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andypantsx3 · 2 months

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𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞 : 𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: 1.7k of unedited alien prince shouto thoughts based on this post from the other day! sfw, gender neutral reader. several elements of this universe were borrowed from my fave sci-fi novel; see end notes for deets!

he's beautiful—the todoroki prince. tall and strong in his high-collared uniform, strapped with lean muscle and handsomely humanoid. he's the first thing that snares your gaze as your party is guided into the hall of the sun—the reception dome that overlooks the rise of the star yuuei in the morning sky, used by the ruling family to receive visiting dignitaries.

it is morning, in endeavorian planetary time, and the sun has begun to rise. its light is weaker than you remember from back home—almost watery, pooling like quicksilver in the panes of the dome's ceiling.

up at the front of the hall, it catches in the strands of the white half of the prince's hair. from what izuku has told you, it's the half that indicates he's part of the himura bloodline. the himura dynasty has ruled the yuuei system from its capital planet of endeavor iv for tens of thousands of earth-years. it's the second longest line of unbroken rulers in mapped galactic history, an impressive feat.

the other half of the prince's hair is a fiery red, like that of the man who stands next to him—todoroki enji, the general of intergalactic renown, who donated half of prince shouto's genome as well as his clan name. each time a himuran royal from the main line marries, izuku had explained, talking at lightspeed in the podship, they take a branch name, typically sourced from the primary gene-donator. it helps keep inheritance lines clear.

prince shouto looks like he's inherited empress rei and todoroki enji's genes in exactly half—his coloring split down the middle, though his features are perfectly, almost hauntingly symmetrical. he wears a pin of flint at his collar that symbolizes his gender—one of yuuei's thirteen official designations. from what you understand from izuku, it most closely aligns with earth designation "man".

it's embarrassing how much you notice about the prince as you file into the hall, stationing yourself right at the gap between izuku and tenya's shoulders, so you can still see todoroki shouto.

"you don't think they'll reject the treaty and kill us all, do you?" denki mumurs nervously as he presses in behind you.

"no, i don't think so," izuku's gentle voice drifts back to you. he's a three-star ethnologist, studying for a command ethnology post. subsequently he's the most informed of any of the cadets that have been sent along with the treatise party. you and denki are just mechanics, sent along in case anything goes wrong.

"the alliance would be too much trouble for the yuuei," izuku explains. "they have good relations with the surrounding galaxies and tight control over a lot of resources. but the alliance is really large now, compared to the last time they approached the yuuei. they'll likely want to accept at least a loose federation with the allies."

up on the platform at the front of the hall, prince shouto blinks long and slow, like an earth cat. you realize with a start it's the first time you've seen him blink at all, and the subtle reminder that he is not just an extraordinarily handsome human man but the prince of an alien species makes your skin prickle.

"don't you think it's weird they are all this pretty?" denki asks. "it's weird, right?"

"definitely weird," you laugh, your eyes trailing over prince shouto's blade-straight nose, his pert, perfect mouth. "possibly illegal under intergalatic law."

prince shouto stills all of a sudden, and there is the tiniest tilt of his head. two heterochromatic eyes flick over your way, and you are completely embarrassed by the way your stomach swoops in response. you just manage not to grab onto tenya's uniform to steady yourself.

one of the prince's eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly, and you wonder if he's heard you from this distance—but no, that would be insane.

denki picks up his commentary, emboldened by your playing along. you think the prince's eyes linger just a little too long on the gap between izuku and tenya's shoulders, but then you're distracted by the reception beginning.

the alliance treaty officer strides forward, flanked by a few of the other officials your crew had ferried here. she performs an elaborate bow, as do the other officials. from izuku's muttering you gather it's some sort of ritualistic greeting, and empress rei at least looks pleased with it, waving a gentle hand to gesture the party forward.

there is some shuffling as various aides set up a table and a series of holo-tablets, along with various inks, a leathery roll of endeavorian traditional parchment, and—

"is that a knife?" you ask, peering at the long obsidian blade placed on the table in front of the officials.

izuku's fluffy head of green curls inclines. "treaties are sealed twice. once in the alliance fashion and then again in the local custom, to make it binding per both systems. blood pacts have been used in yuuei for millennia."

the brush of something over your face has your gaze turning back to the prince—to find him staring straight at you, those unblinking eyes boring into you.

"izuku, weird question. can the yuuei hear across rooms?" you ask, suddenly self-conscious.

a green eye peers back at you. "only in the event of their pair bonds—the yuuei are documented hearing their matepair across approximately ten earth-kilometers. i think we're safe over here though. why?"

matepair. the world settles strangely under your skin, as the prince's eyes brush across it.

"uh, matepair?" you echo.

tenya gives both you and izuku a quelling look, but it's not enough to deter izuku from ducking down to explain in slightly quieter tones. "the yuuei look human but they pair differently. they form a parapsychic bond with only a single partner, which they maintain and uphold for life. it's not just cultural—it's like a physical compulsion. they cannot take another pair, and they cannot be separated for long periods or they grow sick."

prince shouto is still staring straight at you, and it's not quite comforting enough to know that he cannot possibly hear you.

it's only his role in the ceremony that seems to eventually break the prince's weird focus in your direction. he steps forward to perform his duty as empress rei's chosen heir. you almost flinch as the knife draws across the pale skin of his palm, and he adds several drips of silvery blood to the parchment, symbolizing yuuei's intent to uphold the treaty across future monarchs.

the flesh of his palm knits itself back together in seconds, and another little shiver goes up your spine. those mismatched eyes flash back your way as he steps back, and the various aides and officials once again converge on the documents.

there is a brief flurry of activity, various bows and oaths, some stilted endeavorian verse. the chief treaty officer looks relieved when it's all over, and the royal family steps down from the dais to greet the rest of the visiting party, as is the customary honor granted to allies to the yuuei. tenya ushers you into the queue near the back with denki, a symbol of your lower status as mechanics.

you don't mind, as the thought of reaching prince shouto has your stomach doing what feel like backflips in your gut. the longer the delay the better.

izuku had walked everyone through the appropriate greetings on the podship, a few murmured words and a hand touch at chest-level—extremely hard to mess up, even for you. but nevertheless your pulse kicks up the closer you draw to the royal family.

there's a long line of them you greet first. offshoot branch members, then general todoroki enji, whose enormous palm burns hot against yours and who looks he'd rather take your party's hands off than touch them. then rei's unchosen heirs—the princess fuyumi, prince natsuo—and a gap where prince touya would have stood, were he not offworld.

and then you're standing in front of prince shouto, your pulse pounding in your ears. he's extremely tall up close, clearing six feet easily, broad across the shoulders and handsome in a way that almost makes your teeth ache. the yuuei look deceptively human, but this near you can see the tiny details that separate them from you—the slight double-point to their ears, the silvery undertone to their skin, the prolonged space between their breaths and their blinks.

and of course their inhuman beauty. they don't quite look like regular people, and it sparks a tiny note of wariness in the primeval part of your human hindbrain.

prince shouto's mismatched eyes pin you, silver and blue, as a sudden, silvery flush creeps across his face. you hold your hand out in greeting, trying not to wonder if you've somehow managed to offend him already—but instead of pressing his palm against yours, his long fingers suddenly grasp yours, clasping tightly.

beyond him, empress rei freezes too. all at once you can feel every single himuran noble turn to look at you, hundreds of eyes pinning on you.

reflexively, words tumble out of you. "shit did i—what did i do? were you supposed to get a different hand thingy?"

you can hear the treaty officer's horrified inhale at the terms shit and hand thingy, deployed in crass galactic standard in front of a literal prince. you immediately wish you could take them back, but from the look on the prince's face, he's already heard them.

something at the corner of his mouth twitches, like he's trying not to smile.

"y/n," he says, in a deep tone. it's crisply accented and just as beautiful as the rest of him.

it takes you a second to realize prince shouto has used your name, which he could not possibly know considering the uniform you'd been issued for the yuuei visit has no unique identifiers on it. you glance down at yourself, then back up at him, befuddled.

"how did you—? where did you—?" you garble out. "did denki put you up to this? how do you know me?"

prince shouto's fingers smooth over yours, delightfully warm, calloused and sure. "i would know you in any universe," he says, voice soft. behind you, you hear princess fuyumi make a tiny sound of delight.

you blink. "universe? what—uh, what universe? how would you—?"

but shouto leans in, tugging you closer with those deceptively strong fingers. he's so very warm up close, and so beautiful it makes your brain short circuit, especially as he lowers his face to yours. a shiver rolls down your spine as his other hand takes you gently by the chin.

and then he murmurs a single word before pressing his mouth to yours—

"matepair."

𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: credits where they are due!! the idea of a space general dna donator, an overarching space alliance pursuing a treaty, & the flint pin denoting gender were taken from my fave sci-fi novel winter's orbit by everina maxwell! (if you love heartfelt gay love stories in space i am actually begging you to read it).

#todoroki x reader #shouto x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #shouto x you #todoroki x you

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authorhjk1 · 5 months

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A request for Sana's delicious tiddies please!

https://www.instagram.com/p/C0dZRXrvuyU/?igshid=NTc4MTIwNjQ2YQ==

The Roman goddess

Minatozaki Sana X Male Reader

The museum you are strolling through is called Castel Sant' Angelo. It used to be tomb for the Roman Emperor Hadrian and his family. Now, it's a very well known museum in Rome.

You admire the architecture and the sculptures standing around. The ceilings are quite high. All the walls are painted, the gorgeous colors bringing the ancient scenes to life.

You are not only here for fun though. It started around two years ago. Your career as an author. Until December two years ago, you did write, but it was more for yourself. You finally made your breakthrough with your first novel "The Roman eagle", about a lowly born Roman legionary, who rises through the ranks. You never thought this would make you big. And you didn't expect so many people wanting more. You didn't plan on it, but that one book is slowly turning into a series.

The second book came out at the end of last year. "The curse of Neptune". And now, you are working on your third. Since you didn't plan on writing a series, you have started to introduce several main characters with their own life stories.

You are now sitting on your third part. Not having a title yet, you keep wandering around the museum. You have already written quite a few pages, but the new character you want to introduce is hard to picture. It's supposed to be a woman. A woman, who is deceitful and ambitious, not caring about the ones around her. She only married her husband for his status and is now aspiring to climb the ranks. With or with out him.

You enter another room. The ceiling is high as well. The painted scenes show several different parts of day to day life from the Romans and their gods. The center of the room is reserved for a tall, almost life-size statue. Being an expert in history, especially Roman history, you can tell immediately that that's Venus. The goddess of love.

Wanting to have a closer look, you step forward. But your gaze is caught by the woman who is standing between you and the piece of art, her back turned towards you.

Her posture is flawless and you can't help but admire how straight her back looks, due to the white high heels she is wearing. The black skirt is quite long, almost reaching the floor. As you walk past her right, you see that it has a large slit in the front. Her naked leg is more than just captivating.

Glancing at the statue, you've always wondered how Venus would look like, if she was real. It feels like you might be able to paint a picture now.

The woman's white top is highlighting her chest, the fabric stretching over her tits. The turtle neck and the tied back hair make her look elegant and strict. Like a teacher or a rich man's wife.

Standing next to her, you smell her scent. Definitely flowers. Maybe roses? You were never the flower expert. Would Venus smell like this too? Roses are always considered the flowers of love. The idea doesn't seem too far fetched.

You notice that the young woman is standing quite close to the statue, holding a brochure in her hand. Usually, knowing about history isn't really a great turn on for women. But being in a museum, you might give it a try. She does have that classy look. So maybe she could be interested?

"Art and war should always be studied from a healthy distance."

You see her react. Not her face, since you are still standing two steps behind her, but the slight turn of her head. You could swear the corners of her mouth turned upwards, before she turns back towards the statue.

One step. Two steps. Her heels disrupt the silence in the otherwise empty room.

"A lot of people think that Venus and Aphrodite are the same goddess."

You were able to take a quick peek at the brochure she is holding. The people who work here should do a better job.

"But they have quite a couple of differences."

You wait a couple of moments. She doesn't say something or turns around. But she didn't run, which is at least a good start.

"While Aphrodite is the goddess of love, beauty and sex, Venus has to offer more than just that."

You walk behind the young woman, starting to feel comfortable, talking about a topic you are very familiar with.

"She actually started out as the goddess of gardens and vineyards. Before the Romans merged her with her Greek counterpart. And even then, she represents not just lust and sex. But also motherhood. You could say that she is a more loyal woman."

You glance at the woman, whom you are standing next to now. Her left side profile almost makes you stutter. She really must be a goddess.

Knowing that you might never meet someone like her ever again, you decide to shoot your shot. What's the worst that could happen? She could scream and run away. But it's only the two of you anyway.

"Which form is the one you can more easily identify with? The Roman, or the Greek one?"

You stand next to her, your shoulders almost touching. Turning your head towards her you almost whisper.

"Loyal? Or promiscuous?"

A smirk plays around the brunette's lips. She is not running yet.

But to your huge disappointment, she raises her right arm, her hand on the same hight as her chest. You are only distracted for a second, before you see the golden ring on her finger. It's decorated with a huge diamond in the center and a couple of smaller ones all around.

Of course she is married. A woman like her? Come on. You sigh internally. You should've figured.

"Promiscuous."

You were about to turn around as you hear her sweet voice. It takes you a second to realize what she says.

"I think I would be more like Aphrodite."

Is she saying you still have a shot? Even when she just showed you that she is married?

"Tell me more. I'm not sure if I can make a decision yet."

And she wants you to keep talking?

You take a deep breath, not wanting to screw this up.

"Venus has a more elevated status than Aphrodite. Her arguably most famous human son is Aeneas. The man who established Rome. A lot of emperors' wifes identified with Venus."

You see the woman tug a strand of her brown hair behind her ear.

"And you are saying that the Greek form wasn't as important?"

It's the first time she actually looks at you. Her beautiful features make her look way more elegant than from the side. Her lipstick makes her look stricter than she might usually would. You can tell that she is Asian, but not from which country.

"She was important. But not in the same way as Venus. She did have her own celebrations though."

The brunette is now fully turning towards you. It takes a lot of willpower to not look at her chest. It's almost as if she could sense your struggle. She places her hands on her hips, barely leaning forward. It makes her tits look just a little bigger.

"What kind of celebration?"

Her voice has changed. Until now, she spoke quiet. Just like someone should, while visiting a museum. But she is now whispering. Just like you did before. Her captivating gaze makes you stare into her eyes.

"A big part of the celebrations were Aphrodite's priestesses. The Greeks used a suiting form of worship for the goddess of love."

You take a step closer. Your shoe grazes hers. The smell of roses becomes a little stronger.

"They slept with her priestesses. That's how they worshipped her."

The brunette is unable to hold back her chuckle.

"And you are sure you didn't just make that up?"

For a moment her cute side shines through. She looks adorable when she smiles.

"I didn't. You can look it up."

"I don't want to though. I like listening to you."

"Well..."

You are too surprised to give a good answer. And there is not much more to say about the topic anyways.

The brunette seems to have caught up on that.

"What do you think about worshiping her now?"

"What?"

Your surprised face makes her almost moan out. You looked quite confident while hitting on her. The fact that you are getting shy is a turn on for her.

"There aren't many people here. And I think we should do it in front of the statue. You know? To pay our respects."

A million reasons why you shouldn't do this rush through your head. More than enough to say no. And yet, you can't help but catch yourself, leaning forward.

Your lips meet and you can immediately feel her hands wrap around your back. The kiss turns sloppy very fast. Pure lust and want radiate from her lips.

Once she breaks away, you can see that her lipstick is a little smeared. She seems to have recognized the worry in your eyes.

"Don't worry about my husband. Didn't Aphrodite constantly cheat on hers too?"

She got a point there. She did very much so.

Her lips meet yours once again. And this time your hands start to explore her body as well.

You still can't believe you've managed to come this far. She is probably the most beautiful woman you've ever seen. She could be the human form of the goddess.

"How bad do you want my tits?"

The fact that she caught you doesn't even bother you. Your mind too focused on taking in her flawless body.

"Really bad."

Her lips meet your neck, definitely leaving a hickey there.

"Show me."

You start pulling at the white fabric, getting it out of her skirt. Your hands dive underneath as the brunette locks lips with you again.

The smoothness of her skin is intoxicating. Her tight midriff feels well toned and cared for. Your fingertips reach her bra as you continue your quest.

Her hands are not idle either. You feel one of them opening the button of your pants, while the other has taken a fistful of your shirt. It's as if she is pulling you into her. Her hand sneaks into your pants, her fingers searching for the waistband of your underwear.

At the same time, you've finally gotten rid of her bra. It slides down her clothed frame, before it falls to the ground. It's white.

Her tits feel amazing. They are just as smooth as her skin. You start to knead them, still unable to understand how you got here.

She is a goddess. How are you able to stand in some museum, while you play with her tits? A mystery you don't even want to uncover. Some things are better left unknown.

The brunette's hand has found it's way into your boxers by now. Her slim fingers dance along the length of your shaft.

A moan escapes her lips. It's one of the most beautiful sounds you've ever heard. You didn't know that a person could sound so perfect.

"That cock of yours...."

She trails off, slightly biting your lower lip.

"It feels so big."

Her words make you even harder. A normal reaction to a goddess like beauty telling you that you have a big dick. Something you thought you would never ever experience in your life.

Your hands become a little rougher as your animalistic instincts slowly take over. You never felt so uncontrollable before.

Pinching her nipples, you hope for another moan. You get one. She moans into your mouth, closing her hand around your cock.

"I want this in my mouth."

You feel her pulling away. Your hands regretfully leave her tits and her top. But when she starts to kneel down, a wave of pure happiness washes through your body.

An excited tingle rushes through every fiber of your being as you watch her pulling down your pants. Your boxers following quickly after.

A gasp escapes her mouth, when she sees your cock for the first time.

"My husband isn't even half as big."

With a big smile, her face turns into something very cute. She gives your tip a kiss.

"A cock worthy of fucking my tits."

Her words turn you on even more. Her lips slowly wrap around your tip.

It takes her a while to pick up the pace. But once the brunette is there, her blowjob is quick and effective. You remember that you are still in a museum, standing pants down in front of a statue of Venus.

You are not a very religious person. But in that moment, you pray to that goddess, thanking her for this incredible experience.

Your prayer is interrupted by the brunette's slurping sounds. Her wet blowjob has ruined her lipstick completely by now. She looks so hot with your cock in her mouth. She places both her hands flat on your hips, before starting to fuck her face onto your cock.

You can't help but let out a loud groan, your hand automatically wanders to the back of her head. You don't start to dictate the pace. But you feel her head going a little faster.

With a woman like her, it's obvious that you won't last long. Especially if said woman fucks her face with your cock. You feel your orgasm approaching. The familiar tug in your lower regions makes you groan.

The brunette seems to have felt you twitch inside her mouth. She moves away, letting your dick fall out off her lips.

"You have a very delicious cock, you know?"

Not waiting for an answer, she starts to pull up her top. It's bunched up above her breasts. You are finally able to see them now. They seem perfectly shaped. Flawless like the ones of a goddess. Not too small, but not too big either. Just perfect handfuls.

"Try not to cum so fast."

Her wink turns her into something cute for just a moment. Then, her goddess like aura is back.

You feel her soft mounds wrap around you. She presses them together, making your cock disappear between them. As soon as she seems ready, you start to thrust upwards. You see her bite her lip as your tip appears in her cleavage.

Fucking her tits feels amazing. It feels better than anything you've experienced before. There is no comparison at all. Her soft mounds feel like they are made for you. Her warmth makes you feel hot and horny.

Eventually, she starts to stick out her tongue. It touches your tip whenever you thrust upwards. The new wetness on your tip makes you remember that your orgasm is close. It also helps with sliding trough her chest.

You have to hold onto her hair again, unable to stand by yourself.

"Your cock feels so good."

You hear her sigh as she stares down at it.

She suddenly looks up, opening her mouth, while sticking her tongue out. Her spit slowly starts to drip down her tongue. You watch as she drools all over her own cleavage. Her saliva starts to coat your cock. It makes her tits feel even smoother.

The young woman let's out another moan.

"I bet you would feel so good in my pussy."

You close you eyes, imagining yourself inside of her. The thought alone, almost makes you orgasm.

"My husband is so small, I'm practically a virgin."

She continues her talking, knowing what it does to you.

"I've never felt the pleasure of someone just pounding into me. I want to feel it. I want to feel how you rearrange my guts."

You hiss out, unable to silence the pleasure that is building up in your system. Only a little longer. You only want to hold out a little longer.

"I have such a tight pussy. You would love it."

Your grip in her hair strengthens as you approach your climax.

"That's it. Cum on my tits. Make Venus proud."

You glance at the statue for just a second. It feels like the woman on her knees is the real goddess. A beauty, too much for you to handle.

"I'm gonna cum."

You grunt out, unable to hold on any longer.

"That's good, honey. Cum on my tits. Use them like a canvas."

You groan one last time.

"Give me all of it."

You explode in her cleavage. Your cum hits her throat and chin, while some coats her tits. It feels like this is the strongest orgasm you've ever had. More cum than usual leaves your body.

In the end, her tits are covered in your semen, just like she wanted. Some is dripping down her chin. You see that her hands didn't get away without some, either. A few drops of your cum stain the big diamond on her ring. She notices it as well.

You watch in awe as she starts to lick her ring clean, after letting your spent cock leave her tits.

"Wow. That's a great load."

She scoops up some of your cum with her finger.

"And it tastes good, too."

She licks it off, before looking at you.

"What do you say? Right here? Or a hotel room?"

The option to say no doesn't even enter your brain. Still afraid of getting caught, you choose the hotel.

The brunette gets off her knees. You watch her pull her top down and putting the hem back into her skirt. Slowly, your cum starts to leave wet spots on the fabric. You pick up her bra, offering it to her.

"Keep it. Maybe you are lucky and you can complete the set."

With those words still lingering in your mind, she takes your hand, leading you towards the exit.

You've never head a clear picture of Venus or Aphrodite in your mind. Now you do. It's the woman who is holding your hand, her chest covered with your cum.

The fact that she is taking you to a hotel is making you hard again.

With one last glance at the statue, you finally know how to continue your next book.

The third part "The Roman goddess" will certainly become a bestseller.

________

Thank you for the ask. I unfortunately don't have the time to write much more.

The introduction seems a little long to me. Please keep sending short requests guys, I'm trying to shorten the part where I set the scene. With limited success as you can see.

Sana in that outfit definitely deserves a proper story, which I'm unable to write at the moment. I hope you are satisfied with that. I might be able to write the follow up somewhere in the future.

Have a nice day!

#kpop #kpop smut #anon #kpop girls #ask #kpop gg #male reader #sana minatozaki #sana #twice #sana twice #sana smut #twice smut

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florencemtrash · 4 months

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The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Two

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warning: None :)

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

“The sun’s barely gone down!” Cassian grumbled, following behind Helion, Rhysand, and Feyre as they walked the cobblestone streets of the Day Court. Every block of the small city contained at least two local bookstores, one cafe that also sold books, one flower shop that also sold books, and/or a small glass box filled with - as anyone could have guessed - more books to be given away for free.

Helion chuckled, “You’re not in the Night Court any more. My people are early to bed, early to rise. Unless of course you spend a night with me.” He winked at Cassian, who had the sense to blush. Indeed the Night Court members had been shocked when the party cleared out not even two hours after the sun had slipped beneath the ground.

Aside from the small scale bookstores which housed the most popular and recently published novels, every sector of the Day Court also had between one to three athenaeum’s - elaborate buildings of ivory stone laced with filigree and windows that lit up like the glowing eyes of an ancient beast. They were the pride and joy of all Day Court members. The windows flickered and shone with the magic used to protect the volumes from the sun. Even as the neighborhood lights slowly winked out, Azriel could track the diligent minds scouring the brightly lit shelves. There was a loving madness in their hunched backs, craned necks, and squinting eyes.

As their troupe reached The Alcove, one of the smaller and cozier athenaeum’s, Azriel couldn’t help but imagine you in a similar display of passionate madness, when you forgot about the world around you and could actually relax.

The Alcove specialized in housing diaries and novels of everyday comforts - quiet, unassuming stories that could steal your heart as swiftly as the grandest tales of war and romance, but with much more discretion. Here, the knowledge pressed between pages with ink was full of warmth and subtlety. The others in your cohort had scorned you for your choice in The Alcove. Why would anyone choose such a dull place to live and work? Why not be surrounded by books on war tactics or history or religion or biology? Someplace useful and worthy of a Librarian’s gifts. But The Alcove had offered you something you’d missed since your mother’s death - a sense of home.

You sat by the bay windows overlooking the darkened street below, breathing in the crisp and cool air that snuck in through the glass. On the other side of your apartment, a similar window overlooked The Alcove’s interior. Hundreds of mahogany shelves lined the high walls of the octagonal building with its signature domed roof. Grand staircases of gold twisted their way up from the ground, connecting to walkways that gave easier access to the volumes housed higher up the walls.

It was a blessing in disguise that you’d chosen to sit on this side of your apartment. Otherwise you would have never seen the Shadowsinger watching you with careful consideration, his eyes faintly glowing like the eyes of a cat. He raised one gloved hand up at you in a wave, a solitary gesture as the rest of his companions and Helion walked towards the stairs that led up to your apartment entrance.

He saw your mouth open in a shocked oh and couldn’t help the faintest smile gracing his lips as you disappeared from view.

“Oh shit.” You sprang up from your seat, eyes madly racing over the contents of your apartment. You were in the middle of a research project on magical signatures and your living space reflected the madness in your mind. Books lay open on the floor, on the desk, on the coffee table surrounded by carefully documented notes and half-scribbled ideas in equal measure. You wouldn’t be able to clean it up in time and, quite frankly, you had no interest in disrupting the chaotic organization. Did you really care about impressing the Night Court and Helion?

The terrifying answer was, yes.

The dining room.

It rarely saw use since you were disinclined to receive guests, and had more recently been repurposed to house stacks of romance novels… best not to let anyone see those…

In the five minutes it took for Helion and the members of the Inner Circle to climb up the dozen flights of stairs, and knock on your door, you’d successfully managed to hide all the smutty romance books in your bedroom, throw a table cloth and candle on top of the dining table, put away the dried dishes that had been displaced on the kitchen countertops, and set a kettle on the stove. Was there anything more that could be done?

Helion smiled brightly when you made your appearance, keeping the door slightly ajar to keep the worst of the living room out of sight. Perhaps this would be a short visit and they wouldn’t even ask to come inside.

“Y/n!” Helion said with a grin, “I present to you the Inner Circle of the Night Court.” He gestured with a grand flourish to some of the most beautiful fae you’d ever had the honor of witnessing.

“Some of us at least.” The High Lord’s voice was liquid honey and filled with enough charisma to seduce a nun.

“The most important ones.” The Lord of Bloodshed said with a boyish grin. The faint scar on his cheek pulled back with his smile.

“I’ll let Nesta know you said that.” The High Lady had swapped out her dress for a more simple pair of black slacks and a billowing shirt that cinched in at the waist, flowing over her body like smoke on water.

“Wait, no. Feyre, I was only joking. Feyre-”

She laughed, tipping her head back while her husband and mate looked on with a tenderness in his eyes you hadn’t expected to see. It wasn’t the love that shocked you so much as the casualness of it. High Lords and Lady’s - from the limited experience you had reading about them in books - were either unreadable or such outrageous flirts they looked ready to jump into the bones of anything that could stand upright or lay down for long enough. Both methods were appropriate to hide their true feelings, but Rhysand and Feyre seemed to take another approach entirely.

Helion coughed when you made no move to introduce yourself, still shell-shocked at the caliber of guests currently at your door, “And to the Inner Circle of the Night Court, I present Y/n Y/l/n. My dear friend and one of the most talented researchers I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with.”

“We’ve heard so much about you.” Feyre said, moving forward on instinct to embrace you. She stopped immediately when she saw you flinch back, but recovered quickly, smiling brightly, “My name is Feyre, and this is my mate Rhysand,” The High Lord tipped an imaginary hat, “And his brothers, Cassian and Azriel.”

“It’s an honor to meet you.” You said politely.

“The honor is all ours.” Rhysand said. He held Feyre closer to his side, one hand ghosting close to her stomach in memory of the child that had grown there not even two years ago. “Helion told us everything you did. Our daughter is alive and well thanks to you, as is my mate.”

You blinked in surprise. You didn’t know Helion had told them about that.

“Oh um, it was a joint effort. My High Lord is too kind.” You said with a respectful dip of your head and all at once your manners flooded into your brain again, “Please, come in.”

You sheepishly opened the door further, allowing the two High Lords and High Lady to grace your apartment. The Illyrians crossed the threshold last. Muscular, leathery wings rippled with power and prestige and it was incredible they managed to stay upright, let alone keep them from dragging on the floor.

You made a mental note to revisit some old anatomy texts on winged fae.

“I um,” You hurried to the kitchen, hearing the kettle start to screech, “I apologize. I wasn’t prepared for guests.” The screaming stopped and you remembered that you didn’t have any matching tea sets.

You reached into the cupboards, face blushing at the assortment of novelty mugs you’d acquired over the years. Hardly fit for a children’s tea party let alone some of the most powerful fae to have ever existed.

“There will be no apologies from you, tonight, my dear.” Helion said with a charming smile, “Not after we’ve barged into your home uninvited and taken over your dining table.”

From over the island you saw that Helion had already settled down at the table, the others following suit. Everyone except for the Shadowsinger.

He lingered by the kitchen archway, keeping a respectful distance as you poured boiling water into the teapot over a mixture of chrysanthemum and rosehip.

“Would you like any help?” He gestured to the tray now loaded with the teapot, cups, and a platter of biscuits that shook in your hands.

“Oh,” You stared at his outstretched hand, soft black leather molded over graceful fingers. “No, that’s alright. I can do it. But thank you for offering.” You stood face to face with him, silently begging him with your eyes to move to the table with the others so you wouldn’t have to suffer the consequences of touching him.

His hand quickly dropped to his side, then slid behind his back. You caught the flash of hurt in his eyes before he masked it.

“There are some cookies in the living room!” You said a little too loudly, “On top of the coffee table. If-if you wouldn’t mind bringing those-” The Shadowsinger was already gone on his mission and you breathed a sigh of relief.

There were more books on the floor than swords on a battlefield. Azriel stepped over them gently, careful not to disturb the precarious arrangement. Books on anatomy, microbiology, human medicine, and magical theory flared outward, tracing the path of Y/n’s mind. Azriel walked it with wonder at the brilliance hidden within the midnight thoughts that had been spilled on paper, before being organized later on with a loving hand. Because that’s what this all spelled out to him - some chaotic, maddening love. He was almost jealous not to be on the receiving end of it… almost.

He saw the platter on the table, but ignored it for the pile of books by the windowsill. These ones were different from the rest. Older and more worn. The bindings were cracked and flexible after being read hundreds of times. He could even trace the faint outlines of your fingers on the leather bindings where natural oils had eaten away at the dye.

He read over the titles and committed them to memory for no other reason than the fact that he liked things that had been well loved.

“I made a mistake don’t-”

Azriel straightened up, color washing over his cheeks as he turned to face you in a sea of paper and leather.

Without thinking, he’d fallen into old habits of poking through people’s belongings. There was a reason Rhysand had made him Spymaster of the Night Court after all.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“Did you eat a cookie?” You blurted out in a panic.

“No, no I didn’t.”

Your shoulders dropped in relief, one hand brushing back your hair. Azriel caught sight of your ink stained fingertips, and the faint mark they left on your temple.

“Oh thank the Mother.” You muttered under your breath, stealing a glance over your shoulder to the dining room where Helion was playing host in your stead and doing a far better job than you would have been capable of.

“Are they poisoned?” Azriel asked, but the joke fell flat upon seeing the horror in your face.

“No! No, that's not why-I should explain myself better. I would never dare try and poison you. Or anyone for that matter!” You scrunched your eyes shut, face burning brighter than the sun at noon.

I’m a fool. I’m making a fool of myself. He’s going to think I’m an absolute idiot. And right after Helion called me a gifted researcher. What a fucking lie.

Azriel, the blessing in disguise that he was, gave you a moment to collect yourself, pretending to find more interest in a volume on snake venom that was laid open on the ottoman.

“A friend baked those for me.” You finally said.

Azriel nodded, a faint smile gracing his face and it caught you off guard. He was beautiful, there was no doubting it so long as you had eyes. What had surprised you was the faint slivers of warmth behind the facade of the cold, brooding Shadowsinger. It was… surprisingly comforting to be standing in a room with him, just the two of you. It was certainly better than the party you’d unceremoniously winnowed out of earlier that day.

“I would never hold it against you if you wanted to save those for yourself.”

Your lips twisted in disgust, “Oh gods no, Cherp is a terrible cook.”

“Cherp?”

“He’s another Librarian I know.” Probably the closest thing to a friend I have. But you weren’t about to tell the Shadowsinger that. “He specializes in chemistry and food history.”

“He’s a food historian?”

“Yes.”

“And yet he’s a terrible cook?” The Shadowsinger tilted his head to the side.

The corner of your mouth tipped up, “The worst.”

“How is that possible?”

You gave it a thought, eyes darting around the walls like the answer was hidden behind paint, “Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, um,” You weren’t sure what to call him.

“Azriel. Call me, Azriel.”

“Azriel.” You said, testing out the shape of his name. You liked it.

“Do you know how many different types of eggs there are, Azriel?”

He cocked his head to the side, “I do not.”

“Thousands, Azriel. Thousands. If I told you to bake a cake with an egg, would you know I meant a chicken egg?” This time you didn’t wait for an answer, “Because you’d be surprised how quickly facts we consider ‘common knowledge’ disappear. Will people know we meant chicken eggs 1 million years from now? Perhaps not! All this to say that when Cherp follows recipes, he usually doesn’t have the knowledge to make it correctly and they turn out bland at best, inedible and poisonous at worst.”

Azriel tipped his head back and laughed, prompting you to explain further, “He once spent ten years researching the evolution of average spoon sizes because so many of his recipes were measured in spoonfuls.”

Azriel smirked, “Is this what you academics get yourselves so worried about?”

You couldn’t tell if he was ridiculing you or not, but the sincerity in his hazel eyes said he wasn’t. “Well we...among other things, yes, I suppose that is something we concern ourselves with…”

“Y/n!” Helion called from the other room, “Stop romancing the Shadowsinger and join us at the table. It’s a futile effort. I’ve been trying for centuries.”

Your face turned a brighter shade of red as you watched Azriel pick his way through the empty spots on the floor. You pressed yourself against the wall to let him pass, a fact that didn’t escape his notice. And when he took a seat at the table, you ignored the unoccupied seat next to him, preferring to stand behind the island like a woodland creature ready to dive into their den at a moment’s notice.

His lips flattened. He’d hoped to make you more comfortable around him after the disastrous events at the party, going so far as to hide the shadows that were clamoring for release. He should’ve known better than to assume one conversation about the historical accuracy of egg recipes would make that discomfort go away.

From your island you tossed pleasantries back and forth like it was a game. But you couldn’t help the stiffness in your posture, the hesitation in your voice when they asked you about your life.

“I’m a Librarian.” You’d first answered, as if it were all that needed to be said. But they pressed onwards, tried to make you laugh. Cassian, especially, liked to poke fun, and despite your best efforts, you laughed.

“All these libraries would make Nesta go feral. She wouldn’t know what to do with herself.”

“What kind of books does she like to read?” You asked, refilling the kettle as the cloudy sky outside darkened into a rich purple-black.

Cassian coughed, face turning red, “Romance.” He answered simply.

“Smutty romance.” The High Lord said, punching Cassian in the arm. His face turned redder.

“Lucky you,” Helion said with a wink that had Feyre bursting out into laughter. It was no secret that Helion had added Nesta onto his list of fae he’d one day like to have in his bed.

“There is an athenaeum that specializes in romance, and there’s no shortage of those sorts of novels… if you’re interested.” You said, hiding your face behind a sip of tea.

“And how would you know about that?” Feyre asked teasingly.

“I… am a Librarian. I know-I know things.” You sputtered unconvincingly. “I went once. Purely for research purposes.”

Azriel gave her a look, a look that said he somehow knew of the eight raunchy books that graced your bedside table and had been well-read indeed.

As the conversation evolved to less embarrassing topics, you were struck by the fact that you were actually enjoying yourself. It was a far cry from the parties that you’d previously been invited to. There was an ease to the Inner Circle. A familial love that flowed off them as easy as water off a whetstone. It was something you hadn’t experienced in quite some time.

Azriel noticed when you fell silent, your mind carried away to more sobering thoughts than Cassian’s most recent travels to the Human Lands. Feyre noticed as well and made her surprise at the time look natural and unscripted.

“Day Court members are early to bed and early to rise aren’t you? I’m sorry we’ve taken up so much of your time.” She said, gently pulling Rhysand up with her as she stood.

“No, not at all. Thank you for coming. I-I hope your daughter is doing well.” Was that an appropriate thing to say? Perhaps it was too threatening to comment on the wellbeing of a High Lord and High Lady’s child. But Feyre didn’t find any fault with that, a glassy look sliding over her eyes as Mor let Feyre into her mind so she could look at little Velaria dozing away in her aunt’s arms back home.

“She’s getting to be more and more of a handful everyday.”

“I wonder where she gets that from?” Cassian chimed in, throwing Rhysand a look as they collected their coats and slowly made their way over to the front door.

Rhysand threw his hand to his chest in indignation, “I was practically an angel.”

Cassian snorted, “More like the devil.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, shuffling the pair out the door into the still night.

Azriel once again lingered behind, the last to leave behind Helion. He stepped out into the night-chilled air, the edges of him disappearing like the darkness had come to reclaim him.

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/n, the Librarian.” He said, dipping into a shallow bow.

“It was lovely to meet you, Azriel…the Shadowsinger.”

He smiled shyly, then froze, the smile slipping off his face into a look of shock. You glanced over your shoulder, missing the explosion of shadows that spilled out from him.

You leapt back upon feeling their cool touch wrapping around you. There was a curiosity to the way they wound themselves through your hair and got tangled up in the folds of your dress. But thankfully, they carried no memories with them. No feelings but a faint relief and comfort that washed over you and gave you back your breath. For the first time in years you were experiencing a touch that you could handle. A touch that was stillness and peace.

“Is everything alright?” You finally looked back at Azriel, his eyes blown open and panicked.

He was not a man of many words. Never had been, never would be. But he wished he could speak everything on his mind.

You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re my mate. You’re the one I’ve been waiting over 500 hundred years for.

But when he saw the concern in your eyes, the gentle tilt of your head that exposed the curve of your neck, he knew it wasn’t the time.

“I-I have to go.”

This time it was his turn to disappear. He swallowed his words, forced down the bond that now burned in his chest with the light of a thousand suns, and fled past the shocked faces of his family members before shooting off into the night sky.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Does this batboy deserve a nerdy mate to tease and have fun with? Yes. I will take no criticism (just kidding if you have thoughts about how my writing is, let me know, just be kind and respectful about it).

Love,

Florence B.

Taglist: @rosebunnysblog @icey--stars @laceandsuch @coralseacourt @cherryinsalemverse @flowerprincezz @valeridarkness @annaaaaa88 @deeshag @bluesiphonsbaby @allyjoe755 @sidthedollface2 2@auggiesolovey @cleverzonkwombatsludge @kemillyfreitas @transparentmoonglitter @ang-taylorsversion @ssmay123 @just-m-2 @sevikas-whore @lalaluch @svtwonwoow @user707sthings @cherryinsalemverse @evylynny @decrepit-bees-knees @eleganttravelercloud @ghostwritermia @smitty-werbenjagermenjenson @fussel9913 @st0rmyt

#azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x mate reader #inner circle #azriel acotar #the shadowsinger and the inkbird #acotar fanfiction #acotar #helion acotar #helion spell cleaver

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sarawritestories · 5 days

Text

You're My Forever

High Lord Eris Vanserra xFem Reader

Summary: Eris Vanserra sits on his throne, allowing himself to be lost in his thoughts when his mate comes looking for him.

Content warning: A little bit of self doubt. A whole lot of love

A/N: This is dedicated to @milswrites who helped me have a major breakthrough in a plot of my Novel and this was the best way I knew how to thank her!

Word Count: 1.3k

ACOTAR MasterList

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of the Autumn Court.

A title the eldest Vanserra child never thought he would receive. Running his hands along the gold arm rests of the throne, as if the cold bite of the metal could keep him rooted in reality a reminder that he wasn’t dreaming. Beron was dead. His reign of terror came to an end. This throne, this manor, the entire Court of Autumn was Eris’. Eris sat on the extravagant piece of furniture crossing his leg over the other and allowed himself this one moment to be lost in his thoughts. A moment where he let his doubts rise to the surface.

Would he be a fair ruler?

Could he make a difference within his court?

Was he a good mate? A good husband?

Would he make a good father? Make sure his kids experienced no harm by his hand as he had with Beron?

Was this just a dream? Would he wake up tomorrow back in the clutches of

“Eris?” Eris blinked at the sound of his name looking up he couldn’t help but smile at the sound of your voice. You had stepped into the throne room a pink silk robe wrapped around yourself, your hand supporting your swollen belly. Your hair fell in soft curls right above your chest, face as radiant as ever.

The newly appointed High Lord met your eyes once more, his mate, his beautiful mate, wife soon-to-be mother, the most beautiful female in all of Prythian in his eyes. Your soft smile still made his chest tighten. “My Little Doe, what are you doing out of bed?”

You approached the dais, you were halfway through your pregnancy and walking was becoming more challenging, “I’m looking for my husband, who should have met me in bed hours ago.” She stopped right in front of him and looked around the room, “I can’t seem to find him, High Lord, you wouldn’t happen to know where he is?”

Eris rubbed his chin as his eyes dipped slightly, your robe slipped down revealing your shoulders just enough, that Eris saw the light pink lace bra and the swell of your breast. and he adjusted in his seat. “My fair maiden, what does this male look like?”

“Handsome, has adorable freckles across his nose, eyes that resemble fiery embers.” Your eyes glanced down to his mouth, “A very kissable mouth,” You smiled, “His hair is red and long and smooth enough that I find myself always running my fingers through it.” You grip his knee clad in his riding clothes from going out to the villages earlier.

“Well, he sounds very beautiful,” Eris puffed out his chest causing you to giggle, and he loved that melodic sound. “He must be if he was lucky enough to have you, as his mate.” His throat tightened; he was a lucky male indeed.

“I believe I am the lucky one. The mother blessed me with a mate, who is brilliant, kindhearted and passionate as he is pretty.” Your smile fell slightly. “Are you okay?”

Eris smiled, and adjusted his legs and patted his lap, “Come here, My Love.”

The High Lord tilted his head as you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’m too big, I’ll hurt you.”

Eris growled, as his brows furrowed, “We’ve talked about this.” He leaned down and gripped your chin, “What did I say?”

You sighed, “I am growing a person, and with that is going to be changes I’m simply not used to.” He quirked a brow, waiting for you to continue. “And if you heard anyone talking down about me, you would be the one to teach them a lesson. Even if said person was me.”

The male kissed your forehead, “Good Girl, now come here and sit on your High Lord’s lap.” He released you from his grasp and leaned back. You stepped toward him, and Eris helped turn you and placed you on his lap, picking your legs up so that they dangled over the arm rest. His arm wrapped around your shoulder, and you placed your hand on the base of his neck. With a flick of his hand all the doors that led to the room locked causing you to jump briefly. “Now, where is that sweet little babe of ours?” You smiled as he tugged at the tie of your robe and the strings fell to the side and the silk slid off your round stomach. Revealing lace panties that matched your top, garter belts holding your sheer stockings in place. With his free hand he grazed your calf and worked his way up your body.

As he began his slow ascent up your body, he could smell your arousal, “Waiting for me in bed? I am a fool.” He reached your stomach, admiring the stretchmarks that have appeared in the last few months. His russet eyes, met yours, “You are the most beautiful creature, and how hope our child is just as beautiful as their mother.” You could feel heat rise to your cheeks, as you leaned your head back as Eris warmed his hands just a bit to ease the discomfort.

“Eris Vanserra, I know what you’re doing.” You lifted your head quirking your brow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His lips pressed to your stomach his fingers sliding under the waistband of your panties.

Your hand found his wrist. And he lifted his head, “Eris, what’s wrong?”

Eris sighed and moved his hand, wrapping you back in your robe. “Nothing is wrong. I have everything I want. I have my court, my throne,” He pressed his forehead to yours, “My beautiful mate, carrying my child.” He closed his eyes. “I’m terrified that I will wake up, and I will find that this will all be a dream.”

“Darling, how long have you been feeling this way?” You whispered pressing your hand to his cheek swiping your thumb a crossed his freckled cheek idly.

“Since I became High Lord.” Before you could scold him, he continued, “I didn’t want to worry you. Or worse, I was afraid that you would think I would turn into my father and leave.”

“You’re my mate, my equal,” You pulled away and lifted his chin, so he met your gaze, “When I accepted the bond, I did it because I love you. Because I knew then what I know now.”

Eris tilted his head, “What is it that you know?”

You leaned in and kissed his nose, “You’re my Forever. I will always choose you.”

Eris smiled and pressed his lips on yours and you granted him access to deepen the kiss. His tongue met yours as he devoured your taste. You moaned in his mouth and felt his cock rise to attention against your ass. You began to move your hips to give the high lord the friction he craved, and he grunted in your mouth. His fingers threading through your hair as he dominated the kiss, his hand idly rubbing your stomach.

He pulled away from you needing air, “You’re mine and I love you.”

You laughed, “I figured, the child in my womb would have been a strong argument for both of those statements.”

Mischief danced in his eyes, “You know I am keeping track of all of your rule breaking for when I can properly punish you.”

You smiled and pecked his lips, sliding off his lap facing the door. Turning your head you winked, “I’m well aware, High Lord.” You untied the robe and let the pink silk fall to the floor turning back to face the High Lord. He admired your full body, and his heart rate began to quicken. “Now, may I show you how much I love you?" You got down on your knee’s hands braced on his thighs.

Eris began unlacing his pants a smirk on his face, “As you wish, High Lady.”

#eris vanserra #eris acotar #eris vandaddy #eris imagine #eris x reader #pro eris vanserra #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra imagine #high lord eris #High Lord Eris Vanserra

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mostlysignssomeportents · 1 month

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The Coprophagic AI crisis

I'm on tour with my new, nationally bestselling novel The Bezzle! Catch me in TORONTO on Mar 22, then with LAURA POITRAS in NYC on Mar 24, then Anaheim, and more!

A key requirement for being a science fiction writer without losing your mind is the ability to distinguish between science fiction (futuristic thought experiments) and predictions. SF writers who lack this trait come to fancy themselves fortune-tellers who SEE! THE! FUTURE!

The thing is, sf writers cheat. We palm cards in order to set up pulp adventure stories that let us indulge our thought experiments. These palmed cards – say, faster-than-light drives or time-machines – are narrative devices, not scientifically grounded proposals.

Historically, the fact that some people – both writers and readers – couldn't tell the difference wasn't all that important, because people who fell prey to the sf-as-prophecy delusion didn't have the power to re-orient our society around their mistaken beliefs. But with the rise and rise of sf-obsessed tech billionaires who keep trying to invent the torment nexus, sf writers are starting to be more vocal about distinguishing between our made-up funny stories and predictions (AKA "cyberpunk is a warning, not a suggestion"):

https://www.antipope.org/charlie/blog-static/2023/11/dont-create-the-torment-nexus.html

In that spirit, I'd like to point to how one of sf's most frequently palmed cards has become a commonplace of the AI crowd. That sleight of hand is: "add enough compute and the computer will wake up." This is a shopworn cliche of sf, the idea that once a computer matches the human brain for "complexity" or "power" (or some other simple-seeming but profoundly nebulous metric), the computer will become conscious. Think of "Mike" in Heinlein's *The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress":

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moon_Is_a_Harsh_Mistress#Plot

For people inflating the current AI hype bubble, this idea that making the AI "more powerful" will correct its defects is key. Whenever an AI "hallucinates" in a way that seems to disqualify it from the high-value applications that justify the torrent of investment in the field, boosters say, "Sure, the AI isn't good enough…yet. But once we shovel an order of magnitude more training data into the hopper, we'll solve that, because (as everyone knows) making the computer 'more powerful' solves the AI problem":

https://locusmag.com/2023/12/commentary-cory-doctorow-what-kind-of-bubble-is-ai/

As the lawyers say, this "cites facts not in evidence." But let's stipulate that it's true for a moment. If all we need to make the AI better is more training data, is that something we can count on? Consider the problem of "botshit," Andre Spicer and co's very useful coinage describing "inaccurate or fabricated content" shat out at scale by AIs:

https://papers.ssrn.com/sol3/papers.cfm?abstract_id=4678265

"Botshit" was coined last December, but the internet is already drowning in it. Desperate people, confronted with an economy modeled on a high-speed game of musical chairs in which the opportunities for a decent livelihood grow ever scarcer, are being scammed into generating mountains of botshit in the hopes of securing the elusive "passive income":

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/15/passive-income-brainworms/#four-hour-work-week

Botshit can be produced at a scale and velocity that beggars the imagination. Consider that Amazon has had to cap the number of self-published "books" an author can submit to a mere three books per day:

https://www.theguardian.com/books/2023/sep/20/amazon-restricts-authors-from-self-publishing-more-than-three-books-a-day-after-ai-concerns

As the web becomes an anaerobic lagoon for botshit, the quantum of human-generated "content" in any internet core sample is dwindling to homeopathic levels. Even sources considered to be nominally high-quality, from Cnet articles to legal briefs, are contaminated with botshit:

https://theconversation.com/ai-is-creating-fake-legal-cases-and-making-its-way-into-real-courtrooms-with-disastrous-results-225080

Ironically, AI companies are setting themselves up for this problem. Google and Microsoft's full-court press for "AI powered search" imagines a future for the web in which search-engines stop returning links to web-pages, and instead summarize their content. The question is, why the fuck would anyone write the web if the only "person" who can find what they write is an AI's crawler, which ingests the writing for its own training, but has no interest in steering readers to see what you've written? If AI search ever becomes a thing, the open web will become an AI CAFO and search crawlers will increasingly end up imbibing the contents of its manure lagoon.

This problem has been a long time coming. Just over a year ago, Jathan Sadowski coined the term "Habsburg AI" to describe a model trained on the output of another model:

https://twitter.com/jathansadowski/status/1625245803211272194

There's a certain intuitive case for this being a bad idea, akin to feeding cows a slurry made of the diseased brains of other cows:

https://www.cdc.gov/prions/bse/index.html

But "The Curse of Recursion: Training on Generated Data Makes Models Forget," a recent paper, goes beyond the ick factor of AI that is fed on botshit and delves into the mathematical consequences of AI coprophagia:

https://arxiv.org/abs/2305.17493

Co-author Ross Anderson summarizes the finding neatly: "using model-generated content in training causes irreversible defects":

https://www.lightbluetouchpaper.org/2023/06/06/will-gpt-models-choke-on-their-own-exhaust/

Which is all to say: even if you accept the mystical proposition that more training data "solves" the AI problems that constitute total unsuitability for high-value applications that justify the trillions in valuation analysts are touting, that training data is going to be ever-more elusive.

What's more, while the proposition that "more training data will linearly improve the quality of AI predictions" is a mere article of faith, "training an AI on the output of another AI makes it exponentially worse" is a matter of fact.

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Text

KINKVEMBER DAY: 9

[prompt: problematic relationships]

male reader x nana

10k words

"Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it?" Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt. "You, me - us?"

And here, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

So, go ahead, cue up the sound of a mental rolodex spinning out while you start to list the very real, very valid, very adult reasons you should never, ever put your hands on her. (1) She's too young for you, (2) you're kind of a community figure, or at least someone who has to appear to be one, and more pertinently (3) she was your student not long enough ago - in your ethics class, the irony of which is not lost on you - and that makes it the kind of dirty, low thing you'd feel guilty for even masturbating to. Let alone actually attempt to live through, no matter how insistent some parts of you might be to the contrary, a point emphasized by the pressure of her finger against the dip just below your sternum.

"These... oh, how should I call them." Nana hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

You're a high school teacher, interdisciplinary. Sometimes history, other times philosophy, you've also taught math - and once, egregiously, home economics when the faculty member whose usual duties consisted of teaching the class was out on a very sudden and scandalous maternity leave. But it's your love of literature that finds you in a bookstore near enough to the high school to sell more used copies of intro textbooks than actual novels.

You're paging through a book you'd say you're considering buying - if any of the store staff were to push the question onto you - when she appears at the other end of the fiction aisle.

You catch the look first of her dyed hair, this perfect shade of chocolate, to the edges, the fade-to-brown, cascading over where a more formal shirt would ostensibly have shoulders.

She smiles; it's pretty.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing down and seeing the modest rise of her chest beneath a crisp-collared sleeveless top; all your typical college-age tells but for the red flannel, rolled back down around her waist. Her fingers, long and thin, dangle from where a uniform button-down would taper off around her wrist, thumb rubbing lazily at her forearm. The briefest glimpse of her nails, all done up in acrylic - perhaps the most potent way to show contempt for an old dress-code.

You have, admittedly, also noticed the length (appropriately, the lack thereof) of her pleated skirt and those frilly stockings that ride so far up the creamy curves of her thighs that it has your stomach rolling and tightening when she shuts closed the book in her hands and says -

"Isn't it weird how most of the novels in the romance section are written by women?”

- she speaks with a slow deliberateness, like she'd only ever hoped to find one of her old teachers alone and slightly vulnerable in a used bookstore -

“Like, how do you think a man would even go about writing those kinds of stories?" She grins, because maybe this isn't really a question at all - not one meant for you, certainly. And for one wild moment, the rush of relief (she's not actually talking to you), then panic (she's actually talking to you.) surges through you.

But then the girl pushes another couple books along the shelf and continues.

"Because I'll tell you what, Professor - all this stuff," a flip-flip-flip of her fingertips against a leathery dustjacket, "about just feeling it, not being able to control it. It's all women, always women." Another wave of her hand to set another row of spines a-shuddering. "Do you ever think maybe people will get tired of listening to girls talking about feelings when what they really need to see is what guys would do?"

There are so many reasons you should turn and run.

So many little flags, flickering wildly in your mind. This is one of your students. Was it this fall? Maybe the last; she had sat front-center. Never slept in, was one of your best by several measures - not simply in regards to the simple repetition of classroom work, but by her insistence on getting in the kind of heated discussion where one might dig their fingers through the innards of your lectures. Not just good - fantastic.

"Nayeon," you end up saying, flat as your suddenly paper-dry mouth can make it - with just the tiniest hint of unease. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

And almost as if she knows that you're trying not to let your eyes dip any lower than the collar of her shirt, her shoulders do that lilting little move (hiking up and away just so), the one that your girls tend to learn a long, long time before your boys ever manage to figure out. She laughs out this pleasant sound, adds: "not that long, sir."

"Well," you're clearing your throat, looking around the bookstore like it might contain a way out, and eventually landing somewhere on her skirt, "you know how fast it all goes."

"Nana, by the way."

“I’m sorry?”

“Nana,” She gently corrects you again with this mischievous slant to her smile, and you start remembering: all the gossip and rumors, how she was being courted by these talent-scouts and labels. A prodigy, or as close to it as anyone from this town could ever get.

Your eyes are starting to sting again when she, this perfect-fit model of your worst impulses, runs her hand through her hair, tugging at the roots a little bit, a silver wristwatch falling slightly down the perfect length of her forearm. It almost hurts not to reach out and steady her. And it definitely shouldn't, but it has you breathing a bit faster. The rationalization: you are a man, and there is a perfectly ordinary part of you that might be aroused by any amount of smooth, inviting skin. That's fine. You're fine.

"Just for the record," Nana starts, still looking like she wants to put a hand forward and hook one long fingernail into the buttons of your shirt. "You were, like, absolutely one of my favorite teachers."

"I guess it's nice to hear I'm not a complete lost cause," you say.

She snorts. "Oh, definitely not." And maybe because, after all of the years you have been teaching these soon-to-be lawyers, politicians, and doctors, you've come to not look down on them for saying the wrong things so much. Though you do envy their absolute ability to say the wrongest of things - just so - just on purpose.

"Are you," you nod at the thick stack of paperback novels that she is still holding, and with which, suddenly, she's bashful and flustered - this perfect shade of pink blossoming through her cheeks. "Actually here to buy those?"

The response: a demure little shrug. A drawl. "We all have our vices, professor."

"I'm not your teacher anymore," and remembering at the last moment, "Nana, you can drop the honorifics, please."

She holds a book out, cover turned toward you, and your mind stalls - even your fingers slip a little where they are resting on the spine of your own paperback purchase. The title is an affront to literacy, and the art on the cover seems to have been produced only with stock photos, gaudy.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Can't say that I have."

"Well," she laughs and has the courtesy not to lay it at your expense, "it is so good." Then, without missing a beat, she twists her lips together, and finds the book flush against your chest. "I'm sure it beats reading textbooks and essays about the merits of Locke and Hobbes' life-after-death stuff all day, anyway. An hour if you can spare the time? I'd love to hear your thoughts on it"

And - ah, there it is. The push.

There is a zero percent chance that, after any of this, things will end neatly for either of you.

You still wonder, slightly, how long Nana will keep up the charade before breaking character - because there's no way in hell she doesn't see what she's doing: wrapping you around her pretty fingers, her shiny, manicured nails, twisting every chance you get to reject her into an excuse to linger that little bit longer.

But it's well over an hour spent at the cafe-end of the bookstore, where she orders an iced-coffee and fills you in on the details you don't really need to hear, what she's been up to these last couple semesters - playing twenty questions; questions about other faculty members, the school, if the school newspaper is still anything like it used to be (for the record: no), then coming back to if you've been seeing anyone lately. That last one slips in so naturally you can't stop yourself from taking a slow drag off of the straw in your drink and answering: "not recently."

Because no honest deed goes unpunished, or however the saying goes.

"Hey," her hands splay out over the tabletop, pushing the cold, condensing water of her glass, smudging where a finger drags a line through the pool.

Maybe she knows. How you're already caught, and there's no going back, which is to say you're perfectly free to watch, hungrily, where her throat moves, and then where her lips part.

"I’ve got the perfect thing for that," and for one unhinged, hysterical moment you picture it, Nana: lying back against a counter or maybe in the cushions of a sofa, panties thrown carelessly over her shoulder; heaving out this soft, heady gasp. You: pushing inside of her for the very first time, both of your legs bracing, the heel of her foot pressed into the small of your back - but before you can convince yourself that she can't be talking about that, and just barely before the air gets stuck in the back of your throat and you realize that you might be so thoroughly, tragically fucked -

"Read this." A snap back into the here and now. She is looking at you very pointedly, not naked - but beautiful and perfect as she leans a bit into the table and crosses those lovely, lovely legs of hers, and tilts the copy of that awful, awful filth at you.

"Nana, respectfully, this is drivel," you say, immediately and plainly, listening to Nana laugh out loud as you glean more than you need to know from the info on the inside cover. "They've crossed like five major genre boundaries for a hook-up. Why should anyone bother?"

"Come on." She waves it off with a careless gesture of her hands. "There's plenty of things to like. Maybe you should give it a chance - broaden your horizons, teach. Besides - the sex scenes?" She rolls her shoulders with the same shrug you remember watching so carefully all those times she made her way, out of the hallways and back into that front-and-center-seat she was always occupying whenever the bell rang. "So filthy. I can show you one of my favorites."

"Doesn't really seem like appropriate reading material for -"

"You said it yourself," her voice has a bright, saccharine tone, just on the right side of strained. And between sips of that straw stuck in the purse of her pert, little mouth, she draws that next sentence - the ice cracking, thinning under your feet -

"Not my teacher anymore."

Nana smiles; this brash, cock-sure thing that reminds you, as you try to clear your throat of the nerves making a bed there: you are actually so, so fucking gone on her. So far gone it hurts, when, with a flourish and a bounce and a complete, reckless lack of discretion, she starts paging through the first chapters.

"Who says you can't study these kinds of stories on an academic level? Think about it: sex sells. Whoever ends up writing, it's a whole lot easier and a hell of a lot cheaper than trying to do it all yourself." She looks up, this mischievous twinkle in her eyes, as she angles her fingertips down on the book and opens it - page after page of very obviously poorly-written sex. You look, not even consciously.

But of course, her fingertips drift lower and lower along the pages until it's evident: she doesn't have an exact page in mind, but only a particular passage -

"Here. Let me show you, just one."

"Alright, fine," you start - trying for an effect of exasperation, something to mitigate this god awful throbbing, "whatever - you get one, one sample paragraph and I'll, you know, whatever."

"Yeah, you'll definitely see. Just trust me. Just the one."

She drums her long, gorgeous nails against the table, then eases back with a finger highlighting the text.

You're screening and scanning the words as she tells you about the heroine in the story: a pretty girl who comes down with a bad case of infatuation for her teacher - unrequited, of course. And then, into a passionate affair, of course; all the most raucous, explicit details laid out over the table for everyone else to hear. She says it is about as nonchalantly as though she had been reading you the daily weather forecast and not an elaborate metaphor for - and here, you stop her.

"He cums on her desk?"

"Fucking hot, right?" She nearly snorts and gestures you onward, her eyebrows jumping - go on, go on.

So, you skim along: a heavy rush of nausea (alongside another) pulsing down around your gut at the thought of actually doing such a thing, your ears going hot and your legs crossing on instinct. There's not so much a breath of hesitation as Nana, cool, unfazed, and utterly unaware of the uncomfortable churning of your stomach and the simultaneous thrumming in your cock, takes another deep swig of coffee.

She hums, thoughtful. "Honestly? Kinda wished it happened to me like that. You were a good, good teacher, professor. I wouldn't have minded your hands all over me." You hear her laugh, and the entire universe collapses like the end-days. You are struck down with feverish conviction: this girl is the worst.

"Anytime you wanted," she adds, so carelessly.

There's a clunking sound, of glass on wood; a half a second where you almost lose control over yourself.

“Nayeon,” you let slip, the old name - a mistake of an invitation she grasps like a weapon. All coming to a glint in her eye that says she knows how you see it, how you can still picture her sitting with her hands folded over the skirt of her uniform, chest rising and falling beneath her cotton shirt. Studious, taking notes, acting every bit the naive sweetheart everyone believed her to be.

You shudder out some pretense of composure and settle back a few inches as she continues to coax a reaction out of you, prodding: "how many girls did you make confess back then, hm? Did it ever do them any good?"

"Dial it back, Nana."

Her expression is all feigned, gentle surprise. "But sir," she looks at you so innocently, "you said I should drop the honorific."

You want to argue that, you also want to tell her off for being such a brat - to demand that, instead, she cut the shit, sit back, and remember who you both are, but when, with a wink and a smirk, she's getting up out of her seat, Nana sets a gentle, reassuring hand on your shoulder as she pushes her chair back beneath the table. You get onto your feet, and when the two of you are stood close together like this - she's really and truly that much smaller than you remember. Waist so tiny you think you could almost, almost wrap two hands all the way around her; skirt rising all too easily when she tosses her weight between her heels.

"I hope you know what you’re doing," you tell her, sternly - the voice of a teacher whose patience is running thin.

But no matter where you look, the consequences are dire and immediate: an abject fascination, a kind of debilitating greed; the absolute fucking loss of ability to look her directly in her eyes. Not like Nana isn't staring right through you. There's no doubt some part of her relishes the feeling.

"Hey, what do I know?" This sweet, demure-like chuckle follows. "It's just porn, right?”

Eventually, Nana says to call it a night because the sun's long set into the horizon and the chill starts getting at the both of you.

She tells you while you're packing up your belongings to come by again sometime, her voice teasing as she explains that you should pick out a new novel to read for your benefit.

Which is possibly the ideal outcome, all things considered, if it wasn't for the way she found herself in your hands just a few paces into the parking lot - no one around to catch you, where you're gripping fast onto her wrist and pressing the lines of her body into door of your car, looming and ready to give a piece of your mind.

You know what you ought to say - things like don't bother, you've enjoyed her company, she's fun and sweet, and in a dozen different ways: be a good girl, and go home. You had your fun, didn't you? But she's practically begging, those huge, wide doe eyes that stare straight up into your soul.

"C'mon,” her voice lilts into a deeper, more purposeful register, “you wouldn't turn down a student on her way home, would you?

(This fucking girl.)

She speaks of propriety, like you aren't a man of your own principles - like you aren't reaching down to press a kiss to the swell of her lips like she undoubtedly deserves. To lick into her mouth and pull and kiss and bite until she's trembling, teeth caught in a delicate whimper. Or, that you aren't running your hands down her sides to find the backs of her knees and draw them upward, hooking your hips flush against hers.

She's all too breathless, watching you draw off her lips, fingers fast in your shirt, your hair - holding you close.

Then finally, a true, honest reflection of your heart. Nothing less than sheer and utter capitulation: "let me take you home."

Nana just nods before wrapping her arms around your neck and kissing you again.

It's definitely on you for expecting anything different, but Nana fucks like she talks.

Conceited. Brash. A little selfish.

The girl's sitting there on her kitchen counter with one leg hooked over your shoulder. She's stripped herself down to near nothing save for those fuck-off ridiculous panties: slick, shiny with a thick strip of satin between her lips, complete with white lace frills and all; the same ridiculous pattern as the thigh-high stockings clinging tight around the soft-gentle fat of her legs and the lace top of her garter. Her pussy - all tight and pink and soaked - has left this shimmering, shiny mess that's trailing down the insides of her thighs.

Your fingers are in the elastic of her panties, near bruising the curve in her waist where she's rocking, flushed and keening against your grip.

You tell her, "take these off."

"Off?" She repeats it back to you with the same little grin: playing dumb, the smart, charming ass she's been all night.

"I'd tell you what I really want to do to you," you start, pushing your fingers in a little harder, eliciting another pretty moan. "But I'm really, really sure you can fill in the blanks yourself.

"I hope you're not planning on being rough with me," she teases, running her hands all through your hair as she pulls herself against you - and of course, it's her audacity to insist, "no marks." She drops a chaste little kiss along the underside of your jaw. "At least, nothing that might show up on a camera."

Someone with a little less baggage might have done just that. Might have jerked her panties down a couple inches further - ripped the cloth, exposed her even more. You might have followed the waistline further along the perfect round of her ass, found those dips and dimples that, maybe, no one else has ever gotten to explore. You may have grasped at the ends of her hair and gotten your fingers in her pussy without ceremony - driven Nana to the very brink of her climax just before palming two greedy handfuls of that ass - shoving yourself right there between her lips and, lost to shame, put a fucking kid in her.

All the things she must be dying for you to do.

"Something the matter?" She pushes her mouth into yours for a kiss that has all the urgency of a lazy Sunday morning. Your tongue against hers, languid and gentle at first; wet-sloppy, kissing and sucking on her bottom lip. You can feel her smirking when she says, "don't tell me you've forgotten how."

It's a lot, the effort you're putting in not to crumble - to crack at her taunts, snap your restraint, the temptation. You just wanna grab her pretty tits in both hands, shake her, and say: "shut the fuck up." But no - even in your wildest fantasy, you want to hear her first - beg you to make a wreck of her. So you force the words between your lips, dry and cracking:

"Not a fucking chance."

A laugh. "Guess I'm in good hands, then. Have to admit," Nana slides her hands down to hook under your own, bringing them lower. She grinds your fingers in slow circles over that one, aching, perfect little bud - a shock that has her curling tight inward until she's whining, clutching at her waist. "Not the - not the situation I had in mind."

Nana shifts her weight a bit more on one hip, guiding you through rubbing along the entrance to her slit - sloppy with precum, silky and aching - and when you place just the lightest pressure over all that hot skin, she opens her mouth:

"Ah."

Her eyes, her hair, her fucking mouth - you can’t look away - she’s so gorgeous it hurts.

Even the way she pants; the perfect furrow between her brows. And then, you dip a finger inside her, just to the first knuckle. It’s enough to make her whine, all shaky and high.

"Go on then, with how you’d pictured it," you press, already easing your digit in and out; slow, slick pumps that she is growing hotter, needier around. "I'm sure you've touched yourself to it more than a few times. The details and - stuff - must have been vivid."

"You haven't the slightest clue."

A brief kiss. You coax another shy sound from her, drawing a long sigh against her mouth -

"Try me, Nayeon."

"This is a lot closer to the truth than you’d think, professor." This time, no correction, she just smiles wide and tosses her head back, asking, sweetly, as if to absolve you of the responsibility. "Do you have any idea how long I've thought about it? You, me - us?"

Nana slips a finger between the buttons of your shirt and starts to pull.

On that detail, you actually, truthfully do not want to know.

"These... oh, how should I even call them." She hums softly just before easing a bit of distance between the two of you, head tilting like she's in a trailer for this summer's romcom, and not, you know, trying to drag you into hell. "Filthy little fantasies?"

"You know," you start. And by this point, her cunt's that much tighter. You've managed two fingers now, but no further, and she's making these desperate, punched-out gasps. Her clit's a swollen pink nub, jutting out from its soft hood. "I really had you pegged all wrong."

"Not - not at all. You can fuck me just fine, trust me - ah. Please, you can fuck me anyway you want."

And here, you grab a little higher on her hips, pinching her on the outside of a thigh, and begin working your fingers fast. You've never cared much for teasing, not really, but something about the way she squirms in your grip, tries to lean up and grasp onto your shoulders with shaking hands, it gets you smiling. It gets you grinning, even, especially the way she makes these pretty noises: a long, desperate little, "ah," at each press and thrust, her breath going high and uneven.

"Listen, Nana -" She squeals out loud when you push your fingers just a little deeper, a little bit harder. "I'm not going to talk about what a slut you've been today or how badly I want to spread you wide open," you can already tell it's affecting her: the sudden change, the subtle hitch in her breathing, the tremor where her thighs press together. "Tell me about you, about your little ideas. Let me help."

"Wouldn't be fair." Her pussy's getting tighter, urgent with want. And still:

"C'mon now. Humor me a little. There was probably-" you say, sliding down that ridiculous pair of underwear along her ass, tugging them over the curves of her legs - so slow and easy, all while you're not bothering with easing off. Nana moans again; voice pitched. "Lots. Lots and lots of dirty things - and, I'm willing to bet my career that they made you a hot, mess - an awful, soaking fucking wreck. Who could've guessed? You, of all people, with just the right kind of teacher's-pet-appeal, hm?"

And you meant it to be a joke, just some ribbing. But the question has her immediately tensing, looking at you very intently, no trace of shame as she snaps back -

"Your mouth." She rocks forward. "Your fucking mouth."

You shouldn't keep touching her, you shouldn't keep staring, you shouldn't push her flat on her back and shove your face right into her cunt, you should pull away before this goes too far - it shouldn't be your fingers drawing out sopping-wet gasps out of her pussy, nor should you press your tongue to her cunt, your mouth to all that delicate flesh and, at your first taste, shiver.

Nana laughs: shaky, nervous. Then, your fingers sink back into her pussy alongside your tongue, your lips, the way even your hot breath against her aching pussy has her all stunned, breathless - and -

"Please."

- right before she breaks off into a beautiful sound that catches her hard in the chest.

(A sound like you’re all she could ever want in this life, maybe the next; it’s this wordless plea.)

"Hah, I had - ah, had so much - hah - dirt on you, used to masturbate thinking - ah," and there, she arches her spine, forcing a sigh out, "thinking about how you might punish me." She laughs - nearly choking. "How you might break down all your veneer of being a good, moral man and fuck me raw and rough and - ah - fuck. Oh god, fuck."

You twist your fingertips up just so, right against this perfect spot in her, and all the sudden the entire line of her body seizes - stiffens up, the muscles in her thighs twitch as you both moan through the moment, the spasms reverberating in your own ears, loud and unashamed, right against her wet, wet clit. Your fingers are fucking and fucking and fucking away in her cunt, harder and faster and sloppier, every word, every groan, every gasped breath only making it easier to forget. To give in. And with every heavy slap and squelch of your fingertips digging in as deep as her body allows - you're sending her that much closer.

You pull back long enough to bite out: "cum whenever you want, Nana.”

She can’t, she can’t, she can’t, is what she’s trying to say, bracing against how your tongue moves around her clit, and she knows, there’s no use fighting it.

A kiss against her swollen mound and she writhes. “There you go sweetheart, cum for me.”

Nana comes undone. Gradually at first, then vaulting over that edge all at once. She lifts and lowers her hips - pushing your fingers into the smooth, velvety muscles of her cunt; rocking up and up again. It's a torturously slow kind of grinding, and her feet find purchase on either side of you as her toes curl, one heel digging into your shoulder. An assurance; a promise; a lifeline; that she might tremble and shake through it, moaning.

“Fuck,” and, “god,” and, “you’re gonna make me-” slip past her lips alongside all the assured gasped-out cries for relief - the orgasm sweeping through her, tearing her apart.

Back pitching, shoulders narrowing, face twisting, cinching tighter and tighter -

Until she collapses.

Until it’s over.

As she lays there, chest heaving, arm draped carelessly across her forehead and half over a kitchen cutting board - her thighs splayed open, fucked and spent - she's so, so beautiful.

And it’s in that sort of fucked-up-noodly-state where she just slides right into your arms - those long, slender legs wrapping tight around your middle. "Here's the deal," you say, grabbing hold of her hips and steadying her, as best as either of you can.

"Hm." This lazy, sated look, the way her tongue's dragged out - slow and slick - across the top of her teeth and bottom of her lips. "Go ahead, sir. I'm listening."

The lip service - that coy little appeal to authority that maybe you’re actually plenty fond of - it makes you stop for the barest of moments. This girl, she's unreal. How hard could you ever be asked to resist her?

She lifts a brow. "Professor."

So you continue:

"I'm going to get out of these clothes, and we are going to see what happens after that - if you have a preference for the bed or the sofa, now's your chance to pipe up. Or else -"

"Or else-" She repeats, shifting her weight around again. You can feel how she adjusts her heels to hang higher up your ribs, rocking her weight against your abdomen, against your cock - and the instinctual twitch that runs through your spine is turgid and rough. Like a shot. If it had a smell, it'd probably remind you of gasoline.

And then, maybe just to rile you up even more: "the dining room table makes a good impression of a teacher's desk, no?"

You slide your hand along the backs of her thighs until you have a good, tight, high hold on them and pick her up, leaving the panties, the stockings, all of it down where they can gather dust or whatever - she giggles, and tightens her hold around you like she doesn't need to worry about falling.

"I'd rather fuck you into a mattress to be perfectly candid."

Nana throws back her head and laughs - this real, honest-to-goodness peal of laughter, a hint of playfulness where there was usually just a practiced ease. "Oh. So forward."

(In all likelihood, you're both going to hell, and on the off chance you meet down there, you figure you'll fuck her then, too.

You've read the myths, the Greek tragedies, the ones that have these gods descending from the heavens on human women, for pleasure and nothing but, you've read those stories and plenty more - the details don't matter: it's always a bad, bad end for everybody involved.)

She takes you upstairs. And the two of you fall through the doorway to her bedroom, stumbling all the way.

Her apartment is simple and clean in the way all young adults try to emulate, all white countertops, but with pictures hanging in little, neat rows on the walls and the space void of anything with some sort of character or history.

You know because you're fumbling toward a dresser or desk or bookshelf in an attempt to orient yourselves, bumping and tussling, half-blind, on your path forward and all of a sudden there's a goddamn framed photo in your hand - not of her family, thank god. Though just about every other person in the picture is familiar to you, you remember every single one - but all you're capable of focusing on is Nana, Nayeon: not quite the same. The same glint in her eyes, the way her smile has a timeless kind of quality, the faint dimples in her cheeks.

And some wicked part of you is all too willing to ignore the whole timeline of events that has led up to you, Nana, like this: you want to pull her hair. You want to shove her around like she doesn't matter - is in any way disposable or replaceable; the most selfish parts of you wishing you could keep her pinned down by her slender neck; pressing a palm, bruising, into her collarbone as you start to work at your belt buckle and slacks with your other hand.

It's hard, getting a grip on yourself as Nana, sliding onto her bed and rolling across the sheets, pulls her stockings down the length of her legs - only stopping herself long enough to meet your eyes. Her throat bobbing.

“Of course,” she says, because your cock is hanging out by that point, straining and a little pent-up. "I fucking knew you would have a perfect cock."

"Flattery or sincerity?"

"Um, let's say both." She shifts around the pillow - that sweet little pout on her lips. Her gaze dropping from your mouth and running all along the length of your torso, lower and lower. Like her hands. And when her eyes flick up to meet yours, just when you're stroking at your cock, base and shaft, teasing yourself, well past the point of pretense, a devious smile spreads wide across her pretty, beautiful face. The implication: you aren't leaving here until you're cumming inside her.

And with a glimmer in her eyes, the sheer audacity, her fingertips ghost the underside of your cock as she draws up toward the head, "you're going to ruin me with this thing. You know that right?"

"A bit dramatic."

Nana moves to rest with the tops of her knees at the edge, her chin resting against the insides of her wrists, elbows propped up - poised, playful, everything she should be as the both of you regard each other a moment longer. "Can you blame me? It's not just that it's huge, I mean - I've barely even gotten a hold of it, and yet... god," she snorts. Her eyelids are heavy, mouth curved, almost a snarl as she drags her bottom lip through the grip of her teeth and sinks down onto the mattress.

"Say something filthy again," and this is a test, this is Nana testing you to see what exactly you'll get away with.

(Hint: it's a whole lot.)

She sighs. The image of indigence, innocence, everything pure and good you couldn't hope for. "Should I suck it or not? Or maybe, I don't know. Would you prefer me to beg for it first, ask if you'll put it in? Like, I think if you ordered me to put it in my mouth, right now, I wouldn't be able to say no."

"Really," the most sarcastic answer.

"Really," she continues. "For instance. If you came over here right now and guided me up and onto your dick and told me, specifically, that you were going to face-fuck me? I couldn't say no. No sir."

You could have her any damn way. You could have her, and you both know it.

"So tempting," you tease, mostly in earnest, "maybe another time, when my self-control isn't quite so lacking."

Nana hums a low, flippant sort of noise - like: whenever you're ready - and just how much trouble it gets you in, the mere suggestion, is what she is banking on.

"Hey," is her invitation, "I won't beg yet. You still want me to put my mouth all over it," and to emphasize, she slips her fingers between the plump pillows of her lips, smiling at how that makes you reach over the nightstand, accidentally pulling open a drawer, possibly reaching for the first aid kit, "or would you rather watch me stuff all these fingers in my wet, little hole."

A sharp inhale: it really would be fun, probably, but you can't take it.

"Nana," this voice, gravelly-ragged and harsh, "if you're planning to make me snap, you are, without question, on the right track."

"Then before that happens," she says, pulling you down into the bedsheets beside her. Your body flush against hers, the beat of her heart loud against your own; this gorgeous, pristine girl, so nakedly giving - this is an honor and a curse all rolled up together, no doubt.

And after a hot, wet kiss: "fuck me like I always thought you would."

(She was made to be like this; it's the only explanation.

Made for wanting. Made for fucking. Made to be loved and made to have her cunt fucked full - ruined by your fingers, your tongue, your cock. This absolutely perfect body, and all the delicious parts of her; this thing of desire, bashful and coy and that deserves all the world and, having none of the grace or courtesy to actually beg, orders, like she always knew she could:

"Like, right fucking now."

Or else.)

Then you're there - her hot mouth, her cunt, your fingers digging in bruising-tight all along the curve of her thighs where they meet her ass, hips, thighs, waist. She's pumping her soft palm and delicate fingers, slick with her spit and yours around the length of you and this isn't going to last long; not that there's any doubt you're going to leave her sore. But still, you drag the head of your cock across the swollen lips of her pussy, down through the plump swell of her clit until it rests where the ridge just begins and every slide, every pressure along every inch of your cock, the thought of being enveloped entirely in all that silky warmth is nearly the end of you.

A whimper, "professor."

You wrap your hands tighter around the smooth, firm muscles in her thighs; dragging your fingers back and forth across the supple skin there - just firm enough to elicit a reaction from the tension in her legs, until you have her flipped over on her stomach. Because if you're going to fuck her properly, it's going to be with her face buried deep into a pillowcase and you perched above her, holding her down against the sheets.

You watch her get her elbows underneath her, laying almost flat. Watch her trace the shape of her own jaw, her nose, her neck - the smooth expanse of her chest - as you straddle her thighs. With her ass pointed right up at you and the heel of her ankle gently grinding into the underside of your leg, you groan, placing both hands just above her ass. And once you're gripping the whole shape of her, you push your cock into her, just an inch, listening to the shift in her breathing.

She shudders, "don't tease - oh, please, sir-"

"Is this what you expected, Nana?" You grab onto her hair. Then again, when she tries to get her hands on herself. Her shoulders are high, tight. You just don't give her a chance; pushing yourself another inch, a couple. The pace, so gradual she starts making these soft, little breathless sounds as you stretch her tight pussy open. A few moments when she stops trying to bury her noises, her gasps - stops trying to angle her hips or squeeze or resist the thick shape of your cock where it is so, so hot and full inside of her - and there you stop. "What is it you had in mind, hm?"

"Ngh - oh."

Her cunt's clamping tight around just the first few inches of you. The tightness, the wet heat is staggering; how it pulls and begs with the words she seems reluctant to spill out.

So - you lift a hand, bringing it back down again onto the pale, rounded flesh of her ass with a smack, a gasp, and this wet sound from the sopping heat of her pussy, all aching and sobbing, "don't, fuck, stick it - fuck, put it - just. Just fucking get on top of me and pin me down - make it hard for me to breathe - do it, just. Like I, fuck, like I always wanted, sir, please-"

And you sink all the way in.

"Fuck." She bites into those consonants, a whole-body motion that pulls at the tension in her spine, the muscles in her legs. But her hips angle right up, and she presses her ass into the hollow of your abdomen and says, "thank you. Thank you. God."

"Don't get lazy on me," you say, grinding the tip of your cock in little circles; pulling it out and angling it down until it's prodding at all the right places to make her arch and shiver.

"Please," she says again, louder this time, almost a moan. "That. Fuck. Yes. It's."

"Yes, yes, I know. Nana, you-"

"Just use me. Whatever you like," she pants; then, once you've pulled yourself out to the tip, slowly filling her again, "use me like a fucktoy, alright. Because - fuck," Nana shivers, pushing her hips into yours. Her shoulders lower, as if by degrees, "please. Use me. Make it rough. Please, professor - use me however you want, I don't care - anything's fine with me - use me, as long and as much as you need, I. Please."

The real difference here, beyond anything else, is that this is no longer the game it was; the very instant she was sprawled across the mattress with a line of drool dripping into the sheets, all her bright, polished glory has vanished, leaving this bare edge of her exposed - the girl who lives solely to be fucked and used by your cock, her cunt leaking, begging for more. Reduced to the basics and nothing else.

"Your fucking cunt, Nana, the goddamn clench - you feel - it's-" (So fucking good, is what you can’t quite say, because she’s tight and wet and her tiny pussy is quivering like mad every time you bathe your cock in its scorching heat. Over and over.) It’s hard to think; you’re truly - truly - fucking her, but you can’t ignore the tautness in her spine either, bent below you. There are probably tears beading down her cheeks, but there's no helping the raw instinct screaming through the core of her being, pleading with you to pull yourself free, before sinking hilt-deep into her again, again, again - to a chorus of sloppy, loud, nasty, fucking whimpers and moans.

Like music.

It's easy after all, how her pussy gives way to you. How she molds around you - sleeves onto you like a glove - like there was only one cunt in the world you should ever be fucking up and fucking apart.

"It's incredible. Fuck. Just that perfect."

Nana, as best as she can, trying to stay steady, braced against her hands and knees, is raising her hips.

But it's clear with the way she's slipping all over, slicking the sweat off her palms and rocking her ass back into your thrusts, a cry falling out of her, unbidden, when she speaks and not.

"Please," she pants, through tears probably, this breathy-shivering. A renewed enthusiasm for your grip on her - where, in another place, you'd worry about leaving marks behind - for the feeling of your weight slamming down into her, driving the air from her lungs.

The sheets are a crumpled mess, pillows knocked from the mattress, where the two of you are shaking it apart.

You're pulling her apart, slowly, thrust by thrust into her sopping cunt, and in a promise of how you'll put her back together, you get your mouth on her shoulders, her neck, kisses in her hair, behind her ear - Nana just whimpers, curling her toes and ankles along the backs of your knees, her face against the pillow and gasping, "thank you - thank - thank-"

And when your palm smacks against the generous swell of her ass, again, she keens so perfectly for you.

It's a breathtaking sight, so good, so perfect: her flawless ass pitched high, round and flushed pink. The flutter of her eyelashes and the tears and drool. The outlines of her pale white cheeks sent into ripple after ripple, and then the way you can slide one hand forward between her shoulder blades and slip it into her hair, nails raking her scalp, grabbing a handful of hair in your fist and tilting her face - to the side, enough for her cheek against the pillow and the way her hips try to press against yours; try to chase the pleasure; this brash, gorgeous, slim-waisted, well-curved, exquisite young woman - like everything.

"Please," is all she says as you fit your chest up tight to her back and mouth at her neck - lick all along the sweat. "Please."

You can't take it anymore, can't keep watching this masterpiece, can't stand the molten heat wrapped around your cock every time the drag in and out of her pussy pulls sets every nerve on fire. Right in her ear: "I'm cumming, Nana, I'm cumming inside this tight, little pussy."

A short gasp, "yeah."

"Yeah. Inside, Nana. Cum inside, you -" You twist your fingers against her scalp and find purchase, an excuse - a means to yank her head around and lean into her, teeth against skin, that familiar coiling in your gut and the burning sensation that flows right alongside every slap and smack of her hips on your skin.

"Fuck me." You watch her bite down, swallow a sound, try to say: "fuck your load so deep inside me it’ll be all I think about for weeks, let me feel it, all that hot, all that sticky, fucking cum"

And you drag your hips, these final, punishing drags through her drenched cunt. Her fingers are white knuckled and fisting the sheets, until the very second you've pressed every ounce of your own body's worth into her own, when you're collapsing her spine and pushing her face into the bedspread, this wave rushes through your ears like the buzz and hum of insects and waves and things out of sync - the high, the peak -

And then:

Sobering, subjugating silence.

In fact, you're shuddering; You're cumming, spilling pools of thick cum deep inside of her. It's all in that warm, filthy sensation, a heady, hazy, desperate thrill when her own cunt seizes in its climax around you, trembling, throbbing, quivering, clenching; drawing everything out and taking your cock deeper - even while the whole of her is thrashing and bucking, all of this messy with her pleasure and her voice caught up, writhing and breathless.

"God-" is the last thing out of her mouth before you can kiss it quiet, tug on her lower lip and open her up like a present - messy and breathy, crying out, you're making this mess inside, this beautiful fucking mess - as the whisper you feel against your lips:

"Inside me, like that."

As you groan, deep and hot, "filthy fucking cumslut-"

Right on the verge, riding out every twitch of your cock and each flex of your hands at the skin around her ass, her waist, back and shoulder blades; even after you've caught your breath, you keep pumping more and more inside of her, you don't stop, won't, and even when you manage it, pulling out the head of your cock - you can feel every slick detail - just the slit and rim, resting the throbbing head of your cock at her swollen little mound, feeling the length of her fucked-out pussy spasm at the emptiness and trying to grasp around nothing - empty, tight and aching, sopping.

There's her hips, just this, right there; the line, the silhouette. Her thin waist and the curvy swell of her ass, jutting out straight - the cream-colored flesh dusted pink. The lithe, soft line of her stomach and the insides of her thighs a little farther along, sweaty and inviting.

She's so pliant in your grip, even though she's trying her best to curl herself backward - to angle your spent cock back into the ready, welcoming warmth of her slick, wet pussy - and once the afterglow has begun to wear away, that same greed and yearning takes its rightful place. A glimmer in her eyes. The unmistakable need and drive.

"One more," she says, wiggling her hips back into your stomach. "For me."

(The truth: you can't refuse her, not as she bites her lip and twists, all that soft hair splayed across her face, stuck to her tear-damp skin.

One more, because you both still want it. One more, because in the dim glow and evening air of her bedroom, everything that happens now matters just as much as anything that happened before.

One more, because you need her again.)

When she wakes in the dark, you figure her bed will be empty.

Nana will realize that you're gone. Of course you’ll be - it was never going to go differently; the sex had to end at some point. After all, if you stayed, eventually she'd start saying something you'd find a fault in or your skin would be so sensitive she couldn't stand not running a finger up your spine and maybe kissing your hip.

The reasons to go always outnumbered the reasons to stay.

The world would catch up and someone would find out and that's the sort of gossip that might leave both of your careers in shambles. Or else, you'd do something you couldn't come back from, the moment the heat of the sex left your body and her cunt, god, her perfect little cunt was spent - slackening - and the moments-after-haze, her legs locked up and her arms a bit sore, would clear up. Then you'd look at her, or else the shame would win out - the guilt and you'd call it quits. She won’t blame you. She can't.

But then again,

Her heart won't fall completely to pieces, because:

You've stayed. And it isn't an easy position, even if she is easy.

Here she is, though: sleeping on her side with her wrists crossed in front of her face - peaceful and quiet, probably tired enough to sleep without dreams. The dark has long since settled across her bedroom, save the pinpricks of stars in the sky out her window and a sliver of moonlight. You can see her, or you could reach out and run your hands all along her calves and thighs, but you don't.

Nana's shoulders slump forward in the faintest of sighs, and there it is - the slow, gentle swell and fall of her chest.

Here's how you got here:

In this scandal-in-waiting of a relationship. Here's the stupidest possible path, where a bright-eyed student with a crush fucks her older professor just once, and somehow you both find yourselves coming back for more, like maybe your very, very bodies belong together - a maddening compulsion.

Even once you've managed to work through the idea of your cum all inside of her, a seedy, twisted corner of your mind murmurs how it makes the most sense. To stick your cock inside of her again.

Where she can show you the way it can look; the mess and the texture of the slick, white spill - dribbling out of her pussy in the afterglow, onto her palm, and down the crevice in her ass and lower.

It's the phone calls probably - and not just the phone sex - late-night talking, conversation and every once in awhile, the kind of hot, hard fucking that gets you in trouble, but also a reason to be with each other again. Not just the quick fucks but the nice ones - the days, the late nights and mornings and what have you: all the casual intimacy of it. All the sweet nothings exchanged.

The after-sex cuddling, with her straddling your lap;

The sensation of her thighs sliding into place around the tops of your legs, her arms tucked around your neck;

The kisses you don't take and kisses you'd be okay with, all the promises made to love you as many times as necessary, however necessary, wherever.

That's all here too.

Again:

She is young. But, who the fuck are you to say? Who the hell can tell you she doesn't deserve the least rotten, least painful, most promising love she can find in this particularly fucked-up world?

Who else is going to keep the both of you safe and hidden?

And who else, despite everything, seems to like having a secret that they're sure only you know; every glance or accidental touch with her eyes brimming, alive, and the whole of her bent like a bow-string - all held back and wound-up tight.

To the point her spine will shiver and shake; you know how it can be.

"Are you actually going to buy those?" Nana asks one day, dangling on her toes, chin rested comfortably in the sweep of your shoulder.

When she crowds the swell of her hip and her breasts and her entire body into your back and snakes her arms around your shoulders, you think there's nothing else in the world you need.

"You called them drivel," she adds, almost pouting - which is a look you're slowly trying to inoculate yourself against because the moment it comes up, you have a knee-jerk reaction to drop anything and everything and carry her off someplace else. To have a place where she could, could, could -

"Hah," you roll your eyes, not taking the bait. There's a shelf-full of campy, smutty romance novels in the dollar bin. "It is. The story was less than complicated, but I couldn't figure out what the hell two or three characters' plotlines had to do with one another, and sometimes you just want a little guilty pleasure, you know?"

"Ooh. So," Nana smiles, the devious sort. "I guess there is some honesty in you after all."

"Come on, this one at least has an original story," and it is a shameless attempt, "plus-"

"I know, I know. Fine. And if it is so terribly bad, well, I suppose I can use your chest as a pillow to take a nap," she says, before throwing this particular glance over her shoulder.

The cashier doesn't need to ask if the two of you want your copies of 'Wild West of the Heart' or whatever-the-fuck this one is titled, scanned separately.

All of that, those paperback-cover love stories and TV drama plots, these are the sorts of things you do just for Nana; as the two of you wait in long lines, get carried along, get bumped and pushed, like every other ordinary-person thing you've done for her ever since.

("Honestly, this isn't my kind of thing either," you tell her in the aisle of a grocery store once. The fluorescent lighting only accentuates the blush high on her cheeks. "don't make me fuss over something like this."

"Have a little sympathy," she insists, nudging the handle of the shopping cart against the inside of your shins. "A girl like me isn't good for much else.")

It's not romance, really, that's such a fucked up way to go about describing any of it, but then there's Nana, bouncing on her heels and prattling on, this girl in the spring of her life who is full to the brim and bursting with the most chaotic and eclectic sorts of thoughts and passions -

So, what.

"Really," she adds - another side, another angle on an issue the two of you had an hour ago while cooking breakfast. "Just, think about it. Would you honestly put all this effort into somebody who doesn't make you laugh at least as much as they irritate you? Because like, you would never tolerate some self-obsessed jerk long enough to eat their burnt, terrible pancakes every day of the week."

"Fine. Maybe." You sit across the table. "You're right."

Nana blinks and this look of wonder crosses her face as she grins. A moment of triumph for her and that was more than the honest truth. It's still strange, admitting defeat in any argument here or there, or that the two of you make an actual decent couple - together. The kinds of things that come naturally to other people.

"Any more caveats to all of this, professor?"

"You’re gonna end up bent over that counter again if you keep pushing it, kid."

The both of you break out laughing and then you finish your coffee, or she stabs the last few pieces of cantaloupe on her plate, or you kiss her neck, and just -

Everything.

#wooah smut #nana smut #kwon nayeon smut #el7z up smut #kpop smut #male reader #capslocked kinkvember #woo ah smut #woo ah nana smut

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karelysse · 2 years

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i did listen to ‘times like these’ !! it had me tearing up at three in the morning!! take responsibility for the emotional devastation you caused me 🔪

…also since we’re talking about astrology, i always vibe with my fellow tauruses so !! the stars are on our side <3 actually my chart is. a mess. sooo many fixed signs and square aspects afahjklf the emotional turmoil is real.

like, my big three is: taurus sun / leo moon / scorpio rising — which should explain my love for drama and intense emotional conflict in storytelling smh. but the key thing is the melodrama has to pay off!! you can’t just set things up and not follow through with proper emotional catharsis!! @ that one novel i had to read for class with a horrible emotional arc 😒

(also not you saying taurus and cancer placements in men is peak gaslighting… you might have a point tho.)

omg are you kidding does that mean we live in opposite time zones?!?!? will NOT apologize ur recs have wounded me b4 this is only payback 🤺🤺🤺

GEE UR FIXED BIG THREE DKFJJF i’m dying that’S drama and rigidity if I’ve ever seen it and u know what. much respect 🫡 mutable and cardinals are the root of all evil anyway 😌 in this house we stan reliability. although ur leo moon is??? a challenge??? wowie.

personally im a cancer moon like taylor swift and that’s all there is to know about me, ever. I WILL process my emotions but it WILL take me a week of laying immobile on the floor crying my heart out. i WILL forgive/forget u but i’ll first write 200 songs dissecting our every interaction and NO you can’t stop me. I’m even part of a Facebook group look

#what novel omg!!!!#are you the psychology student anon? or the high school one??? I’m so so sorry I get so lost #also. since we’re being honest and open here. I have the exact same big three as Robert fucking Pattinson #and that’s my vilain origin story #u know that pic of him standing in a kitchen #u know the one #hurtful #anyways my ♓️ rising/Venus is actually my fave placement about myself and the reason I love LOVE so much 💞#ask #asks #the stars are on our side indeed 💫💛

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mistblossomdesigns · 1 year

Text

A Bare Bones Guide to Outlining a Fantasy Novel in Three Acts

If you're trying to write a fantasy novel and you're feeling overwhelmed by the process, try to break down your story into three acts as follows...

Act 1

Introduce the status quo - setting, main character, and any struggles they currently face

Create an inciting incident

Show your character's hesitancy to welcome change

Have your character take a chance and start their journey

Act 2

Introduce friends and mentors

Include trials and obstacles

Let your character have a mini success

Have your character doubt themselves regardless of their success

Act 3

Increase tension with more obstacles and rising action

The climactic high point - a.k.a. the final showdown

Show the aftermath and what your character has overcome/sacrificed in order to succeed

#creative writing #writing resources #writing advice #writing tips #writing community #how to write #novel writing #fiction writing #fantasy writing #book writing #story writing

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hellishjoel · 6 months

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ride

7.2k // pairing:dbf/neighbor!joel x f!reader Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

summary: Joel whisks you away to Houston for the weekend under the guise of a work trip. You keep a secret from him to try and keep your fling undetected from your parents. warnings: MA 18+ (minors DNI), no outbreak, dbf/neighbor!joel, smut, swearing, age gap (reader is in her early 20s, Joel in his 40s), pet names, fingering, oral (f! receiving), unprotected p in v (shower sex hehe), a little overstim if you squint

A/N: sorry not sorry this chapter took a month+, but I hope you like it! A little drammaaaa. and a reminder, they still have all day saturday and sunday together ;)

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-” “Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles. You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat. “There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,”

June 23rd 7:48 P.M.

I’ve had some time to think about Joel, and how much I like to think about him, and how things aren’t an accident.

Thinking about how unlikely it is that we sparked.

How Joel could have turned left, and I could have turned right. But we didn’t.

Instead of running away, I said yes, and so did he.

The impossibility of us seems so incredible, almost unbelievable.

I love that so many things had to happen for us to be where we are right now.

I saw the sun melt his eyes into amber, and he liked the way I smiled in the moonlight.

This feeling was radical, unnerving, scary.

I didn’t know why it was called falling or crashing into love. Perhaps I do now.

“You could sit there and read all day, huh?” Joel interrupts your thoughts as he starts to guide his truck off the freeway, passing a large aluminum Welcome to Houston! sign lit up by the truck’s headlights.

Butterflies flutter in your stomach, cheeks squished from smiling as his hand settles on your upper thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles on your sweet skin.

“I’m not reading anymore. Got too dark.” He’s referring to the novel you brought for the trip from your to-be-read pile that you started when you first got on the road.

The drive from Austin to Houston was two-and-a-half hours long, so you decided to saddle the passenger seat with different activities and snacks to keep yourself busy and out of Joel’s hair, much to his behest. He said he enjoyed letting you ramble on about whatever you were thinking about; said it was like listening to a podcast.

“But I am writing.” You hum quietly, penning in your last thought before it gets lost in the black of night.

“What’cha writin’, then?” Joel's curious eyes wander to the nest you had made for yourself in the passenger seat as he tilts his chin up to try and read beyond your journal cover.

You snap it closed and slip the pen in somewhere between the pages. “Keep your eyes on the road, old man.” Your tone is teasing, making you grin even more as he grumbles in annoyance under his breath as the truck slowly approaches a stop light.

Once off the freeway and down to the local roads, you roll the window down. You watch the moon start to rise in the sky, feeling goosebumps grow on your arms and exposed legs while the wind lazily flows through your hair. The gentle night breeze is welcome to air out Joel’s stuffy truck.

You were supposed to be his navigator once he got off the freeway, but you were a bit preoccupied looking around yourself.

You and Joel left Friday evening as soon as he was done with work, and now you were lightly coasting the streets of Houston as the sun finished setting. You could see the diverse architecture of downtown, the skyline of skyscrapers and high-rises were all crowded together. As you moved further into midtown, Joel drove past small businesses and parks. You let your hand float out the window, surfing the wind like a wave.

“Hey, space cadet, if you’re not gonna give me the directions to the motel, the least you can do is toss me a french fry.”

Your head cocks back to him, curiously smiling as you reach your hand aimlessly into the fast food bag, retrieving a fry and bringing it up to his lips. You settled on McDonald’s before you left Danbury, partially because Joel felt like being a little cheap, and you agreed they had the best, saltiest french fries.

You feed it to him, and he teasingly sucks the salt off your fingers.

“Gross, Joel.”

He sneers as he watches you wipe your hands on your thighs to rid yourself of his saliva. “You like it.”

He’s not wrong. You force yourself to look back out the window again to hide the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Joel smirks and squeezes your thigh to bring you back to him. When you look over to the handsome man donning his usual green flannel, the wind furles your hair in messy, unkempt streaks.

He hesitates for a moment, but now that you’re no longer preoccupied with reading or writing, he holds your hand. You feel him test the waters, settling for just lightly clasping it in your lap, but it’s not enough for him. His thick fingers and calloused hand meets the heart of your palm as his fingers weave with your own. He lets out a little sigh and settles himself there.

You feel like teasing him. You’re afraid to hold my hand but not to fuck my throat in your woodshed with a party right outside? But then you remember how difficult it was to kiss him. It still felt like a slip-up, you had to admit. Especially if this was supposed to be just a casual relationship. It felt intimate and emotionally charged. But it was just kissing, right? And this was just holding hands.

Your thoughts wrestle around your head a bit. Joel feels it. You’re not sure how he always seems to know what you’re thinking, but he does. His thumb strokes a gentle line up and down the muscle of your thumb, a silent way of saying stop thinking for once. It’s appreciated, the sense of care and thoughtfulness he provided without even speaking a word.

Ever since he took you to that bar, Past Lives, all you could think about was Joel. Joel on repeat. Joel taking you away from the distracted environment of the lakehouse. Joel showing you the map, saying there was more to the world than Texas. Joel kissing you. Joel touching you. Joel fucking you. Joel protecting you. Joel saving you.

As much as you’ve had time to reflect on Joel, you’ve also reflected on your parents. They were hardly bad people, but they didn’t respect your adult choices. You came to tearfully realize that your relationship with them had slowly deteriorated since leaving for university. You grew independent, and that was especially hard for them. Something you had trouble understanding, something Joel didn’t understand either.

You called Joel Thursday night before your trip under the guise of asking if you should pack any specifics, but the conversation ended up landing on his relationship and parenting with Sarah. You told him how you appreciated the way he let Sarah grow and experience things, that it was good for her.

“She’s a tough girl, and I trust’er. Nothin’ much left to say.”

“So, what-” you stumble and scoff over the phone. “My parents don’t trust me? Or think I’m not tough enough to tackle the world?”

“S’not what I’m sayin’, darlin’. I don’t know what’s up with your folks. But you don’t need their approval, you’re an adult. All you need is t’… t’ trust yourself. Sounds fuckin’ cheesy, but it’s true.”

You pause, twisting a strand of hair around your finger as your eyebrows furrow, thinking over his words. “Y’think if I act a little more confident about it, they’ll start believing it too?”

Joel’s chuckle is a little crackle-ey on the line as he wanders around his house talking to you, going in and out of good reception. “Gotta start somewhere, buttercup. At the end of the day, it’s about your happiness, not theirs. Don’t gotta be such a people pleaser all the time.”

Yes, I do, you think.

“Thanks, Joel.”

“Sure thing, hon’.”

Dusk on the outskirts of Houston. The houses become few and far between. There’s more green grass and flourished trees. Joel slowly pulls into a small driveway, a large blue neon-lit sign designated that you were at your motel for the weekend. The entire truck is highlighted in a pale blue from the illumination, you nearly have to squint. There were no more than two or three cars parked outside. It was a two-level motel, with an outside staircase to navigate the different floors.

“The Blue Swallow Motel.” Your attention strays to Joel with furrowed brows. “Why here?”

Joel shrugs and navigates himself into a parking spot with ease. “Don’t know. Like blue swallows.”

Curiosity sparks you.

“You like blue swallows? You’ve seen one in person?”

He shakes his head and says nothing for a moment, but it almost looks like he can’t help himself to dispel some information. “They’re native to Africa, only ever seen the North American variants ‘round here.” He lets the engine grumble down once he pulls the key from the ignition, but you’re still awestruck in his passenger seat.

“I’m sorry- Joel Miller Bird Enthusiast?” The eager tone in your voice gives away your excitement, and Joel seems to despise it when you get too excited about him. He has to close his eyes and hang his head, wishing he never said anything.

“Oh, Joel Miller, don’t even try to deny it, I’ve seen those bird guides on your bookshelf, you’re a birder.”

His neck swivels, eyes wide and defensive. “I am not a birder.”

You throw your head back in laughter, and eventually, he cracks a smile. “They’re interestin’, okay?”

You playfully pat his shoulder with reassurance, nodding in agreement. The two of you settle down from your fits of laughter and look over the exterior of the motel once more.

“Y’said you wanted somethin’ quaint? Small?”

Being with Joel and having no other distractions was your goal for this weekend. Since this trip was coming out of Joel’s pocket, you insisted you didn’t need some fancy hotel. You’ve traveled to Houston a handful of times before, and the last thing you wanted was for your view outside some high-rise hotel to be Danbury in the distance.

You squeeze his hand once more and nod, stars lighting up behind your eyes. “It’s perfect. Thanks for finding something simple.”

Joel teeters on your appreciation but ultimately ends up shaking his head. “Could’ve gotten something a little nicer for ya, maybe closer to downtown-”

You stop him right there and bring his rough knuckles to your plush lips, adding a kiss to each one. “I said it’s perfect, so it’s perfect. I like it, it’s got charm, chutzpah even. Plus, looks like we’ll have the pool to ourselves.” You hum with a devious little smirk. You hop out of the truck and open the backdoor to grab your things.

“Pool, you say?” He retorts, an eyebrow raised with narrow eyes on you. You lightly shrug as you grab your backpack.

“Might have forgotten my swimsuit, though. Shame.”

You brush past Joel, who is scoffing lightly under his breath in disbelief, duffel bag brushing against his calves as he walks with you towards the motel office. You would be the death of this man.

“Damn shame.” He mutters, a smirk hanging low on his lips.

---

Room 135 was marked on the dark chestnut door, a small white plate with black numbering decked on.

There wasn’t much to be said about the motel room itself. You tried to stifle a laugh when you and Joel both walked in to see two separate queen beds. The sheets were white, but the top cover was an extravagant red pattern that looked like it got lost in the 80s. A side table was resting against the wall towards the headboards with a beige telephone placed on top, resting over a few local restaurant menus. Two small lamps were attached to the wall above the beds, perfectly opposite of the television sat on top of a tall dresser.

“Is this your idea of a romantic getaway?” You teased as you walked further inside over the beige carpet. “Two beds don’t exactly scream romantic.” You set your backpack down on the foot of the bed furthest from the door and closest to the bathroom around the corner. You assume this bed will just be used to hold both of your luggage, not a person.

“No,” Joel said through a tight gruff as he strained to lift his bag of tools and luggage onto the edge of his own bed. “S’a work trip. Not a romantic getaway.”

Your smile falters as you purse your lips and fiddle with your hands behind your back.

“So, this really is a work trip?” You clarify, to which Joel looks at you a bit confused.

“Course it is.”

A light boil simmers through your chest. Maybe you will be sleeping in your own bed tonight. Joel could sense your flattened mood, and he quickly felt the need to sweep up the pieces of what he broke. He was bad with words, terrible really, but he tried to find the right ones for you.

“I said that wrong. It’s a work trip but,” he trails off and falters as he saddles his hands on his hips for a moment and sighs, your doe eyes looking up to his own. “But I brought you here to spend some real time with ya. Didn’t wanna,” he shrugs and rolls his eyes. A classic Joel Miller sign that he wants to say something a little personally emotional.

“What?” You probe him, a smile tickling your lips as you loop your hands to rest just above the ones on his hips. “You didn’t want to what, Joel?” You ask, setting your chin on his chest and looking up at him with a goofy grin.

He sighs and rolls his eyes again, having a hard time looking at you. “I didn’t wanna go on this trip alone. Didn’t want to leave you at home when I could bring ya with.”

Joel wasn’t a social man. In fact, if the world went to shit, you think he might really enjoy the solitude. But for him to admit that he would rather have you in his space than out of it, it’s quite endearing.

Now you’re the one who's hiding a blush. You settle your cheek against his chest and sigh, soaking in his scent and his warmth. Joel’s hand comes to rest on the side of your head, gently stroking your hair away from your face as the two of you relax into a gentle hug.

“Were you serious about that no bathin’ suit thing?” He asks after a moment of silence, causing you to roll your eyes and shove him a good distance away.

“As serious as a heart attack.” You sneer as you round the bed to the bathroom, needing desperately to relieve yourself after the drive. Of all colors, it’s a beautiful mint green. Incredibly retro, you think as you use the toilet and stare at the shower absentmindedly. You roll your phone around in your hands once you finish washing them, a lump rising in your throat.

Your mother’s words echoed in your ear.

“If it gets serious, we want to meet this young man.”

There was no young man. The young man your mother referred to was really Joel. Panic was spreading through your body just at the thought of trying to fix this situation. They figured out you were seeing someone, they just didn’t quite know who. A few heavy breaths labor out of you, anxiety nestling in your chest.

“You okay, buttercup? Been a minute.” Joel asks cautiously from the opposite side of the door, his knuckles offering a few polite knocks.

Your chest surges. You didn’t want him to know you’d slipped up, half-told your parents the truth. You didn’t want him to end things out of fear of them finding out. “Y-Yeah, I’m fine, Joel. Just.. gimme a minute.”

His feet don’t move on the other side of the door. He doesn’t want to leave you, feeling something slightly wrong.

“Really, Joel, just- checking out the facilities.” God.

He sighs before you hear him back off. “Alright. Lemme know f’you need anythin’.”

You need to act, or else this feeling will eat you alive. Finally, with some accurate cell service, you text the first person you think of. Nathan. Remember that childhood crush of yours? You hadn’t seen him in years, and with how gorgeous he was growing up, there was a scary feeling that you might be texting a man who had a girlfriend. But he was your only hope to cover up the mess you had made.

Growing up with Nathan and his parents being friends with your own always felt like a setup. Your mothers always cooed that you two just might end up marrying one another. At the time, you wished it was true, that all this exposure with him would lead to something romantic. But then you grew up, saw each other a little less over the summers, and grew apart. You still kept in contact via social media, but not often. You saw his life in pictures. One from a homecoming dance, a group picture of him and his friends, an action shot of him playing basketball, a high school graduation picture, and a similar one for college graduation. He was still alive somewhere out there, you just didn’t know him like you used to.

Nathan was always kind, goofy, very golden retriever-like. Summers spent apart created a rift, but he was your childhood best friend and crush once upon a time. If he was willing to help you out, you owed him big time. So you shoot him a text and cross your fingers that this is still his number. The last thing logged in your messages was a silly conversation about cheetahs versus jaguars. You were team cheetahs, obviously.

You felt a slight sense of relief once you came up with a plan. Talk to Nathan. See if he can act as your fake boyfriend for your parents. See if he doesn’t think you’re damn crazy for concealing your forty-something-year-old fuck buddy.

You’re not really sure how to reignite the conversation, it’s been so damn long. You stare at the blank screen before you craft the brilliant message:

A sigh leaves your parted, anxious lips, and you shove your phone away.

---

You really did bring a bathing suit, much to Joel’s eagerness for the rumor to be true. You change into it with your back turned to him. You feel his eyes boring holes into you, sending a small dash of goosebumps up your arms. “I’m going for a dip before bed.” You say as you fiddle with the strings of your bikini top, struggling for a moment before you feel a warm presence step in behind you and fuss away with the strings himself.

You hum softly as he fastens the strings, making a bow at your midback. Joel’s lips brush against your shoulder before they start sponging gentle kisses up your neck. The hair you tied up into a loose bun tickles his nose.

“Such’a pretty girl.” He hums against your skin, a soft shiver trickling up your spine, lips parting in pleasure. “Too bad you’re not a very good girl.” Joel murmured as his hands slipped lower, past your hips, past the curve of your ass, until he was cupping both cheeks in his large palms. You gasp at the sensation, feeling his fingers squeeze at your flesh. A moan escapes your lips, you just can’t help it. You love it when Joel is handsy for you, the needy one.

You swallow the lump in your throat and turn in his arms, eagerly kissing him as you cup his cheeks. He fights for control instantly, pulling you in at your hips so your back arches backward out of habit. You let your head dip back, eyes dipping closed as his lips trail down your neck, then between the valley of your breasts, all while his wiry beard creates scratches in his wake.

“Do you have swim trunks?” You ask breathily, shoving him lightly by the top of the head further down your body. He drops to his knees and continues to trail kisses down your stomach.

The question catches him off guard.

“Do I- what?” He asks breathily, looking up at you as he sponges kisses over your clothed center.

“If you don’t have swim trunks,” you try to continue, “you can’t go swimming with me.” You say with a teasing smirk, stepping around Joel, who was awestruck kneeling on the ground, his hands still in place where he was cupping the backs of your thighs before he slaps them down on his own to show annoyance.

He was probably thinking how you just up and disappeared when you were just standing in front of him a moment ago. Joel grumbles something, but you’re already out the door of the motel room.

---

The pool is glowing in its blue hue, lit by dim lights around the perimeter and the silver moon in the sky.

In a world so vast, you couldn’t help but feel a little lost in wanting to explore it.

You take a breath in through your nose and test the water with a dip of your toe. A bit cold for your liking, but the warm Texas summers make your skin sticky and the air a bit stale. So you dive in.

The cool water is a shock to your system at first, with goosebumps growing on your skin like wildfire. Your face breaks the seal of the water, emerging over the light ripples you created upon diving in, catching your breath. You take a few leisurely laps along the outskirts, feeling weightless, free.

“Nice night.” Joel’s brassy voice breaks the gentle chorus of the summer cicadas. You hum as you carve your way through the water until you meet the pool’s edge. You rest your arms on the lip of the pool, bringing your breasts just above the surface of the water.

“Get. In.” You say with an authoritative voice, despite your eager smile.

He cocks his head a few degrees to the right, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “No. You look like a shivering chihuahua.”

His joke elicits a giggle from you.

“It’s only cold for the first few minutes. You’ll warm up.” You’re only half-lying, the pool was so fucking cold.

Joel merely shakes his head. “You’re crazy, buttercup.”

You hum as you push off the edge of the pool, moving towards the center, letting the water dance around you as your arms glide back and forth to keep you afloat.

“Sounds like you need some motivation.” Your eyes lock on Joel’s as your fingers navigate to the back of your bikini strings, slowly pulling the tie loose, feeling the water aid you in floating the material off your upper half. The top strings around your neck are still tied, concealing the full reveal of your breasts.

Joel’s once secure face fizzled, eyes straying and lips parting. A soft sigh escapes his lips as he kneels down, pointer finger curling towards him impatiently. “Get over here.”

You shake your head disobediently. “Now.” His barking urgency makes you stifle a smirk.

“Joel Miller afraid of a little cold water.” You shrug and move your fingers to the strings tied behind your neck, slowly tugging loose the threads. The material falls limp into the water, floating in front of you free from your body.

Joel watches with impatience, the spill of your breasts making his cock twitch inside his swim trunks. The mesh material was forgiving, allowing him to swell at the sight of you. The cold water has your nipples taut, drawn into sweet peaks. You’re just out of his fucking reach, too far into the pool for him to grab you.

He grunts quietly, jaw tight as you slowly swim closer to him. You shiver at his glance alone.

“If you want me,” your voice drops innocently, doe eyes making their appearance to reel him in, “you’ll get in the pool, Mr. Miller.”

Just out of his reach once more, you swim back to the center and push your thumbs into the band of your bikini bottoms, down your legs, leaving you bare in the pool for anyone to see from the highway or their own motel rooms. You must admit, Joel’s desperate gaze filled with want makes you squirm with excitement. Disobeying him lights that explosive even more.

He offers you his hand, one final offer. “Last chance, angel, get out of the pool.”

“Why do you even have swim trunks on if you aren’t going to get in?” You ask, eyes gazing over the tangled hair he has scattered across his chest.

“I was hoping these would appease you alone. Now come here,” he juts his hand out as an offering one last time.

You roll your eyes and swim closer, your breasts lapping in the water as you take Joel’s hand. And tug with all your strength.

His feet skid to try and hold him back, but he ultimately summersaults into the pool. You cover your mouth with your hand, unable to conceal your laughs as Joel emerges, sopping wet, cold, angry.

“Y-You-” He chatters his teeth, eyes screwed tight on you as he pushes his hand back through his soaked curls and down his face, grazing his wiry beard. “You’re gonna get it.”

Joel’s threat makes you squeal. You attempt to doggy paddle away, but the grip he catches on your arm is iron. He pulls you back to him, and your body glides through the water, arms securing on his biceps once you’re locked in his hold. He’s threatening, but not as much so when you wrap your legs around his waist and feel his half-hard length.

You raise your eyebrow at him, and he half-chuckles.

“Such a fuckin’ piece of work you are.” He grunts out, hands searing the flesh of your hips as he skirts his hand down lower, cupping the globes of your ass.

A hum tickles your throat as you lean in and press your lips to his jawline in a tempting kiss, smiling as Joel’s nose playfully nudges yours, leaning in for more.

It’s stomach-twisting how you feel so comfortable with Joel, how you sink into his body, and how he warms your core. You kiss him until your lips feel bruised, and he grips your beautiful curves with eagerness. The two of you kiss like hungry teenagers, finally outside the watchful eyeline of your parents. Joel’s cock is hardening against your naked core.

He forces himself off of you, groaning lightly as he strays from your eyes. Cupping his jawline, you angle him back to you, resting your foreheads together.

“Makin’ me get all riled up like a damn teenager.” His warm breath puffs across your face, his words make your bundle of nerves tingle.

“I like that I’m the one causing it.”

Joel chews at the inside of his cheek before giving you a tight little nod. “Me too, buttercup.”

---

Joel decides pool play is over. He gets out first, snags your bikini pieces that floated to the edge of the pool and starts walking leisurely back into the motel room.

He only hears your cursing and belligerent rambling after he returns from turning on the shower, piping hot.

“Can’t hear ya when you’re chatterin’ your teeth.”

Joel returns to the bathroom and strips his swim trunks off, still half-hard. He tests the water with his hand, giving you an affirming nod it was okay to step in.

You’re still angry and seething, having to streak your way back to the room naked and freezing your bare ass off. He looks at your crossed arms and playfully tuts. “You’re the one that thought t’drag me in there with ya, princess.”

Joel follows you into the shower, the water splashing searing hot droplets. It only feels that hot because you’re readjusting from the pool’s temperature. You find yourself huddling into Joel’s warmth.

He finds it endearing, the way your head settles on his chest, your ear to his heart, too chilled to let him go. He angles the showerhead downwards, letting it focus on your body first. He could wait.

You gently release your crossed arms, letting them wrap low around his hips. He had a few extra pounds of flesh low on his tummy and on the sides of his waist. You gently pinch the area and smile.

“Stop that.” He hisses, eyebrows knitted together.

“But I like it. You’re my favorite person to hug.”

The sentiment splashed warmth on the back of his neck. Joel has picked up a few extra pounds from town barbeques, and beers tossed back during football games. He used to not like it, the way he had to loosen his belt after a big meal, or having to purchase his new t-shirts in a size up. He didn’t think about it much, but naked with you in the shower, feeling you admire his ever-changing body, was a comfort.

You look up after a few moments of silence, setting your chin on his chest and feeling his chest hair graze against your skin.

Joel wants to warm you up, get you to relax under the showerhead. He presses a nimble kiss to your lips, pitter-pattering kisses along the extent of your body before he is down on his knees, angling your back to rest against the shower wall.

Tired after your car ride and melting under the shower’s sprinkling water, you ache for a relief that will come from your head hitting a pillow. But Joel had other things in mind, things that would make you forget you were tired in an instant.

Now under his watchful eye, lips and wiry beard scratching at your soft skin, you lightly part your legs for his entrance. God, please don’t let me slip and embarrass myself right now. Let me have this one good thing, this man’s tongue against my pussy would make me a God-willing woman.

Joel can feel your exhausted body, begging to find a bed. But he had you where he wanted you, and his mouth was watering to taste your sweet musky arousal. His hands settle themselves on the backs of your thighs, supporting your weight as his head leans into your warmth.

He brings two fingers forward, parting your center, licking a slow draw up your core. His tongue flicks off your clit, your bundle of nerves twitches. Something flips in his stomach, and his cock grows heavy against his thigh.

You taste sweet and serene, something he’s grown an appetite for. With several days apart awaiting your weekend trip away, he often found himself at night, spilling into his hand thinking about your young, beautiful pussy flushed against his mouth. He takes this opportunity to relish in you moaning his name, without any curious ears.

His tongue sinks lower, swirling around your tense entrance. The swell of his tongue gushes more arousal from you, and he gets a proper taste that isn’t mixed with water from the shower.

Joel’s grip on your thigh tightens, and he laps at your clit like a famished man.

The constant flicks have you gasping for air in the all-too-warm shower. Your fingers weave into his soaking wet curls, still finding a grip as your thigh twitches against his hand.

Joel’s two fingers parting your center gently massage at your entrance, wiggling in gently as he suckles on your clit, and you mewl weakly.

His tongue and teeth lightly graze your sensitivity, feeling stars clouding your vision as his fingers set a gentle pace.

“Ooh,” you sigh weakly, feeling his fingers hit the perfect spot, one that makes you shake.

Joel knows that sound, knows the feeling. He looks up, admires the way your pretty lips are parted in bliss. The hand on your thigh is brought to your stomach, gently stroking over the flesh.

You watch him a little curiously, a little fucked. His mouth returns to your clit, but his hand still falters on your lower abdomen. You whimper as he adds a little pressure, and quickens his fingers. It’s jaw-dropping, the friction and pressure, piling on top of each other.

You gulp. “Joel-”, it’s almost in a warning tone. “I don’t- fuck, it feels-”

“Uh-huh,” Joel murmurs against your core, nodding gently, grazing his nose against your clit in the process before his warm mouth tightens around your clit. And he suckles.

You cry out, walls clenching around his fingers as he milks an orgasm from you. You damn near crumble, but he tightens the hold on your hip to keep you afloat.

“There ya go, princess, come on my fingers,” he grunts, jaw tight, and teeth clenched as he watches your cum-arousal mixture glide down his fingers in a sticky mess. He slowly stands, watching you pant for air, as he sucks his digits clean with an evil smirk.

The temperature in here is too much, heat consumes your body as you weakly grip his biceps.

“God damn, Mr. Miller.” You say breathlessly. You take him in a quick kiss, moaning weakly into his mouth at your taste. His tongue tangles with you, and he keeps his fingers on your core. His first two fingers start to slowly circle your clit again, but it’s entirely too soon.

You whimper weakly into his mouth, your clit aching and still recovering from your oral orgasm.

“Mmm- can’t do it, Joel.”

Joel snarls as he swiftly turns you around, his foot hitting the insides of both of your ankles to spread your legs. Your face is plastered against the shower wall, watching him out of the corner of your eye with your jaw dropped.

“Be good for me, baby girl, show how thankful you are.”

You whine at his raspy voice, feeling its timbre bounce against the walls.

“Please,” you beg in a whisper, inching your feet farther apart for him to take you in the shower.

Joel strokes his cock, seething through his teeth at the desperate relief he’s feeling. His swollen tip vies for your attention. He lines himself up, his other hand on your hip as he notches himself inside.

You visibly flinch away, Joel hushing you softly as he tries again.

“Gotta relax for me, pretty girl.”

You sigh weakly and let yourself melt with the warm water, fluttering your eyes closed as you gently jut your hips back into this, needing to be filled.

Joel tries again after lining his tip up and down your slit and gathering your arousal. He notches inside of you once more, causing your eyelashes to flutter. He slowly presses on.

The drinks must have really loosened you up since the last time the two of you fooled around in his truck. He wasn’t so hard to take then, but now he feels thicker, rounder. You could feel the thick vein on the underside of his cock as he ruts his hips into your ass.

Finally, you will yourself to breathe, moaning his name in desperation.

Joel’s trying to contract his lungs, but you’re gripping onto him so tight, the heat of the shower going to his head.

You hum and purposely grip your walls around him, squeezing for his last breath.

Joel snarls and smacks your ass from below, watching the fatty flesh jiggle. It stings, but you like it, thinking about his large handprint marking you red. He winds his hips back up and presses in, groaning lowly as he fills you to the brim.

He sets a decent pace, one that robs you of what air you have left in your lungs. Your entire body feels sensitive, your cheek growing sore from being fucked against the shower wall. But it feels entirely too good, a certain itch that only Joel Miller can scratch.

Every thrust he makes, you moan his name like a broken record. “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan and grunt it so much, that it starts to sound like it’s not a real word anymore.

You reach back an arm blindly, gripping his bicep and stitching your nails into his skin.

Joel grunts out weakly, the burning sensation you caused on his arm making him go wild. He reaches for both of your wrists and plants them at the base of your back, forcing your face to be your only weight to keep you up against the shower.

But it unlocks a new angle, one that has you crying out curses and his heavenly name.

“Fuck me, Joel, fuck- fuck your favorite little pussy,” you mewl out, feeling his cock twitch inside you.

“God dammit, fuck me good like that, like that,” your eyes clench close, panting heavily. “Right there, daddy, please, Mr. Miller, touch my clit, please,” you beg, the pet name rolling off your tongue.

It makes him snarl. He sets a hellish pace. His chest puffs up, his broad biceps locking around you as his fingers stroke over your pussy.

He loves the way you wind him up. Because you are his favorite young pussy, one he’s made his own, railing you so good that you forget about anyone else that may have had you before.

All you know is Joel Miller.

His thighs and lower tummy smack your ass cheeks, a distinct slapping sound filling the shower and pinging off the walls right back into your ears.

Stars flutter behind your eyes, you feel light-headed. The water splashes warm across your back, allowing Joel even more slip.

The harder he fucks you, the closer he moves in. Now he has his entire torso flushed against your back, flicking his hips up into you with precision.

Suddenly he’s grabbing your leg by the underside of your knee, hiking it up, and planting it against the shower wall as he exposes a whole new sensation.

You can’t last any longer. His fingers circle dangerously around your clit, and now he’s pounding you into the wall, forcing friction against his glorious thrusts. You whimper loudly as his tip kisses your cervix repeatedly, feeling your walls clench around him as you come.

It’s jaw-dropping, heart-surging, mind-fucking how good he feels coming inside of you. It’s warm, warmer than the water still raining over you. It’s comforting the way his seed spreads throughout your core, his grunts filling the shower as he drops his last load inside of you.

And goddamn, he loves how you milk him dry.

You weakly slide down the wall, tiredly dropping your leg once he pulls out.

“No ya’don’t.” Joel quickly says, snagging a strong arm around your waist and hauling you up. You whimper as he peels your face off the wall, blinking rapidly as he spins you to face him. “C’mere.” Joel embraces you, and you lean weakly into his front like a bear hug.

“Water,” you whisper against his pec. He turns the shower temperature down, a more comforting heat surrounding you now.

“You’re alright.” He assures.

After time to recuperate, Joel reaches for the shampoo bottle, squirting a small amount into his palm and lathering it between his hands. You feel a little better standing, but you still stay wrapped up in his arms, in his hug.

He massages the shampoo into your locks, gently massaging it against your scalp, before he gently washes the bubbles out. He gathers conditioner next, letting it soak into your ends.

You hide your smile against his chest, knowing that he probably had to learn this type of stuff for Sarah. Hair care, skin care, tampons and pads, all the sort of stuff single dads fear. You wonder whatever could have been in Sarah’s mother’s mind to leave a guy like Joel Miller. Sure, he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed to fit into your life like a glove right now. For however long that perfect fit would be.

A weak sigh leaves your lips as he strokes your head sweetly, his fingers then grazing your cheek.

“Y’alright? Feel good?”

You nod weakly and smile, letting your arms drop gently as you pull away. “M’tired.”

Joel stifles a chuckle and nods. “Me too, baby. Sit tight.”

Once Joel is assured you’re not going to lose your strength standing up on your own, he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower, wrapping his towel low on his waist. You gaze at the lines around his hips, and how they dip down into his towel.

You clear your throat as you quickly look away once he approaches you with two towels. He wraps one around your shoulders, gently moving his warm hands up and down the sides of your arms.

You look so sweet, warm and cozy, cum-filled, at ease. The stress he usually sees you carrying around is wiped away. He hoped he had something to do with it.

Joel leans down and presses a light kiss to your lips. Not hungry, not desperate, not chasing. Delicate. Assuring.

You smile tiredly and shyly evade his eye contact, something that he hates to admit is goddamn adorable on you.

Both of you towel dry off any remaining droplets of water. Joel forces you to show him how you even get the towel you wrap around your hair on your head.

“This is girlhood, Joel Miller.” You say once you secure it on, watching him shake his head in disbelief.

“A mystery to me.” He says with a boyish grin.

You both exit the steamy bathroom and search your bags for pajamas. You packed a few comfy shirts for bed. And only one extra pair of panties. You better be damn careful with your one last sacred pair. You toss it back into your pack for now, deciding that they would probably be taken off in the morning anyway. You slip under the covers of Joel’s bed, saving him a space you hope he fills. Of course, he does.

Joel flips off the light switch, indulging the room in a black and blue hue. He grunts quietly as he slips into the covers. The both of you just melt into the mattress.

You nuzzle into his side, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. He makes gentle circles into your back as your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You sigh and turn your back to Joel to retrieve it from the charger.

“Your parents askin’ if we made it okay?” Joel murmurs tiredly, eyes closed, waiting for you to return to his side.

Your breath catches in your throat. It’s a text message from Nathan.

Hey stranger

“Yeah,” you lie, your fingers gliding across the keyboard to configure a response. “They uh.. They’re tellin’ me to not bug you too much on the trip.” You awkwardly chuckle, your back still turned to him as you stare at Nathan’s message.

Joel dryly chuckles as he reaches a hand out and settles it on your hip. “Quite the opposite.”

You feel terrible concealing this from Joel. But you don’t want him to think you were young and foolish letting your secret fling slip. This was to make things work, to keep the secret buried from your parents.

Another message from Nathan makes your phone buzz in your hand.

Heard you’re in Danbury for the summer with your folks. Wanna catch up?

Your heart sits in your throat, shocked by his ask.

You flip over your phone, opting to reply in the morning. You’re beat. You sigh weakly and return to Joel’s side, hiding your face in his shoulder as you gently kiss along the muscle. He was already passed out.

As messy as this felt, being with Joel felt like being tossed a life jacket in open water. And you weren’t going to lose that safety, not if you could help it.

---

here's my masterlist!

follow hellishfics and turn on notifications to see the next time I update!

#joel miller #joel miller smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #tlou #tlou fic #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #hellishjoel #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller

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polaroidpascal · 6 days

Text

let me || frankie morales

AO3 || MASTERLIST

pairing : frankie morales x f!reader

summary : after two weeks of frankie coming home knocking on death’s door from exhaustion, you decide to give him a break.

tags : fluff !!, no use of y/n, you taking care of frankie, very small nods to sex, undressing, showering together, cuddling, short and sweet glimpse into domestic life with frankie 🥹

WC : ~1.8k

a/n : i’ve never written pure fluff before, but the frankie brainrot has reached an all-time high and i desperately need to take care of this man. hope you like this little slice of domestic life with frankie 🫶 (not beta read or proofread much, just psa!)

You’re cozied up on your recliner reading a book in the soft light from your lamp when Frankie finally comes home from work.

He opens the door gently, tiredly. He never knows if you’re going to be asleep or not, so he errs on the side of caution just in case. Plus, he’s too exhausted to make more noise anyway.

You watch him from the corner as he sets down his keys. They clink against the ceramic dish that he made for you forever ago after you had moved in together. He sets down his backpack opting to unpack it tomorrow and hangs up his hat, running his hand and fingers through his curls with a long, tired sigh before he kicks off his boots.

He turns around to see you in your pajamas wrapped in a fuzzy blanket, book in hand, the lamp illuminating you from behind like an angel descending from heaven.

No amount of exhaustion can keep the tired smile from blooming across his face. “Hey, baby,” he says, his hand now rubbing the back of his neck to soothe the sore muscles there.

“Hi, love,” you say back sweetly. “How was work?”

He answers with another sigh and tired eyes, his smile fading just a bit remembering the absolutely packed couple of weeks he’s had. “It was alright, just tired.”

Frankie has come home beyond exhausted every day for the past two weeks. The first few nights, you were already asleep by the time he came home, unable to keep your eyes open any longer to wait for him. You had sent him a text telling him to wake you up when he got home, but of course your sweet boyfriend would never do that, not when you look so peaceful in your sleep.

One night, you happened to be awake when he came home, much to his surprise. He tried to play off how drained he was, bringing you in for a hug that swallowed you whole in his broad figure, whisking you off to your bedroom to try and ignore his exhaustion. But you could see it in his eyes from the moment he walked in that he was barely hanging on, and he definitely slept hard that night.

After that, you made sure you were up every night long enough to catch him walking through the door, picking up a new novel series to pass the time while you waited.

You rise from the recliner and shuffle over to Frankie in your fuzzy socks and his t-shirt loosely fitting your frame, the wide neckline exposing your collarbones. “You look tired, Frankie. And I’m not saying that in a mean way.”

He takes you in his arms and kisses the top of your head breathing another sigh, like he’s relearning how to breathe after being so busy all day. “I know, baby.”

You stay wrapped in each other's arms for a minute, Frankie’s head resting atop your own. His dead weight grows each second that passes and you let him stay until you can’t hold him up anymore. You rub and pat his back gently before you whisper, “Why don’t we go take a shower, hm?” looking up when he lifts his head again.

He looks back at you with his big, brown, pouty eyes and mumbles, “But you’re already in your pajamas…”

“I know,” you nod, reaching your hand up to cup his cheek and glancing across his face at his tired and beautiful features. “You’re always taking care of me. Can you let me take care of you this time?”

His eyes are still pouting and nearly half closed now as he pauses, then gently nods, letting you lead him to your bedroom.

He stands in the middle of the room reaching down to the hem of his shirt to undress but your hands stop him. He looks at you confused.

“Let me,” you say. He has no protests.

He watches you lift his shirt exposing his stomach and chest, raising his arms so you can slip it over his head. You toss it to the side while Frankie reaches down to take his socks off. Your hands move down to his belt, slipping it out of the loops of his jeans. It clinks to the floor and you unbutton his pants, slipping them down with his underwear. He watches you the whole time, stepping out when you reach the bottom before you stand up again.

When you meet his gaze, the love radiating from his eyes almost makes your heart burst from your chest. You smile gently at him, reaching up to give him a soft kiss before leading him to the shower.

You run the water warm, more on the hot side, and start to undress yourself. Frankie watches you strip, the way your shoulder blades move as you pull your shirt over your head and unhook your bra. The way your spine flexes as you reach down to pull your pants off and shimmy out of them. How angelically perfect the curves of your body look.

You turn around to look at him and see tears welling in his eyes.

Immediately, your heart drops and you rush to cup his face in your hands. “Oh, Frankie, what’s wrong?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing, nothing, I just…” He looks your face up and down examining all the features he finds so beautiful and takes a breath. “I love you so much,” he says, the end of his sentence getting quiet, tapering off choked in emotion.

You stare at the gorgeous boy in front of you, exhausted from his hard work, so full of emotion that he’s brought to tears, and you feel your own eyes start to sting. All you can do is hug him and bury your face into his chest, his warm, soft skin pressed against you as your arms clasp around him. “I love you too, Frankie.”

You feel his breath get a little quicker as he tries to keep himself in check, the fight against his tears getting harder and harder. You pull back and wipe away a few strays that started rolling down his cheeks before pulling him into the shower.

You wash Frankie head to toe helping him clean the day off. He leans down some so you can wash his hair, making sure to give his scalp a little massage while you suds up his curls. His eyes close and he softly hums as your fingers card through each strand. He loves when you play with his hair.

You gently wash his back, watching the soap slowly roll down his body as you rub circles into his skin. The muscles look tight, flexing some just with the slow breaths he’s taking. You reach up and dig your thumbs into the visible knots you see near the base of his neck where he was rubbing before. His head drops forward a bit, a soft groan leaving his lips at the relief.

You turn him around and wash his chest, watching the soapy water cascade down his pecs and stomach.

He watches you as best he can, wanting to savor every second, and he can’t help but close his eyes at the soothing feeling of the warm water flowing across his skin… the soap erasing the dirt from the day… and most importantly of all, your feather-light, loving touch behind every movement.

You rinse his chest a little and give him a soft kiss to his sternum, handing him the sponge to wash the rest of his body while you wash your own.

He silently watches you move, feeling himself get emotional again thinking about how lucky he feels to have you. That you’d do this for him. That you care so much about him. The love in his heart threatens to burst at the seams.

When you’re both done, Frankie grabs your hips and carefully spins you around before leaning down for a kiss. A kiss that’s worth a million words all condensed into one little action. A kiss that screams I love you, endlessly and eternally.

You stay under the shower head, lips locked with the silent words of affection being exchanged. You only think to get out when you feel the water starting to run cold.

When you get out, you loosely wrap a towel around yourself before grabbing another to dry off Frankie. You rub his hair and his face, draping it around his shoulders and tip-toeing up to kiss his nose before you finish drying yourself off.

You slip back into your pajamas and Frankie puts on his sweatpants before you both climb into bed together. Frankie immediately plops down on his side of the bed, lying on his back and draping his arms over his eyes as he sighs deep, finally comfortable after the long, long day he’s had.

He feels you crawl into bed with him, your weight shifting the mattress around him as you climb on top of him, legs straddled over his sides.

He moves his arms to look up at you staring at his chest tracing circles onto his skin. His hands rest on the tops of your thighs and he rests his head back on his pillow, but you swear you can feel his entire energy shift.

“You okay?” you ask, resting your palms on his skin.

“I…” he starts, looking up at you with sad eyes. “I love you so much, you know that… I’m just… I’m really tired, baby. I don’t know if I can—“

“Frankie,” you cut him off. “I’m not in the mood either.”

He looks at you with his pouty doe eyes again. “You’re not?”

“No,” you assure him. “I just wanted to look at you. How pretty you are. How lucky I am to have you.”

Frankie’s chest gets tight, the tears stinging in his eyes again as he wonders what he could have possibly done to deserve someone like you. Who loves him unconditionally. Who takes care of him so tenderly. Who is straddled on top of him just because she wants to look at him.

Before you can catch his eyes getting redder, he pulls you down to lay by his side, cradling you in his arms and kissing the top of your head. “It’s me who’s lucky to have you, amor.”

You hum and settle into his embrace, inhaling his clean scent and relaxing against his soft skin. Just as you’re starting to drift off, you hear a faint mumble, “Thank you.”

And you don’t even need to respond. You just press your body closer somehow, planting a kiss to his chin before nuzzling into his neck.

And it’s the only answer Frankie needs.

#francisco catfish morales #frankie morales #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fluff #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x y/n #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfiction

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silkscream · 2 months

Text

CHAPTER 8: TERMINAL PARADISE

ੈ✩ gojo satoru x reader, geto suguru x reader

He likes to braid your hair while you braid Suguru’s. He thinks of bringing the bed from his room into yours, pushing the two twins together to fit the three of you. Looks at you both with puppy eyes.

ੈ✩ chapter cw/tags: explicit content (18+ mdni) , unprotected sex, high/drunk sex, dubcon, somnophilia, oral sex, threesome, the boys being........ evil?

ੈ✩ wc: 7.7k

ੈ✩ a/n: what's upppPP i'm a little tipsy rn but. here is chapter eight. title from the adrianne lenker song. anyways this chapter is very self-indulgent but as i read it back it makes me like. sad. i shan't elaborate. it's very stupid olympic sex i'll tell u that. belligerent fucking if u will

playlist ✸ read on ao3 ✸ series masterlist

June, 2009

Heat sticks onto you like a leech. You’ve started to think you’ve become one, what with the dark side of your technique. You walked the halls feeling like a white deer that failed to blend into a thicket.

You latch onto your boys like a leech, too. Fighting for space in the same sky in between the sun and the moon. Suguru likes to tell you you’re the stars in small ways, always a gleam in your eye despite mostly feeling dim. There isn’t much time for moping anymore, Satoru tells you. It’s the summer, after all.

It’s quiet on Onjuku Beach. Well, quiet enough, save for the occasional splashing and the sound of Satoru’s cackles as he swims underwater and pulls Utahime’s ankle. You hold back laughter, watching her lash out like she usually does, Satoru running away like a little kid.

You take a bite of watermelon, the juice dripping out of the corner of your mouth. When you feel Suguru’s weight on the blanket next to you, you give him a slice. He wipes your mouth with the pad of his finger and tastes it on his tongue. He’d gotten accustomed to grooming you like that. Braiding your hair and sticking petals in it in the spring. Rubbing your shoulders with suntan lotion.

You glance at him afterward, when he’s not looking, grappling with the urge to bite him on the shoulder. You think that maybe Satoru would. You aren’t sure if you have the same privilege.

The afternoon drags on, barely changing the summer sky as the tide stays consistent between you and the moon. Shoko and Utahime had headed back an hour before, leaving Satoru’s head in your lap and Suguru seemingly napping underneath a Murakami novel.

You’d scrunched your nose up at the sight of it—Norwegian Wood. You’d teased Suguru about it, accusing him of being pretentious with a secret love for hollow female characters. He’d rolled his eyes, tipping back a beer, teasing you for bringing No Longer Human.

“Talk about dysfunctional and sad,” he sneered.

Satoru’s damp hair isn’t helping the shiver of your thighs, the sheen of your smooth skin now riddled with goosebumps. He’d teased you for taking the time to shave every part of your body before the mission, something you never did. Keeping up your appearance when you didn’t need to for him. Suguru likes a bush, too, you know.

You flushed when he said that, like your face was on fire.

Being day drunk is fun, you decide. Haziness suits the three of you.

You’re sweltering, to say the least, considering the late afternoon sun is setting in a place that hits you directly. Suguru stirs. You feel his warm breath on the side of your thigh as he rises, rubbing his eyes.

“You think I tanned unevenly?” he asks, squinting at you.

You shake your head, smiling. He smiles back, yawning just before he snaps the side of your bikini bottom without warning. You wince in surprise, blushing.

“Wanna wake up the prince?”

“But he looks so sweet when he’s asleep,” you sigh. “And so quiet.”

“Real fuckin’ quiet,” Suguru laughs. He pauses as he looks at Satoru, as if skimming his face for something. He flicks his nose with his finger, making Satoru flinch and whine.

“C’mon, Satoru. Up.”

He mumbles something in between a whimper and a slurred mutter, nuzzling his nose into your lap until you feel his hot breath fanning your cunt. He whines even more when you shift, attempting to get to your feet and put on your cover-up when he latches onto your wrists with his hands.

“We gotta go,” you coo softly.

He obliges with a pout. Satoru had rented a house with an ocean view for the three of you to stay in, much too luxurious for a mission that would only last a few days. But he had the expendable funds, and he refused to stay in a hostel like you had suggested.

He continues his petulant attitude, his stride like that of a child on vacation. It did feel like a vacation, if you had to be honest. The curses you’d exorcised the day before were hardly exhausting.

It’s only been three days in Onjuku, but you think that the boys are plotting against you.

It’d started the first day, Thursday, after a few exorcisms and one Special Grade made of tongues that they were able to kill in record time. Satoru had insisted on showing as much skin as possible, citing the heat. He was wearing your favorite shirt of his, unbuttoned to show off his alabaster skin, unblemished by anything at all, not even the hot sun.

He’d also insisted on dessert for breakfast, pointing out the novelty shops along the coast of the local town with the titillation of a real tourist, as if he hadn’t spent weekends there as a child. That’s how the three of you ended up eating popsicles for breakfast.

He was being annoyingly sly, pinching and prodding at you all morning like a little boy. He’d insisted on mimosas before noon, Suguru oddly going along with his antics at your expense. You’d had popsicles at the beach after. Satoru wouldn’t stop staring at you, blinking through the brain freeze as his mouth went to work on something strawberry-flavored. He was obscene with it, his tongue moving in languid movements, disgusting you but burning your skin at the same time.

His lips were stained bright red for the rest of the afternoon, but it looked so beguiling that it had you distracted for the rest of the day. You knew you could have him — he had never played hard to get — but something would gnaw at you telling you the opposite. Made him like forbidden fruit, deluding you.

For one, he was either missing your signals or feigning oblivion, a game that you willingly became a pawn to. He had always taken up too much space, but now he was tugging at your hair like you were twelve again despite your protests.

And then, when you were brave enough to sneak a hand on his thigh underneath the dinner table or cuddled a bit closer to him in bed, he did nothing.

Suguru was less obvious about teasing, which made you feel like you were crazy.

It started with small grocery runs. Suguru accompanied you after Satoru refused to go on the principle of having enough money to dine out for every meal. It felt domestic to pick vegetables with him. Both times, he’d thrown in a treat or a drink that he knew you would like without asking. He’d praise you after the day’s work in ways that set your guts on fire.

He had also, it seemed, picked up the same habit as Satoru of tugging your hair to get your attention. There had been fleeting touches to your waist, too, when he would simply be passing by you after you were done showering. Absent-mindedly, as light as an apparition. Shifting bodies as casually as two people passing in a crowded bar, yet it felt like a car crash to you.

He’d continue that for the second day. Even yesterday, when you had been using the outdoor shower to rinse off after the beach, Suguru had walked in with a drink to offer. Despite still being in your bathing suit, you had felt scandalized by his gaze alone.

Now, on Saturday evening, you’re alone with him in the beach house while Satoru attends a meeting in Shinjuku against his will.

Suguru lays on the couch lazily, his tongue jutting out to lick the side of a joint in between tea-flavored papers. You walk into the living room with a yawn, having just woken up from a short nap after reading on the porch. At twilight, the sky flushes pink and purple above the horizon.

You think about what to eat for dinner, thinking about the prospect of cooking with Suguru alone, which should come as a wholesome, harmless daydream, but truthfully makes your face warm. There are plenty of restaurants down the street, some that even delivered, you recall from a brochure left on the counter. You were intrigued by a seafood restaurant that Satoru had promised to take you to—

“Want a hit?” Suguru’s voice interrupts your ruminating.

“Oh,” you blink. “Um, sure.”

He chuckles as you join him on the couch as if he can read your mind. “It’s like Shoko’s cigarettes, I promise.”

“I know,” you frown, pouting. “I’ve smoked weed before.”

“Last time we passed a blunt around, you kept talking about how it’s against the law.”

“It is!” you mumble, shrugging.

“Yes,” Suguru grins. “And we’re sorcerers that wield magic and kill monsters.”

You roll your eyes, taking the joint from his fingers. He hands you a Zippo, the very one that you had gifted to Shoko months before. You’d have to remember to pocket it afterward to give back to her.

Suguru chuckles when you take a hit and inevitably cough. When he takes it back, he huffs and exhales a cloud towards your face, grinning with ivory teeth as his Adam’s apple rolls back. You can’t help but fixate your gaze on it.

He taps your knees in a rhythmic pattern with his fingers when you take the next hit. Already, your vision is vignetted with hazy white, but every movement between the two of you feels incredibly sharp, as if you’re wielding the Six Eyes in a dream. Your mouth feels dry, your lips bitten down by your teeth.

Suguru had been too lazy to change after the beach, barely in the mood to shower until the dampness of his swim trunks had gotten to him. He’d changed to another pair of shorts, the inseam short enough to allow exposure of his tanned thighs, and not bothering with a shirt because of the humidity. Even this close to him, he still smells like sea salt. His long hair was slightly textured, naturally tousled by the ocean.

You sink into the couch, sighing. You feel as though you're overheating. Despite this, Suguru is next to you, thigh to thigh, the spot in between you burning.

His lips feel chapped, his tongue dry from cotton mouth. He thinks about sticking it down your throat.

The radio that comes with the house is old as shit, something inexplicably adorable enough to be in a vintage shop but not practical enough to own considering it would buzz every few minutes. The signal is weak, crackling as Tatsuro Yamashita plays at a low volume.

Suguru throws his legs over your lap as he inhales, passing the joint to you but not releasing it. Instead, he merely holds it to your mouth himself, lighting it with Shoko’s Zippo.

Normally, you’d shake yourself after a session, splash your face with cold water before you would start imagining things. You were addicted to the feeling of his fingertips, the sensation exacerbated by your high. The last time you were like this, you’d pictured Suguru’s mouth on your cunt, the image bombarding your mind throughout the night. You numbed the urge with alcohol, still taking bong rips until you threw up in Shoko’s trash can.

You don’t think you’re hallucinating this time. His fox eyes point at you and descend down your face and jaw.

“No more,” he says.

“Why not?” you whine.

“Your eyes are glazing over,” Suguru chuckles. “So fucking gone.”

“I'm not,” you sigh, pushing his legs off of you and leaning into his shoulder.

He welcomes you with open arms, allowing you to lay your head on his chest. He smells like his sunscreen, coconut from his fragrance, salt from his body. His skin is incredibly warm too, but so is your entire body, particularly your chest. You can feel your heart beating. You can feel his palm on your thigh. Scorching.

So touchy with you. You wonder if he’s high on anything else. Maybe that was why he was so affectionate today.

Suguru stretches his legs across the couch, your body like a doll’s in between his thighs. He cracks open the can of beer beside him—when had he gotten up to get one?

It’s more humid at night. Or maybe it was the slick of his skin. Either way, you think your hair must be matted with sweat, a messy braid loosening at the back of your head. Strands spin in between Suguru’s fingers like loose threads of a sweater.

“You’re excited.”

“What?” you squeak out, surprised. His voice interrupts a miasma of inebriated thought loops, dripping desire bombarding the forefront of your mind.

“Your heart’s beating fast,” he observes. “And you get real horny when you're high.”

"I don't—”

"Don't think Shoko and I don't notice Satoru stealing you away when we smoke," he laughs.

His fingers curl around your jaw, lowering to feel the quickening pulse of the right side of your neck. You’d surely smell like him by the time you shower tonight. Coconut and sea salt and beer.

You shake your head.

Suguru had been at a deficit with you for the past six months. He would dream about your cunt sometimes, the sight of you on New Year’s permanently etched into his brain. He and Satoru still looked at the same magazines they’d collected in adolescence, spilling ropes of white to the same pages that had always gotten him going, but you were still more prominent in his head.

He would think of your mouth parting from the sensation of his fingers pushing through the slick of your pussy. Your tongue exploring the underside of his neck.

Satoru has been overly possessive ever since the school year started. Suguru had started to believe that he would never have you again and that he should accept it. He didn't feel particularly entitled to you. The Six-eyed sorcerer had his claim on you since he was a child, anyway—Suguru would learn to get over it.

But now, here you are, in his lap. Your breath quickens at the feeling of his hand on your thigh. Suguru could bet that you were soaking through your panties, perhaps from the moment you found yourself alone with him.

Lately, Suguru wants you more than he wants Satoru.

He loved Satoru so much, more than he thought he was ever capable of since he’d met him at fifteen, but he constantly dreams of the softness of your skin instead. He liked that you were pliant, desperate. It’d be easy to coax a reaction out of you, letting him in the crux of your thighs with just the tiniest amount of teasing. Suguru knew that you would say yes to him as eagerly as you would to Satoru, your mouth already watering. It made him feel insane.

Your cheeks heat up when you feel his dick hardening beneath you. Prodding at the small of your back, the only thing separating you is a thin piece of nylon.

“Aw,” he purrs. “You have a freckle right here.”

“Do I?” you breathe, your eyes lowering down to where Suguru’s finger strokes the inside of your thigh, the tip of it caressing a dot of dark brown. So tiny that you hadn’t even noticed it yourself.

“S’cute,” he whispers. You shiver, then. His hot breath all over your neck is intoxicating. When his fingers skim your collarbone, he notices it’s hot to the touch, your pulse twitching the same as it does when he’d called you princess.

You swallow thickly, turning to face him in his lap. He says your name with a heaviness that has your heart sinking to your feet.

“Can I kiss you?”

You don’t answer, merely turning your head to melt into him. High out of your mind.

He’s careful with you. His lips are soft despite being a bit chapped, his aftershave prominent in the air with notes of sandalwood. There’s intent to it, something you didn’t often feel with Satoru over the past few weeks.

Your hands cup his jaw almost immediately, while his own hands cup the flesh of your thighs. They slide up to squeeze your ass, which forces a mewl out of your mouth.

He didn’t think his cock could get any harder, wanting to burst from his shorts. It hurt.

“You’re so warm. You got a fever or something?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Your skin is burning. Wanna take this off?” he grins. A shark smile. His fingers skim the hem of your dress.

You do it without him begging. He doesn’t even have to convince you — you’re peeling it off, exhaling at the feeling of the thick air around you. Even with the slip of fabric off, you still feel so fucking warm against him.

You yelp when he grabs your breast, squeezing it along with his tongue on your nipple.

“Suguru—”

Your whine falls flat. You don't remember if you were meaning to scold him or to beg for more. He smiles with his forehead pressed to yours, his hands smoothing up and down the skin of your sides.

“Pretty,” he muses.

“Pretty,” you repeat. He’s beautiful underneath you.

A beat passes. You don't know who closes the distance first.

It’s a gnash of limbs, of lips, of teeth. Devouring each other. The weed made you so fucking wet, dripping into his lap through your panties. He doesn’t bother with them, pulling them to the side to fuck into you without a warning. You don’t even recall him taking out his dick.

The feeling of him makes you want to cry.

He groans at the bulge of your lower stomach, his cock carving out the gooey parts of you for him to nest in. The flush of your cheeks makes you look like a flower. Your cunt blooming for him, hot and tight.

You feel like you’re being split apart, like the skin of a mandarin orange unfurling beneath his hands.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he sighs, gaining control of his voice. Humming instead of growling, like he’s sinking into a warm bath.

You think it would burn if you weren’t so wet, his girth thicker than Satoru’s.

He holds you by the hips, thrusting into you at a slow pace, breaking you open. Making a mess of your insides.

“Does Satoru fuck you this good?” he grins.

You’re too breathless to reply. As if you even could, your face feverish at his taunting. You didn’t think you could survive a grip harder than Satoru’s, but despite Suguru’s gentle demeanor, his hands on you are brutish.

You kiss him, licking up the taste of beer and weed, slightly herbal from the papers. He moans into your mouth when you grip his hair. It’s soft in between your fingers. Like real silk.

Suguru had dreamt about this for months.

“You look so pretty,” he grunts, teeth bared. “Fuck. Thought about this for so long.”

You whine at his admission. His cock is impossibly deep inside you, coupled with the sensation of your limbs melting like boiled sugar. You roll your hips, cunt spasming around him already. Your nails make crescent-shaped marks on the meat of his broad shoulders, mirroring the same ones that he had made from gripping your waist.

Suguru’s hand holds the crux of your neck, tipping your face upward to look at him dead in the eye. Everything in your body is cloying heat, making it difficult to keep your eyes wide open, but he forces it from you with deeper thrusts. His fingers coax your mouth open for you to suck on, making you whimper, making you choke on his digits.

There’s a flash in Suguru’s eyes, the smallest gleam that you had recognized in Satoru. Something predatory.

“Knew you’d be a good girl,” he whispers in your ear. “You think about me like this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you whimper.

He pulls back, leaning back on the couch to let you have your rut, your pace eager like a starved puppy. Part of him wanted to mark you up just to piss Satoru off, though he knew the bastard would probably like it anyway.

“How do you think about me?”

“I—Suguru—”

“Tell me,” he teases, his smile serpentine. He pulls out to flip you over, your tits pressed against the arm of the couch. “Like this? Pulling your hair?”

"I think about your mouth. About your cock inside me," you say. Mindless. Under his spell.

The stretch from behind feels somehow deeper than before. He groans at the way your back arches, your hair in his fist. Your knees are already chafing from the leather beneath you, the back of your thighs burning from slapping against his skin.

“Close,” you choke out.

“Yeah,” he sighs, biting your shoulder. “Cum on my cock, princess.”

You could pass out like this, you think. Your vision is already spotty, air stolen out of your lungs from the brevity of his movements. Your mouth hangs, wide open and slack as a pitchy moan rolls out.

Suguru follows soon after you — he can’t help it when you sound like that. He’s addicted. Desperate to live inside you like this, high in every earthly sense. He has half a mind to pull out before he spills, but he can’t pry himself from you.

Still dizzy, you lay on him while he cleans up the mess in between your thighs, his cum nearly leaking onto the couch. You’re surprised when he grabs the back of your neck to kiss you again. Neither of you keep track of how much time passes as you make out like teenagers. You feel almost faint in his arms.

“Fuck, you’re still high as shit, aren’t you?” Suguru says, squishing your face in between his hands. He slides his dick back into his shorts, light soiled from precum. If he hadn’t put them on again, he probably would’ve been too tempted for another round. Even with your hand palming him while you made out, you were clearly in another dimension.

Looking at him makes you feel raw. Like letting him fuck you was the same as volunteering your heart on a pulpit.

“Dinner.” It feels strange to use your voice. Swapping spit with Suguru wasn’t doing much for hydration.

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Want to go to that restaurant?”

“Mm,” you whine, slinging an arm around his neck. “Let’s do takeout.”

Satoru manages to slip back late at night, long past the time you and Suguru had fallen asleep on the couch with the television on. He smirks at the sight, hovering over the two of you like the Grim Reaper. Suguru would surely snap at him if he was awake, but for now, the Six Eyes examine every contour of each of your bodies fit together like clasped palms.

The room smells like sex. Or maybe Satoru is projecting, his jaw only now relaxing after keeping his teeth so gritted during that stupid fucking meeting with the higher-ups. He kept thinking about you, distracted by the sight of you at the beach, your bare legs splayed out on the sand.

Suguru probably got to you first. Of course, he would. It makes Satoru bite his cheek, but it also makes the butterflies in his stomach feel like daggers.

He stills when he hears you hum, mumbling something unintelligible as you bury yourself in Suguru’s chest. It’s so soft, so innocent, yet Satoru has to excuse himself to your shared room so he can wrap his hand around his cock.

He thinks about your mouth when he’s close and decides not to finish. He’d rather feel you against him instead, skin to skin.

The sound of you mewling in your sleep is adorable to him — you do so in his arms as he lifts you bridal style, prying your body from Suguru’s grasp. When he puts you down in the bed, you look angelic.

Satoru rubs your thigh, prying your legs apart gently so he can suck kisses into the skin. You twitch, your breath heavy. Indulging in your dreams while Satoru indulges in his.

You squirm, stirring when you feel his tongue in your cunt. You’re already so wet for him, pliable and ripe for him even in your sleep. He tastes salt, the aftermath of his best friend’s release, and he laughs.

“Satoru,” you mumble, your voice still in a dream-like haze.

“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs, licking a stripe from your clit to your belly button. “Missed me?”

“Mm.”

The air is thick with tension as he rises to slot his body behind yours. Satoru pumps his cock once before he slides into you without much warning. Despite being wet, your cunt burns.

“Sator—” He covers your mouth.

“So fucking tight,” he groans. “Thought Sugu would’ve loosened you up, huh?”

“Hurts,” you whimper.

“Take it,” he sighs. “Take it for me.”

His teeth on your shoulder make you dizzy. You still feel like you’re dreaming, but the stretch he has in between your walls makes it all too real. Satoru knows he doesn’t deserve you like this, but he’d decided the moment he stepped into the house that he would be selfish tonight.

He fucks you like he’s starved.

Even in the wine-dark night, he senses his best friend all over you with his Six Eyes. You’re covered in him.

You pant into his palm until he descends his hand to your throat, pulling you taut against him so that your back arches. He doesn’t bother with making you cum, mostly circling your clit to get you wetter. Inside you, he feels boneless, washed away of his irritation.

“Fuck,” he grunts. “Oh, fuck. ‘m sorry, baby.”

“Too much,” you whine.

He shoves his fingers into your mouth the same way Suguru had done hours before.

With a mean cant of the hips, you can feel his body slacken after warmth fills up your cunt. Your voice is high and needy on the comedown. You taste blood in your mouth from biting down on your lip too hard, chapped from all the kissing of today.

“Love you,” he mumbles, his mouth on the nape of your neck.

He falls asleep soon after, leaving you with your thoughts, still half-drunk on him, barely lucid. It makes you sick, the way you want him, the way you let him use you. But you liked it. You liked his violence and possessiveness as if his actions were love letters.

Satoru had you weaned on something so saccharine that you stopped caring about the possibility of it spoiling. You welcomed the rot anyway. You had your own to wield with your bare hands.

August, 2009

You dream about them sometimes. You were shocked that the boys didn’t have any more games to play with you during that weekend, the two of them collectively ignoring the smell of sex in the air and the casual touches. They still touched you in their own ways. Reminding you of yourself. Your role as a toy.

Sometimes, you dream about them together with you as the voyeur. You’d see their broad backs, sweat pooling into a navel. Tongue-kissing. They were both too large to fit on the dorm bed together, you’d imagine.

Satoru gets clingier. If that was even possible. He sleeps in your room instead of his more often now, leaving his clothes tucked messily in your bottom drawer. It’s almost domestic, the way he starts sweeping the floor like it’s a shared house, the way his toothbrush kisses yours in the chipped mug on the bathroom sink.

Even when he's not physically in your room, his presence always lingers. The amount of belongings left behind that are Satoru's continues to increase. Video games he forces you to play with him. Manga piled up on the corner of your desk.

It’s during this time that you realize how touch-starved Satoru must’ve been as a child. He had clung to you then, too—always playing too rough, always finding a part of you to hold whether it had been your hand or your braids to pull. From an early age, he’d always needed that relief. Something to sink his teeth in fully.

He’s more than willing to wear his heart on his sleeve for you, which you find endlessly amusing. It makes him dopey, almost stupid in his affection for you. You’d consider yourself a girlfriend if either of you would say it out loud. Neither of you do.

Suguru likes to sneak up on you in small ways that evade Satoru’s watchful eyes. Like the times he sleeps in your dorm when Satoru is busy on a mission. Suguru will indulge your interest in movies that are more cerebral—psychological thrillers and slow cinema. Satoru doesn’t have the patience for it, always opting for a slasher horror or an action film. Suguru likes to be quiet with you in these instances. Likes to stroke your hair when you rest your head in his lap. Likes to fall asleep in your tiny bed, his larger body engulfing yours.

You’re being shared between them, though you aren’t sure of the conditions. You don’t have the guts to ask. You don’t even notice a significant change. Being attuned to the boys in physical and emotional ways is almost second nature to you, now.

Between July and August, the three of you are a set.

A crowded bed. Weed-induced makeouts. Someone’s hand snapping the waistband of your shorts and slinking downwards. Sometimes, you can’t distinguish their touches. You don’t care to.

August is golden light waking you from sweet slumber. August is liquid gold in the sky reflecting on smooth skin. Bare knees hanging from rooftops.

The summer loosens you up, much to Satoru’s delight. Enough to convince you to be more social, at least.

One night, your dorm is crowded—Shoko supplies the weed and Utahime supplies the alcohol.

Strip poker again. A unanimous decision because the school had poor ventilation and there were too many of you for your single box fan to air out the room. Shoko calls the game off knowingly—Satoru’s making his eyes at you again, drunk and high off his ass while you’re occupied with conversation. Any more clothing items stripped off and the rest of them would be kicked out of the room.

You all settle on a movie drinking game, then. Something stupid, something American that Yuki picks out. You think it’s funny that she hangs out given her anarchist values on sorcery.

Satoru is, of course, annoyingly clingy and annoyingly cute. Hogging up all your attention the second you lean into Suguru in the slightest bit. You almost want to scold him, maybe spray him with a bottle like he’s a cat.

He doesn’t bother to put his clothes back on—not all of them, at least. He leaves his shorts on, though you think they must be a size too small given the inseam. You’re still clad in shorts and a crop top, giving Satoru any excuse to touch any expanse of skin between your hips and ribcage despite the number of times you complain about being too warm.

The girls get too drunk too fast. Yuki falls asleep in Suguru’s lap while Shoko and Utahime end up making out without caring about who’s looking.

The minute the three of them are out your door, Satoru’s lips are on yours. Teeth adamant on biting into the flesh of your bottom lip like a predator. He tastes like strawberries this time. You can barely keep up before you register that Suguru is behind you, laughing, cursed energy flickering.

Despite everyone’s departure, the room feels smaller.

Satoru has never been so eager to show off like this, believe it or not. He usually waits until the two of you are alone, though your reaction time is always too slow and the flippant speed that he takes you the millisecond you get privacy together is always too fast.

Maybe sometimes, Suguru would be asleep nearby while Satoru would tease you to sleep, but he’d never be a part of it. Certainly not in the same room.

So it has you deeply flustered now, just like it had been those many months ago in the late hours of New Year’s Day. Rushed and torrid. Two pairs of snake eyes on you. Getting torn apart by two sets of hands.

It seems that your suspicions on that beach weekend were correct.

Satoru’s been bringing up Suguru when he fucks you lately, asking you if you think his other half is more attractive. If you’re thinking about Suguru while he’s inside of you.

Of course, you don’t answer—you never do. But Suguru seems to be in on it, given the amount of times he bumps into you, the way he’s started to call you Twigs. He seems to be everywhere, all the time, the exact second Satoru isn’t around. Like a scab that won’t heal.

He buys you lunch often, likes to treat you after studying the more practical parts of Jujutsu. Plays with your hair absentmindedly just like Satoru does.

He’s doing it now, making your scalp tingle as he presses his mouth gently at the nape of your neck—a stark contrast to Satoru’s tongue in your mouth.

“You gonna let Suguru watch, baby?” Satoru mumbles against your jaw, his breath hot. “Or d’you want him to join?”

You nod dumbly, barely aware of yourself. It’s how Suguru manages to get your shorts off so swiftly. His hands caress your shoulder blades with palms outstretched underneath your shirt. Your own pair of wings.

It’s too easy—like picking apart petals off a rose. Rough as the boys are, they don’t need to be. You’d fold over for them without much convincing. You can tell how much they love that about you, how Satoru probably whispers about it to Suguru in between classes when you aren’t watching.

So sensitive every time I touch her. Like it’s her first time all over again.

“Suguru,” you whine. “Kiss me.”

He laughs and looks at you like a shiny new toy. Precious. Suguru is somehow more boyish when he’s high, his cat-like smile as lazy as his slurred movements. He’s always graceful despite the posture problem he shares with Satoru. When he smokes, there’s a lightness within him. Rolls off the shoulders like water falling.

He’s perfect.

Satoru preps your cunt with his mouth. You cry out immediately, feeling the vibration of him beneath you. It was good that they cut you off from the joint considering how many beers you and Utahime were passing back and forth. You’re light enough now to feel every lick and suck so acutely, Satoru’s mouth making a mess of you.

Suguru works on your neck, then takes your nipple in his mouth. You swallow a moan. Kitten licks from both of them and you’re already convulsing.

“Think you broke a record, princess,” Suguru grins.

“Best girl,” Satoru sighs, biting into the meat of your thigh.

“C’mere. Let me taste her.”

You expect Satoru to huff in protest or move out of the way, but he doesn’t. He leans over your body and presses his mouth to Suguru’s, licking into it obscenely with a small groan. Your eyes widen with fascination, cheeks blooming.

“How is she?” Satoru smirks.

“Perfect. Just like always.”

You whimper in response. They both smile at you; God and the devil. You swear their faces blur into each other.

“That turn you on, baby?”

“She’s so cute,” Suguru muses. “All fucked out already.”

Something divine awakens in your blood. You want to indulge in them, be their pet. It’s like your brain is melting into a pool of desire, dripping out of you. You blink slowly, feeling a pressure in your stomach that bleeds of desperation.

“Want you both,” you pant. Your lashes flutter when Suguru feels the slippery plushness of your walls with his fingers. “Fuck, want it so bad. Need it.”

“So fucking wet, holy shit,” he groans. “All this for me?”

“You?” Satoru frowns. “I’m the one who made her cum.”

“And I’ll make her cum on my cock.”

“Dude—”

“You need to learn how to share, Satoru,” Suguru chuckles. His fingers are incessantly scissoring into you, yet the two of them bicker as if you aren’t there. “You owe me for getting us in trouble last week.”

“Oh, so it’s my fault that we both forgot to put up a veil—”

“Shut him up, will you, sweetheart?” Suguru interjects. “Shit, he’s hard as a rock.”

You whine when Suguru removes his fingers, but he’s quick to fuck into you. It’s whiplash, the stretch of him. Satoru rolls his eyes and leans in to cup your face with his hand, kissing you while his other hand pumps up and down his cock.

“Oh,” you gasp.”S-Suguru…”

“Does it hurt, pretty?”

“N-no. Feels too good.”

“Feels better than Satoru? Yeah?” he sneers.

Satoru glares at him, exhaling a groan in between annoyance and desperation as he palms himself.

“You know, I was gonna fuck her face but now I think that’s your job.”

“I’ll fuck you after, relax,” Suguru chides. “I wanna kiss her.”

He leans down. His messy bun has fallen out of its scrunchie — it’s one of yours. Even when he has his usual hairstyle, he keeps it around his wrist sometimes. Now, his hair tickles your face as he kisses you, hand to your throat to hold you in place while your hips quiver at the sheer girth of him.

“Satoru, c’mere,” you whimper.

He kisses you deeply before kneeling in front of you, his cock hovering over your face. You take him in your mouth, the flushed skin of his dick tight and throbbing underneath your tongue. You like the way he groans and pulls your hair, mirroring the way you were just pulling on Suguru’s hair when his face was buried in your neck.

“Holy fuck,” Satoru moans. His thighs twitch. Suguru’s right – you look fucked out, eyes rolling backward. Must be the drugs. Then again, Suguru’s hitting every sensitive spot inside of you at a relentless pace.

“Such a good mouth, Twigs.”

If you weren’t getting fucked, you would’ve cringed at that. You hate when Satoru calls you that in bed.

“Good cunt, too,” Suguru rasps. “Perfect cunt. Fuck, do you feel that, baby? Feel me up to your stomach?”

You moan around Satoru’s cock.

Satoru’s eyes are blown wide, a drop of blue expanding against the stark white of his sclera. He used to dream about this. His two favorite people in the world. It had occurred to him just then how much he wanted you both in the back of his mind. Wanted to consume you both in one bite.

He pulls out of your mouth, stroking his cock slowly as he watches.

You whine something unintelligible. Begging, mumbling. “Faster.”

“Any faster and I’ll cum, baby,” Suguru groans.

“Don’t cum inside her,” Satoru warns. “I’m still pissed at you for the last time.”

Suguru merely laughs. “Come over here and open your mouth then, pretty boy.”

His thrusts are getting sloppier but rougher. The impact of him is dizzying, the hand he has wrapped around your throat making you lightheaded. You can only stare with a parted mouth, fascinated by the succulent pink of his lips as he focuses on making you cum. You’re too out of breath to even tell him when it happens.

It turns you inside out. Liquefying your body like treacle.

“You’re so cute when you cum, baby,” Satoru coos, squeezing your breast.

“Fuck, fuck, Satoru, c’mere,” Suguru slurs. He pulls out of you then, pumping himself over Satoru’s tongue until his cum spills onto it. He swallows and scrunches his nose.

“Battery acid.”

Suguru laughs, then looks back at you. “You’ll have to weigh in on who tastes better, princess.”

“My turn,” Satoru grins, his eyes a bit feral.

You yelp when he manhandles you and gets you into his lap. He starts marking you up. Bites you a little too hard as if he’s trying to wake you up. When he thrusts into your cunt, you gasp, feeling him all the way into your guts. You spasm around him, still sensitive from Suguru.

He holds your hips and fucks into you at a steady pace while Suguru comes to caress your back, licking over your shoulder blades.

“Satoru, you’re going to make her look like a domestic violence victim with the marks you’re making.”

“She likes it,” Satoru pouts.

“Fuck, ‘m hard again,” Suguru groans. “Lay her down.”

“No, I want her like this.”

“Too fucking bad, I want you like this.” Suguru pulls at you until your back hits the mattress and Satoru rolls his eyes, gripping your hips with bruising force as he drapes your legs over his shoulders.

Suguru bites Satoru’s neck, peppering it with kisses. Watching them in front of you is tantalizing, makes you clench around Satoru harder.

“Shit, you like that, baby? You like looking at us?” Satoru moans.

“Y-yes.”

Suguru spits in his hand as he preps Satoru from behind. It’s minimal, given how impatient he is. He reaches over to your bedside table, fumbling with a bottle of lube. It doesn’t take long until his cock fills Satoru to the brim.

“Jesus.”

“Shut up and take it.”

Satoru feels too hot, too full. The feeling of Suguru’s cock in his ass inadvertently makes him bury himself even deeper into you, and he’s already on the brink. Suguru reaches over Satoru’s body to press a thumb to your aching clit until you cum with a strangled cry.

The boys try to time their stuttering hips at a similar rhythm, but Satoru feels like he’s losing his mind. Caught up in between both of you, melting, barely lucid. Eyes squeezed shut with his mouth falling open.

“Tell me you love me.”

You blink at him, wondering who he’s asking. The flush in his cheeks makes him look exhausted, spent. Drunk over the bacchanalian mess of it all.

“Love you, Satoru,” you whimper anyway. “I love you.”

He moans at that. Gasps when he feels the stretch of his hole split open on Suguru’s cock.

You watch with tears in your eyes, overstimulated from your orgasm. Over Satoru’s shoulder, Suguru locks eyes with you and smirks, not letting up eye contact nor the stimulation of your clit with his fingers. He doesn’t care that you’re convulsing underneath them, doesn’t care that hot tears are streaming down your face. He always thought you looked beautiful when you cried. It’s sick of him, maybe, but he wants to be the one to make you do it, even when it’s not his cock inside of you.

“Shit— Sugu—”

Satoru hits his peak, filling you with his cum when Suguru hits the perfect spot inside him. He’s whimpering. His eyes are glassy.

“Fucking shit, you’re tight,” Suguru mutters. “Gonna cum.”

“Not inside,” Satoru whines.

“You’re a fucking brat,” Suguru chuckles.

Of course, Suguru disobeys, cumming inside Satoru with a guttural groan. Once he pulls out, Satoru collapses on top of your body, face buried in your hair.

You whine. You’re overheated, smothered. Your body feels as though it’s been rearranged multiple times like malleable clay in each of their hands. It’s a miracle that Satoru pulls his dick out of you at all.

“The hell was that?” he asks Suguru, out of breath. Suguru simply smiles, ignoring him.

“Let’s run her a bath. Poor baby looks like she’s gonna pass out.”

He’s right, admittedly. You aren’t even sure if you could get up if you wanted to, which is why Satoru scoops you in his arms.

“We can’t all fit in the tub,” you mumble.

Satoru laughs. “Yes, we can. But fine, we’ll just shower after you.”

The two of them handle you like glass. The swapping of washcloths and soap bottles makes the ordeal ritualistic. Suguru runs his fingers through your wet hair while Satoru lifts one of your legs to scrub.

“Little princess,” Suguru says.

“You guys treat me like a pet.”

The two of them exchange a glance. Unreadable. But there’s something of a knowing smile in Satoru’s expression.

“You’re just precious s’all. Perfect girl.”

You sigh, sinking into the water. Something turns over in your stomach, but you’re soothed by the sound of Suguru lightly humming behind you. They’re gentle with you. It’s ironic.’

Suguru kneads your spine and presses kisses to your wet skin. The smell of sex dissipates and the scent of Suguru’s shampoo wafts under your nose instead—he’d left it in your bathroom one weekend when Satoru was out on a mission. You have a suspicion he did it on purpose to get a rise out of Satoru or to make you smell like him. You didn’t mind either way.

Every touch feels blistering as much as it feels soothing, somehow. White-hot, too noticeable, yet the feeling of their hands lets you exhale. Maybe it was the sex. You couldn’t even really look Satoru in the eye, not really. Something in the face was constantly changing, as if he was slowly transforming whenever you were joined together in ways that were beyond you.

He’d gotten rougher. Meaner in the hips, even if his kisses were meant to cherish. He’d get too eager. He always was, to be fair, but it’s been ferocious from him. Bruising your hips with the force of his hands, handprints adorning your ass. It would be Suguru to pick up the pieces, to soothe you with sweet nothings despite his cock splitting you open. It was only a few times since the beach trip, but it was as if they planned it together.

You realize this now in your post-sex haze. Steam in the air as heavy as your lids. They wanted to take care of you so badly. They just had to ruin you a little beforehand.

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