at the tight warmth surrounding him. It's even hotter than the way he looked when they used to jerk off in the same room at night.

"Open wide," he instructs, eyes flitting down to you. Smiling down at you with that shit-eating little grin and talking to you like you're at the dentist, not getting spit roasted after your friend's wedding. "Big girls take it all, right?"

You oblige, though—how could you not, when your senses are clouded by Art drilling into you from behind? A few more slaps of his cock against your tongue, and he's pushing himself in, too. His breath catches in his throat as the warm wetness of your mouth envelopes him—yeah, definitely just as welcoming.

You can hardly tell who's moaning at this point. There's something almost beautiful in the synchrony, the way your hands and bodies move against each other. Clutching at Patrick's hips, while he fists your hair, admiring the way the ringlets spill through his fingers like a waterfall as he pushes you down further; gagging at the intrusion in your throat while Art whimpers behind you like this is his first time getting pussy. Each of you are in your own individual heaven, while simultaneously in ecstasy together.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that—"

"Oh, Pat, she's so tight—"

A hand slaps against your ass, and you can't tell who it belongs to. Patrick seems like the most likely culprit, given how sweet Art had been earlier, but with the way he's ramming into you like a jackhammer leaves you doubtful. It doesn't really matter, though—they both know you enjoyed it, given the way you garble out a moan around Patrick's dick. You don't know if you're praying for mercy or for more.

He lets you come up for air occasionally, telling you how pretty you look taking Art's cock. Such a good girl, before you're being degraded for letting him fuck your throat like a slut. There's no time for arguments before his tip is at the back of your throat again, the sound of your gag reflex going off hardly audible over the sound of moaning, wet slapping and skin hitting skin.

You think you know now. Fire and Ice.

Art reaches around to rub your clit at some point, slurring, "want you to cum first. You deserve it. So fucking good for us."

Patrick makes a sound of disagreement, tightening his grip in your hair as his hips begin to stutter. Not because you aren't being good for them—you're so fucking perfect—but because he wants to be able to see and hear you properly when you cum. He doesn't have the vocal capabilities to voice that aloud right now, though, so he just continues to thrust eagerly past your swollen lips until his climax hits him. You'd be worried about the obscene slew of noises coming from Patrick's hotel room if it weren't a presidential fucking suite. God, why does that make this so much hotter?

He groans out your name—or maybe it was Art's?—as he releases, holding your head in place to ensure it's all aimed down your throat. The salty taste isn't foreign to you, but you still grimace. Patrick takes it as an expression of pleasure, though, withdrawing from your mouth and leaning down to press his lips against yours in a fleeting kiss.

"You can cum," he murmurs. You weren't asking for permission, but you nod anyways. Art's grunts of exertion are the loudest sound in the room, the occasional whine slipping past his lips when your cunt squeezes harder around him. Slick fingers circling your clit until he feels you convulsing around him.

You mewl with pleasure, bowing your head forward, your arms and legs threatening to give way from your arched position. But Patrick catches your chin and tilts it upwards, watching the way your eyes roll back as Art fucks you through your orgasm and your spit-slick lips part around his name. “Art, fuck, yeah—“ It's only after Art announces his own climax with a low moan and collapses on top of you that Patrick is kind enough to wipe the drool coating your chin away.

It's all a bit of a blur after that. Shared kisses between the three of you in the darkness when the light has been switched off—sometimes between Art and Patrick, though neither of them have any intentions of acknowledging it. Gentle caresses against sweaty skin as you lay tangled in Patrick's queen-sized bed, praises whispered aimlessly into the quiet of the humid night.

—

You're gone by the time they wake up. A walk of shame back to your own hotel room in a shirt borrowed from one of their suitcases (you don't know which), mourning the loss of that ugly dress you wanted to sell on eBay afterwards to cover dinner for the month. Neither of them speak of the events that occurred the night before until after breakfast has been ordered and Art has taken several pills for his hangover, eating room service on the same chairs you all sat on last night, their jackets still strewn across the back of them.

"I think that was better than either of us getting laid alone," Art comments, poking at his egg with his fork. Both of them are littered with hickeys, but Art bears the worst of it. He's pretty sure most of the marks came from cuddling with Patrick in bed afterwards, but he’s too afraid to mention it. Not a can of worms he wants to open right now.

"Yeah?" Patrick prompts, with a knowing little smile. Even tired and hungover, Art has enough wits about him to know that something is up. He narrows his eyes, dropping his cutlery onto his plate and sitting up straighter.

"What?" He demands.

"Nothing."

Art leans forward. "There's obviously something, Pat."

"Just... when have I ever not approached a girl I wanted?"

It takes a moment for Art to really process what that means. Last night was a pleasurable, drunken haze, but he does remember Patrick's words in the reception hall. It makes sense now—that bullshit about Patrick waiting for you to approach him.

... Manipulative little bastard. That doesn't stop Art from replying with:

"Fuck you, man." A pause. "... But I think we should do that again some time."

[luckyjorabbit]

Coming soon, May 2025…. ✨🤖🌹🤖✨

[aromanthur-lester]

I understand why every companion decides to travel with the Doctor on a whim because I, too, if faced with the option to pay rent in London or the option to live in a police box rent-free, would choose the second one.

[seongminiz]

/ᐠ - ˕ -マ good kitty ₊˚⊹♡

. . ? boy pussy cat hybrid jungwon x gn reader – smut / minors dni ; 1135 words

cw dubcon ? , switch/sub leaning jungwon , possessive jungwon , scratching , dry humping , heats , fingering , praise , a liiiiittle tiny bit of spit .. ; very half assed n not proof read bc thats the jo seongminiz way of life , yes i did that thing where my grammar/writing gets better the further u get into the fic IM SORRY

(dont ask me how i had this idea it just spawned in my brain through the sheer power of lesbianism)

cat hybrid!jungwon was kind of shy when u first started living together , but he quickly warmed up to you n became sooo clingy, now he follows u everywhere you go n asks for cuddles n head scratches at any time of the day , no matter how busy u r ..

despite being so clingy , though , jungwon was never as desperate for your attention as he has been for the past few days : constantly sneaking up on u n wrapping his tail around your waist , or letting it snake up your leg , rubbing his nose on your neck and holding you tighter than usual when you cuddle .

jungwon has also started showing a possessive streak , wagging his tail and flattening his ears in discontent when you come home from work n your clothes smell like someone else – rationally , he knows its normal , he shouldn't be this upset by you simply going outside n interacting with other people , even other hybrids .. but there's a more irrational part of him that has started to think its not fair , n he should just keep you all to himself

this all culminated on one particular night , jungwon has been restless the whole day , waiting for you to come home more eagerly than ever because he needs to see you, to be close to you , to touch you and ... his thoughts trail off as he feels a familiar heat between his legs , one he has forced himself to ignore ever since he moved in with you , but it's been getting so much worse lately , maybe if he asked you for help you could ....

the door clicks open , n you immediately notice something is wrong , mostly because jungwon is sitting quietly by the door , slightly dozing off , the blush on his cheeks more prominent than usual and a hand absentmindedly slipped under the waistband of his sweatpants , just .. there .

'jungwon?' u call out , his ears immediately perking up and twitching as soon as he hears your voice . he should feel bad when he sees the worried expression on your face , almost scared , not knowing exactly whats going on with him – instead , jungwon is happy and , to be completely honest , slightly turned on by it .

'wonie? are you sick?' you try again , crouching next to jungwon , shaking him by his shoulder to catch his attention , but all you get from him is a pained whimper that makes you immediately retract your hand , scared that u might have hurt him in any way .

despite his condition , jungwon still has the quick reflexes of a cat , he wraps his hand around your wrist and he pulls you closer again , claws digging slightly into your skin.

''m sorry' jungwon mumbles, rubbing his nose on your hand before licking the tips of your fingers . it's then you realize his other hand is still between his legs , moving so imperceptibly you wouldn't have noticed if u were any further away . the realization finally dawns on you .

'wonie are you ..' u let the question hang as another whimper leaves the cat hybrid's parted lips . jungwon nods weakly and , before you have time to process it , he has pushed you to the floor , hips straddling yours and both hands now holding you down.

'it hurts' he confesses, not so subtly grinding his hips down on your thigh . you should push him off , help him get through his heat in an appropriate way instead of letting him do however he pleases with you – instead , you just lay there , one hand slowly slipping out of jungwon's desperate grasp and brushing on the exposed skin between his shirt and pants , despite the small feeling of insufferable guilt at the back of your head .

you hook your fingers into the waistband , and jungwon swears he could cum just from you taking his clothes off . he doesn't , but he sure as hell would if he had just a bit of self control less than he does right now .

'what do you want?' you ask , now impossibly turned on too . it would be a lie to say u never felt attracted to jungwon , but this is the first time you have to face that attraction with no other way to cope with it than to act on it . to fuck him .

jungwon doesn't answer , opting to hump your thigh again instead with a broken moan . you can feel his wetness seep through his underwear and your own clothes , and it drives you even more insane .

'jungwon.' you reprimand , voice more firm as you hold his hips still . he tries to protest , but relents once he realizes you won't let him get away with being a brat , not when he's the desperate one at least .

'need ...' he stops for a second , looking like he genuinely can't form a coherent thought – and he probably , truly can't . the blush on his cheeks deepens as he avoids your gaze , his tail twitching against your legs .

'need your fingers.' he finally mumbles , bending down so he can hide his face in the crook of your neck out of embarrassment .

'see? it wasn't that hard, was it?' you pet jungwon's hair , as your free hand finally slips past his underwear . and god , he's even more wet than you expected , completely soaking your fingers the moment they come in contact with his pussy .

jungwon moans , loud , his whole body freezing up for a split second as you immediately push two fingers in his hole , his walls contracting around them before he relaxes against you , drool dripping out of his mouth and onto the collar of your shirt .

'good kitty,' you praise as you start to move your fingers , relishing in the way jungwon twitches , and moans , and squeezes at every little movement , until he's gripping your shoulders and his claws rip through your clothes – you'll definitely make him pay for that when he's in a more sound state of mind – to mark your skin .

''m gonna cum' jungwon's voice cracks , slightly more high pitched as you add a third finger and curl them inside of him .

'you're gonna cum for me?' you push the heel of your palm on his clit 'gonna cum like a good kitty?'

'yes' jungwon whines , grinding his hips down to meet your thrusts . 'like your good kitty.'

that one self-admission is enough to send jungwon over the edge, trembling and moaning, and cumming so hard he soaks your clothes too , clenching around your fingers until he's completely spent .

you both just lay there , on the floor , too tired to move , or do anything , really – despite your own , new 'problem' between your legs . you'll take care of that later , though . for now , you stay still , petting jungwon's head as he licks and bites along your neck , mumbling 'thank you's and small apologies , and saying something about cleaning you up .

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

Being immortal and married to Solomon means that every century that passes, you both hold a little ceremony on the anniversary of your wedding day to renew your vows.

You both get dressed in the attire you wore from the first wedding, kept away safely for special occasions like these. Solomon’s heart stops every. single. time. he sees you as those same old feelings of pure awe return as if he were marrying you for the first time all over again. Of course, you feel much of the same seeing him with his hair slicked back, knowing he only does that for very important occasions. That pretty shade of pink (a shade you’ve come to favor), dusts his cheeks the moment you both lock eyes…and it’s nothing short of beautiful.

Declarations are shared from memory, though no two declarations are the same. You both always have something new to say to the other, whether it’s of fond memories of the experiences you’ve had throughout the years or of feelings that never cease to grow. Anyone who gets to witness this moment will believe that no two souls are more perfect together than yours and Solomon’s. You both just glow from the sweetness of the day as you welcome in a new century of love and joy together.

[t-allyitup]

@owmylasagna-blog has an incredible fanfiction on ao3 titled "like me still" and it's been keeping me going these past few days so ... fanart of a fanfiction?

this is one of my fav moments hehe, art isn't my strong suit but i thought id try! storyline of the comic ofc belongs to the writer :)

[iwannascreameurekaa]

"oh why don't pjo fans know that Apollo told Jason Leo was alive" probably because most pjo fans refuse to read ToA and actually only nitpick what they want to assume is canon. they'll bitch over Jason's death but refuse to acknowledge Lavinia, or Shelper, or crest, or Lester's growth, or megs trauma, or any of the actual things that stick out when you read the series!

[joneevarts]

He's more pretty than I intended. One day I'll manage to draw him like I imagined him.

[krayonela]

✏️ wip 🐢🌸

[jordiemeow]

Letting dodge let off steam after a long day working at the diner (i feel like such a freak for requesting this but…🤭)

!!!!!! Hell yeah we r freaks in this together. him coming over to see u bc he's so tense after dealing w fuckers like ray all day.... raghhhh

warnings: general smut (p in v), brief mention of using a belt as a restraint, no reader orgasm (tsk tsk), jo thirsting over dodge for 1.5k words

Dodge is always a bit of a whiny baby after a bad shift. Funny, because to everyone else he seems to be so detached—but with you, he can be himself. Sometimes that's more of a curse than a blessing.

That's what you're expecting when his truck pulls up outside your house. Bouncing down the hall to greet him by the door, prepared to feign sympathy and bat your pretty lashes at him until he feels better. You've got the place to yourself tonight, thankfully. No parents. Ah, one look at his sullen face is enough to tell you he's had a rough day. But instead of the long rant you'd mentally prepared yourself for as soon as you caught a glimpse of his truck outside your window, he's kicking the door shut and backing you down the hall.

"Dodge, your shoes—" You start to protest, but he silences you with a kiss. Well, hard to argue when his tongue is already in your mouth and his big, firm hands are squeezing your hips. Thank god you're home alone.

“Doesn’t matter. Need you.”

He breaks free to shrug his jacket off his shoulders. It gets discarded onto the floor of your hallway, and his shirt is next to go as the pair of you stumble blindly through the threshold of your kitchen. He hardly gives you time to ogle the muscled expanse of his chest before his mouth is descending on yours again. There's no method to it, just intent. The intent to devour you, apparently.

Your back hits the marble counter behind you. You cry out at the sharp pain, but the sound is swallowed right into his mouth. He'll have you crying out for other reasons in the next few minutes, no doubt. A heartbeat later and his hands are beneath your own shirt. No time to be wasted, clearly, as he gropes your breasts and groans in satisfaction at the feeling of flesh beneath his palms. No bra? Oh, this is exactly what he needed.

"Perfect fuckin' tits," he mumbles, the words slurred into your mouth. He presses you harder into the surface; the pain is hardly a dull throb when you're so aroused.

"What's gotten into you?" You ask breathlessly as one of his hand snakes down beneath your waistband. Fingers find both your clit and a nipple simultaneously, and you jerk forward a little with a pitiful whine. Not that you can move much, mind you, when you're sandwiched between the kitchen counter and the hard planes of his body.

He rolls the sensitive bud between his fingers, relishing in the way your back arches towards him as your nipple hardens. "Just a bunch of assholes at the diner."

Awfully vague explanation. Why are men so bad at speaking about anything? You have to concentrate hard to get out a breathless follow-up question. "Yeah? What'd they do?"

"You gonna grill me or just let me fuck you?"

Oh, that really does it for you. You clench around nothing as his fingers tease your clit and nipple. You've never seen him like this, but you're far from complaining.

"Well, I just—" A finger slipping into you cuts you off with a gasp at the sudden intrusion.

"Rhetorical question. You're gonna let me fuck you."

All you can do is nod wordlessly as another finger slides in to work you open. He's back to swallowing up your pathetic little moans again, crooking his fingers against that sweet spot inside you that has your eyes rolling back.

"Wet enough," you hear him mutter to himself, half-spoken against your lips.

"Wha—?" His fingers withdraw and his hand leaves your shirt, and then you're being manhandled around. Panties and underwear yanked down to your knees, cheek pressed into the cold, smooth marble of the counter. He's too impatient to strip you properly.

You can hear the sound of his belt buckle being undone, followed by the unmistakeable zip of his jeans. "Not... not here, Dodge."

He scoffs behind you. Not here? You're home alone, for Christ's sake. And he's fucked you in places much worse than bent over your dad's kitchen counter.

"Don't make me use this," he warns, the cool metal of the buckle pressing against your lower back where your shirt has ridden up. He's joking, you think. Not that you'd be opposed to it in the first place—whether he means wrapped around your wrists or to redden one of your pretty little ass cheeks, you aren't sure. Both?

Another wordless nod. He can't tell whether that's consent for the belt to be used or you just agreeing that you'll stop your whining, but he's too impatient; you can play around another time. Right now he just needs his cock stuffed inside you and his exhausting shift to the back of his mind.

The belt clatters to the floor, and his jeans and boxers drop to his knees. Normally he eases himself into you—he's such a tease when he wants to be, making you beg for each inch and goading you with little comments of "you sure you can take it all?" But now, he presses into you with one snap of his hips.

It punches all of the air out of your lungs. You cry out beautifully at the sudden stretch, fingers curling around the edge of the counter.

"Oh— W-wait, need a second—"

"You can take it, baby." It's the exact opposite of what he normally tells you. You can't tell if he's comforting you or telling you that you will take it, either. He has the grace to give you a few seconds to adjust, but after that he's moving. Deep strokes that have little bitten off moans passing your lips.

"C'mon. Tell me you can take it," he instructs, one hand on your hip and the other in your hair to hold you in place as he ducks down to murmur in your ear. You can feel the pressure of his front against your back, the warmth over your rucked up shirt.

"I can— ngh— yeah, I can take it," you choke out.

That earns you a smack to the ass in approval as he straightens back up. "That's my girl."

He's decidedly not nice about it anymore. Focused entirely on taking out all his frustrations on you, slamming into you with the most obscene sounds imaginable as his skin slaps against yours. He's done with talking—no time for words when your cunt is squeezing him so perfectly.

One of your hands releases the edge of the counter and tries to make its way down beneath you to pay attention to your neglected clit. He catches your wrist, holding it in place before it can stray away from the surface.

"No. This is for me," he grunts. "You just lay there 'n' take it for me."

Well, that's a little mean. But... extremely hot. "O-okay, I can— ah— can do that."

The only way to describe it is him fucking you absolutely senseless. You're practically drooling onto the counter with each rough thrust, babbling senselessly about wanting to take it for him and make him feel better.

All you can hear through your haze is his balls slapping against your ass, the slick sound of him burying himself into your heat, your own desperate mewls and Dodge's grunts of effort. You have no doubt he'll make it up for you later with his head between your thighs after he's cooled off. Hopefully in your bed, and not making a mess of your dad's kitchen.

His other hand moves to push your shirt up a little further, calloused fingers skimming along your spine. A surprisingly gently touch considering the brutal pace he's set, tracing over the spot where you'd hit the benchtop too hard. You'd think it was an apology if it weren't for the little hum of satisfaction he gives.

His grip tightens around the wrist pressed into the hardened limestone, and the occasional stuttering of his hips signifies his oncoming climax. "Wanna cum inside. Can I?" His voice sounds rough, strained.

You just whimper in reply, fingers clenching fruitlessly into a fist. The way you rock back onto him should be an answer in itself, but it doesn't stop him from groaning—

"C'mon. Say it."

You aren't even sure you're capable of speaking right now, voice raw from crying out with each sharp thrust. "If it'll make you feel better," you manage.

"Feeling charitable, sweetheart?" He sounds amused, but the little smirk is wiped right off his face when you clench around him. Yeah, no, he's not lasting any longer at all.

A few more thrusts and he's burying himself to the hilt to spill into you with a ragged groan. "Ah, fuck, take it—" And you do. You take it all with a moan at the warmth filling your cunt, face still pressed into the marble.

The silence that follows is only broken by Dodge's pants of exertion as he comes down from his high. You can't bring yourself to ask him to move, either, even when your cheek is no doubt imprinted and your legs are trembling.

Eventually, though, in a rough voice: "Needed that."

You can't help but smile. "Yeah. I can tell."

You feel a little guilty for thinking it, but you hope he has bad days more often if that's what you get as soon as he's in the door. Maybe he'll let you cum next time, too.