#but shes still new to being free at this point

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Under the Spotlight

You weren’t just anyone walking into Gainbridge Fieldhouse that night.

You were you…Y/N. Hollywood’s favorite new face. The girl the internet had decided was too pretty to be that talented and too charming to be real. You’d been on magazine covers, walked red carpets, hosted SNL.

And yet, tonight, none of that mattered.

Because tonight, you weren’t the star of a hit movie. You weren’t there to be seen.

You were there to see her.

You and Caitlin had met months ago…mutual friends at a crossover event, something casual. You’d exchanged numbers after ten minutes. Not for anything romantic. Not yet. Just a shared love for competition, for the way attention followed you both, whether you asked for it or not. You started with dumb memes and sarcastic texts. You bonded over the weird loneliness of being so known all the time.

She sent you a video once at 1:42 a.m., whispering courtside at an empty practice gym. “I’m supposed to be asleep. I just wanted to shoot for a bit.”

You sent back a voice note. “I’d stay up to watch you shoot.”

And after that, it stopped being casual.

She never called you her girlfriend. You never called her yours. But the silence between you? It was anything but platonic.

So when you showed up that night…wearing a custom black Fever jacket with her number stitched discreetly inside the sleeve…it was a choice. A quiet kind of confession.

You didn’t need cameras. You just needed her to see you.

You slipped into your courtside seat with that practiced kind of elegance, all poise and purpose. Fans started whispering before you even sat down. Phones lifted. Tweets fired. People didn’t miss a thing when it came to you…not who you followed, not who liked your photo at 2 a.m., not where you showed up on a Friday night in Indiana.

And Caitlin?

Caitlin noticed you the second she stepped onto the court.

You watched her freeze mid jog as her eyes landed on you. One blink. Then a smile…big and completely unguarded, the kind she only ever gave you in private. Her shoulders shifted like she had to physically reset herself to keep walking.

She bent to tie her shoe. You smirked.

God, she was trying to play it cool.

Warmups were a mess. She missed two open threes. Got hounded by her teammates. You saw Aliyah pat her on the back and mouth something…probably teasing her about you being there. Caitlin didn’t even argue. Just flushed and tried to hide her grin with her towel.

You couldn’t stop watching her. The way she moved, focused but constantly scanning for you. And when her eyes found yours again?

You mouthed “Focus, superstar.”

She exhaled a breathless laugh, shook her head and adjusted her ponytail like it would somehow settle her pulse.

But you knew better.

When the game started, she lit up. Dropped back to back threes like it was nothing. You could see her fire from your seat. But every made shot was followed by a glance your way. Like she needed to see your reaction. Like your approval meant more than any stat line ever could.

And when she took a hard foul in the second quarter and landed on her back, you shot halfway out of your seat, heart climbing into your throat. She got up fine, brushing it off. But she looked at you as she did it.

You pointed to your lips. “Careful.”

She grinned again. And missed the free throw.

You leaned toward the court and whispered, “Slipping.”

She laughed. Full, real, chest deep laughter. The whole arena felt it.

And apparently, so did the broadcast.

“There’s a certain energy from Clark tonight,” the announcer said. “Maybe something…or someone…giving her an extra reason to show off.”

The camera cut to you. Center frame. Steady. Glowing.

You didn’t flinch. You just tilted your head, smiled slowly and looked right at Caitlin.

Like a challenge.

She kept playing like she had something to prove. And she did. You knew it. She wanted to prove that this…you…wasn’t just some fleeting crush. That she could be Caitlin Clark and still be yours. Even if no one else knew it yet.

They won by four. She finished with twenty eight, six assists, and a defense that looked like a highlight reel. But when the buzzer sounded, she didn’t even glance at the scoreboard.

She looked for you.

And your seat was empty.

Her eyes darted. Jaw clenched. She looked around like maybe you’d disappeared. Like maybe she’d imagined the whole thing.

But then someone in a staff polo leaned in and said something, and her entire body relaxed.

She ran. Not walked…ran…down the tunnel.

You were waiting just past the edge of the noise, tucked in a hallway behind the press zone and watching the doorway like your whole body had been on pause.

The second she saw you, she stopped. Just stopped.

“You left,” she said, breathing hard.

“I didn’t want to steal your moment.”

She stared at you like she couldn’t believe you were real. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. You. Here.”

You stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat of her skin. “So have I.”

Caitlin’s mouth parted, and she glanced toward the corner, toward the last of the security team walking away.

You could tell she was asking herself: Can I? Should I?

So you answered for her.

You leaned in and brushed your forehead against hers. “You don’t have to be subtle with me.”

Her hand slid up your arm, fingers curling gently at your jaw. Her eyes were wide, shining. “I don’t want to hide.”

“Then don’t.”

And that was it.

Caitlin kissed you…slow, aching, like she’d been holding it back since the moment she saw you courtside. You kissed her back like you were done pretending, done waiting.

Somewhere down the hall, a photographer lifted their camera.

Neither of you looked.

Let them guess. Let them post. Let them know.

This wasn’t a rumor.

This was real.

[theotherrookie]

"Yeah, never trust the guy who's trying to eat you. He might know reverse psychology." Erica always had her way to blur the distinction between jokes and whenever she was being completely serious.

Willow dragged the chair over, careful not to touch any of the spots that Five was more likely to have touched directly.

"This will burn nicely." She proceeded to take off her gloves and tossed them on the seat. Her hands were going to be the least outrageous detail against armor and animal features.

"It was a long fight. Five has way too much time to waste thinking of new tricks." Erica said, "And they didn't even help him in the end!"

"All he really achieved was making things harder for himself as we learned some new tricks of our own." Lucien added, "While I appreciate the kind words, Russell, I believe defining my time as a hunter as a failure is most appropriate. What I was trying to do was wrong and unlike Five, I can recognize my faults."

Other than that, he was absolutely fabulous.

Erica tilted her head. "You're looking for 900 pinecones? Then you're not going to need that banana in your pocket."

"Wait until he checks his bag." Lucien told her with a smirk.

Rook chuckled as she pointed at the strange lightning storm happening in the distance.

"Do you like it? It's our special hotline." Her expression quickly shifted as a thought occurred to her, "I wonder if we could make some code for this. I'll have to ask the others what they think. There's a chance the Roche have already built something we can use."

Despite Five's accusations, Rook clearly spoke fondly of her fellow mages and still worked hard to fill the position she was given in their team. Nobody minded if they started off as a joke when she clearly cared for all of them.

Rook kept her wings firmly pressed against her back as they descended. Truth be told, she couldn't wait to get out of her armor and into something more comfortable, but she couldn't pass on the chance of parading around pretending to be a cosplayer.

"It'll be nice but I think what we need is some regular free time now." she replied, "You know, just hanging out at the club, some more rehearsals, maybe a trip or two. We've been in survival mode for a while and we need to do some things just for the fun of it."

She was starting to like that method of travel. Still, Rook was glad to get back on the ground.

"I will leave a good review. Let's see what the others have found."

She could already tell there was a certain chair waiting to be set ablaze.

Veronica smiled fondly. "She's a stubborn one, isn't she? Quite a few of us wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her."

She wouldn't, for certain. Only Rook could have moved to the other side of the world and devote herself to finding a way to at least see her one last time. Lucien was another who could attest to Rook's determination.

It was a shame Five wasn't going to do it even if it killed him. They could have done with his family ceasing to be so annoying.

"Perhaps you could wear it again for a few sparring sessions. The novices could all use some extra training."

It was better than learning on the field while having to fight for their lives.

"I really thought I was done when I found myself with three extra daughters." Veronica mused, "And I suppose I'll go back to having very little to do for most of the day. Though I could double as something of a phantom at the opera, if you don’t mind having a few familiar faces in the audience."

She would have enjoyed the diversion. Veronica shifted her attention to Erica as she ran over to them.

"You found him!" She proceeded to poke Frosty's cheek, "I guess he felt like taking a nap somewhere else. Can we go now?"

"Those vampires must have been Italians."

The thought was fascinating, but Erica still preferred Bill to many other undeads she had met. He was nicer and had cool shadow powers.

She too was content with the trashing being over for now. The nice thing about sending stuff to the void was that it could be done quietly.

Erica waited for Willow to check the data coming from the drone before going off to retrieve Five's favorite chair. "Are we sure there's no bloodsucking singing plant around here?"

"Well, that would be a plant I wouldn't mind seeing turned to ash." Lucien mused, "Oh, I was just trying to make myself useful. I realized one of the reasons behind my failure was my training not really contemplating direct confrontations."

He then reached to pat Russell's shoulder, "So I learned from the best."

"Well, except the part where you give everybody a good scare!" Erica barged in on what could have otherwise been another tender moment to look Russell over, "You've gotta be careful when you die now. You're gonna give people a big scare like I did with Travis."

"Give him some credit, Erica." Willow said.

"Yeah, I'm giving him credit that he's going to be careful about not dying on people."

A repeat of the accident from earlier was a given with Russell's altruistic tendencies. The best Erica could do was offer her experience on how not scare people to death.

Lucien didn't seem to agree with her intentions as he rolled his eyes. "They look different but they're all as gentle as a brick to the face."

The fiery bird was a more refined alternative to what was for all intents and purposes a giant middle finger from Rook to Five, her father and everybody who wanted for whatever reason to tear them apart. The choice had fallen on the former simply because she wasn't alone.

Rook was about to thank Bill for the compliments when the clouds in the distance parted and lighting stretched from the buildings towards the sky. News of their victory had been received.

"Well, it won't stop idiots from trying anyway, but we're in for a big party."

Though a nice long nap was in order. Rook was already pondering taking her deck chair to the roof when she moved to start heading back down.

"Let's get going. I can't wait to see the moment Lucien will start regretting shooting lasers around." Rook replied with a grin, "It's always like that after the first fight and I won't let him hear the end of it."

Veronica couldn't help smiling fondly.

"I'm so proud of my daughter." She even managed to mark the building without the roof collapsing under her feet.

"And for being so heroic." she added, "And while we're on the topic, you look fabulous, Leofric! It simply bears repeating."

Now that it was over, she too was allowed to have a little fun. Veronica's delight only increased as she observed the way Antonio's ear flicked back into place.

"Chick never lets me bring strays home then she adopts the king of cats." the ghost lady shrugged dramatically, before smiling, "But I'm glad you turned out to be as much of a softie. The stories I heard didn't do you justice."

She needed to keep herself in the loop more. The ghost lady kept an eye on the sleeping Frosty as they prepared to rejoin the others.

"It has been difficult, but they're fighters and have each other. The best we can do now for them is to keep moving forward and get on with all those nice projects you have talked about these past few weeks."

That would really make it worth it.

[lancerslover]

the swim lesson

pairing: president!john f. kennedy/petite!innocent!secretary!reader

summary: when president john f. kennedy finds out you can’t swim, he generously offers to teach you how in the white house pool

warnings: 18+, smut, dubious consent, age gap, antiquated views on gender norms and appropriate workplace behavior

word count: 2.6k

a/n: hi my angels! this fic is a long overdue response to a request i received months ago. it’s not my best work but i hope you all still like it a least a little lol….also, the beautiful moodboard for this fic was made by the lovely @vintagedebutante <3

“I don’t have all day now, Y/N.”

You glance up at the President. You sigh, and he chuckles.

You’ve been standing in the same spot in the White House pool for ten minutes now, nervously hopping from foot to foot on the little ledge where the slippery floor begins to tip down into the deep end. Even though the President is grinning playfully at you, the words he just said send anxious sparks through your body. He has a point—he doesn’t have all day. Judging by what you know about his schedule today, he probably only has about fifteen minutes before he has to head back into the Oval Office. And that means, at some point over the next fifteen minutes, you’ll have no choice but to finally move forward in the pool.

You’ve always had an irrational fear of water. Something about submerging your entire body in liquid—how it slops slimily at your skin and pulls you deeper and deeper—has never sat right with you. And when the President found out you felt this way during one of his daily chats with you and the other girls in the secretaries’ office, he vowed to help you conquer your fear and teach you to swim. At first, you thought his offer was nothing more than a kindly, chivalrous display of workplace friendship, but the other secretaries had a different theory. After the President walked away, they told you that they thought the only reason he wanted to teach you to swim is because your fear of water is the one thing standing in the way of you joining the rest of the girls in the skinny-dipping parties he holds in the pool. Apparently, he had been asking them lately why you never come out to swim. After all, he always explicitly tells whichever young lackey is in charge of carting his girls around to send all the young secretaries down.

“But—but why should he care if I’m there?” you squeaked after the girls explained this whole thing to you.

“He must have a particular liking for you,” one of the girls named Marcia replied, smirking, with a fake-casual shrug.

“Or maybe he just can’t be satisfied until he’s seen every one of his secretaries naked,” a secretary named Lizzie said with a wry laugh as she filed one of her long pink fingernails. “You know how men like him are.”

You do not, in fact, know how men like him are. You don’t really know how any men are, actually. The extent of your experience with the male species consists of the time you shyly kissed your prom date back in high school and the few milkshake diner dates you went on in college. All of this free-wheeling, hypersexual, skinny-dipping stuff people are apparently doing nowadays—people who didn’t grow up as a cloistered Catholic school girl, that is—is completely new to you.

Needless to say, you have complicated feelings about finally attending these skinny-dipping parties. You’ve never been naked in front of anyone, obviously, let alone in front of several of your coworkers and the President, who your entire family worships—he is the first man to represent your religion in the country’s highest office, after all—and who you’ve always been taught is the perfect American role model, and who you’ve had a crush on ever since you saw the “Senator John. F Kennedy Story” special on TV back in ‘58. The idea of being intimate with him in any way—but especially in such a public way—honestly makes you want to vomit. But at the same time, you can’t seem to stop your body from clenching up with jealousy every time the other secretaries flounce back into the office from the pool and tell you all the slick, wet, handsy details of their most recent skinny-dipping escapade. One time, apparently, one of the girls had started to slowly strip-tease in front of the President and then he grew impatient and rolled his eyes and yanked her into the water while she was still in her underwear. Another girl was once cornered against the pool wall by the President, and when she teasingly tried to swim away, he caught her by the ankle and pulled her back against him.

So, when the President offered to teach you to swim—and essentially offered you a one-way ticket to start taking part in these skinny-dipping parties yourself—you gave it some long, hard thought and ultimately decided that you were more sick of feeling jealous than you were scared of being naked in front of everyone. Maybe this was a sign, you thought, that it was time to finally shed your goody-two-shoes skin and do something exciting for once, like all the other girls.

Today is your very first swim lesson, and, sadly, the road to overcoming your fear has proven longer than you optimistically first hoped. Over the past ten minutes, the President has only managed to get you to come as far as waist-deep in the pool. You’re starting to feel terribly guilty for being so slow at this. This is the most important man in the world. The young, fearless King Arthur of America. He stares out from the cover of every newspaper, keeping a protective eye on his subjects. He practically shines with power. Wherever he goes, a legion of men in suits march after him, whispering in his ear, tripping over themselves to keep up—and you’re taking up his precious time with this nonsense.

“You’re going into the deep end whether you like it or not,” the President tells you now with an encouraging pat on your butt underwater. The other girls always act like it’s nothing when he touches you all like this, and you understand that apparently it’s just the normal sort of thing bosses do to their young female employees, but with the President, it makes your heart spit fire every time.

You feel like an indignant child, looking up at him in your frumpy one-piece White-House-issue swimsuit that’s so big it sags around your hips and chest. Despite your nervousness, you still pray the swimsuit’s unflattering shape won’t make him change his mind about wanting you to skinny-dip.

“Yes,” you say to the President. “Alright.” You suddenly feel how wide your eyes are as you continue to look at him. You must look like a deer in headlights. You blink rapidly to try and relax your face. “Here I go. Just…don’t let go of me, okay?” You try your best to sound as offhand and casual as you possibly can while saying something like this.

The President’s grin twitches in that cute little contemplative way it always does before he says something teasing, but then he seems to notice the genuine fear in your eyes because his smile suddenly softens, and he lets his head fall slightly to the side as he looks down at you. “I won’t, sweetie,” he says. The hair on the back of your neck buzzes at this rare gentle side of him. Amazingly, you suddenly feel a tad less scared.

“Alright,” you say again. You take a deep breath. It’s time.

You brace your legs, steeling yourself to step forward. Come on, you idiot, you tell yourself. The President’s not going to let you drown, for heaven’s sake.

The President must feel you preparing to step out into the deep end because suddenly you feel his big hands slide around your hips, ready to keep you afloat, like he promised. At his touch, your stomach flips with a dizzying intensity that almost knocks you out of breath. The thought flashes through your mind, not for the first time, that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to accept lessons in such an anxiety-inducing task from such an anxiety-inducing man.

Paired with the stress you’ve already been feeling, your sudden arousal ignites a panicky burst of adrenaline in you, and before you know it, your legs have a jittery mind of their own and you can’t handle being this close to the President any longer—and you’re lunging out into the churning blue abyss.

For a crashing, water-logged moment, you’re pretty sure you’re starting to drown. You’re blinded by the white wave your body kicks up as you fall forward. An embarrassing gasp of horror leaves your mouth and you clamp your eyes shut. But just as your head is about to go under, you feel the strong hands on your hips stiffen, and you’re being lifted back up so that both your head and shoulders are above water.

“Woah there,” you faintly hear the President say. “You’re alright, Y/N, you’re alright.”

You open your eyes at his voice, and you realize with a disoriented jolt of surprise that everything is completely fine. You’re instinctively treading water now, just like the President taught you to, as he holds you at the waist like an instructor at a swim school. He’s so close to you that your arm brushes against his fuzzy chest hair. You feel yourself starting to blush, and you stare at the blue, nautical-themed wall in front of you, willing your face to cool down.

“Well, wouldja look at that, you’re in the deep end,” the President jokes from above you, “and you’re still alive to tell about it.”

You do your best to force out a laugh, but it comes out shaky and choked. “I suppose I am,” you say quickly then, to try and cover up how scared you still sound. It’s really not so bad now that you’re here, except for the fact that your heart is still clanging in your ears, and you suddenly notice that the shoulder straps of your ridiculous swimsuit seem to have fallen down slightly around your upper-arms.

Before you have time to fix it, you notice the President is adjusting his hold on you, and you forget about the straps completely. He moves to keep you afloat with just one solid arm around your waist and places his other hand flat against your stomach. You only have a moment or two to wonder why this change was necessary before your question is answered—the hand on your stomach slowly starts to slide downwards.

“Oh!” is all you manage to say. Your lower body floods with such powerful, gushing warmth that, for a horrifying moment, you think you’ve peed yourself.

“Oh?” the President teases. His voice still has that warm, reassuring, rumbling quality, as if he thinks this is the most natural thing in the world, as if this is what’s supposed to happen to a girl when she gets this close to a man. “This here is a crucial part of the lesson, Y/N,” he chuckles, as his long fingers start to rub up and down between your legs. Your stomach clenches in a spasm of pleasure. “Relax, sweetie,” the President tells you.

“But… Mr. President…” You trail off as, surprisingly, you find yourself doing as he told you. Your shoulders soften and your thighs loosen up to allow his hand more room. Yet you’re completely stunned by the President’s behavior, and frankly a little appalled. Yet your body doesn’t seem to care. The President must have some kind of magical, hormonal effect on women, you think. It would explain a lot. It’s the only way, frankly, to rationally explain why your body is so eagerly opening itself up. You wonder if this was the President’s plan all along, if this is why he wanted to get you into the deep end, so he could get you in a position where he could hold you still and touch you however he wanted.

You look up at him then for the first time since you flailed over into the deep end, hoping to meet his eyes and find more of that warm reassurance, but you’re disappointed to find that he’s not looking into your eyes, but down at something beneath your chin instead. Slowly, you tip your head down, following his gaze, and you notice, with a gasp, that the President is pulling your swimsuit straps the rest of the way down, exposing your entire upper body.

Immediately, you bring your hands up to fix the straps, but the President moves to rub one of your exposed breasts, barring your hands out of the way with his hairy forearm.

“It’s really quite cruel,” he says in your ear, in his dark, teasing way, “that you’ve been keeping all of this from me for so long.”

You’re completely frozen, except for your toes, which curl incessantly as he gives your breast a startlingly rough squeeze, and then pinches and pulls on the nipple. Then he takes his time rubbing his hand across your chest and does the same thing to your other breast. As he does, he re-adjusts his grip around your waist, hoisting you up a little higher out of the water and jostling you probably a little more aggressively than he needed to, purposefully causing your breasts to bounce. You tilt your head back against him, just in time to feel a barely-detectable groan of enjoyment shake his chest.

Suddenly, you hear the door at the far end of the pool room swish open. In a whiplash reversal of emotions, your body seizes with intense fright. What if it’s one of your male coworkers? What would they think if they saw you like this? Or worse—what if it’s the First Lady? Despite your fear, you try to look behind you to see who exactly it is that just walked in, but you can’t see a thing over the President’s towering shoulders. Frantically, you decide instead to pull your swimsuit back up—regardless of who it is, you certainly don’t want them seeing you half-naked—but when you look down, you see that the President is already pulling your neckline back into its proper position, with incredible calmness, as if he was simply putting his shoes on to head outside.

“Mr. President, sir,” says a man’s deep, no-nonsense voice behind you then. “You’re needed in the Situation Room.”

You recognize the voice—it’s just a Secret Service agent. You slump over with relief. The Secret Service are all well aware of the President’s many affairs and have been sworn to secrecy.

In response, the President sighs. “Alright,” he says to the agent. “I’ll be right there.” Then you hear the curt click of Secret Service footsteps, followed by the door opening and swishing shut once again. In the proceeding echo-y silence, you can’t help but wonder what exactly the Secret Service agent saw of you. Certainly, he could tell that the President had a woman with him—hopefully, though, the President’s body had shielded you enough that the man couldn’t see over him and identify who the woman was.

The President breaks the silence then. “Duty calls,” he says with a sigh. You feel him turn his head down to face you again, and you look up to meet his dancing aquamarine eyes. You smile and nod understandingly, feeling, after all you’ve just experienced, like you’ve just finished a marathon.

Gently, the President floats you back into the shallow end and sets you back on the pool floor. Then he slips his arm out from around you. Instantly, you feel very cold without him against you—goosebumps prickle up along your skin, and you wish, desperately, that you could ask him not to leave. You want to laugh at yourself.

As the President is backing towards the pool stairs, he says to you, “I expect to see you down here more regularly from now on, with the other secretaries.”

The reminder that you can have another chance to feel his body on yours—and his hungry hands all over you—causes your dying smile to flutter back to life. “Why, yes, Mr. President,” you say. “I’ll be there.”

taglist:

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@kennediva

@secretwonderlandcheesecake

@melancholicstation

@southernpopprincess

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[fictionfixations]

I FINALLY FINISHED CANTO 8 OHHH MY GOD

IM CAUGHT UP

ohhhhhhhh my god

ALSO NO MAINTENANCE LETS GOOOOOOOOO i dont know what i wouldve done after doing this fight and then it being during maintenance because not in a million years do i want to redo that fight again

technically its not that hard i know what to do i actually read shit but oh man

also i know on like previous posts i was like im gonna wait for walpurgis night and get dawn office sinclair

ha

i kept getting knocked down to my backup units so i actually needed sinclair to.. not be level 12 (hes the last backup but oh my god does it make a difference)

so i got cinq sinclair and used like the immediately uptie to 4 thing and immediately level to 50 thing, i also threadspinned his ego from the battlepass which was GOOD because oh my god

i swear the egos from the battlepass carried me

like fluid sac carried me too (i cant believe faust survived the entire fight for once holy shit, also i cant believe the remaining units had the attacks to be able to keep fueling fluid sac??? I thought id have to wait a day so i could use sapling of light abilities again but NOPE)

but oh my god did it do big damage

it was in the hundreds man goddamn

also used the fact that hong lu cant die unless all other allies are dead even though him dying loses the battle (after you get like the happiness thing) to my advantage by using his battlepass ego because oh man big damage and oh whats this a free heal instead of immediately dying after? lets goooo

not to understate sinclair's ego either because it was GREAT hell yeah

also that all my units are decently leveled (except meursault ive been using a support id, sorry man but pursuance ego and chain of others are also really helping and i dont have his pursuance ego, so its not worth it to level him right now when im not even using the id i have)

lowest is 44 but the rest are around 50-55 so that was good

also actually uptied outis, feel like i underestimated her all this time because she did good, i just didnt have a need to before because she was always in backup and was more used as additional targets so my stronger units could get damage in

her skill three animation was pretty (warp outis)

also dont remember what it was but both heishou pack si ids have this one attack where they like i think sheathe their weapon and then have an eye glint and i keep thinking theyre gonna attack again but they dont 💀

also??? i think don quixote (t corp) did something with time/clock?? there was like a status effect id never seen before (or maybe i just never noticed idk its very easy for me not to notice things right in front of me) where so the enemy wouldnt take damage because all that damage would get stored and then by like the end of the turn or something like that it would all hit at once

THIS

ive just. never noticed.

anyway thoughts on canto 8 (may get very personal ngl)

loved it

hong lu was already up there in my favorites along with yi sang but man did this make me love him more

just.. the thought that like well yeah shit can seem meaningless and futile when its all gonna end someday, but as long as youre still with us stuffs gonna keep happening. yeah we might part ways one day, but the end is also the beginning. where eventually youll move on but youll also experience new things.

for as long as you walk this world, the world will continue spinning, it will continue moving regardless of whether you feel like theres a meaning, and like well

yeah you could isolate yourself and it could feel ilke nothings happening at all, that everything pointless, but the people around you will still do things, things will still keep happening, and

okay i feel like im butchering this but you know what i mean okay

ive had very nihilistic views before, especially because at one point i just... didnt like living, it was just full of suffering and i hated it and i was so so tired and things that shouldve been important just lost meaning to me because yknow, whats the point? if we're all gonna die today, why do we live? if i intend to not live this long, then whats the point of doing stuff for the benefit of my future self?

but life kept moving on around me, and i eventually tired of putting myself into this cycle of self-hatred because it was just so draining

so i kept moving on. kept living day by day. and well i cant really say theres a meaning to life, a meaning to my life that i want to strive for, to live for, not really

but i got interested in things, as fleeting as they would be, and despite how they would eventually end. i got myself attached to stories and games, as tragic as those stories may be and as sad as i may be when it finally reaches its end, i live the next day to continue experiencing these stories, and to get enjoyment out of it

i used to feel so miserable all the time, but now i find myself laughing so much more, smiling so much more

god i got so sidetracked but i relate to hong lu a lot. man am i glad i started playing this game man..

when i first started i immediately latched onto yi sang as a favorite (maybe because he was one of my first 3 stars haha) and i loved his canto, i loved the meaning, that yeah the mirror can show multiple possibilities, but the mirror is also a reflection of yourself, so these possibilities? theyre yours. these wings you wish you had so badly? if theyre on me, then theyre on you too. its like 3 am forgive me for butchering trying to explain this but god did i love it. i like re-listening to the limbus company mili songs and ill sing along and fly my wings.. 'please die little dreams' i just start sobbing it keeps making me emotional man

hong lu? i can attribute it to partially because when i started reindeer hong lu was on the banner and he looked cool, i liked his personality, and it grew from there as i progressed through the story but he'd never been as high up there as yi sang. until now.

also his announcer brings up a lot of stuff that makes me kinda sad, he does bring up emotions like ah so this is what wrath feels like, like he'll bring up the same emotions he brought up in the last fight (happiness, joy, wrath, sorrow..), and also other things in relation to the sinners that hit me in the feels man

maybe not in the same way as don quixote's 'i was blessed with a family of twelve' because oh man if i wasnt sobbing already during that part i wouldve burst into tears, but it still made me very emotional

also the the dante being like 'you know how i know this? because im talking about myself here' GREAT LINE oh my god

also actually WE LOVE JIA QIU IN THIS HOUSEHOLD, im sure im not the only one who was like shut up jia huan during that moment but very very appreciated, the 'not forming opinions on him based on what others say' i cant remember the exact quote, continuing to push hong lu to not be appeasing, to not just say what others want to hear, and not to say something that could work but does not count as something he believes in and is again just another way to appease of okay you want an actual answer but then is kind of a nothing burger

i love that jia qiu continued pushing until he got what hong lu really believed in, what he really thought, even if it mightve been something he wouldnt have necessarily agreed with, or something that others would consider childish and naive, got hong lu to say something hes held so close to his heart, accepted it but which had also given him the confidence to more speak his mind, to speak more confidently and elaborate on what he meant, and so his answer of 'kindness' wasnt something kind of like well. short. i dont know how to describe it.

yes hoping for others to be kind is probably a tough ask, especially considering where they live, but the sinners are proof that people can be kind to each other and help lift each other up when moments are tough.

one person cant do all that heavy lifting, but as long as there are people reaching out a hand and well embracing each other even if its just one person, then thats still something, thats still a bond that'll make the world lighter, thatll give them the ability to move forward and the strength to tackle on more heavier problems

i mean im clearly biased since its hong lus answer but MAN

and so jia qiu also telling him that like he cant keep drifting like a cloud, that to achieve this he cant keep watching things silently without doing anything, he cant keep acting the way he has that was forced onto him to deal with the trauma he faced, and does have to be there, does have to act, just like how his younger self used to be

its

its validating that his younger self wasnt wrong for wanting to help people, for wanting to act even if he couldnt save everyone, even if everyone around him kept telling him that he should just 'sit still and look pretty'

god man

theres so much stuff i could say

also holy shit this post is getting long oh my god

im gonna end this here man

but fuck man canto 8...

to be perfectly honest i dont remember a lot from canto 1 and 2 but i remember liking it and thats why i kept playing (gonna have to reread them cause man i do try to pay attention when first starting a game but its also like i dont know what is going on which really impacts my ability to remember this stuff)

canto 3 i loved, it made me like sinclair more even if the ending felt sort of incomplete because it wasnt sinclair who in the end killed kromer

the chicken intervallo was hella funny and made me like more of the other sinners outside of just the ones whod already gotten a focus and the ones who were my favorites

canto 4 was beautiful (and also forced me to actually understand a little better wtf im doing in fights)

canto 5 made me feel a lot of things, it made me think a lot? unsure if im saying that right but trying not to repeat myself on what ive said for other cantos so there. like... it was getting manipulated, knowing youre getting manipulated but still kind of falling for it anyway because okay what can you do, but then getting out of it by doing something that person didnt expect. it was hatred obsession a desire for revenge that twisted from instead of being a tale of someone taking revenge that'll likely only leave them hollow in the end, to no longer let ahab control her basically. it was a big middle finger

canto 6 was... tragic. all these thoughts of how its gonna go and all of them were wrong. mostly. im sure its meant to be like in the same headspace as heathcliff. like oh yeah we're gonna get him all dressed up and meet cathy and then shes dead. shes already gone. before i started i listened to a bunch of the limbus company mili songs and would cautiously look at the comment section to tell which sinner and which canto it was probably for so i knew this was about heathcliff and a cathy. and i thought that oh he and cathy are fighting and shes like 'you have to let me go heathcliff' but it wasnt really that? it was.. just so sad that maybe they couldve had something, maybe, if they'd spoken more, if they'd been more honest- its all what ifs. and then all the cathys were deleted. makes me wonder if that one where heathcliff and cathy were happy together, if that heathcliff's catherine also got lost, or if 'every cathy' applied to every cathy with a bad ending + our heathcliff's catherine. i wonder. and i wonder too how heathcliff could even get catherine back, if in the end its all futile because shes dead she cant come back, but i would also like to hope that somehow, he'll find her. with a better understanding of her than ever, that their hearts are united and not letting any dark thoughts cloud his mind and make him unable to see whats in front of him. i hope.

canto 7. god i love canto 7. this is getting way too long so i dont want to elaborate too much now but sancho being like didnt you always tell me to stop dreaming (i forgot the quote, my minds stuck on 'the dream ending'), and like well yeah, waves hand at power of friendship which i feel doesnt fully encapsulate what really happened there but im summarizing. and like just. it was beautiful, and sad. her repeating his introduction while he mightve already died but shes saying it anyway and telling him and and that she was blessed with a family of twelve and and... and i dont have the words to describe it man im gonna cry thinking about it again

canto 8 though. might just be my favorite. theyve all made me feel things, but canto 8 is one i can find myself really relating with and thus find the message ever more powerful and ever more beautiful.

haha i said i was gonna end it and then i kept yapping so um whoops

but man do i love this game.

also forgor to look at this but the singular ex i missed 💀 (i already converted my enkephalin into modules already so whoops)

also oh my god i took so long writing this the announcement for the latter half of the roadmap livestream happened LMAO (LETS GO walpurgis hopefully 🙏 i may not need dawn office sinclair anymore but man i wanna see what i get)

[dreamwatch]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest Somewhere Over The Rainbow event.

Look Up at the Storm

Prompt: Red | Song: Welly Boots by The Amazing Devil | Word Count: 2287 | Rating: T | CW: implied/referenced child neglect | POV: Eddie | Relationships: Eddie & Al Munson, Eddie & Wayne Munson | Angst, emotional hurt and a little bit of comfort, flashbacks, Good Uncle Wayne, Eddie needs a hug, S01 setting, Al loves his son he's just not a great father

Thanks to @kikidoesfanfic for sending me this song! 💗

Eddie struggles with his red rain boots. Daddy takes care of it though, tickles Eddie’s feet while he’s getting his thick socks on, because the boots are still too big for him and they help fill the gaps, Daddy says, and he knows the best way to get Eddie’s feet in without getting his jeans all wriggled up his leg the way he hates. And they splash and splash in the rain and Eddie screams with laughter and Mommy sits in her window laughing at the pair of them. Eddie has a rain coat, a blue one with little white dogs, and the hood keeps slipping off. It’s getting too small but it’s okay, Daddy says, they’ll get him a new one soon, go all the way to Fort Wayne to go and look, and Eddie asks if Mommy can come and Daddy brushes Eddie’s wet curls out of his face and says “Maybe next time.”

But there isn’t a next time.

Eddie sits in first period history, his knee bouncing and bouncing, his wallet chain and the desk rattling slightly behind the beat. Mrs Click throws him pointed looks over her glasses until she eventually outright tells him to stop it. So he does for a minute or so, but then his mind slowly drifts and so does his knee.

When the class goes quiet, everyone with their heads in their books, he can hear the tick tick tick of the grey clock on the wall over the scratching of pencils; he knows the minutes are counting down but he watches the clock all the same. The court hearing is at nine thirty, and Wayne says the lawyer thinks it will be over in half an hour or so. So he’s spent all morning in classes keeping an eye on the clock, watching the hands creep painfully toward ten, and then trying to work out when Wayne might get home after the long drive from Indy. He has coins for the payphone ready, burning a hole in his pocket.

When the lunch bell rings he’s out of the door before anyone else has even got out of their seats.

The payphone is free and he lets out a relieved breath as he pulls the coins from his pocket and drops them into the slot. His fingers tap out a shaky rhythm on the side of the phone. He lets it ring until he’s cut off because no one picks up.

Wayne’s not home. He doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. Wayne warned him to be prepared, and he is, or at least he was trying to be. But the last time he had spoken to his dad he’d told Eddie that the lawyer had said there was a shot he could just get time served, or maybe six months if the judge was a dick.

“It’ll be alright, Eddie, you’ll see? Have faith in your old man.”

Eddie wanted to, he always tried to, but it just got harder the older he got.

Wayne, he was the realist of the two Munson brothers.

“I know what he’s telling you,” he’d said to Eddie after a visit, “because he’s telling me too. But this isn’t like last time. You need to be prepared for this one, okay?”

And Eddie had scoffed and spat like a camel all night if Wayne so much looked at him. Al wasn’t a saint, Eddie’s not stupid, but sometimes when Wayne talks about his dad it’s like he doesn’t even like him. Like he can’t even stand his only brother. His dad made mistakes but he was looking after Eddie on his own, and Eddie remembers acting up after his mom died, he knows he was an asshole even if he didn’t mean to be, and his dad could have left him with his mom’s family, they offered enough times. And sometimes it was nice having the place to himself for the night, being able to bring his friends over, getting to stay up late even on school nights. Dad always left him money, he never went without. And if worse came to worst, well Uncle Wayne was a few minutes away.

Worse came to worst when he was eleven and he went to live with Wayne for six months. Worse came to worst again when he was fourteen and he went to live with Wayne for a year.

After he got out, Dad came to see him, and he said he’d probably have to stay in Indy on account of seeing his parole officer and then he just never came home. But he called from time to time, and he’d ask Eddie about his grades, told Eddie he was proud of him because no Munson had graduated high school before and Eddie was going to be the first. And he told him how he could be anything he wanted, he could go anywhere he liked, and Al would be right there with him, just not at the moment, because he’s getting things set up for them both, and he wants him to have a nice home and to give him all the things he had missed out on when he was growing up.

But he’s still growing up and the only thing he’s missing out on is his dad.

He doesn’t eat lunch in the cafeteria, instead he sits on the wall nearest the payphone staring the thing down and glaring at anyone who dares to come near it. He’s not hungry, just picks at a bag of potato chips he brought from home, but he throws them in the trash because his stomach is swooping and turning on a constant churn and he knows he’ll be sick if he eats anymore.

The bell rings and he tries the phone once more before going back to class.

The phone rings three times before Wayne picks up.

“Hello?”

His gut tightens.

“Hey, it’s me,” he says, and he hopes he sounds casual, hopes that the rising anxiety stretching him taught isn’t making it’s way down the phone line. “How did it go?”

There’s a long moment, a stretch where time seems all pulled-out like dough, until eventually Wayne sighs, one of those big ones, weary and tired and Eddie’s stomach drops again but this time it doesn’t come back up.

“Ed…,” and the way Wayne says his name is so sad and weighted that Eddie has his answer.

He hears laughter coming from a classroom, and he drops his head forward onto the payphone, folding in on himself. He clears his throat because he wants to sound strong for Wayne.

“How long?”

He says it like a man, but he feels like a boy.

His dad always says he’s proud of him, would that make him prouder?

“Why don’t you come on home, I’ll call the principal—“

“How long?” he asks again, firmer this time.

Another deep, loaded sigh comes from the end of the line.

“Fifteen years.”

Eddie’s brain whites out after that.

That’s not right. That can’t be right.

He thinks he can hear Wayne say something about appeals, about an early release for good behaviour maybe, but his brain keeps skipping on fifteen years, fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years.

“— be there in ten minutes? Eddie? Did you hear me, son?”

It’s painfully soft: son. Eddie’s not his son though. He wants to scream it but none of this is Wayne’s fault.

“Uh…” He swallows hard, he’s not going to cry, not here, not at fucking Hawkins High. “ I have a… I have an English test. This afternoon.”

There’s no way Wayne doesn’t hear the shakiness in his voice, the way he can’t catch a full breath, but he doesn’t mention it and Eddie’s grateful for that.

“Alright. But come straight home after, okay? We’ll talk properly then.”

What is there to talk about?

He’s late for class, and Mr Mundy makes a remark he doesn’t hear before giving him a tardy slip. He just takes it from his fingers without comment, and wanders the hallways in a daze.

He takes his test, because his dad said he was going to be the first Munson to get a high school diploma, and he promised Wayne he’d keep going, even after his grades slipped when his dad got arrested.

He reads the questions, and then reads them again but his head is full of ants and his dad is going to prison for fifteen years. Al will be pushing sixty and Eddie will be thirty two and Mrs O'Donnell taps him on the shoulder softly and asks him if everything is okay, because class is over and everyone’s left but him. He nods wordlessly and hands her his empty test sheet.

The hallways are full of kids making study plans for the evening, or talking about their dates, and they’re all laughing because their dads aren’t going to prison.

Steve Harrington has his arm around some snooty sophomore girl and that Byers weirdo is putting up more posters for his missing brother and at least they’ll know Al couldn’t have done it because he was in jail. At least Hopper can’t pick him up for that one, fat fucking pig that he is.

He doesn’t want to go home but he doesn’t want to see his friends either so he gets in his van and drives around town, and he stops for cigarettes but they won’t accept his fake ID today so no beer, more's the pity.

He drives and he smokes and he drives and the shadows get longer and the sun dips lower and he finds himself at the park. He takes his cigarettes and a can of warm root-beer with him and he plants his ass on a swing.

His dad lied.

But Eddie knew that, didn’t he?

This was Al’s third conviction and he got off light before on account of having a kid at home and no mother in the picture, but everyone’s luck runs out eventually.

And it was there in the tone, there in the words, when Eddie cares to notice.

“I know you’re strong enough to this on your own now.”

He takes a deep drag from his cigarette as he lazily pushes himself backwards and forwards on a swing he outgrew years ago.

Al was supposed to be here, he was supposed to see him graduate, was supposed to be here to take him for his first legal beer, he was supposed to see him be a success, to fall in love, to have kids. He doesn’t want to do this on his own, he wants his fucking dad.

He doesn’t care that he’s nearly eighteen, doesn’t care that he’s nearly a man, doesn’t care that he’s too old to cry about it.

He just wants his dad.

Rain spits from the sky and a pair of little girls squeal as their parents pull them back to the safety of their car.

Eddie’s eyes burn.

“Eddie?”

If he looks up he’ll cry so instead he stares at Wayne’s boots, splattered with mud. He’s supposed to be at work and shame smacks Eddie square in the chest because he won’t have slept today, and having to chase after Eddie’s useless ass wouldn’t have helped.

Wayne sits on the swing beside him and reaches across to squeeze Eddie’s hand. He’d have yanked it away yesterday, he’ll yank it away tomorrow, but today he lets him do it.

Course fingers sweep his wet bangs off his face and the warm touch of his Uncle's hand is the final straw and he hopes Wayne will just think it’s rain streaming down his cheeks because he’s nearly eighteen and he doesn’t do this anymore.

“He lied,” he chokes out. Wayne nods in reply.

“He didn’t want to worry you. He loves you, Eddie. He’s so proud of you—”

“Don’t!”

“I’m proud of you, too.”

The rain eases, but the tears don’t.

The chain of the swing clinks as Wayne stands.

“Come on,” he says holding his hand out, “Let’s go home.”

Uncle Wayne helps him pull his red rain boots on. He’s rougher than Daddy, doesn’t know the right way to stop his jeans from getting caught up his legs the way he hates. They’re getting tight for him now and one of them has a split in the side but Uncle Wayne taped it up and he said it’ll last till they can get some new ones over in Fort Wayne.

Daddy leaves him here sometimes since they said goodbye to Mommy. Eddie doesn’t know why.

Uncle Wayne lives in a trailer and Eddie hates it because when it rains the forest looks creepy, and the windows rattle and the lights flash. Sometimes when it’s bad it sounds like a monster trying to get in.

He walks into the rain with his taped up boots pinching his toes but he doesn’t feel much like splashing today.

Big hands grab him and scoop him up into the sky.

“Look up at the storm, Eddie.”

He throws his arms around Uncle Wayne’s neck and follows the line of his hand pointed up into the sky. The sky is big, and some of it’s angry and grey, the clouds round and black and he tightens his arms around Uncle Wayne’s neck as a clap of thunder roars. But Wayne shakes him a little and when he opens his eyes he sees the blue peaking through the clouds and the fattest rainbow he’s ever seen. Colours like jewels hanging in the air.

Uncle Wayne kisses his wet cheek, and Eddie squeezes him tight, and they sit on the porch together and wait for the storm to pass.

****

It's 4am and I am sleep deprived but I think I got most of the typos and nonsense sentences. and if I didn't, well sucks to be me I guess!

@the-unforgivenn I got it finished! 💗

[sophi-aah]

do you have any current favorite fics??

Oh man -- Im afraid this will turn into a fav author post pretty quick lol, bc all my fav fics come from relatively the same people

And my thoughts are not really coherent lol, theres a reason I draw rather than write, I might just keysmash my way through this one!

btw, the order of this is not the ranking, I just can't choose the ultimate one to save my life

ok actually lets get to it:

August by @cordeliaandthecocoapuffs [CordeliaRose on Ao3] and August (will's version) is cannon in my heart and many others', I have reread this fic more times than I can count, I have all of the chapters downloaded on my phone, Cordelia is one truly good writer and her comedic timing is impeccable it made me laugh so much, shes got such a good grasp on the characters and their dynamics, its so silly one chapter and angsty the next, I have a crocheted sun plush that I named sol the sun plushie [fic reference] , almost all my headcannons come from this masterpiece -- I could yap forever I love this fic and Cordelia's other solangelo pics are also strongly recommended, [ESPECIALLY i'm put in awe (of something so flawed and free) archeologist Nico and trauma surgeon will!!!!!! and Sex Education Percy Jason and Nico!!] I just love everything lol [ur gonna hear me say that ALOT]

Will Solace and the Socialites of Olympus University by @sarcasmandships. No words. just hearts and exclamation marks. <<<<<<<<<<<<<<3333333333333333 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! No but seriously Stella's writing is so fucking beautiful her use of metaphors and similes and poetic shit is absolutely phenomenal. And the angst. OH THE ANGST. and the fluff for someone apperantly new to writting fluff and silly stuff [according to her authors notes] is just mwuah GOLDEN!!!!!!! The character arcs and the topic of class difference also deserves a mention bc OMG STELLA HOW. and sarcasmandship's other fics like the Silence Between Heartbeats and her other oneshots like Hauntings and Wantings[living for the silliy victrian ghosts-], All the Bruises I Don't Mind Bearing[fluff at it's diabetes-inducing fluffiest], and If You Didn’t Want Me to Ruin Myself Over You, Maybe Don’t Write Me Into Every Lyric and Leave Out the Ending [enemies to lovers sexual tension ahhhhh my shit MY SHIT] also deserve a mention bc they are all just SO BEAUTIFUL.

A lot of my fav fics comes from @wordsofasarcast, their fic Ice Blue, Trippin' Over You was the first solangelo and pjo fic I've ever read, I was only on the Titans Curse at that point but Sarc STILL managed to get to my heart despite me having no idea who half of the characters are. Their fic Dolce Dissonance is one of my absolute favorites, I'm a sucker for popster/famous AUs and enimies to lovers and emotional rollercoasters and this fic has ALL THREE. Attached the whole way, broke my heart, put it back together, broke it again, and so on! [CHAPTER 44 MY LOVE] Their oneshot I Will Try to Stay On My Side of the Couch is also an absaloute banger it pulled my heart out stomped on it and placed it back in at the end [oh the unrequited love was so beutiful]. paper hearts (we're burning matches) is one of the fluffy ones and Please Hold is so fucking funny and it's so wonderful ALL OF THEIR FICS.

Wings by @the-sunniest-angels chopped me up, put me in a blender, chucked me across the room, stabbed me multiple times more, beat me to even more of a pulp, flushed me down the toilet, stomped on me and chopped me up some more in the BEST. FUCKING. WAY. POSSIBLE. THE PLOT IS DELICIOUS. THE ANGST IS TOURTUROUS. THE EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER BEING LIKE ONE OF THOSE DEADLY ONES WITH LIKE G-10 FORCE. Sunny also owes me plenty of tissues and the fic playlist hits HARD. Sunny's other fics are all fantasy AUs and THEY ALSO HIT HARD. Sunny's worldbuilding skills are fucking godly and you should also def check out their fics!!

Hold On to the Memories (They Will Hold Onto You) by @grumpylia explores the background characters and makes them and camp half blood seem so much more interesting! with the main series you dont really get to see how the background characters are doing but with this it really gets the stress of the war and the chaos and friendship of chb! Each chapter is a RIDE and the character developments are so well crafted! This was the height of my Tratie phase and I still treasure it today. It is on hatius tho but the 9 chapters we have are ABSALOUTLY AMAZING.

Binary Stars by @onetiny-inkdropuniverse. Can you tell I really like emotional rollercoasters??? Inkdrop is such an amazing writer and her chapters are also really poetic. It starts as a 3 days in infirmary fic and a few mental breakdowns later we're here almost re-writting ToA. The cute moments are to be cherished and the angst is, as usual, to be expected. [Chapter 98 helped me ace my piano recital just by how sad it made me so I projected it all onto Chopin lol.] Also Inkdrop's MAKEOUT SCENES. SHE IS BLESSED BY SOME GOD OF KISSING I SWEAR I COULD READ HER MAKEOUT SCENES ALL DAY.

another one of my fav authors are @mediumgayitalian [queencontrarian (negativefouriq) on Ao3]. Their writing style is so unique and their fics are all also my absolute favs!

I'm SURE there are more but for now ive ran out of steam, its the middle of the night so ima sleep now. hope u enjoyed my yapping!

[i-just-drink-coffee]

Would this YJ go to a pride parade (2025 edition)

Jackie- She goes but just as an “ally” of course (van knows), gets incredibly jealous if anyone hits on Shauna

Shauna- If Jackie’s going so is she (she can’t stop staring at all the wlw couples and then looking at Jackie) + she loves Jackie’s jealousy

Van- Decked out, head to toe in rainbows of course, making out with Tai in front of homophobes

Tai- Not as obviously dressed as Van, but still shows up for her gf (she probably organized the parade somehow)

Nat- Acts like she doesn’t want to go “it’s just so much” (she loves it) and has the bi flag painted on her (by Lottie ofc) + flips homophobes off

Lottie- Just happy to be there, holding hands and dancing with Nat as much as she can, also makes out with her in front of homophobes

Misty- Somehow even more supportive and happy than Van and is decked out in pride merch to the point people think she’s a one man pride float (she was interview by the news for this)

Mari- Yes, coz a) she hates one gay (Shauna) not all gays (expect the ones who are annoying) b) FREE SHOTS c) she loves being hit on by both girls and guys

Travis- Yeah, he’s confused a little about everything but supportive

Coach Ben- Probably no coz he and Paul would be dining somewhere as a celebration or something

Gen- Would want to go but would legit fall asleep and forget

Akilah- Would be volunteering at the event actually

Laura Lee- No (religious trauma) but would be supportive and say a prayer of love to all of them

[ilikekidsshows]

Something that really annoys me about Adrien salters is them going on and on about Adrien being irresponsible and messing up and how that means he doesn't "deserve" to get more responsibility, or know shit or even that he should have had his miraculous taken away.

Like, I'll grant that that if you look at how Adrien is written canonically and compares him to an objective standard of what makes a good hero that he wouldn't pass. But then Marinette wouldn't either. She would fail way worse than him and that's even before all thr bullshit she pulled in s4-s6.

Yet Maribug gets all the praise, the power, knowledge and authority. She's described as the greatest ladybug ever. While Adrien, her supposedly "equal partner" get shafted and thrown to the sidelines and mistreated, often by Maribug herself!

Neither of them, as written by canon, really make for good heroes compared to other heroes in other media (in large part because the writing barely lets them learn and grow). But saying that Adrien specifically doesn't deserve to be a hero while acting like Marinette is perfectly fine and there's no issue with how she failed upwards into so much power and responsibility is so insane and clearly biased.

Also, hot take but Adrien was perfetly justified in his actions in Syren. He wasn't "throwing a tantrum while people were drowning". He was trying to force answers about what the hell was going on from the only person he could while there was literally nothing he could do to stop the akuma. They already tried to fight the akuma and failed! Ladybug fucked off for someplace he had no clue about, for reasons he wasn't told (other than she's going to get help). He'd been waiting for a while now while she went to talk to master Fu, talk to him and have Fu get back to him. As far as he knew (going off previous precedent) Ladybug would show up with a new fish heroes with some kind of underwater powers who would defeat the akuma single handedly.

If he wasn't threatening Plagg with quitting (and I tend to believe it was more a threat to try and get Plagg to talk rather than a true attempt to quit considering that's literally how he used it as) then he still couldn't do anything to help the drowning people. He couldn't even prepare something and use the time effectively while Ladybug was gone because he knew fuck all about when she would be back and what help would she bring which was the problem he was trying to fix.

---

If Miraculous was an actual teen hero show that followed the structure of a teen hero show, Adrien would be a fine hero. The point of teen heroes is that they start off not fully grasping the responsibility they have and then grow into it with time. Frankly, looking at the examples of irresponsibility on Adrien’s track record, it’s nothing out of the ordinary or anything career-breaking. Hell, the stuff Marinette has done mostly includes stuff done by other superheroes.

The difference is how they react when they’re proven to have done something irresponsible. Adrien, every single time, takes responsibility for his own actions and makes amends. The whole doormat hypeman act he has going on in season 6 is specifically because he’s taken responsibility for the supposed crime of not supporting Ladybug enough. As for him giving up his Miraculous and “threatening to quit”, I will die on the hill that every time he gave up his Miraculous, it was done with good reason and in the most secure way he could while still following the secret identity rule that he knows is strictly enforced with him.

Marinette will self-flagellate and therefore accept responsibility on paper, but she doesn’t make amends. She doesn’t do anything differently with the people she’s failed even after admitting she’s failed them. She shouldn’t have lied to Cat Noir, gonna lie to him some more. She shouldn't stalk Adrien, gonna stalk any girl he talks to. Should treat Adrien as a person, gonna deny him the right to protect his free will and gaslight him about his dad. Marinette might say she accepts responsibility, but she keeps doing the same things to the same people, sometimes she does worse.

In comparison to Marinette, Adrien is a true hero. Almost anyone else who takes up a Miraculous to help others is more of a hero than Marinette. No one but Marinette needs to be told they’re the bestest, most specialest Miraculous holder to ever exist before they stop pouting at the idea of there being other holders before them. No other character is that petulant and insecure about the very idea of someone else holding the same powers as Marinette was in ‘The Pharaoh’.

It perfectly encapsulates how the writers feel about their protagonist. They’re so insecure, they have to make all the characters tell the audience that Marinette is the best, they have to keep diminishing the roles of cool characters to lessen there being any competition, and they can’t stand the idea of an episode prioritizing someone other than Marinette. Amphibia made an episode where Anne and Sprig were a throwaway gag about how they weren’t in the episode and it still felt so much like an Amphibia episode that I hadn’t even thought about how the main characters hadn’t shown up until then. The one time Miraculous tried something like that, it was a special flip episode of what other characters were doing during ‘Truth’. They made a huge deal about this being an Adrien-focused episode and, frankly, they didn’t really have him do anything interesting in it, showcasing their lack of interest in Adrien’s character (or any character other than Marinette and their precious prequel cast).

Also, this reminds me of the one thing everyone rags on and on about whenever the topic of solo heroing comes up is how Marinette has the Miraculous Ladybug healing ability, like that somehow grants Marinette inherent aptitude to heroics, and how Adrien should be Mister Bug if he was to become a solo hero. But here’s the real kicker: Marinette is the only superhero whose series I’ve watched or read who needs a magical cure-all to save the day from their own collateral damage. Like, her superpowers literally include the ability to dodge consequences for her choices. Marinette is only focused on winning, so of course she needs a superpower to make the collateral damage go away.

Meanwhile, Adrien has the literal power of destruction and is still so calculating and controlled in what he destroys in order to get the edge against an enemy. He’s the one concerned for the well-being of victims outside of merely saving the day. He argues in favor of defending Chloé, when Marinette actively abandons her to whatever Illustrator wants to do to her. He questions if there could be a morally right reason to use the wish, before deciding that "no". He’s the one who says that Bob Roth suffering no consequences for continuously screwing people over with his power and prestige is wrong, even as he also agrees that they still have to protect him from the consequences of his actions (note that the Akumas after him don’t want to harm him and always have mostly harmless powers unless you’re Bob Roth). Chloé has survived being humiliated by the Akumas she caused before is all I’m saying (but I’ll add that this show’s apologia of rich CEOs started early). The point is that Adrien actually gives consideration to what his moral duties as a hero are and what kind of hero he wants to be, Marinette does whatever she wants that’s easiest for her and then magics the damage away.

Adrien is a leagues better hero than Marinette is. I’d even go far as to say that Adrien is a good hero, period, he’s just stuck in a series where that doesn’t mean anything.

[puhpandas]

emotional 3 star fam + m.x.e.s arc where after they steal them they learn more about them and find out that they're a lot more sentient than they thought an antivirus from the late 70s would be and that m.x.e.s was built for one purpose to fight against the mimic, but it hasnt been able to fulfill that purpose in a long time after being left to rot all alone in that factory. 3 star took them to use them to be the mimics warden and everything already so theyre able to help m.x.e.s feel fulfilled again by it realizing its purpose again, and updating them so their outdated programming is new and shiny and the cobwebs are dusted off :)

[claitea]

wait oh my god the new anni lillie is just a palette swap of the old one? this actually sucks why did they do that

[nataliedecorsair]

I wanted to give you some of Pticenoga's Borderlands AU backstory, how she was raised by Shade and before starting her shenanigans with Vaughn.

Plus a bonus comic about how she decided to set up a meeting for Vaughn and Shade, but didn't tell Vaughn who is supposed to be there x) Mostly because Vaughn has met Shade before in his macabre World of Curiosities museum and thought that Shade is too weird for him. Well, that's the kind of person that would raise a feral harpy siren, gotta deal with it!

When she was very young, nothing bothered her much as she was just a wild baby exploring the world x) And Shade was a good father figure to her. However, as she grew older, she realized that she doesn't really "fit in": yeah, Pandora is a crazy planet, but not every person there is crazy. There are plenty of "regular folk" like Shade or other people from their town - and many others. And she was frequently called a monster, a mutant and many other things by the regular kids and even adults. She was wild though, could bite them or fight with them in a pretty feral manner, and, even though she protected herself, it didn't help the situation much. She wasn't crazy enough (and too small) to fit in with the psychos or bandits, was "too human" for actual monsters living on Pandora, and for a long time she had no idea she was a Siren, as even for Sirens she looked too different. Only when she hit her teens, she was able to confirm that she is one, started using her powers, and in her human form she could see the full extension of the glowing pattern she had on her skin. She still, however, didn't know why she wasn't born "normal", and there were no older Sirens around.

At some point, she decided to become independent and live on her own. Her "wild" upbringing was helping that a lot, and she felt fine being away from people. She'd still visit Shade frequently, of course, and at some point she'd even met Zer0 and could hang out with him for some time. As Zer0 is a mystery himself, they had some common ground between them (though constantly listening to his haiku were exhausting xD). Sadly, Vault Hunters attract attention, not always positive, and that was the reason why she got spotted by a big bandit gang (could be the beginning of Vallory's gang, but before she took over). And local scientists like Tannis already declared that there may be some connection between Sirens and the Vaults. And they noticed that she's a Siren, but also pretty young (and dumb). After the first Vault on Pandora was opened, there was plenty of weird and valuable stuff around, but it wasn't so easy to get it when you're just regular bandits. And when Eridians, the aliens that are guarding the Vault, are everywhere. The Sirens like Lilith were too strong for them, and hiring a Vault Hunter is expensive, so they decided to wriggle into her favor and use her to gain access to the area. She didn't know she was dealing with bandits first, she naively thought it's a rare case of nice fellows just wanting to be friends and such, plus the Vault could have answers about her origin, and the new "friends" confirmed it.

At some point, she realized she was being used, and got into a fight with the bandits - and lost, as there were too many of them, and she had too little experience, and they knew about Shade. She got kidnapped and told that she'd do everything they told her to do, or they'd kill Shade, so she had to obey. She helped them to fight the way to the Vault and get some of the riches, and during the process she felt that she really does have a connection with Eridians - they boosted her powers and helped her to get free, and kill every presenting member of the gang. She was worried about Shade though, so she left immediately to find him before the remaining members found out what happened and could harm him. But she was too late - the water source in their town of Oasis was poisoned, and every single person there died. Except Shade though - he lasted longer, but dehydration made him insane, and he turned corpses into the stuffed dummies he could talk to (though she didn't have much of a problem with this part). As she was gone for at least several months, he didn't believe she's real, and she had to adapt to the new reality.

She never got back to the Vault after that as she felt it was a source of more trouble than anything good (in her view, the price was too much for a bunch of physical stuff).

That lasted for years, and became a bit easier as her powers, enhanced by the Eridians, wasn't only serving the destruction,  but could eventually "heal" some part of Shade's mind, so the moments of clarity became more frequent (she didn't know it's the reason, though). And you still need money, whether you like it or not, so, when Shade decided to use his World of Curiosities as a spot of illegal deals and smuggling, she didn't resist, but would watch over him in the shadows in case something goes wrong.

Eventually, she calmed down and just embraced herself. And, after some time, she met Vaughn, whose personal struggles she could sense right away, as she had to experience "being different" herself.

[ambrosiagourmet]

Every time I revisit chapter 86 and the events right after the group talks Marcille down, I'm always struck by this bit here:

In particular, how similar it is to this:

The Winged Lion ate the same desire in both of them, more or less (I'm sure there are some nuances in both flavor and intent, but they are clearly similar things here). The Lion basically used this technique to kill Thistle, and for Marcille it was... not insignificant, but something she and her friends overcame without even fully realizing it was an obstacle.

I feel like this is another small piece of the story that shows how important support and love are - in navigating mental illness, in dealing with abuse or addiction, or in working through any other similar struggle that can be read into the Lion and his eating of desires.

It almost feels like Marcille was able to borrow the desires of her friends. She loves them and she trusts them, so even when she didn't have a desire to free herself from the Lion, the care they had for her well being still mattered to her.

It's the same thing later, with her hair.

She isn't able to notice the way her messy hair is making things harder, let alone do anything about it. But when Chilchuck points it out and then braids it back for her...

It's better. She likes it, things are easier now. Even though it isn't a desire she can feel for herself, it's not something that doesn't effect her. And because her friends care - because they know her well enough to notice the difference - she is given the chance to have a preference and to ask for their help.

We can obviously see some parallel ideas here with Mithrun and Kabru as well, but I'd also like to point out that Thistle gets this grace, too. Thistle, who had no one to help him up once he lost his will to resist, or to encourage him to find new desires once the Lion ate them all.

Thistle says he doesn't need anything, anymore...

But he is given an apology anyways.

It is not a kindness he desires. It is not a kindness he is able to ask for.

But it is a kindness that helps. It is a kindness that matters.

[severepink]

Observing Adam

Where I go way too deep into something that probably isn't that deep. It's long, it's long as hell.

Okay, so you'd think with how Adam talks he's just a typical misogynist, right?

This man worships pussy. So much so, he's named a whole ass angel, one of his best, Vagina. You'd say that he objectifies them and thinks of them as being lesser, but I don't think that's the whole story. In fact, I think he might be the original simp.

All of these exorcists so far have been women. All of them. He refers to them as ladies or bitches interchangeably, he sees them as being completely capable of absolutely decimating leagues of some of the most vile beings who have ever existed, and they have, to the point it was only after thousands of years that there's been a risk to this hierarchy.

He's a self-centered, egotistical, loud-mouthed, arrogant asshole, no doubt about it, but I'm beginning to suspect something now.

If Adam and Lilith were created from the same dust, if they were created as equals, I am more than willing to bet... Lilith is also a self-centered, egotistical, arrogant asshole. But, she's likely far more intelligent, composed, and duplicitous.

Lilith was allowed to refuse Adam and leave of her own free will and garnered her own independence. A new wife was created for Adam, she was replaced. My guess, is she thought Adam wouldn't be able to live without her, to come back and find herself replaced entirely, she was enraged.

I believe both Adam and Lilith were both incredibly dominant individuals who fought over ideas, thoughts, and ultimately in the bedroom as well, if we take into account the creationist stories.

I'm willing to bet she likely manipulated Lucifer into twisting humanity against its original concept. What if Lucifer's intention truly was to just spark something within Eve, like independence and thought and creation, but it was Lilith's poison within the fruit that tainted her, then subsequently Adam, with sin.

Lilith thrived in hell, while Lucifer's dreams of creation were dashed. She didn't suffer as he did, instead the power of her voice grew with hell. Her voice grew so powerful that heaven found it to be a threat, her actions instigated the beginning of exterminations.

Charlie said that when she was a little girl, she didn't know Lucifer at all. I don't think this was because of Lucifer, he's seen here, picking her up, inviting her to share in his thoughts and dreams, showing her something wonderful. Something she could see within herself.

Charlie says that it's this moment that sparked her will to fight for her dreams. Which is strange, because at the very beginning of the story, Charlie says it was her mother's dream that was passed down to her.

Lilith took Charlie away. In this scene, Lucifer wasn't done showing Charlie his thoughts and dreams, he's still yearning to show his daughter these things at this point.

Lucifer loves his daughter. He loves Charlie so, so, so much. So why wasn't he allowed to build a relationship with his daughter for the longest time? He was waiting for the opportunity to get to know her, but with how much he adores her why didn't he do it sooner? He didn't comment on 'It took you a while-' he just said he missed her smile. They don't want to be pulled apart, again.

Now, we know Vivziepop has said that Lucifer and Lilith love each other, but Lilith 'wears the pants' in the relationship. We see all of the pictures all over the walls of a supposedly happy family. I don't think the relationship was as loving as originally portrayed and Lilith is a woman who desires control above all else. She likely tried to mitigate what influence Lucifer had over their daughter when she thought his angelic thoughts and behaviors became more than what she approved of.

Lets take it back to Adam and Lute for a moment. Again, Adam is a loud mouthed idiot, he's a jerk. The moment he realizes there are demons in heaven, he's ready to go on the attack. It's only because of Lute that he didn't end up doing something absolutely idiotic.

I gotta say, Lute and Adam's relationship is an absolutely fascinating one. He's a disrespectful dick head in how he talks, but how he acts is a different story. He allows Lute to man-handle him. He does listen to her, even if he's a whiny bitch about it.

Look at him, this is the face of a man listening, a dumb one, but a dude listening all the same. He doesn't manhandle her back, he doesn't even pull away until she lets go of his collar. Of all the shit he complained about, between being grabbed and being told what to do, his biggest complaint is that she's telling him to shush.

We know that Adam is the one who suggested the exterminations to begin with, so Sera says, and this was because of the power that Lilith was amassing. To him, Lilith is a threat. Even when he was willing to move on, to go to another wife when Lilith didn't want him or want to submit to him (fair babe, he's a bit of an idiot), she came back with an angel and proceeded to manipulate his new wife Eve. This is the supposed progenitor of man-kind, the original dick (hilariously enough), the reason civilization even exists at all. He and Eve had to fight for their lives after being tempted with the fruit. They had immortality, they had no ideas of shame, they were supposedly 'innocent' creatures before Lilith and Lucifer came along. He and Eve had to fight tooth and nail to survive after being cast from Eden. I think it shows in how willing and ready he is to take lead and do what he believes needs to be done, now out of a need for entertainment rather than a need to defend or protect. But, he still stopped to listen to Lute's advice. In the mythological story of Adam and Eve, Adam is the one who has to tell Eve that god said don't eat the fruit. Eve never heard god speak to her, so she was vulnerable to the snake's manipulations. She will now die because she ate it, and because she did not want Adam to take another wife, convinced him to eat it unknowingly. Funnily enough, Adam tried to explain to god that 'she lied to me and gave me the fruit' and in this actual mythology, Adam was punished for listening to his wife. Even without mentioning Lilith in the original mythology, Eve didn't want Adam to take another wife, so when we consider it within the context of Hazbin Hotel, it may be likely that's how it went down. Eve knew of Lilith, knew that she could be replaced, and decided that she would take Adam with her.

I believe that Adam does and did rely on the women in his life to help him with direction. I think Adam knows he can be an idiot and is willing to listen, even if he doesn't agree with what he's hearing. He did listen to Charlie in the beginning, he just didn't believe in her, like everyone else and he, out of anyone there, probably had the most reason not to. Cain and Abel were his and Eve's sons, his own child became the first murderer. Out of jealousy, the same kind of jealousy that no doubt has caused Lilith to act how she did. Adam isn't going to have empathy for sinners. His family, his legacy, were filled with the original sinners. He probably had to kill his son Cain in hell during the first exterminations. What do you think he would have had to feel, if it came to be a fact that sinners could be redeemed? That maybe his son, could've been redeemed? Or any of his progeny for that matter? How did it feel when his sons, his progeny, weren't given the same mercy as the Hellborn that Lucifer managed to keep protected through some deal with the angels or god? Not to mention that Charlie could've been his daughter. Charlie is the product of the people who completely and totally destroyed the paradise he'd been born into. She's the daughter who is protected and immune from the slaughter while all of his sons and daughters are judged and killed. I believe, even though he was a dickish prankster to Charlie, he was surprisingly patient and even somewhat amicable, willing to even ask her how her weekend was like he was just trying to get to know her.

Adam could just see all of the angels under his employ as being disposable. He doesn't have to name them, or think about them in any individual fashion. But, he knows Vaggie, recognized her instantly. Thought she was badass. Lute's the one who saw her, tore her wings off, and walked away. I'm surprised they even let her live, because this just goes against everything they're doing. They're an army and they saw one of their own showing empathy to the enemy.

Look at this dumb ass. He's being a shit-head, a dick, a bastard. But, he admires Vaggie's ability to pull Charlie, congratulates her, this dude isn't even judging her for being a lesbian. I don't think it's because he objectifies women, this dude loves women, he just does. He respects fellow vagina lovers. I don't think he respects liars in the slightest though. He's being underhanded, he's trying to be manipulative (he's not very good at it). I think he's brutally open and honest about everything and that's probably one of the reasons he's such a bastard anyways, because sometimes you just need to shut-up and he's not good at that.

I don't think he respects Sera for that either, he's more than willing to let others know what the hell he's doing, but under Sera's lead, he can't be open about it. I don't think it's his jam to act this way, it's why he sucks so bad at it and I think that's why Lilith is so antithetical to him. I also think that's why he's possibly even being manipulated.

It's kind of crazy that Adam is the only one who tries to come up with what allows someone to get into heaven. So here's his list: 1. Act Selfless: Maybe at one point he was! He had to have been, to be one of the progenitors of mankind, he would have had to work, sacrifice, and give to his wife and children for them all to survive. Eve would have had to do the same, no doubt. He may not seem selfless, due to his raunchy behavior, but he's served heaven since he's been there. He's served humanity in some kind of facet. 2. Don't Steal: Considering the only other humans are his spawn, he likely had to try and get them to not steal from one another for them all to have an equal opportunity of survival. He and Eve likely both knew they would need to work together to survive.

3. Stick it to the man: This, however, is interesting. Who is 'The Man' he speaks of? God? The only other people over him or were equal to him were women. He speaks like a rocker, and I think in this case he's using the term 'The Man' in a gender neutral way. I think he allowed some amount of Authority to Lilith when they were supposed to be seen as equals, it comes so naturally to him as a character when it comes to the other women he's been interacting with. I think she is the 'man' that he's been sticking it to- Pun somewhat intended. ((This third one may also simply be a tongue in cheek reference to when Alex Brightman played Dewey in School of Rock on Broadway! Thank you to the user who brought this to my attention!))

Adam is a bit of a hypocrite, isn't he? He likes to fuck, he's made that abundantly clear. Full of lust you could say. It was his original purpose after all, and he is judging Angel Dust for something he probably would've done himself at one point or has considered doing (maybe not the having sex with men part). Angel Dust does all of these things, Adam doesn't even deny it. He even looks nervous. He's angry, but doesn't deny that Angel has done those things. He doesn't explain it away or try to lie or move the goal posts, he's just asking what is an actually very valid question.

Why isn't Angel Dust there if he can do things equal to what Adam himself hasn't done? Serenity continues that line of thought. It isn't until Charlie is realizing no one knows what it takes to get into heaven.

Adam is more than willing to let Lute take the lead here, he's willing to give her the stage to clap back, he's giving her back-up antics. By all means, they could be pushing and fighting one another, there could easily be body language expressing something other than their general comfort around one another. They aren't fighting for a spotlight like you'd expect Adam to try and do considering his egotistical attitude.

Adam fucking sucks at keeping his mouth shut and he sucks at lying. He nearly blew the secret out of the bag once, this time, Sera is the only one who tries to stop him and to be honest? Lute looks a bit too thrilled at it. He knows he fucked up, but he doesn't think it's a big deal that anyone would know. For fucks sake, they've already condemned souls, his progeny, to suffer. What's the big deal if he kills them?

I have to re-iterate what's happening here. Charlie is proud she caused this chaos, that she caused these angels to fight amongst themselves, even if in this case it's a good thing. But, this is like history repeating itself to Adam, the reflection of his ex-wife, entering his domain, causing strife among his people, being happy about it.

And the venom he expresses when it comes to the 'liar' portion, god Alex Brightman destroyed when he got to this portion specifically. There is some vehement disgust in his tone when he says liar.

Adam isn't a good person now. But, I think he used to be a good person. By all means, Adam himself could've been the first murderer when his wife made her mistake. He, at one point in time, had to have been good enough to foster civilization itself with Eve. Both good and bad. Adam's original purpose was to be fruitful and multiply. Ordained by god (or maybe just angels) himself, divine power directed and created him to fuck. He didn't chase his ex-wife down, he was given a new one, Lilith was allowed to leave. When he left things alone, when he tried to move on, his ex-wife and a scorned angel destroyed the paradise he was in with Eve. He had to struggle and toil, he had to feel shame in his own body. He had to find out his first born son was the first murderer. His second son killed. We don't know if this is going to be canon in the story, a lot has changed, and if Adam is the first soul who reached heaven, then what did happen to Abel? Was Abel considered a sinner? Or did Cain kill Abel after Adam had passed? Either way, he had to witness his children kill, he had to watch his descendants behave in a range from saints and monsters. He's seen genocides, he's seen famine, war. Adam is desensitized to the plights of his descendants. Maybe he even saw it as a duty to cleanse the universe of their existence at one point, because they were his responsibility.

At the end of this episode, he is properly scolded by Sera and does seem ashamed of himself. He isn't huffy, he is reminded that he should be ashamed of acting that way.

I love Lute's enthusiasm, she's absolutely brutal when talking about Vaggie and with how she handled Vaggie. I think it's funny that Lute is so brutal she's even made Adam uncomfortable. It's cute that he's made uncomfortable by the excitement and all he does is tell Lute, the premier hype woman over here, to chill. She's so proud of herself too, look at her.

He fully expects these exorcist bad bitches to go in there and fuck shit up. But, you know it's hilarious that he's throwing horns? This dude, this angel. First human soul in heaven, loving rock n' roll, the devil's music, and throwing motherfucking horns. It's poetic really. I think we can probably assume where things are going.

Now, this is the first point we've seen Adam being a real piece of shit to Lute. I don't think Adam likes it when people think he's too dumb to notice something, especially something so damn obvious. This is such a drastic moment of vitriolic, uncontrolled anger directed towards Lute. Adam knows he isn't the brightest tool in the shed. He likely knows he's obtuse and misses shit. It's why he sucks at lying, he knows he's not smart. That is why I think he's afforded women opportunities to direct him without fighting back against their advice and their choices. I'm sure Lilith made it obvious how dumb she thinks Adam is. I'm wondering if this might be where their ground breaking fight might've come from. Who's to say he didn't allow Lilith to take the lead, or listen to her like he's done with Lute here and now? Perhaps to an even greater point? He listened to Eve and ate from the fruit of knowledge and he was punished for it. Being seen as so dumb he can't formulate a simple fact is a sore spot for him.

Adam is incredibly powerful. It took a bit out of him to exercise that power, probably because he's out of practice just like Lucifer said. At one point, he probably wasn't so sloppy and weak willed. He's gotten lazy. Sloth like.

I think it got real personal here. How viscerally and personally he attacked Charlie. No one but Charlie truly thought sinners could be redeemed, or that they were even worth it. Not even one of the original sinners. Maybe he never considered the possibility, maybe what happened really did make him see the world as black and white to cope with that happened to him, his wife, his children. Charlie's desire to fight this idea would destroy the foundation for all of his coping through the years. He stopped seeing them as family, even though he's grandiose about his founding role in humanity. Does that itch the guilt that may lurk under the surface?

I don't think Adam thought much of Charlie at all. I don't think he had any intention of coming to kill her in the beginning, despite seeing her, despite who her parents were. But, I think with the constant push, with how eager she was to disrupt the pre-conceived idea of order, it reminded Adam and reflected her parents so much, he was eager to kill her for revenge against them. I think this electrical interference on the mask is a direct reflection of sin. Namely, wrath, in this moment.

Now, this. THIS. Is something that made me want to write this whole fucking essay. Is Lucifer implying that he not only gave Eve the Fruit from the tree of knowledge, but FUCKED HER TOO? Homies, I'm sorry but holy shit. That is some hydrating tea. I'd be pretty pissed too, fucked over twice by women who were supposed to be literal soul mates, who you were made for, who were made for you?

I knew he would have a goatee, I could almost hear it. I gotta say, I'm a sucker for how he looks. I think he's hot. He is a bastard, but so are a lot of the hot dudes in this show. It's just a theme.

This exact series of lines prompted so many of the thoughts that I had about Adam and why he thinks or acts the way he does. At one point, Adam did have to work himself to the bone and learn to survive from scratch alongside Eve. He isn't entirely without cause to not think that he deserves some respect or recognition from his descendants.

But, that doesn't give him the right to act like god himself. It's... well... Blasphemous. Isn't it? One of the worst sins is to think yourself to be worthy of worship, as if you're a god.

This is the moment that gave me empathy for them both. You could probably see the kind of loving person Adam could have been at one point with how he looks at Lute, even as he's laying there, dying. He's not crying like a bitch, just looking at Lute softly. Lute screaming for him, screaming his name. They cared for each other deeply.

And this... and this.... and this. WHAT DEAL DID YOU MAKE, LILITH? Did you make it with Sera? Did you make it with Adam? Did you make it with Lute? Did you really just want a little 'vacay' away from the hell you helped create? Left her husband, depressed and lonely. Left her daughter without any care or guidance. Maybe Alastor was sent in her place, perhaps? Seven years since he was seen after all, but why wouldn't he show up sooner if Lilith did care? Did she make a deal with Lute and Adam? Did she let Adam smash it so she could stay in heaven? Did Lute let her stay in exchange for getting Adam out of a position of power? Or was it maybe Sera who commissioned Lilith with a deal? Either way, I'm in full belief that it wasn't Adam's idea to move the extermination day up. I think he's a patsy, a scapegoat. I think Lute may have been manipulated, potentially, into manipulating Adam into this position. Was it even really Adam who came up with the idea to do the exterminations? Or was he the one who simply decided to fight originally because he was told heaven was at risk due to Lilith's rising power? The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions. I think it could be any number of these. Either way, Lute certainly does think she had authority over Lilith. Is it Lute just having hubris? Or is Lilith truly bound, just like Alastor, Husk, and Angel Dust?

Of course, now that we know a soul can be redeemed... and we certainly know that angels can fall. I don't think this will be the last we see of Adam.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

Ok so i saw a tweet that made me feral, so here i am with a request

It was based on a still from Thunderbolts* with Bucky in the kitchen wearing the tank top, the person said he looked like a dad waiting for the baby bottles to sterilise,,,, so true

I was thinking about #that bucky joining reader in the kitchen after dinner and doing it for the first time after having their baby 😵‍💫

so sorry it’s taken me way longer to get to than planned. thanks for requesting 💌

EIGHT WEEKS. 18+

bucky barnes x fem!reader

wc. 1407 warnings. 18+ only! quickie in the kitchen, pinv (but not much smut, my apologies. ive written so much porn lately i fear my brain may explode) mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

For the last near eight weeks, shitty diapers, vomit and fatigue had been all you and Bucky had known. The excessively late nights and nipple pain all being traced back to the sweet, beautiful tyrant of a daughter that you recently welcomed into the world.

And while you were both worse for wear and stretched incredibly thin with the new change of dynamics in the household, you wouldn’t have it any other way — motherhood a great look on you and fatherhood just as good a look on your lover. 

Like anything, it all took some getting used to: the stress, running on minimal sleep, intense blinding irritation, but it was all made easier with the great support system you call a husband. All of his attention and time being divided between his two girls. And with time, you began to feel like your old self again.

By now, it was late and it was like you were each too tired to sleep, each of you barely functioning as you work through the household jobs. 

Bucky’s at the kitchen counter, his time split between bottle sterilisation and the dishes, while you’re at the sofa’s, organising and piling the excessive amounts of baby grows and other laundry. Each of you doing jobs to lighten the giant load.

You stack the clean laundry in the basket and set it on your hip, using your free hand to drag the laundry hamper with you as you walk. You set it in your shared bedroom and meet Bucky back in the kitchen.

You stand beside him and rest your head on his shoulder, eyes closing as if to soak up the calm quiet. He presses a kiss to your temple and lays the side of his head atop yours, giving you a moment of attention while he focuses on the tasks at hand: carefully attaching bottles with lids so as not to contaminate the sterile vessel.

You wrap your arm around his back, snuggling into his side as you watch him. Whoever would have thought that the hands that were made for death and destruction could now be preparing bottles for your baby in a few rooms over. 

“Good news about the doctors today, huh?” 

He pauses and lifts his head from yours. So you turn and see his expression confused, brows furrowing.

“What news?” he asks, utterly perplexed.

“I texted you this morning,” you match his befuddled tone and reach into your robe pocket for your phone. “The doctor gave me the all clear. I told you about it as soon as I found out…” you mindlessly reiterate, eyes then beginning to narrow as you look at your screen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, and shake your head. “I never send it.”

“Is it bad news?” he questions, eyes softening slightly as they meet yours.

“God no, well… depends how you look at it,” you smile and turn your phone, showing him the screen.

He stills as he reads your unsent text, brows continuing to furrow. “What is that? Is that an eggplant?”

“Yep,” you nod.

“Why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why is it there?”

“It’s supposed to be sexy,” you playfully frown.

“Sexy?”

“Yeah,” you nod, pointing to the emoji beside the eggplant one. “See, the peach.”

“I don’t understand,” his head shakes, eyes flickering between you and your phone.

You inhale and close your eyes. “Okay, alright,” you focus on him. “I saw my doctor today, and she gave me the all clear…” you pause, watching the connections slowly being made in his tired blue eyes.

“So we can have sex?”

“So we can have sex,” you repeat, mirroring his tone and expression. 

Part of you questioned whether you should wait until the weekend, wait until you’ve dropped your daughter off with your family. It had been a long time since you’ve been properly fulfilled by your husband, everything but full penetrative sex to suffice during your weeks of healing. 

So this was quite the confliction.

You give it a moment's thought and meet his eyes again.  “Are you tired?” you ask.

“Are you?” he deflects and returns the question, wanting to hear what you have to say before he answers for himself.

“I mean…” you shrug your shoulders. “Yeah, very. But… a quickie can’t hurt, right?”

“Who doesn’t love a quickie?” 

“Exactly,” you smile and turn so your back is against the counter. You lift yourself up onto it, sitting on the edge with your feet dangling down.

He moves to stand between your knees and settles his hands beside yours. “And then this weekend…” he pauses and itches forward, lips ghosting yours briefly. “I can take you up to the lake…” he presses a slow lengthy kiss to your lips.

“Yeah…” you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him again. “What else?”

He pretends to give it some thought but the plan was already extensively created in his head. “I can make us some dinner,” he begins to list and reaches for the bow of your robe, tugging on it gently. “We can go for a walk around the woods, maybe collect some firewood. Sit on the deck and watch the sun go down.”

You drop your hands from around his neck and move to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, fingers mindlessly slipping into the top. You reach down the front and begin palming over his cock, eyes focused on his as you listen.

“Mhm-hm,” you prompt, eager to hear more.

“Well,” he pauses and reaches into the elastic of your underwear. “We can sit in the cabin, maybe have some wine by the fire…” he starts, voice drawing to a whisper, speech halting when he leans in to kiss you again. But he doesn’t continue on with his plan. Instead he grows quiet, quite like he was wanting to reserve the more intimate moments for a surprise. 

And so he slips your underwear down your thighs, the lifting of your ass from the counter aiding the removal. He watches the fabric drag across your skin, the material grazing flesh until it gets caught between your knees. You feel the resistance and lift a knee, letting the underwear fall from one leg and down the length of the other.

The hand you had tucked down the front of his boxers moves back up to the waistband, fingers resuming their prior finnicking into the elastic. You drop your hand from around his neck and join the one at the top of his pyjama bottoms — both of them hastily yanking on the fabric. 

Bucky helps, moving his hands from your underwear to his own. He gives both garments a heavy tug, each catching around the swell of his thighs — revealing just enough of himself as required.

He spits into his palm and smears it messily over his dick. You both watch the lewd display between you, eyes transfixed on the slight twitching of him, cock growing hard under his touch. 

Guiding himself closer he smacks his head against your cunt. The little slaps an attempt to speeden up his erection. 

He holds himself within his left, metal hand and spits once again into the palm of his other, only this time he smears it over your pussy — a makeshift lube saving you both a trip to the bedroom. 

Lining up with you, he teases at your entrance briefly, quite like he was refamiliarising you with the contact of his cock and himself with your cunt once again. He sinks into you slowly and both of your faces contort, the feeling of sheer, unadulterated, lustrous bliss growing with each passing inch.

Your arms wrap around him as if you’re in dire need of his touch, your hands squeezing tightly around his bank. And with the close contact, his forehead falls to press against yours, bodies close as you both delve into the bliss of what got you your daughter in the first place. 

Although this brief, fatigued session was about to reopen a massive can of worms for your sex life, it was clear that this time it may have to be cut short — the long awaited sensations could not quite be replicated by one to the other meant things tonight were bound to end prematurely. 

And so this little session might just have to serve as an appetiser, a taster for the weekend to come when you both finally get around to rekindling things properly in the bedroom.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[misstycloud]

Isekai’d yandere x f.reader

We’ve all heard about reader getting isekai’d into another universe and bonding with the characters, but what if it was the opposite and the yandere was isekai’d while reader’s just a background character.

————-

You were the mere daughter of a baron. You were pretty, yes, but nothing to gape in awe at. To summarise, you were nothing special. Then how come the heir of a grand duchy followed you around like a puppy seeking its masters attention? Especially since it was only the day earlier that he smitten with another young miss, who he’d declared with his actions was to become his future fiancée.

Yandere! Noble who suddenly approached you out of nowhere one day. You weren’t friends and had hardly ever spoken; to ask directions or work in pairs, perhaps. He was way too cheery speaking to you. It was completely out of character for him. Where did the normally stoic and unphased young man go? He was certainly not to be found here. No, this man chatted your ear off and did not understand that you wished to be left alone. It didn’t feel very safe anymore when all his admirers glared daggers your way. There was one you were especially afraid of. He was head over heels in love with her before. What has changed? You always saw them together and she was the only one he’d smiled at genuinely. Now he didn’t even spare her a glance.

Yandere! Noble who sought you out whenever he had free time. He wanted to accompany you in breaks between your classes at the academy, he wished to escort you to town and he even showed up outside your estate. His change in behaviour was puzzling, but not as much as the shift in his speech. What were these ‘bruh’, ‘sigma’ and ‘I’m cooked’? You didn’t understand any of it, no matter how much he used it around you. You suppose you were thankful he did turn it down a notch when in others company. You already had a hard time with it, you didn’t think it was necessary for others to suffer as well.

Yandere! Noble who had been shocked when they died and woken up in the world of their favourite romance game. They had read a lot of isekai novels but never once thought the thing was actually real. Wait, if this was their favourite game, then wouldn’t that mean that you were there too? Yes! Maybe they should thank Truck-kun for hitting them on their way to work. This was much better than any ordinary life a citizen could have. At first they thought they’d be stuck in the body of a villain or a side character, but they were pleasantly surprised to find themselves being the male lead of the game. He was rich, noble, influential and devilishly handsome. He had everything.

Yandere! Noble who immediately went to the academy to find you. When playing the game, they never found themselves attracted to the female lead, despite the fact she was modelled after the general population’s preferences. It just didn’t work for them. No, they liked you. Loved you even! It didn’t matter that you were nothing more than a simple background character. You were way better and cuter than any other love interest! You kept to yourself and didn’t have many friends, however you were still very kind and modest. On top of that, you were also an animal lover- exactly like them! The two of you also shared one other interest. They wanted to know if you shared more, but unfortunately the information on you was limited(not created because you’re not important).

Yandere! Noble who wrote an email to the game developers about how they should make extra content that should only feature new information and updates on you. They insist it would sell well(no one except them would buy). Sadly they never got a reply back. Rude ass company. Maybe they should’ve claimed mental health damage because the love interests were bad, so they could sue.

Yandere! Noble who couldn’t care less about the female lead. Unfortunately they got isekaid to at the point of the game where you’d have to enter a relationship with the female lead, that you could break off eventually if you wanted to chase after someone else. And sadly for her, you were the only option. The look on her face was laughable as they told her they could give rats ass about her and how they’ve found someone much better than her in all ways.

Yandere! Noble who then realised they were not bound by any rules. In a lot of isekai the person would have to follow some original rules at least in the beginning, but there was no system or points you needed to collect. They could do whatever they wanted. They had the power, the looks, the wealth and what they wanted was you.

There is no way you’d ever say no to a future grand duke, right?

[yieldtotemptation]

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right. 

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it. 

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1)      You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2)      Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3)      If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

 —

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her. 

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.  

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same. 

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”  

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down���break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated,  and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.  

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

 —

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.” 

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”