#but the numbers are so far off it’s v unlikely

[sail-not-drift]

For 48 brief hours I thought I might be able to buy my apartment instead of moving. But alas. I now know how money works.

[ericsprincess]

open the keys, open the mind

nc-17, Jeong Jaehyun/Reader, Na Jaemin/Reader, Jeong Jaehyun/Na Jaemin, step-sibling incest, Jaehyun and Jaemin are step-brothers, modern au, m/f/m threesome, vaginal sex, oral sex, cunnilingus, 

~~~

Your boyfriend brings you home for the first time. 

~~~

Oh damn, you curse in your head and congratulate yourself on this absolute catch, as your hand sneaks under Jaehyun’s cozy sweater and you discover that he has a set of very chiseled abs that he was until now successfully hiding under his cute hoodies and grandpa sweaters. You can’t resist running up his body with your hand almost up to his chest, savoring the feel of each hard separate muscle, feeling the divots between them and the warmth of his skin. He likes it, likes being touched and sighs into your mouth as you kiss and touch him and the sound of it makes you smile a little. His voice is so nice. He, in his entirety, is just so nice.  

You have him pressed against the door of his apartment, kissing him desperately with one hand on his neck, pulling him down, closer to you, and the other one wherever you can reach, while he is trying to blindly put the key into the keyhole to let you both in. He’s not even close to his target, just barely poking the door with each failed attempt, but neither of you pays much attention to it, despite the urgency you’re making out with - you both want more, both want to quickly get into the apartment, into Jaehyun’s bed where you can finally tear the clothes off each other, but neither is yet willing to take even a quick pause to unstick from the other to get an actual move on this. 

But the desperation is real though - you and Jaehyun have been dating casually for three months and just last week you have mutually decided that you like each other enough to make it official. And it made you really happy. Everything with Jaehyun is just so comfortable and easy. So much, it even feels too easy at times. At first you weren’t sure about it, you were afraid he would turn out to be a pushover, or worse, an indecisive manchild that will expect you to do all the work in the relationship, but he’s far from that. His assertiveness is quiet, his boundaries are firm and his opinions are always there, even if he doesn’t always feel like expressing them. So for the most part, he’s happy to let you decide about everything you want, simply taking pleasure in watching you getting your way, but ever so often he likes to surprise you with something of his own initiative - whether a date idea or an unexpected, very thoughtful gift, clearly remembering all of the drivel you’ve been flooding him with. Not only that, but despite him not being that much of a talker (unlike yourself), you always manage to find out something interesting about him. You’re always looking forward to getting to know every little random fact about him.  Which means you’ve been complementing each other very well so far - he’s not stifling your spirit, rather enhancing it. He makes your days brighter. And you hope that it’s mutual. 

So today, after your first real date as a couple, there is an event you’ve been both carefully skirting about and silently anticipating with somewhat unspoken agreement - it’s going to be the first time you’re going to have sex. Well, not technically, since, to your endless shame, your first meeting was a random (very) drunk hook up in a dirty club bathroom, where you let Jaehyun fingerbang you until you saw stars, while he was humping your thigh like a horny dog and cumming in his pants. You don’t remember much else from that evening, just that you somehow managed to exchange numbers and then the morning after you woke up with the worst hangover in your life and one unread message - “hey, it’s jaehyun. do you remember last night?”

At first you felt too embarrassed to reply, but hey - it’s not like he wasn't there with you, doing all those things together. So you replied and a day later you found yourself sitting in a cafe with a very handsome man whose oddly preppy clothes and calm demeanor would never hint on the fact that he would hook up with someone in a club bathroom. Or that he would even go to a club in the first place. But he was cute and funny and you were sold on him from the beginning. And when you blushingly suggested that if anyone asks, you should just say you met on Tinder (“like normal losers”), he laughed with his deep warm voice and when he nodded with a smile that had his dimples showing, you felt it in your heart. 

Which brings you here - into the poorly lit hallway in front of Jaehyun’s apartment when he’s finally managed to open the front door. You stumble inside together, laughing as Jaehyun is hastily trying to take the key out and close the door at the same time, but when you turn towards the living room, you both stop in your tracks at the unexpected sight. 

There on the sofa in front of the TV lies a young man, lazily splayed, with one hand in a bag of chips and the other scratching his belly. He looks up from the sofa as you interrupt, but his face shows only indifference. And he’s very handsome - with bleached blonde, almost platinum hair and a beautiful, doll-like face with big eyes. He seems to be younger than Jaehyun (a student, maybe?), dressed in just a t-shirt and sweatpants and looks like he’s at home, which is strange, since as far as you know, Jaehyun is supposed to live alone. 

“Hi,” the stranger greets, with a surprisingly deep-voiced drawl that does not match his pretty face at all. He smiles a second later, as if he’s suddenly remembered he’s supposed to do so, but it’s not a sincere or a warm smile, rather an oddly predatory one, full of teeth. It makes you almost nervous, despite nothing about him being outwardly hostile, not by a long shot. 

“Oh..hi?” you answer. “Who is that?” you whisper to Jaehyun, confused. You didn’t expect a visitor putting a damper on your plans. 

“I don’t know him,” mumbles Jaehyun, while scratching his nose. 

“I’m his brother,” drawls the man from the sofa, not bothering to get up to properly introduce himself. He does put away the bag of chips though and brushes off the crumbs off his t-shirt.  

“Stepbrother.”

“Same difference,” replies the stranger. 

An awkward silence falls onto the room. Nobody is saying anything. Jaehyun seems fully focused on an imaginary spot on the carpet and you don’t feel like it’s your place to speak up, since you’re the guest here. So you’re just kind of standing awkwardly, not entirely sure how the atmosphere suddenly got so tense. Why is it so tense even? you think. It’s just a brother. You don’t understand why Jaehyun is suddenly acting almost like a child caught stealing cookies. 

There should not be a reason for Jaehyun to be so awkward at the situation of his brother meeting his girlfriend. Ironically, the stranger on the sofa does not seem awkward at all. In fact, it’s almost as if he’s enjoying the weird atmosphere.  

He’s looking at the two of you with interrogative eyes and you know he’s already put two and two together. His older brother, Jaehyun, brought home a woman and the purpose of the visit is clear as a day, from the way you stumbled into the apartment, the way how your clothes are already a bit messed up and your lips are red from kissing. 

"Can I watch? There is nothing on TV right now," he asks suddenly, not bothering with any pretense. His unwavering smile is unsettling and you feel as if his eyes could see right through you and straight up read all your thoughts.  

“Just ignore him,” says Jaehyun, suddenly awakened from his thoughts, but looking very tired and grabbing you by your hand and pulling you along as he’s heading out of the living room. “Don’t bother us Jaemin, I mean it.” he throws over his shoulder, not waiting for Jaemin’s reply.

He pulls you into his (nice, tidy and clean, as you quickly take a notice) bedroom and closes the door behind you. He sighs and rubs his hand over his face. 

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t expect him to be here,” he apologizes. 

“Does he not live with you? He looked all cozy there,” you ask, confused. 

“No, thank god. He has summer vacations and knows how to pick a lock. He comes and goes whenever he likes and usually it’s not a problem. I guess I did not think about the possibility that he decides that today he likes my sofa more than our parents’ one,” he shakes his head. “Sorry for the surprise. We can postpone the…” Jaehyun vaguely waves his hand, still not quite able to put it into words “if you are not in the mood anymore. I can either drive you home or we can just chill,” he suggests. 

“Are you crazy? Our...plans…are still on,” you step closer to him, pulling him into your arms and kissing him softly. “There is nothing that could ruin the mood for me, not with how much I’ve been wanting you ever since the first time, you know?” you laugh into the kiss and he gently squeezes your waist, agreeing. You’re glad he’s also not being deterred by the unexpected company. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” you admit. 

And you will not say it out loud but…the thought of Jaehyun’s hot baby brother possibly overhearing you two having sex sounds more appealing than it should.  

From then on it’s almost a whirlwind, Jaehyun quickly tears all the clothes off you and pushes you on the bed, letting you softly fall on your back. He takes off his shirt, but is way too impatient to deal with his trousers. His shirt hasn’t even landed on the floor and he’s already kneeling in front of the bed, spreading your legs and diving face first. 

He’s eating your pussy with laser focus, as if it were the only thing that mattered at that moment. And he’s clearly not new to this, he knows how to start slowly, how to entice and make you want more. It doesn’t seem like he will need any kind of guidance whatsoever, so you just lie down and enjoy the warm and wet feeling and the stimulation of his tongue and lips on you. 

But then, a few minutes into this, when you’re already warmed up enough and you can feel the arousal building, the bedroom door behind Jaehyun slowly and silently opens, revealing Jaemin, standing in the doorway. He doesn’t announce himself and makes no sound - just leans his shoulder on the doorway and watches. 

You gasp from the surprise, but you realize quickly you don’t want Jaehyun to find out, not yet. So you distract from your mistake by grabbing a fistful of his black hair, pushing you more into your pussy. And he likes that, he enjoys the pain of his hair being pulled, you can tell from a muffled moan he lets out and the way he squeezes your thighs, holding you firm and close to his face. 

A minute passes, with Jaehyun dutifully eating you out like a last meal, not knowing that you’re squirming so much not only because of his tongue getting you close to your orgasm, but also because of the way Jaemin is staring at you. Intense, contemplating, prying cold eyes cataloguing every reaction you make whenever Jaehyun changes the tempo or flickers his tongue just right. 

“Is he good?” asks Jaemin casually, as if he couldn't tell from the obvious way you’re enjoying yourself.

You can feel Jaehyun tense for a second, but he doesn’t stop doing what he’s doing. His eyes open and flicker up to take a quick look at you though. He doesn't need to check for your comfort, you’re not in distress, rather the opposite. The combination of Jaehyun’s skill, the unashamed voyeur and the fact that Jaehyun won’t stop despite knowing he’s being watched by his brother is so powerful, that you are coming almost immediately, holding on to Jaehyun’s head for dear life as you’re twisting in pleasure, that’s so strong you don’t even remember the last time you came like that. 

With Jaehyun’s help you slowly come down, and when your orgasm is finally done, you let his hair go. He straightens up, sitting on his heels in front of the bed. His hair is a mess, he’s blushing red up to his chest, sweaty, with his face wet and glistening from your juices. He’s still catching his breath. 

Jaemin moves from the doorway and sits on the bed right next to you. He looks at kneeling Jaehyun who looks up back at him. 

“Can I have a taste?” he whispers and leans forward, as if he were about to kiss him. Jaehyun flinches at the last moment, but he realizes he’s being fooled when Jaemin only licks him up the cheek playfully. “Tasty.” he winks back at you, smiling his shark smile again. 

Jaehyun looks at him questioningly, with one eyebrow raised. 

“There is still nothing on TV,” Jaemin shrugs, as if the explanation should have been obvious. 

Jaehyun stares at him, contemplating, and then at you. You can see the imaginary wheels spinning in his head, trying to sense out whether you’re ok with his brother being here. Whether he’s ok with his brother being here. 

“Y/N, what do you think?” he turns to you. Oh. He’s in.

You take a second to pretend you’re actually thinking, even though there is absolutely no need to. 

“What do I think? I think you should go kiss your brother,” you smile smugly, almost vibrating with anticipation of Jaehyun’s reaction.  

“Stepbrother,” he whispers, grabbing Jaemin roughly by his jaw and kissing him, pushing his tongue into Jaemin’s mouth immediately. It’s not like any of the kisses he’s ever shared with you. It’s a lot more aggressive, and you can see how Jaemin melts into it, immediately submitting to Jaehyun’s silent power. You realize you’re similar in this - both full of talk and attitude, but ultimately giving in to the stronger one. Maybe that’s why Jaehyun likes you. 

They kiss for a while for your enjoyment, Jaehyun keeping Jaemin firmly under his lead, but eventually letting the kiss become more gentle, almost sweet. It ends with a few cute sweet pecks that Jaehyun gives Jaemin, whose eyes are closed. He’s smiling a little. 

“I’ve been thinking about this for years,” Jaemin whispers, almost soundlessly, as they finally separate from each other, and you would laugh at the shared sentiment, except you find that you don’t really want to ruin the moment, But you really get it. It hasn’t been that long for you as for Jaemin, but it doesn’t surprise you in the slightest. 

Jaehyun reaches back to his jean pocket and takes out a little foil square. He hands the condom to Jaemin.

“Be good,” he says. It sounds both like a permission and a warning. 

Jaemin strips himself in a flash, revealing a bit of his impatience and youthful enthusiasm in an adorable way. One second he’s sitting clothed on a bed, the next he’s naked, settling between your legs while ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth. His body is beautiful. He’s a bit shorter than Jaehyun and he has less muscle too, but he’s not behind in beauty. Just different, younger, not yet having caught up to his older brother. They pose a nice contrast next to each other - gloomy-looking Jaehyun with his black hair and pale skin, the epitome of Snow White beauty, while Jaemin’s skin is golden, hair almost white and his smile is blinding. Handsome pair of brothers, even if not alike at all. 

“How does she usually like it?” Jaemin asks Jaehyun as he’s rolling the condom on. “Missionary? From behind?” 

But Jaehyun doesn’t answer, instead he looks at you, prompting you to answer by yourself. And of course, Jaemin is quick to catch on that, before you have the chance to reply. 

“Oh. You don’t know? Was this supposed to be the first time? And you let me have her before you do?” he scoffs. “Well, aren’t you the perfect boyfriend?” he grins at his brother. 

Jaehyun just nods in pretend solemnity. 

“Of course I am. And I take care of what’s mine. There will be many other times,” he replies.  

“Then missionary will be perfect,” decides Jaemin. “I want her to see me well. First time with a new boyfriend should be memorable.”

He doesn’t waste more time and pushes in. You’re still so wet and relaxed from your first orgasm that there is no resistance or discomfort at all. And you have already started to get aroused just from watching them kiss. 

Jaemin feels good, you barely had time to take a glimpse at his cock, but it feels adequate, filling you well and reaching all the right places. His tempo is fast from the start, no doubt thanks to him being too pent up already, but you can’t complain as he’s not being rough with you at all. Not only he fucks you well but also the sight from under him is stunning, as his skin breaks into sweat and glistens, his abs and biceps straining to hold him up. You bring your hands up to grope at his pecs, pull and pinch at his nipples to spur him more, to make him lose his mind. He’s trying to hold his moans back, but every sound he’s not able to contain sounds like music to your ears. 

In between being fucked very thoroughly and a sight for gods thats being provided to you, a crackling sound of metal zipper brings your attention back to your boyfriend. Jaehyun unzips his jeans and kicks them off together with his underwear, revealing his hard cock, big and pale with flushed red tip. He’s been hard for so long his precum is dripping in slow sticky drops on the floor. You can’t take your eyes off it and you have a hunch you’re not the only one. 

Jaehyun steps closer to the bed next to your head and you don’t wait to be asked. You open your mouth and let him feed you his cock, while you take one hand off Jaemin’s tits and put it on Jaehyun’s cock to suck him better. You savor the taste of his precome, licking it off the tip, letting it drip into your mouth. 

It feels like a bliss, being both used and serviced by two hot men, worse, brothers. You’re barely thinking as you’re just enjoying the taste and the presence of your boyfriend’s cock in your mouth and the cock of his brother in your pussy, getting you close to an orgasm. 

Your eyes are closed, but as you sense a movement next to your face you blink them opened. Jaemin is leaning forward, his face close to yours and he looks like he would be about to kiss you, were your mouth not full of Jaehyun’s cock. But you know what he’s after. You pull Jaehyun’s cock out of your mouth and offer it to him, letting him lick and suck it along, together with you. 

You glimpse up at Jaehyun, who’s been watching all of this unfold, as he immediately, reflexively grabs Jaemin’s hair and you see he looks conflicted whether he should pull him off or push him down to suck his dick more thoroughly. But he notices your eyes and you wink at him playfully and that’s what does it. He pushes Jaemin closer. 

Jaehyun, having made up his mind, is now unashamedly moaning, as he’s watching his girlfriend and brother suck his cock together, occasionally sharing a little kiss, tongues touching over him. He’s been close for such a long time and he has barely the mental presence to warn you before he’s cumming all over your face, Jaemin catching some of it in his mouth too. Jaehyun slowly pulls away, squeezing out the last drop into your open mouth and then Jaemin is kissing you full on, spitting Jaehyun’s cum into your mouth too and then licking it all back, all of that while he’s fucking into you, frenzied and wanting nothing else, just to finally cum. You embrace him with both of your hands, one sliding down to squeeze his ass to push it deeper into you and then you’re both coming at once. You feel him twitch inside you as he’s pumping the cum along with your pussy spasming and it feels like double the orgasm for you, and at that moment you’re truly like a one body.

~~~

You’re just about to fall asleep. The bed is so soft and comfortable and you have an armful of a young blond man already fast asleep, with head right on your boobs, the rest of his body wrapped around you tightly like an octopus. Jaemin seems to have taken a liking to you in a matter of hours and has no reservation about showing it. He already planned somewhere where he wants to take you for dinner, while you were idly chatting while waiting for Jaehyun. He refused to tell you where and he didn’t call it a date per se, but…The glint in his eyes was telling enough. 

The bed dips a little on your other side as Jaehyun comes back from his shower, smelling all nice and clean and lies down next to you. He reaches over to kiss Jaemin’s forehead and pet his hair gently, then he gives you a sweet good night kiss and turns off the light. 

And then you sleep. 

~~~

a/n: a wise woman once said “you can’t spell incest without nct”. 

[fordlee]

Ford’s self-control on his… impure thoughts about his brother becoming undone as Summerween nears. All because of those outfits Stan’s been wearing on group tours that’s becoming more scandalous by the day. Call Ford crazy (well, crazier than he already is) but it almost seems like Stan wants him to fall into temptation.

Sorry this took so long, but I made it in time for Halloween! No smut unfortunately! I hope you like it anyway <3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ⁺

If Ford hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Stanley was trying to torture him. The costumes Stan had worn in the week leading up to Summerween had become increasingly provocative. It had started off relatively innocent - ironic, considering that Stan's first costume of the week had been The Devil himself.

Stanford wasn't complaining, though. In fact, if he were being entirely honest, Stan looked downright adorable. The costume was akin to a pair of footie pajamas, all red and even coming with a tail sewn into the bottom. Ford wondered if Stan had sewn it himself, as he could see the stitch lines from where different pieces of fabric had been sewn together. Oh! And the little hooves on his footies. Something about it just pulled his heartstrings.

Stanley was precious. Even when reminding his customers that, “if you don't buy, you'll see me when you die!”

Unlike the coming days, not all that much transpired. However, for some reason, Ford found that Stanley's costume drew considerable attention to his rear. Perhaps because of the tail, perhaps because of the color, perhaps because Ford was an old pervert who enjoyed giving himself the opportunity to ogle his brother's ass. Who can say, really?

Whatever the case, Ford found himself resisting the urge to give Stan a pat on the ass far more often than he should have. Which, really, should have been not at all.

Mabel and Dipper had informed him that the second costume had been from the Summer prior, for a party held at The Mystery Shack.

It was a nice little number, even if it looked as though it hadn't seen the light of day since the Seventies. Then again, it did suit Stan well, if a bit loose on him. A white dress shirt with a v-neck, its collar popped. The gold chain draped around his neck led eyes to wander down to his chest, to the gray curls that covered Stan's wide chest. Ford could only wonder what he'd look like with his girdle off…

Ford preferred not to cross into the business section of the house, at least during operating hours. Though, it was tempting - the thought of getting close enough to run his eyes over Stan's chest, to sneak a peek past the v-neck of his shirt, down the valley of chest hair that trailed down to his stomach. The way the hair covered Stan's pecs, curled around his nipples.

Ford wondered, concealed by the shadows of the corners he was peeking around, if Stan's customers felt the same. If they, too, were left wanting and near breathless by the sight of Stan's tight sleeves wrapped around his thick arms. If they couldn't stop their eyes from trailing down to his brown slacks and how good they made his legs look. An image appeared in Ford's mind - of him storming over there and wrapping his arms around Stan's like a jealous lover.

Ford shook himself from the thought and suppressed a growl as he ripped himself away from the sight. That is, only after Stan had just happened to spot him, sending him off with a smirk and a wink.

The day after, Stan had worn a vampire costume - one he’d used last year, according to Mabel’s scrapbook. This year, however, Stanley had made some alterations. He had foregone that dreadful wig, and had left his undershirt partially unbuttoned, opened even wider than the day before, allowing anyone who desired to take a peek at the curly, gray chest hair underneath.

Ford found himself drawn to the fake fangs protruding from Stan's mouth. And Stan's mouth, in general, but that wasn't anything new. His imagination went wild with possibilities. Stanford was no stranger to sampling human blood, and he'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered partaking in the blood of his twin. Partially just out of curiosity, partially for the romanticism of it all. Drinking his brother's blood, having such an intimate part of his brother inside of him. But now, with Stan dressed up like this, he couldn't help but imagine if the roles were reversed.

Stan's fangs sinking deep into his neck, his mouth would be so hot and wet. Ford's hot blood would flood into Stanley's mouth and make him moan, vibrating against heated skin. The two of them moaning in tandem as Stan drank him dry. Stanley would cut himself open, across his chest, and press Ford's face into his chest, and the elder twin would eagerly lap up Stan's ichor, tongue covered in red, leaving over Stan's chest, his hair, his nipples. Ford would turn himself, and just as Stan did, he too would stake his claim and-

Ford was suddenly highly aware of how tight his pants felt, and made the decision to hole himself away in the basement for the day, trying his damndest to not think of Stanley or any tourists that may be ogling him.

The next day was no better - this time, Stan had decided a fitting follow-up was a sexy werewolf. He donned himself in an open flannel shirt, an off-white wife beater underneath, and a pair of jean shorts that, in Ford’s opinion, were not short enough to count as sexy - though they did give him a good look at his calves. But, then again, his brother wasn’t wearing them for him and he shouldn’t be thinking these things, anyway. If all of that wasn’t bad enough, Stan had worn a frankly adorable headband with two, fuzzy wolf ears protruding from it, and a pair of wolf paws. It took almost all of Stanford’s willpower to not go up to his twin and run his hands through his hair. The rest of his restraint was focused on forcing himself not to think of how Stanley would react if he called him a good boy.

Another day, another costume change. Ford should have known that something was horribly, terribly wrong when Mabel had informed him that she and Dipper had been banned from the Mystery Shack portion of the house.

Ford's fears had been confirmed when he peered around the corner to spot Stan during a tour. What? He couldn't just not look!

Stan was dressed as a sexy inmate. Of course. Of course he was. The bright, orange jumpsuit had no legs and was near skintight. Good God, Stan’s thighs. Ford felt like a dog with how much he was basically salivating over them. The urge to pull his brother away from his tour and the prying, undeserving eyes of his customers was so strong it had fingers itching to touch him. Fingers roaming every inch, caressing up his legs and down his thighs, brushing against his crotch…

The short sleeves allowed for Stan’s thick arms to be on full display. His chest, too, the graying curls making their return with a vengeance. The zipper of the opened jumpsuit lay tantalizingly close to Stan’s stomach. God, he was such a tease… But, no, no, he wasn’t. Stan wasn’t doing this on purpose, and Ford felt a sudden, crushing sense of guilt for even thinking that way. He was just doing this as a gag, and likely to catch the attention of any “babes” who were lucky enough to see their town darling in such a state of dress.

“Great Uncle Ford?”

In that instant, Ford’s blood had turned to ice. He’d been caught. Of course he had! He was peeking around the corners of The Mystery Shack in hopes of leering at his own twin brother!

A vortex of nausea churned in his stomach. For a moment, Stanford’s brain chugged like a dying engine. He was sent into mental freefall, no excuse or explanation to save him. He stuttered for a moment in surprise, clearly caught off guard. He watched as Dipper tilted his head, expression skewing into one of confusion. Great work, Stanford, you knucklehead. Ford managed to catch his breath, mind clearing somewhat. Then, he cleared his throat, forcing his face to remain neutral. He grasped for something to say.

“I- this- this is real, right?” Ford had made a showing of cringing as he pointed in Stanley’s general direction. “You’re seeing it, too?”

“I try not to,” Dipper grimaced before he perked back up. “But, Mabel and I get the week off of work just so we don't have to see.”

If only Ford could be so lucky. He snuck another peek.

“It’s like a trainwreck.” An incredibly attractive trainwreck. “I can’t look away.”

“Well, if you wanna get outta here, me and Mabel are gonna go Leprecorn-hunting!”

A tempting offer, to be sure. Perhaps some fresh air would clear Ford’s head. He quickly followed after his grandnephew and niece after grabbing some weaponry. He ended up being so consumed by thoughts of Stan in that costume in various poses that one of those bearded, be-hooved bastards nearly chewed his pant leg off.

Taking defensive measures, Stanford decided to hunker down in the basement for the majority of the following day. Stanley was out of sight, out of mind. Mostly. Well, he had certainly tried, and that’s what counted. He was thankful when Mabel and Dipper had decided to join him, allowing his mind to focus on crafting a quick campaign of Dungeons, Dungeons, and More Dungeons for them.

Even after a fun session of dungeon-crawling, Ford was desperate to not be alone with his own thoughts. His mind flashed through images of potential outfits Stan could have worn that day (sexy cowboy, sexy barbarian, sexy isosceles triangle…), causing him to shudder with lust. He had to keep distracting himself! He just needed to hold out for a couple more days. Then it would all go back to normal. Or as close to normal as his family could get.

It almost made Ford hopeful, until he finally made the ascent upstairs for dinner. He was certain he'd timed it so that Stan would have closed the Shack and gotten out of his costume, but of course, Ford just had to run right smack into him.

“Whoa, Sixer,” A strong hand came down on Ford's shoulder, steadying him. “You alright?”

An answer started to form, but immediately died in Ford's throat when he finally realized what Stan was wearing.

A pirate costume, funnily enough. A black captain's hat perched on Stan's head where his fez would normally be. Two straps at Stan's broad shoulders trailed down, connected to a tight, black corset that was a mix of both lace and leather, hugging him tight. And below the corset was a skirt. Stanley was wearing a skirt. His brother was in a skirt. A cute black skirt, layered with red, frilly fabric. Tantalizingly short. And when Ford’s eyes trailed down to his legs, he noticed– fishnets. Sweet Moses, Stanley was wearing fishnet stockings.

He dared not look any lower or for any longer, and when Ford was able to wrench his eyes away, he was suddenly, highly aware of how hot his face felt, a blush spreading from his face all the way down his chest and up to the tips of his ears. Ford’s mouth had fallen open at some point. He tried to articulate something verbally, but it seemed as though everything remotely intelligent in his brain had been shut down, all thanks to Stan and his scant clothing.

Stanley barked out a laugh. A large hand reached up and cupped Ford's jaw, making Ford seize up in surprise. The feeling of Stan’s warm, calloused hand on his face nearly made him reel back. His jaw was gently pushed up and his mouth closed.

“You'll catch flies,” Stan chided good-naturedly. “Leaves ya kinda speechless, don't it?”

Then, Stanley winked at him. Ford's mind scrambled for purchase, desperate to not make a bigger fool of himself than he already had.

“Quite,” Ford replied, finally finding the brain capacity to speak. “That- isn't that a…?”

“A broad's costume? Yeah, it drives the babes wild.” Stan leaned in, wiggling his eyebrows.

Stanford certainly couldn't argue that. He cleared his throat and quickly turned about to walk away– only to almost crash face first into the vending machine. Ford quickly recovered, shooting Stan a glare as he laughed after him, and made his escape from his sinful temptations. He didn't hear as Stan lagged behind him, muttering something to himself about ungrateful, perverted twin brothers.

Ford had a difficult time getting to sleep, his mind alight with even more ideas for what twin could be dolled up in. A sexy cheerleader, Stanley bending over his bed for him and rucking up his skirt, sending Ford a wink. A sexy playboy bunny, Stan spreading out his legs and showing Ford his thighs. Ford would crawl in between them, pulling aside the fabric that covered his bulge. A sexy unattainable princess, beckoning for him. Surely not a trap, surely not…

Ford was going to jump him. If he didn’t restrain himself, he was going to pounce on Stanley and take what was his. Because, of course, when he'd finally risen up from the basement, hoping the coast was clear, he'd found the house empty. As far as he was aware, at least. He really should have called out, just in case, but Ford was so overwhelmed with relief that it had slipped his mind. At least, that's what he told himself.

His feet had guided him straight to Stanley's room. Not only was he there, but he was in costume. Near naked. In front of a mirror. Posing.

“God, Stanley, this is the most provocative one yet! What if the children see?”

For just a moment, Ford relished the shocked expression on his brother's face. Stanley's eyes darted around the mirror for the culprit, quickly locking eyes with Ford, and a smug grin quickly rose to his lips. He spun around to face him.

For the umpteenth time that week, Ford gawker at his brother. It seemed to be what a Halloween store would refer to as a, "Sexy Mr. Mystery costume." Stan's suit had been replaced with just a loose vest. The only thing on the lower half of Stan's body beside his garters was a tight, red thong. And, as always, his fez.

“Aw, don’t worry, they’re out with Soos an’ Wendy. We got the place to ourselves.”

For a moment, Ford opened a closed his mouth, akin to a fish, making no sound. It was only when he shook himself did he finally find the strength to speak again - much to his twins amusement.

Ford's brows furrowed together as he approached (God he's so close, he's so so close to him, he could just reach out and touch him and take him and-). “Then, why are you dressed up? There are no tours tonight, correct?”

Stan crossed his arms over his chest, smiling smugly. “Not doing trick-or-treating, neither.”

A tilt of Ford's head. “So, what's with the outfit?”

“Ah, you know, jus’ in case someone wants a private tour.”

“A private tour.” Ford repeated. Part of it was making sure he was hearing Stan correctly, the costume was making it a tad difficult.

“Y'know, of the bedroom.”

Ford blinked owlishly.

All mirth ran away from Stan's face, his expression twisting in frustration. “For a genius, you can be real dense, y'know that?”

“What?”

“Ford, I'm-” Stan raised a hand to the bridge of his nose, rubbing at his face in exasperation. He let out a heavy sigh as he made eye contact with Stanford. “I'm… I'm coming on to ya.”

He was joking. He was just joking. Stan had to be joking. Ford trembled with restraint, shaking and itching to just touch him. But, he couldn't. It couldn't be true. Luckily, Stan took the choice out of his hands as he reached out to touch him, a large hand squeezing around his bicep.

“I'm not an idiot, Ford. You're literally the most obvious person in the world about this. I know you like me.”

Stanford was sure that by now, his entire world would have ended. His life should be over. But, Stanley doesn't seem angered. Quite the opposite.

A shaky breath before he dared to confess, “I love you.”

Stan's smile was tender and warm. “I love you, too, knucklehead. An’ I know you want this. That's the reason why I dressed up.”

“Really?"

“Yeah! And ‘cause I like driving you crazy.”

Of course. Of course he'd do all this just to mess with him. Who else but Stanley would?

“Jerk,” Ford gave Stan a playful punch, his grin betraying him. "... Was I really that bad?"

"Oh, yeah, you could see it from a million miles away," Stan chuckled. “For some reason I figured tryin’ to goad you into jumpin’ my bones was easier than just tellin’ ya I feel the same.”

“Don't you hate it when you have to actually talk things out?”

“Ugh, it's the worst!”

Ford chuckled darkly. “You better be prepared to make up for an entire week of teasing me.”

Stan leaned closer, wrapping his arms around Ford. “Whaddaya say you unwrap your treat, huh?”

“God, and you say I'm the lame one.”

“Shut up, nerd.”

And before Ford could respond, Stan pressed his lips against Ford's in a searing kiss. All restraint and worry left Ford as they both melted together, into the loves of each other's lives, and guided one another to the bed.

[preeningpisces]

Report - Kenjaku x F!Reader

Kenjaku shows up unannounced, and makes himself all too comfortable in your apartment. Pwp, 4k, Crossposted on AO3

A/N: At first I referred to him as Geto in this, as I found it unlikely YN would know his real name, but then figured this has no plot and there isn't many Kenjaku x reader fics without Geto & swapped it to Kenjaku ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Shoutout to this lovely anon for giving me a reason/the drive to write something for my favorite hoe 💚

Content: p-in-v, m!oral, sex toys, size kink, unprepped sex, edging, choking, biting, spit/cum stuff, degradation--personally I think this is more tame than it sounds

18+ content below, mdni, implied chubby!reader, enjoooy!

The figure seated at your dinner table makes your soul leap from your body.

Tonight you planned a date with a hot shower, your favorite snacks, and three seasons’ worth of TV to binge. You’d only completed step one, so recently that your skin hasn’t finished absorbing the lotion, leaving your calves and thighs tacky.

His back is to you, but you know he’s aware of your presence. For once, he isn’t wearing his signature robes, and instead sports simple black clothing. Seeing him dressed down is comforting, makes him seem less untouchable, and more like a regular person.

You lament the change in your evening plans, knowing your guest will occupy a decent portion of your time. 

“You take awfully long showers,” he says without turning. “I’ve been here for over an hour.” 

Springing up at random isn’t out of the ordinary for Kenjaku, though it’s more common for him to send messages from unknown numbers or ‘coincidentally’ run into you. He’s never showed up at your apartment before, let alone at such an odd hour of the night. Briefly you wonder how he knows where you live, but then dismiss this as a foolish thought—of course he knows.

“I’m just thorough,” you say as you round the table and sit across from him where he reads one of your books. A silly romance that was popular online; hardly revolutionary or life-altering, but it was a sweet, endearing story and you enjoyed it quite a bit. With how far he’s in, you wonder if he picked a random spot or simply reads that quickly.

“That you are.” He glances up, and a shift in his eye tells you he wasn’t expecting the cotton bathrobe with matching shorts. It’s a favorite that you got off a discount rack, lying somewhere between the lines of sensual and comfortable. Flattering, but hardly scandalous; you don’t feel indecent in his presence. 

“I’m surprised you enjoy this drivel,” he says, judgment evident. “You seemed more intelligent than that.” 

“They’re just for fun. Sometimes it’s nice to read something simple,” you reach for the book, beginning to feel defensive. 

He leans back, now flipping through its contents. It reminds you of a schoolyard bully holding your belongings above you and taunting you for being too short. 

“Are you here to antagonize me, or are you here for something actually important?” As soon as you say this, you know you made a mistake: the ire in your voice will only encourage his pestering.

“I came for your report, but now I’m more interested in your terrible taste.” He gestures to your bookshelf—small, and housing a modest collection of varying genres with the occasional knick knack. “I’ve gone through several already, but saved what I suspect to be the worst for last.”

“Then you can follow me on Goodreads, if you’re so curious. Now give that back,” you hold out your hand, growing agitated. The light catches the ridge of his scar, and taunts you to tug on one of those stitches, which look much less secure than they should. 

“Embarrassed?” He smiles, and makes no move to relinquish the book. 

“If I say yes, will you give it back?” 

A snide puff.

“No.” 

Knowing how fickle he is, you relent; he’ll grow bored with the book soon enough and move on. But minutes of his skimming pass, wholly ignoring your crossed arms and impatient tapping.

“Ah, I see. Is this why you’re so fond of these?” He turns the book for you to read: it’s one of the few sex scenes, and his finger points to a questionable line of dialogue. 

You can’t resist the bait, and indignation rises in your chest. You spring forward in your seat, aiming for the book. Unfazed by your aggression, he avoids you with ease and an infuriating smirk. It only provokes you further, now motivating you to one-up him.

There is a sudden pause in his movements that allows you to snatch the book. As you look at him triumphantly, you notice his eyes aren’t directed at your face; instead, they’re fixed on your chest. Following his gaze, your heart sinks when you discover your robe hanging open, revealing your right breast. 

When you look at him again, his eyes are on yours. Heavy and lidded, they freeze you in place with their weight. The playful energy from before halts, as if the room itself is holding its breath. Without breaking eye contact, he slides his hand in the opening, and cups your breast.

Shocked, you drop the book with a muted thud, more from his boldness than the sensation. A gasp escapes you when he pinches your nipple, rolling it slowly, and your hands fly to his shoulders, not wanting to topple over from the awkward position.

His other hand joins and teases your unexposed breast through the cloth; you fall against him, and a soft noise warms his ear before tracing the stretched lobe with your lower lip. Whether it’s ticklish or it’s your interest in his ear that entertains him, his shoulders thrum with amusement. The plastic clacks between your teeth as you toy with the plug, seeing how far you can rotate it before he becomes irritated.

It doesn’t take long, because a hand winds itself in your hair and pulls you forward, but the table creaks in protest under your weight. 

“Not here,” you say, husk already tinting your voice. “It’s a shitty table.” 

He releases you and follows you down the hallway to your bedroom. You don’t even have time to flick on the light before he pulls you backward, connecting your ass to his groin with his large hands fondling your breasts.

The eager touch surprises you—he hadn’t seemed at all bothered when you stopped him before. You can’t help but shiver when he sucks on your neck, fixing it with hickeys and bites. A renewed focus on your nipples makes you whimper and squeeze at his forearms. 

“Sensitive here, or are you just desperate?” He punctuates with a pull of your left nipple. 

“A bit of both,” you say, and press your ass against him. It’s been some time since you’ve felt this kind of touch, let alone by someone as attractive as him. 

“Cute,” he hums, and grinds his forming erection against you. 

Cool palms slide beneath the robe again, making your nipples so peaked they sting. Deft fingers are quick to melt the cold with slow rolls that morph into pinching and dragging from areola to tip. The attention makes you squirm in his hold and rest your head against his shoulder, weaving your fingers through his glorious hair—which is every bit as silky as it appears. Needing an outlet for your rising desire, you detach him from your neck and angle his head so you can force your lips together. 

The kiss is more passionate than you expected, and it only makes you melt further in his hands. You scratch his scalp and earn a surprised moan. His right hand trails upward, wrapping around a considerable portion of your neck. Air isn’t cut or restricted, but he squeezes enough for your pulse to quicken and make your head fuzzy.

A twist of your nipple makes you arch your back, and he sucks your lower lip until it bruises. Teeth scrape it briefly, before he pushes his tongue into your open mouth and greets yours unabashedly. 

Kenjaku has an air of grace to him, of superiority; you’d think him above such things as these. But he doesn’t flinch or show any disgust when drool pools from the messy kiss—he even licks the bit that trickles down your chin. He breaks the kiss, parting slowly to appreciate the strand that connects your mouths. 

A tug of the simple knot at your waist peels your robe open, and you help him by shrugging your shoulders free. The hold on your neck tightens, and he feels down your stomach, dipping below the waistband of your shorts. Your skin prickles with embarrassment when he squeezes the full softness above your pussy. A pleased noise comes from the back of his throat when he realizes you have no underwear and finds slippery arousal. 

“Look at me.”

You feel how heavy your eyes are, how blatant lust must be on your face. His middle finger finds your clit and traces a single rough, short line, making you flinch. Almost imperceptible circles soothe the rough sensation, leading you to loosen your grip on his hair and hold his wrist. The featherlike strokes feel like static, and every tingle of your flesh touching makes you wetter. 

When your eyes shut, he squeezes your neck again, demanding you keep your focus on him. Even in moments like this, his eyes are full of condescension and superiority; the lowliness you feel in his presence only stirs your need. 

Awkwardly, you feel around behind you for his cock and rub your palm over it as best you can. Despite the clumsy touch, his breath hitches, and his clever fingers pause. Thrill dances in your chest and you stroke him more firmly.

His hand flexes around your neck, and you can’t tell if it’s a warning or a green light. Whichever he intends doesn’t matter to you, because you squeeze his bulge. The firm tap of his finger on your clit reads as chastisement, but you ignore it, already deciding your next move. 

“I want to suck your dick,” you say. You aren’t too prideful to kowtow to his desire for control. “Can I?” 

Dark eyes shelter his thoughts as he considers your offer, and for a moment you think he’s going to turn you down, but he dips his finger in your hole and briefly skims the edge before swiping back up to your clit. A small noise comes out, and your face must be comical because he looks more amused than before. 

“How polite.” The lack of heat and touch as he steps away are disappointing, but the sounds of his belt and zipper more than make up for their loss. “I suppose I’ll let you.”

“Let me,” you snort as you watch him undress. “As if you didn’t start this.”

A broad hand presses down on your shoulder, urging you to kneel—which you do eagerly, not minding the cheap carpet scratching your knees.

“I did, and now you’re exactly where I want you,” he removes his sweater, bearing the impressive muscles of his abdomen. You wonder if this was his true intention coming here tonight and that he played you like a fiddle.

These thoughts disappear when he pulls his trousers and underwear down; you can’t help when your face twists in shock: his cock is huge.

“No wonder you’re so full of yourself.” 

He smirks, and you dread what this affair will do to his already inflated ego.

You scoot forward, assessing the beast, and idly rotate your jaw to prepare for the task at hand. Despite most of his head being exposed and dripping with pre-cum, you push back the remaining foreskin to fully reveal the dark head. You lean forward for a kiss, but land it on his groin instead. 

The click of his tongue and the twitch beneath you is reward enough for the entire night; you’re confident he would never beg for anything from you, but this disappointment feels close enough to claim the satisfaction all the same. 

Still positioned at his tip, your thumbs softly stroke the sides, more soothing than pleasurable as you continue to mouth everywhere but his cock. Fed up, he grips your hair and pulls you back. You get the message, and eagerly suck his head in your mouth, where you set your lips and tongue to work; it’s difficult with his girth, but you manage. He grunts and loosens his hold, allowing you to do as you please. 

To show your gratitude, you plunge him deeper, tongue now rubbing along the seam of his cock as you flex and contract your lips. The muscles in his thighs jolt, and you feel energy rolling off him—the urge to do something, to react.

Steeling your resolve, you slide him further in and pull back, never stopping the pulse of your lips or tongue. It’s then that you suck around him, creating the wet sounds of suction that fill your small bedroom.

The light from the hallway glows behind him, making him radiant; like he’s a god, and this is your offering.

You cup his balls gently and rub a thumb over them to test the waters. Your curiosity is rewarded when the single hand in your hair becomes two, and he moves your head for you.

They cover your ears, cutting out all sound. Whether this is intentional, you can’t say. All you can hear is the wet sounds of your mouth molding around his cock. It’s as if this is your entire world, that this is the only thing you’re good for, and the thought makes you drip. 

Lewdly, you hum and moan your prayer around him. Noises of his own join yours, but you are not worthy of hearing them. Overeager, he pulls you down further on his cock, poking dangerously close to your gag reflex. Your second unoccupied hand wraps around the portion not in your mouth preemptively, and stroke him in time with your mouth. Seeing right through your attempt, he holds your head still and begins fucking your mouth.

It takes only a few thrusts for him to push deeper than before, making you gag softly, which causes him to throw his head back and continue the deep thrusts. It’s uncomfortable, but not so much that you feel the need to stop him. Watching him loosen up is so hypnotic you don’t register how worryingly deep he is in your throat. Until he surges himself all the way forward, forcing your nose to meet his groin. 

When you choke, he groans deeply, and rolls against your face as your throat convulses around him sporadically. You’re about to beat at his thigh, but he pulls you off his cock entirely.

Quickly, you recover and recapture him despite the pull on your hair, doubling down with a soft mouth, tonguing all the sensitive spots you found. And to your surprise, hot cum spurts down your throat with a low groan. You drink it all until he pulls your head back and strokes his cock, shooting the remaining spurts on your face.

You didn’t think he’d be so quick to cum, and it seems, neither did he.

A painful yank of your hair forces you to stand before you can comment, and full of surprises, he licks a line of cum from your chin and smears it over your tongue with his own. The dirtiness of it makes a raw noise come from your abused throat.

Not breaking the kiss, he walks you to your bed and pushes you back; you scoot yourself to the headboard and barely shimmy your shorts off before he crawls atop you, flaccid cock in hand. With a surge of reversed cursed energy, he urges it to re-harden. 

“Is this the difference between special grades and the rest of us?” 

He doesn’t acknowledge your taunt, and after two pumps, positions his cock at your hole. Unprepped, his tip presses against the ring of muscle for several moments, unable to breech despite ample lubrication.

“The Viagra tech-”

Your pussy finally yields, and his cock spears itself to the hilt.

“Fuck!” 

Mercifully, he doesn’t rail you, and instead rolls his hips, stroking your most receptive spots. It aches, his cock stretching you to what feels like your capacity, but it’s the sort of ache that makes you crave more. You meet his hips with your own, desperately chasing more of the electric feeling. He grabs the underside of your knees and leans forward, putting his weight on them. The position angles his cock upward and fucks you with more fervor. 

“Jesus, it’s so big,” you say, legs trembling in his hold. 

Needing a distraction, you cup the back of his head and pull him as close as your breasts and stomach allow. You kiss at whatever flesh you can reach, starting at his damp hairline, and following up immediately with the seam on his forehead. The simple kiss earns you a sharp cant of his hips and a hiss, tempting you to fixate on the scar.

Your tongue traces the divot faintly, careful not to press too hard and minding the sutures. The effect is immediate, as he ruts into you, slow, deep, and hard, surprisingly loud moans spilling from his pretty lips. Even his moans are rough, as if they scrape his throat on their way out. Like his vocal chords haven’t made such sounds in some time. 

“Sensitive?” You murmur your tease against the raised flesh. 

“Wounds tend to be, yes.” He kisses you tenderly, and when you sigh, bites your lower lip with a crunch. Teeth pierce, and copper flavors the kiss. You part with a hiss, and his thumb swipes at the puncture. “See? Or do you need further demonstration.”

“You’re such a dick,” you mutter, batting his hand away from your sore lip.

His attention falters, and you follow his eyes to your nightstand. You live alone and have no need for secrecy, so your vibrator charges in plain sight. Owning sex toys is something you’ve never thought twice about, let alone felt any shame towards, but you become flustered when Kenjaku leans over and unplugs it.

Excitement overpowers your embarrassment when he turns it on. To your surprise, he doesn’t place it on your clit, and instead keeps it in a low setting and traces it along your labia. His hips slow, but they maintain a steady pace. Your body tenses with anticipation anytime it nears your clit, but it still doesn’t touch you. The stretch of his cock feels amazing, but your clit practically burns with need, swollen and begging to be touched.

“Now, what do you have for me this week?” he asks, full of mischief.

“What?”

He pushes your chubby mound upward and finally places the toy on your clit—you gasp. 

“Your report. It’s what I came here for, after all.” 

He circles the vibrator around your clit in time with his hips, looking all too amused when you struggle to respond. You ignore his question, and instead squeeze your eyes shut as your orgasm approaches at an alarming rate. You’ve waited so long, you’ve been so pent up, you just need—

“Ah, ah, you’ve got a job to do. Stay focused,” he tuts, and lifts the vibrator. You swear loudly, and your hips chase the toy, but he pins you with a hand on your hip. 

“T-the first year,” you begin, legs trembling with pent up anticipation, “students–” you whimper when the vibrator returns. 

“Go on,” he coos. 

“They-they…” you trail off when a slow and delicious drag of his cock steals your mind. The vibrator moves, and you throw your head back. “Theywentto–fuck!” 

“Speak clearly; this is vital information.” He presses it on fully, directly, gleefully watching you struggle. 

“They wen-went to Ro-oooh,” with a click, he turns it up a notch. “Fuck, you’re–” he nestles it between your lips and rotates it teasingly. Only a few hums more and he removes it again. 

“Please, please don’t stop.” Your voice warbles pathetically, “please let me cum. I need it–”

“And I need your report,” he smiles, as if he isn’t torturing you. 

The hopeless look you give him must spur him on, because he fucks you with the most vigor he’s showed thus far. Ripples roll across your soft stomach and thighs, and your breasts bounce wildly, but you’re too far gone to pay them any mind. 

“They went to R-roppongi!” You manage, and before he can torment you, add, “it was just—third-grade curses.” 

Even now, as he fucks you hard and fast, he doesn’t pull out much, and instead focuses on stroking your all of your sensitive areas relentlessly. It’s so different from what you’re used to, and so, so much better. You don’t know if you’ll be satisfied getting fucked any other way now. 

“And what of Satoru Gojo?” he grunts when you squeeze him particularly hard.

“A meeting–he had a meeting,” you breathe heavily, trying to catch your breath. The pause must displease Kenjaku, because he slaps your wet clit with the buzzing toy, making you jerk beneath him. 

“Wednesday!” you yell. “The Higher uh-” you’re cut off with a kiss that’s more teeth and tongue, agitating your bloody lip. 

“No need to shout, I’m right here,” he says cheekily, and grips your jaw, demanding your attention. “I’m sure you’re eager for your reward.” You nod the best you can.

A large palm spans your lower belly, pressing the plump flesh down to meet his upward thrusts. It feels like you’re even fuller, even more sensitive; your eyes bulge when a deep pressure builds. 

“Can you feel it?” His eyes look wild, more unhinged than before, and it makes you squeeze him in apprehension. “How large this cock is—incredible, isn’t it?” 

If you weren’t on the verge of exploding, the way he marvels at his own dick would make you roll your eyes. 

“Hmm?” He pulls all the way out for the first time, and sharply thrusts back in, meanly stabbing your deepest, most tender area.

“Yes, yes—I feel it!” He repeats the motion, aiming higher. “It feels so fucking good!”

He chuckles and ups the vibrator’s setting, rocking into you faster. All you can do is hold on to him, your mind too scattered and pliant for anything more. With each powerful thrust, he hits the spot near your cervix, causing your pussy to clench around him and draw melodic sounds. You force your eyes to stay open, fully aware that this is a sight you’ll never forget. His disheveled hair clung to his sweaty skin, with most of the strands of his top knot undone. Pink tinges his cheeks, and his brows crease ever so slightly. The sight causes a sudden leap of pleasure, and you feel yourself dancing at the edge.

“Are you ready to come?” He asks, as if sensing the sudden development.

“Oh, god yes!”

A smile is the only warning you're given before he withdraws the vibrator again. The cruelty almost makes you cry. Before you can plead, he pushes the hood of your clit back and the vibrator returns.

“Then come.”

Everything you held onto breaks as you come, abdomen convulsing deeply, and mouth wide open. You soar so high you forget he’s with you for a moment. Your pussy gushes, and clenches him so hard it feels like it’s trying to push his cock out along with your release. The euphoric sensations quickly become a sting as the vibrator doesn’t falter, and you claw at his back and wail.

With a click, he turns off the toy as he tosses it aside, and traps you in his arms with his head nestled in the junction of your neck and shoulder. Teeth sink into the flesh hard enough to draw blood and a shout. Only four pumps more and he fills you as deep as he can reach, as if his cum seeps directly into your womb.

He lies on you for several moments, his cock softening and twitching occasionally. It’s pleasant, and oddly domestic, feeling skin against your own and listening to the sounds of each other’s breathing. Eventually, he slides free, and you’re reminded that he came inside you when it trickles down your ass. 

“I’m not on birth control, you know.” You eye him as he flops next to you, making himself comfortable, as if this is his bed and you’re the guest. “Unless you want some kid of yours running around, you owe me a Plan B.”

He shrugs.

“Makes no difference to me. It wouldn’t be my first child or my last.” 

“Ha, right,” you stretch your legs, sore from being bent for so long. After a pause, you turn to him again.

“Wait, really?”

[be-my-ally]

Let Yourself Go

Overstimulated Reader! Request.

my darling, what a dream request - thank you anon! for both your very kind words + excellent request!!! this has consumed my brain for the past week; I originally intended it to be short like 2.5-3k, and then it turned into 4k and then I realised that in all of those words elvis had only been treated once so it turned into 6k. so this is 6.7k of pure, absolute, filthy smut just for you that i really hope lives up your expectations!

summary: slightly innocent!reader is convinced girls can't really orgasm - elvis sets out to teach her how wrong she is.

pairing: afab!reader/elvis (big daddy e)

warnings: 18+, 18+, 18+, tiny bit of daddy kink, implied age difference, oral (p+v receiving), p in v sex, fingering, mirror sex, overstimulation, very brief spanking. I think that's it? Reader does attempt to stop the proceedings a couple of times and elvis doesn't stop but it is all consensual.

wc: 6.7k

suggested listening: the end of such a night + of course, let yourself go.

You’ve not been together very long and you were still learning about each other in many ways. It confused you a little that he, who you knew had girls throwing themselves at him, would take the time to bother to get to know you better. He’d picked you out of the crowd and put you on his lap in his dressing room before he’d even learnt your name. When you’d told him, earnestly, that you didn’t expect to be married or anything but you were a good girl, who wouldn’t sleep around, you’d expected him to tell you that he wasn’t going to see you again. But no, he’d put in the effort and here you were, a few weeks later, at Graceland of all places. You’d been brought back with him after his engagement at the International ended for this year, allowing him a short break before he resumed touring. 

He’d taken you out on his bike earlier, showing you the sights of Memphis and you’d loved the rush, so unlike anything you’d experienced before. Despite the fact that you dreaded the call from your parents at the photos that would inevitably be published of the two of you - you hadn’t really been dressed to go out (the outing unexpected), nor had you been able to help snuggling into his back, your hand resting on his solid thigh at the lights. When you’d gotten back to the estate you’d expected a party - a celebration of his homecoming, and you’d been bracing to have to deal with losing him for the evening, but you’d been pleasantly shocked when he’d kicked everyone out after dinner, announcing that he wanted a night just the two of you. 

You wanted to tell him that his expectations were a bit forward, to not get his hopes and that you still weren’t sure you were quite ready to have actual sex with him but in all honesty, you were ready and only your (perhaps misguided) morals had prevented you thus far. You had been slightly surprised at how unbothered he had seemed at the concept of sex - he’d laughed you off when you’d told him you didn’t want to sleep with him on the first night; telling you that was all very well but would you sleep with him because he couldn’t “bear the long nights all on my lonesome”. He hadn’t pressured you at all, less than your last boyfriend for sure, and seemed to genuinely enjoy your makeout sessions as much as you do. To tell the truth, you weren’t really sure why anyone was that bothered by sex - it felt fine sure, but it didn’t blow your world apart, was mostly very awkward, and you couldn’t understand what the fuss was in general. 

You’d followed him into the bedroom, into his room, and while part of you wanted to inspect every little detail of this hidden, protected space, the other part of you could feel his impatience from the bed and when he smiles at you - all cheeks and teeth, asking; 

“Wanna have some fun tonight darlin’? Cleared the place out for ya, didn’t want you to go all shy on me…some girls get nervy at the number of people in the place. Get real quiet and the like, even though I tell ‘em I got the sound locked down.” You forget any desire to rifle through his drawers and instead stare at him, slightly confused - just hoping he’s not going to be disappointed; 

“Uh, oh, well, I can’t say I’m that loud anyways, always, I always thought that was just a thing girls, uh, exaggerated?” You look down, embarrassed that you may be having to burst his bubble - you don’t want to be the first to tell him that from what you know there’s nothing to be shouting about. But he doesn’t react in the way you expect - blinking at you from under his glasses and patting the bed next to him. 

“C’mere doll, tell daddy what you mean.” You sit where he tells you to, tiny shorts hiking even further, and you curl your legs up underneath yourself. 

“I don’t, sorry, I don’t understand what you’re asking? I’m just, just, saying that I never understood what those girls on the … on the … the stuff you like to watch, what they’re shouting about is all. Never seemed like anything worth carrying on like that is all.” He’s a little shocked but not altogether surprised - you’re young and a little sheltered, perhaps more than he thought at your reluctance to even said the word ‘pornography’ and he knows your only other relationships have been serious with boys from home, less about fun and more about futures, and he knows that they don’t always put the effort in they should. Still, he needs clarification - his eyes burning with curiosity; 

“You mean you ain’t ever .. got your rocks off? Never creamed those lil’ shorts of yours?” His thick hand finds its way onto your thigh and he flicks the hem of your shorts, practically between your legs. You giggle, pushing his hand off.

“Elvis. Don’t be silly, unless you’ve been with some funny sorta people - girls can’t do that! That’s… I might not know much but I do know that.” He looks back at you, utterly stunned, before smiling like all his Christmases have come at once, a full cheshire cat grin. 

“You - you ain’t never?” He’s shocked, but desperate to know your answer, taking his glasses off, leaning closer and waiting with practically bated breath in excitement, clenching his hands on his thighs. 

“I just told you E, that’s not something girls can actually do. Don’t you think I’d know! If you’re just gonna tease me I swear I’m gonna walk right out of here!” He laughs again at your indignation, shaking his head, 

“Naw little one, don’t do that, don’t do that - I just uh, I think I might be able to teach you a few things tonight is all. Just, ah, need to re-evaluate some things’all.” He frowns, “You know the other day, baby, when I stroked your little pussy and you pushed me off - told me you were all done?” 

You remember the incident he was talking about, He’d had his fingers up you, rubbing you exactly how you needed and you’d crunched with an involuntary shudder, couldn’t quite catch your breath properly and had told him to stop. You’d pushed him away in a panic that you didn’t know what was coming, but that that was certainly enough. He’d been a little worried then, worried that he’d pushed you into something you hadn’t wanted to do. But, he’d relaxed when you’d relaxed on the bed - he wasn’t happy with leaving you like that, on the edge, but he’d figured you were just shy, nervous that his entourage was a mere wall away. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him that you genuinely believed that was you finished. 

“Yeah, but what about it? We were done - I was done, it was starting to make me feel weird. I actually think we went too far.” He lets out a pure incredulous laugh, shaking his head. 

“Oh baby, baby. I’m gonna, I’ll teach you baby, it’ll be ok.” You nod, but you’re honestly a bit confused about what he’s even planning on teaching you, but you don’t want to tell him he’s wrong again. You suppose he does have quite the reputation, so maybe he does have some things to show you, you doubt it somewhat but keep that to yourself. 

“Right, yittle, need these all off of ya,” He tugs at your shirt, starting to unbutton it. “and these, these slutty little shorts need to come off, lemme see what I’m working with.” He’s practically crooning at you, slipping your shirt off gently, divesting you off your shorts - undressing you as if you were a babe. He strips you of your bra, leaving you in little white panties, before pushing you back onto the bed to lie flat. He doesn’t give you time to worry about your nudity, cupping your cheek with one thick hand, leaning over you to kiss you. 

His tongue slips in, it’s like he’s mapping your mouth and you don’t bother to fight for dominance, letting him in, submissively brushing your tongue against his. He pulls away slightly, grabbing a breath and you can’t help it, his pouty perfect lips too tempting, you surge forward to softly suck on his bottom lip, nibbling gently. He responds in kind, pulling your head back, baring your neck - he tugs your lip between his teeth pulling as he pulls away. You moan at the little sting, and he presses a soothing peck against it. Before trailing down and pressing little open-mouthed kisses at your cheek, mouthing at your neck - tiny little suctioning touches until his hand, which he’s not resting on, is trailing further down. His fingers spread across a breast, fingertips playing with your nipple. You can feel the heat coiling in your tummy - your throbbing heartbeat between your legs. He’s pressing little kisses down your soft stomach, and he grunts as he repositions himself - up on his knees slightly. It worries you briefly, he’s been using a cane as more than just an accessory more frequently lately - his youthful actions having been hard on his knees and legs, before your mind is wiped by his actions again. 

His hand trails lower, even as he continues to press soft kisses on your stomach, and he swipes down in a languid stroke over your panties, feeling your pooling wetness through the forming damp spot. He pushes it into you, rubbing you over them - the fabric catching slightly, along with your breath. He moves his head back up, sucking you by your collarbone and on your neck, hard enough to leave a bruise. The noises coming out of your mouth are unlike how you’ve ever heard yourself before, and as he hooks his fingers into your panties, pulling them down and off - the dampness making them pretty much see through - you would normally cringe in embarrassment but as you watch him lift them to his mouth and suck on them you can’t do anything but stare in an absolute state of shock and arousal. He’s still fully dressed although his shirt is so lowly unbuttoned, his chest with its covering of hair, god even his nipples practically out, that it barely counts. You can feel his own arousal growing against your side, still confined in his tight, slightly flared, trousers the heat of it, and can’t help but wiggle against him. He folds your panties, scrunching them up, before shifting to push them into his trouser pocket. You gape at him, 

“Good lord, you can’t - they’re so dirty Elvis - you can’t keep them. They need to be washed!” He smirks at you, smirk turning to a grin as he leans over you to whisper in your ear, moving his hand away from you as he does. 

“Baby, when they taste that good, I’ll do what I damn well like.” He licks your cheek, and it's something that you would have found disgusting from anyone else, but somehow him doing it makes your heartbeat pulse in your core. He lets his hand come back down, lightly slapping against your pussy, you jolt forward, mouth falling open, and eyes rolling slightly at the sudden intense pleasure from it. He chuckles into your ear, tickling your neck, “Oh - you like that mama? Like that baby?” He does it again, and you’re horrified at the wet slapping noise - but also at the sudden surge of wetness, you can feel.  

“Oh god, Elvis, you gotta - gotta do that again. Please.” He obliges, patting you once, twice, three times before letting his hand fly slightly harder, you can feel your heat rising - and you shiver slightly. You’ve reached the peak of where you’d been before. Your heartbeat fast, and a constant thrumming at your centre. He laughs, teasing you in a low tone, 

“God, who’d have thought you’d be such a dirty fucking girl, letting me - begging me to spank that yittle cunt of yours.” He puts an inflection onto yittle, as if even when talking about your ‘cunt’ he’s unable to stop his penchant for baby talk. 

He uses his fingers to spread you apart, middle finger sliding in your slick. The metal of his ring is cold against your burning skin, sending goosebumps down your flesh. You think he can’t make you feel any better when he slips two of his fingers inside you. His huge square ring catching on your entrance for a moment and you buck your hips as he slides it in. He pumps them, in and out, as you squirm on the bed. Your eyes fall closed for a moment and he whispers to you, 

“You like that little? My fingers in you? Gonna show you how girls do it, teach ya how it goes.” You respond with a whine - his words causing a blush to travel from your chest. You’re simultaneously embarrassed at needing to be taught something about your own adult self and aggressively turned on by his narration. 

You’re breathless and while he’s looking at you with a soft smile on his face - pure concentration in his burning eyes, you can’t help but wonder what he’s getting from all of this attention on you. But to be the centre of his focus, him looking at you like you’re the whole world - the only thing in the world, is another level of high. Behind him you can yourself reflected in the mirror above - you look fucking debauched, unlike yourself and seeing him from above, in all his iconic glory, reminding you this is Elvis fixated on you brings you even closer to the cliff edge. 

He pushes into you, unnecessarily - his fingers were long enough he could reach with his thumb without having to strain at all - to reach your hooded clit. He finds it expertly, rubbing it just so. You shudder, and he keeps going just as he was, but kisses down your neck to your nipple again, swirling it in his mouth, pulling it with his teeth slightly and you can feel yourself about to fall. You panic at the unexpected and unknown feeling and try to throw him off, 

“Elvis! Elvis stop - stop I can’t - I can’t do it, it’s too much - you gotta, you gotta st-“ You’re thrashing about the place, arms flailing as you try to push him away, but his fingers don’t stop and he hushes you as he’s suddenly stroking this little spot inside of you. You can feel it’s different but can’t quite tell how until he crooks his fingers and presses. You shudder, your mouth falling open, although you’re still far quieter than he’d like - he makes a mental note that his aim tonight is to make you scream. And then you’re shaking, convulsing on his hand - stomach and core muscles clenching of their own accord. He rubs and strokes you through it. Your mind is blank and all you can feel is your thighs shaking - your head rolling from side to side. He keeps going and you keep going for him, clutching the covers in tight fists, mouth open in a silent scream as one of your legs randomly seems to jump about. He can tell you’re at the end of what you can do for him at the moment. He softlypulls his fingers out, trying to bring you down gently. His fingers leaving feather-light touches across your mound and thighs. 

“That good, baby?” He pats his sticky, wet hand on your tummy and you can’t speak, taking heaving breaths. 

“W-was,” You’re slurring as you come back to, your ears ringing, “Is that, what I’ve been missing? Is that meant to happen?” He laughs at you, finger drawing little shapes on your stomach, 

“Yeah, when you’re with someone who knows what they’re doing.” He puffs his chest out a little, clearly proud of himself, “A real man.” You laugh, and he kisses you again and again until your lips are swollen and bitten raw and you’re gasping for air. You lay back for a few more moments, looking up at him leaning over you. He moves his arm, and you’re not quite sure what comes over you, but the movement had spread his shirt even more and it���s not something you’d ever considered doing ever before, but he did do it to you earlier so you gain the courage to ask; 

“El- can I, can I���please can I taste you?” He raises a brow at your polite request, but is not going to turn down such an offer, 

“Sure baby, lemme get lil’ Elvie out now - “ You frown, interrupting him. 

“No, no… can I just… like you did earlier?” He looks slightly confused, his brow furrowed, but he agrees nonchalantly - clearly used to letting whoever do whatever they like with his body. 

“Sure - “ He starts to say something else, but you’re too distracted by the permission, rushing forward to kiss his chest, moving down to capture his nipple. He jerks,

“Christ - Oh lord,” You’re practically suckling him, one hand threading through his chest hair, feeling his stomach, the hard line where he’s definitely still muscular somewhere underneath but is soft and cushy above, grasping at his pillowy sides. His hips are bucking, circling with the effort not to throw you off accidentally, “Oh gods, baby, christ little one, lord, oh lord.” He’s unable to be silent, constantly babbling a stream of curses and praise. You pull off, and suddenly, you’re mortified. 

“Oh my goodness, Oh, Elvis, I - uh, sorry, I don’t know what came over me.” You’re shocked at yourself but he’s panting, and you can feel him straining against his pants. 

“Oh darlin’, lord, darlin’ it’sss ok, it’s so good, so good baby. Love your lil’ mouth on me.” You smile a little bashfully as he pats at you as if praising a dog. “Think now little Elvis would too baby, get him out - show him how much you ‘preciate him too?” You pant back at him nodding your agreement. He’s resting further up on the bed than he was before, you’d both travelled around the last few minutes and he sits to take his shirt fully off, before unbuttoning his trousers finally and wriggling out of them. He shuffles further back and you get yourself situated between his legs, bracketed by his thick thighs on either side of you, their covering of downy hair tickling your sides. You lean down, gently stroking his hardening cock - but then pause, 

“Elvis, I ain’t ever - you gotta tell me how to do it.” He groans, his head falling back, 

“Goddamn, like you were made for me, fucking made for me honey,” he peers down at you, over the slight swell of his stomach, tucking his chin in - one of his meaty fingers stroked the side of your face before gently grasping your head, lowering it to his cock. “You gotta, gotta say hello little one, give ‘im a little hello kiss now - “ You do as he says, brushing your lips against the very tip. You’d seen it briefly before, so although not this close, and you had given him a … helping hand over the past few weeks so you’re not surprised to see he’s uncut nor at the size of him - generous in length and girth, but it’s still fascinating to you up close. You can't help but study it briefly - assessing how his foreskin is starting to retract back slightly and you absentmindedly reach for it, gently rolling it forward and back a little bit, unsure how far it should go. His hips jerk, 

“Christ, baby, you gotta warn a man first.” You smile, meeting his blazing blue eyes and amused expression. 

“Sorry - I thought me being here was warning enough.” He laughs and pats your cheek. 

“Right little one, back to work. Kiss down little Elvis, let him know how much you wanted to see him - ‘ You obey his orders, pressing little kisses all the way down his shaft. “Ok, now doll you're gonna take him in that hot little mouth of yours - gonna be re-eal careful of your sharp little teeth, got it?” You obediently bob up and down in a nod, making sure not to scrape him.

Instinct seems to kick in and you take a moment to suck down on him, flattening your tongue against his underside. His other hand finds its way into your hair accompanying the one still resting on your cheek and neck, hand spanning across the distance. His hip jerks forward and it causes his dick to knock further back than you were expecting and you pull back with a little cough.

“S’ok baby, sorry, felt so good, couldn't help myself, not gonna make you take all of him tonight, you can use your hand go on, show the rest of him how much you love him.” He pats you again and it’s enough encouragement for you to go back down on him. You do as he suggested, stroking and pulling him with your hand where your mouth can't comfortably reach, growing bold enough to reach down and delicately hold and stroke his balls. His hands are insistent on your head, not forcing you but certainly moving you exactly how he wants you. You can taste the thin salty trickle of precum starting to dribble out of him.

“That’s it, baby, I was already so close, just from touchin’ ya honey, just gotta suck me just like that, that’s it like a damn popsicle.” His hands grow a little rougher, tugging on your hair slightly, as his hips circle and his thighs clench around you. “Gonna, you gonna stroke me now, yittle, you just gonna stroke me, I’ll let you have a taste, give you a treat but that’s enough for now - ’s about you tonight, about you honey.” He's babbling now, and you're not paying much attention to his words coming out of his mouth except when his request filters through to your brain, and you pull off with a little wet pop, stroking him to completion. He squirts over your hand - ribbons of white hitting you on the chin and chest, moaning as he does and his eyes falling closed.

He leans back, breathing heavily as his cock finishes jumping about, slowly softening before your eyes and you glance around, before grabbing his discarded shirt to wipe your hand on. Before you can raise it to your chin to wipe it off of there he sits up and moves his hand from your face to swipe a finger through it. “C’mon baby, gonna have you swallow it next time,” You're uncertain about this, but don’t bother to say anything right now as he rubs his fingers on your lips, “Go on, open up honey, have a taste for me. Lick it clean.” You do as he commands, tasting the salty tang of a man’s cum for the first time. It's not wholly unpleasant, although you're not sure about the texture, but you can’t say you'd be jumping for joy at the prospect of swallowing his full load. He watches as you suck his fingers, licking them completely clean looking up at him under your lashes as you do. 

He leans forward to kiss you but then suddenly grimaces, frowning. Twisting slightly in an attempt to relieve some of the tension from his hips and back. 

“I’m sorry, honey, but I gotta- I gotta lie down again.” You frown, worried. 

“Of course! don’t - you’re meant to be relaxing!” He’s proven himself to you - taught you that there was something on the other side of the cliff edge and it was good. But you weren’t worried - didn’t see any reason to continue, you’d both been taken care of and you were now perfectly happy to be tucked up in bed for the night.

“Oh no, I don’t mean I’m done. Get over here, little girl…” He manhandles you, ringed fingers digging into your thighs as he arranges you over the top of him. He then lies down, sliding between your legs, before huffing a tiny bit as he heaves you up from his chest and down onto him. “That’s it, mama, right over my face. Lemme get to that poor little kitty of yours.” You’re confused as to what he’s going to be able to achieve from this angle - he can’t possibly just want such a closer look, can he? But then, without warning, he pushes his head up licking down your labia before pulling you off balance to literally sit on his face. 

“Woah - Oh, Elvis I’m gonna hurt you like this, I can’t just - I’m too heavy!” You try to move away but you can’t escape from his tight grip. 

“Ain’t gonna hurt a fly baby - lemme just.” And he pushes his tongue into you, spearing into your hole. You’re sopping wet already, his fingers having seen to that, and the noises are obscene - the wet smacking and sucking. 

“Elv-oh my god, Elvis you can’t-“ You try to get off but his hands don’t let you move at all - pinning you onto him. But as you struggle your thighs touch and you can feel the wetness and the stickiness that’s spread throughout - tangling your curls, sticking your thighs. “It’s- it’s - it’s dirty, you can’t, you shouldn’t - that shouldn’t, you’re not meant to do that.” You can feel him chuckle, the vibration making you gasp, but he doesn’t even respond, simply holds you down and goes harder.

You’re supporting most of your weight on your own legs but every time you clench or move you can feel his fingers digging tighter in - sure you’ll have bruises where his rings and fingertips have been. You can’t help but move, grinding onto his mouth. It’s outrageous and you can’t believe this is something people do, but now it’s happening you wonder how you’ve lived this long without it, without knowing how this feels. His tongue is flicking between lapping at your hole and your inner folds. Your hips circle and one of his hands comes around your thigh - curling around to join his mouth. He moves his mouth up to suck on your clit, and the warm wet pressure, the suction, the everything - it’s too much. You’re losing control again, fighting the panic for a second time that evening - but this time, the pressure is growing even stronger and though you recognise the feeling now it feels different. 

“Oh my god, Elvis, god, Elvis, Elvis please, please, you gotta stop! I’m gonna-” You grind your hips again, but he must be able to hear the sudden change in your tone - the sudden, very real, panic. And despite his instinct telling him not to he worries it’ll make you lose your relaxed state and he pulls away, kissing your inner thigh, 

“Relax baby, dontcha worry, oh my poor baby’s little neglected pussy - you’ve got no idea, just been waiting for a real man, for daddy, to show you what you’ve been missin’ all this time.” He croons into you, hands stroking your thighs, soothing you into compliance. As soon as you relax into his hold again he surges forward once more. Your folds are swollen and slick, feeling like they’re burning, you feel so hot. And your entire focus is on your cunt and Elvis. Unable to even think about your thigh cramping or your foot falling asleep. He kisses up you, capturing your little puffy clit in his lips again and sucks hard. You think you might be about to pass out - it feels so overwhelming, but suddenly the pressure changes - and as he slips a finger back inside you it starts to feel a little too similar to something else. 

Your panicked noises come back out, and you once again are begging Elvis to stop warning him; “I think I’m gonna pee, Elvis, seriously! I can’t - I can’t hold it! Elvis - daddy, fuck, I can’t, I seriously think I’m gonna - gonna pee.” But he doesn’t stop this time, not even to reassure you, just continuing his steady ministrations, speeding up, and the pressure is steadily mounting again, reaching the peak. Your orgasm rips through you and you have to throw your hands out to support yourself on the headboard to simply stay upright but you’re barely able to think about it, moving on instinct alone. You’re shuddering and he’s continuing, won’t leave you be. And then, the pressure seems to burst - slowly yet somehow quicker than anything you’re ever felt. It’s like your vagina is simultaneously your whole body and also entirely separate from your body as it clenches before you’re gushing, liquid shooting out of you. It drenches his face, it’s in his hair, in his sideburns, and he sits up, as you fall off of him to one side, and he’s glistening. 

You’re in a daze but a little embarrassed, both at him covered in your juices and that he was right and you were wrong about your abilities. But his reaction makes you second guess your immediate response - he’s grinning, licking his goddamn lips like he’s just eaten the best-tasting dessert of his life. He uses one of your discarded shirts to wipe his face off, smiling at the damp patches it causes. 

“There we are baby, Daddy got’cha there, got you to that special place - that’s what it’s meant to be like darling. Told you didn’t I, told you, you just gotta listen to me, let yourself go.” 

You lay back panting - you’re a little sore and a lot tired and you’re sure you’re done. You can feel his cock hardening against you again in a gentle coaxing sort of way, and you reach over a hand. You can do this, but you’ve just not got the energy for anything else - and your pussy is still pulsing, soft and swollen and puffy. He bats your hand away though, 

“Right, mama, gonna show you how it’s really done, you’re gonna reach your little o on my cock, and you’re gonna know that’s how it should be every time.” He kneels up on the bed, pulling you up onto your knees too, and he’s putting you exactly where he wants you. You want to refuse, but he’s so convincing, and you are a little curious at how he might be able to make even this so spectacular for you, an act that you’d been ambivalent about, mostly put up with; knowing it was something women just did to keep their partners happy. He manhandles you into the perfect position for him, your back slightly arched, hands clutching the top of the headboard and he brushes your sweaty hair off of your neck, kissing where it lay before. 

You stay where he puts you, slightly shell-shocked at your easy compliance, and at what he’s suggesting. You glance up from under your lashes and notice the huge mirror above the bed - you’d seen the one above yourself in the bed but not the glass above the headboard - and can see how you look. You watch your face contort slightly as he presses a few of his fingers into you again, testing if you’re ready. But you’re loose, in a novel sort of way - so aroused that it’s easy in a way it’s never been before. You’re studying your fucked out face, shocked at how wide your pupils are, the redness of your lips and cheeks, before you turn your attention to Elvis watching his rosy reflection - his hair sticking down, body and chest shimmering with sweat, clinging to his chest hair, his plush lips bitten red and his face still with a hint of damp, blue eyes sparkling. You’re about to utter something completely embarrassing like, “Oh my god, you’re so pretty,” or “I love you.” But you’re (somewhat thankfully) distracted by him rubbing himself on you a couple of times before fucking into you. You jolt forward, mouth falling open as he simply pushes his whole length in, immediately pulling back out to shutter his hips forward again - gripping your waist and pulling you back onto him too. You’re shouting, finally, garbled noises and moans as he gives you no time to adjust and instead slams you back and forth to him, his balls slapping against your wet skin. 

He spanks your ass and you shudder, the tinge of pain mixed with the pleasure of him hitting that spot in you, getting in so deep you feel like he’s in your soul and not just your body. You can feel yourself starting to go again, starting to ride the crest of that wave when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again and you can barely breathe, noises catching in your throat at the sight. 

“That’s it sweet, that’s it sugar, look at yourself,” He wraps an arm over your chest and grips your chin, pointing it straight at the mirror, “Look at us honey.” You can see him behind you, behind your flushed body - himself pink and damp with sweat from the exertion, its practically dripping down his forehead and onto his chest - he lets go of your chin and moves one hand to fondle your breasts, pinching your nipples, the other to slip between your legs. You jerk when he strokes where the two of you are joined. It’s filthy. You’ve never been this visible like this before, having very much been under the covers with previous lovers, and your knowledge of positions was limited to on your back, on your front and your side. Very much lying down. The image of his cock sliding into your folds, the pink fuzzy base barely visible through your own fuzz and his hand splayed over your stomach as if supporting where he sits internally is filthy in the best possible way. 

You feel utterly surrounded by him, you can’t think of anything but how he feels, how he looks, you can’t sense anything else. You can’t see anything but him, it’s all him as you look around - the mirrors on the back wall and above you reflect back the image of the two of you, but your eyes skip over yourself only seeing him. His thick form. He’s muscular in a solid way, an accidental way, and the layer of softness that covers all of him, but especially over his tummy, only makes him more attractive to you, more real. When you close your eyes the vision of him is imprinted on your eyelids, and all you can smell is him. He’s got a slight sweaty musk to him from the exertion and activity, but under it you can still smell the hint of his cologne. His sheets smell aggressively like him, like the Vegas him and the home him - he must use the same products (or his laundry service must) wherever he is. The room too - there’s his unique blend of homely smells but also the heavy scent of the blend of his favourite specific brands of cigarettes and cigars. The smoke, despite him claiming he only smoked very irregularly, clings to his thick curtains and the drapes that surround the room. The room which screams, as much as the rest of his house does, of him - of solely him, of his outrageous, outlandish, tacky, wonderful, style. 

You aren’t able to have any of these thoughts though, as his fingers stroke himself before once again finding your clit. He captures it between his fingers, rolling it, before brushing his finger over it and before you know it you’re quivering - shaking as your orgasm overcomes you again. It’s too much, your body has barely had a chance to recover and while you’re not passed out you’re also not…all there. Your body slack as Elvis holds you up, just a rag doll for him to take what he needs for his own orgasm - chasing his completion. He does, barely a few strokes later, a litany of praises spilling out of his mouth, pulling out as quickly as he could, seemingly caught a little by surprise. And you can feel the last few sprays from him as he splatters over your already sticky and trembling body. You slump down without him holding you up by the waist and hips, and he catches you - laying you out on the bed. He lays next to you, panting, chest heaving for a few moments before propping himself up on an elbow next to you. 

You’re sore, internally and externally and worse - sticky, but he doesn’t let you sleep yet, running his cum-covered fingers through your soft pubic hair, before tracing shapes on your lower tummy, gently brushing lower and lower until his fingers are stroking through your sticky soft folds. You squirm, sleepy, and he hushes you, 

“C’mon baby doll, give me one more, gotta make up for lost time darling. Give em all to you tonight. One more baby, c’mon do it for daddy, give daddy one more.” He’s speaking lowly, so as not to disturb your sleepy state, but what he’s asking you to do is bringing you back to awareness. He’s barely touching you, nudging your little stretched hole with his wet fingers, barely pressing the outer rim before delicately stroking your sore, puffy, clitoris again. You feel your legs shaking, seemingly of their own accord, and can’t focus on anything he says, resorting to begging over top of his continued whispers; 

“I can’t, I can’t, Elvis please, daddy, please, it’s too much, I can’t,” but you’re already so close to the edge that you gasp, mouth open, as he inserts his fingers again, and it only takes him crooking them just so for you to shudder and scream. It’s borderline painful, and your legs are shaking, “Lord, daddy! Oh my god, Elvis, daddy, oh my lord. Oh - “ and as he continues to stroke that little place inside of you, as you ride the waves that wash over you, your words trail off to just noises. You're practically yowling as you slump over, still shuddering and stomach still convulsing when he slows his ministrations and pulls his fingers away. Your vision is white and black and you can't focus on anything he's saying through your ringing ears although you're aware he's talking. It takes a few minutes for your body to calm down, Elvis’ large hands gently rubbing you down like a horse after a race, and it's not until your heart rate slows again that you’re able to open your eyes and try to focus on what he's saying.

“Told you didn’t I, you gonna learn to believe your daddy now? Believe what he tells you?” He’s unbelievably smug and you can hear it in his voice, and in the way his eyes crinkle looking down at you. 

“Course, Daddy,” You blush, “Elvis. Of course, I just - I just didn’t know! I didn’t know what that was…inside me.” He laughs, 

“Well, not everyone can find it doll, it keeps itself real hidden like, less you’re just the right fit.” He squeezes your cheek as he says it before he pats you again and heaves himself up into standing. “Right honey, gonna have to get you all cleaned up - you’ll be drippin’ all night else.” You wince as he wipes at you with a little towel, even his expensive cotton too much abrasion on your still throbbing centre. You roll into the bed, far too exhausted to even stand up, and your eyes are closing as he comes back over with a glass of water, he makes you drink half and you do so, sleepily, while he maintains his grip on the glass. “We’ll have to shower in the morning honey, think you’re fixin’ for a snooze now.” He pulls the top comforter off, throwing it on the floor, and you can just see through your hazy tired gaze that there’s a large wet spot on it. “Least we ain’t gotta change the bed.” He mumbles as he climbs into it. You squirm as he pulls you close against your chest and his hands find their customary positions - one just a little too close to between your thighs but he pets and shushes you, humming a tiny lullaby that makes you fall deep asleep almost immediately. 

[shiorimakibawrites]

Cat Man Do: Part 2 (Daredevil Fan Fic)

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem! Reader Seconding Pairings: Foggy Nelson x Marci Stahl, implied Karen Page x Frank Castle Word Count: 11,000 Summary: It is a day of discovery for you. Warning(s): Swearing, sexual fantasies, referenced masturbation, kissing, dirty talk, referenced marking/hickies, oral sex (female receiving), vaginal fingering, unprotected P in V sex, referenced oral sex (male receiving), referenced animal abuse (not graphic) Series Masterlist Matt Murdock/Daredevil Masterlist General Masterlist Tag List: @loves0phelia, @nowheredreamer, @beezusvreeland, @indestructeible, @what-i-call-men, @reblog-reblog666, @flynnethenerd, @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment, @yarrystyleeza, @bellaxgiornata, @reluctanthalfwayofoptimism, @bluerobin35 Also posted on AO3

Cat Man Do

Part 2 of 2

“And that’s the last of it,” you said to yourself as you put the last of the dishes into the drying rack. While you dried off your hands, you did a quick survey of your handiwork. The apartment was now back to its normal state of relative tidiness. The only remaining mess was the nest of blankets that Trouble had burrowed himself into and presumably napping it.

It had been tempting to peek. Very tempting. But you knew yourself. If you did that, you wouldn’t be able to resist petting him. Then you would probably give into the urge to see if he liked any of the cat toys you still had . . . then boom, the housework would be completely forgotten.

It wasn’t that you hated housework. It was just boring. Which made any number of procrastinating distractions rather appealing. Listening to music or podcast on your phone usually helped. Singing along with your favorite songs or learned something interesting made it feel like the dull but necessary work wasn’t taking so long. Thought you had to avoid certain ones while doing housework because sometimes they got you arguing with the people in the magic box instead of doing what you were supposed to. Like ironing your work clothes . . .

Other days, your brain decided to turn whatever was coming out of your phone into white noise and simply daydreamed. Today was one of those days. Fortunate for getting your work done, those daydreams stayed innocent. Imaging Matt having his way with you on your kitchen table, for example, would have been rather distracting. Case in point, even just the thought of that fantasy was making you squirm.

Keeping them sweet didn’t prevent Matt from taking the staring role. Far from it. Which was embarrassing for all different reasons. It was one thing to have sexual fantasies about an attractive man. Picturing that same man saying three little words with that deeply fond smile on his face had different implications.

Implications that made you feel stupid. You knew falling in love with your boss was a bad idea. The king of bad ideas. Mousy secretary falls in love with her incredibly attractive boss is the premise for a romance novel, not a recipe for true love forever. You were going to get your heart broken. Probably not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But someday.

You weren’t looking forward to it. Watching women hit on him already felt like a knife to your heart. Watching while he meet someone else and fall in love with them was going to be agony. Assuming you stayed around to watch. Which you likely wouldn’t do. You weren’t that much of masochist.

The worst part was that you wanted Matt to find his special someone. The person who would make him laugh and help him find joy. Someone who would comfort him when he was sad, take care of him when he was sick. For him to know that someone loved him, that they wanted to stay forever . . . you wanted that for him.

Maybe it was selfish but you just wished that special someone was you.

You knew it was unlikely. Matt had never stated an interest in you beyond friendship. Yes, he flirted. But Matt flirted with everyone. And yes, you had gone on all those outings with him. But those were friend outings, not dates. And yes, on those occasions when Matt asked him to guide him, it seemed like he was reluctant to let go of your arm afterward. Or how he kept holding your hands after they had gotten warmed up after forgetting your gloves last week, only dropping them when the office phone rang . . .

But he never said anything. Sometimes it seem liked he might. Moments where he said he had something to tell you, something that he wanted to ask, that seem like maybe . . . then nothing. Either the universe intervene – phone calls, fire alarm, sudden loud argument between two food truck drivers – or it wouldn’t be exactly what you were hoping for. Like asking if you would be his plus-one at some fancy party being thrown by Columbia Law alum next weekend. That wasn’t a date. It was just practical since he and Foggy had only gotten their invitations to said party this week . . . It was a very deliberate snub considering Marci had received hers month ago . . .

Granted, you hadn’t said anything to him either. In part because you wanted to avoid ruining what you already had. You genuinely liked being Matt’s friend. You valued that relationship and didn’t want to lose it. Or make things incredibly awkward. But big part of it was simply that you weren’t ready to hear ‘I’m flattered but . . .’

You’d probably never be ready. Because no matter how kindly someone tries to let you down, rejection always stung . . .

“Enough moping,” you told yourself sternly. You had a mystery to explore.

But first you were going to check on Trouble. He had been rather quiet. Too quiet. He might simply be asleep but your experience said that sometimes the too quiet cat was a cat getting into mischief. You walked over to the blanket cocoon and peeled back the layers until you found the lithe, brown form. A pair of yellow-green eyes blinked sleepily at you. You couldn’t resist. There were few things cuter than a drowsy cat. You reached over and started lightly scratching behind the ears. Trouble purred and bumped his head more firmly into your hands.

“Hey there, sleepy kitty,” you said. “Enjoy your nap?”

He made one of those trilling noises which only made your smile grow. And encouraged you to keep petting him. Which wasn’t a hardship.

“Your coat is so soft, Trouble,” you said. “Feels like velvet.”

Like your new dress, the one you had let Marci and Karen talked you into buying for the fancy party. You hadn’t intended to buy anything when you accompanied them to the stops. You had fully intended to just wear one of the dresses you already owned. But then you saw it.

A pretty black dress made of velvet that looked like it was your size. Curious, you had checked. It was. Moreover, it was marked off enough to within your limited budget. Which made it very tempting. A temptation that Marci enthusiastically enabled. Come on, at least see how it fits . . .

It fit perfectly, hugging your curves just right. Offered tantalizing glimpses of skin without showing off more than you were comfortable with. You had felt beautiful wearing it. Which meant Marci and Karen didn’t have to push very hard to convince you to buy it. Karen sweetened the deal by reminding you that Matt loved velvet. And that maybe feeling so pretty would give you the confidence boost you needed to tell him how you felt.

Something that both Karen and Marci seemed very certain would be received well. You weren’t nearly so sure but you brought the dress.

In the name of making you feel as pretty and confident as possible, Karen and Marci decided you also needed new shoes and underwear. When you objected that you couldn’t afford to do that, Marci countered that she would pay. Which was why you were now the proud owner of a pair of heels that cost a frankly ridiculous amount of money. Because when Marci decided to treat someone, she didn’t believe in going cheap.

The underwear set had been more reasonably priced but still seemed like a lot for a bra and panties. Even if they were made of high quality silk and lace. But they had looked good on you too and Karen had asked you to imagine if everything went well and the night ended with your dress on Matt’s bedroom floor . . .

You didn’t know what had flustered you more. Your own imagination or that evil, knowing grin on Karen’s face or Marci supplying lewd details of Matt’s sexual prowess. Not from her own experience but she knew people who had slept with him. People whose stories she trusted to be accurate.

Karen insisted that the underwear had to be dark red. Saying with a mysterious smile that Matt would find it hot. Which just confused you. For obvious reasons, purely visual elements like color didn’t hold any appeal for Matt . . .

“Why?” you mused out loud. But since Karen wasn’t here to pester, your only answer was a questioning meow from Trouble. Which probably had more to do with you getting so lost in your head that you had stopped petting him than anything else.

“Sorry, Trouble,” you said, resuming the pets. “Got distracted. Trying to figure out why Karen thinks Matt would find me wearing red silk underwear sexy.”

Trouble made the strangest sound you had ever heard from a cat. Like he couldn’t decide which cat noise to make and kept switching tracks part-way through each one. If he had been human, you would have said he was sputtering.

It was such a funny reaction that you couldn’t help giggling.

Matt’s current form prevented him from blushing. Which he supposed he should be thankful for. His sputtering already had you giggling. He could only imagine your reaction to seeing his cheeks go what he had been told was a lovely shade of dusty pink.

What was Karen up to? Telling you something like that?!

The fact that it was true was immaterial. Now he would have fantasies about running his hands over your curves, feeling your petal soft skin encased in silk . . . and the idea of you wearing Daredevil red immensely pleased that possessive streak that ran deep inside him . . .

But he didn’t need help coming up with impure thoughts about you. He already spent far too much time touching himself while imaging you spread out on his bed, exploring every inch with his hands and mouth, the sounds of your pleasure filling his ears . . . Fantasies that were going to be a lot more vivid now that he knew exactly what those noises sounded like and just how sweet your arousal tasted . . . even if tasting it from the air was a poor substitute for tasting it directly from the source . . .

Matt shook himself. He shouldn’t be thinking about that.

You turned your attention toward your pack and the mystery inside it. You moved the pack over to the couch and started pulling out the suit.

The red color was brighter than you expected, dark scarlet instead of the maroon it had looked under the dim light of your flashlight. The webbing between panels wasn’t black either. It was a deep, deep red that almost black. Like those really good cherries that you loved but could never remember what they were called. It was was just as heavy as you remembered, with the heft that reminded you of an old friend’s bulletproof vest. But more flexible . . . actually, looking at all of the webbing interwoven into it, you’d guess a lot more.

“It seems Daredevil is a bendy vigilante,” you mused outloud. “Probably not as bendy as Spider-Man but that guy is made out of silly-putty. Or at least his spine is.”

The suit was a little scuffed but otherwise looked fine. No holes, rips, or tears that you could find. No visible blood . . . you sniffed. You couldn’t smell any blood either. Just sweat. Something clean that you recognized as saddle soap. The fainter odor of plain soap along with something very familiar.

“Huh,” you said, eyeing the suit. “Daredevil and Matt wear the same cologne. Small world.”

Next, you checked the pouches on the belt. There weren’t that many. They contained a prepaid cell phone that you set aside to look at more closely later, zip ties, fold-up cash, and business cards. Curious, you shuffled through the cards. Nelson & Murdock, Alias Investigations, Chikara Dojo, FEAST, Helping Hands . . . . Each business or charity was separated by paper clips or rubber bands.

“Curious,” you murmured, wondering why . . . maybe he just didn’t want to spend time shuffling through them looking for a particular one? Or didn’t think he would always have time to do that? Maybe he had folded up the cash for the same reason. As long as he remembered how each card was bundled or bill folded, he could get out the right one without looking at them.

You turned your attention to the phone but was immediately stymied. The phone refused to turn on. It didn’t look broken. Which probably meant that it needed to be charged. Guess you weren’t the only one who forgot to put their phone on the charger. Or maybe Daredevil used a phone while fighting crime a lot more than anyone would expect. You grumbled as you got off the couch. You weren’t sure if your charger would work with this phone. Thankfully it did but the batteries were practically dead. Investigating the phone would have to wait.

In the meantime, you inspected the helmet. It was the same color as the suit but not the same materials, something more rigid. But it seemed to be in good shape. You couldn’t see or feel any cracks. You traced the edge of the characteristic horns and mask. You were unable to resist to urge to put the helmet on your own head. It probably looked ridiculous. There was nothing superhero about your oversized tee shirt featuring a gray cat calling itself ‘purr-fect’ and sweat pants. But you were curious. What did the world look like to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen?

The answer was very red. You had expected a reddish tint from the color of the lenses. But it was more intense than you expected. It was also less . . . clear than you would have thought. The lenses weren’t opaque – you could see through them. But tinted dark like a pair of sunglasses.

“Odd,” you said, wondering why Daredevil had what was effectively sunglasses built into his helmet. It seemed peculiar. Especially for a vigilante that operated almost exclusively at night. And had a known habit of cutting lights to places before going in. The consensus in the hero forums was that Daredevil must be able to see in the dark. But, you frowned, even the best night vision still needed some light . . . even nocturnal animals couldn’t see in total darkness . . .

“If he has superhuman night vision,” you thought outloud, pulling off the helmet. “Maybe his eyes are really light sensitive?”

Trouble meowed loudly. It sounded almost like a no.

“Vetoing that theory, Trouble?” You asked, glancing over at him. He had crawled out of the blanket cocoon and was doing the big stretch. Which, by the rules of cat companions everywhere, you had to comment on. “Ohhh, big stretch!”

He meowed again. You laughed. It was almost like he was answering you.

You smiled and shook your head. Despite Trouble’s rejection, the theory was plausible. Someone whose eyes worked very well at low light could very well be someone that found bright light painful. And while he worked at night, New York City wasn’t all that dark after sundown. Nowhere near as dark as it was out in the forest.

Granted, Hell’s Kitchen was darker at night than most of the city. Streets lights and other sources of lighting that had gotten damaged in the Incident still hadn’t been repaired or replaced. Somehow there was never enough money in the budget. At least not for something like street lights. Some of the landlords were similarly disinclined. Others had died during the aforementioned alien invasion and similar attacks on the city. And many of those estates were a byzantine nightmare of disputed wills, shell companies, and other assorted legal headaches.

You knew this because Nelson & Murdock was one of the many laws firms attempting untangle this particular Gordian knot. The progress had been slow and uneven. Matt and Foggy had muttered many unkind words about property law, estate law, the lawyers involved in creating this mess, and especially the lawyers trying to keep the knot intact because the mess benefited their clients . . . which yes, was their job. But they didn’t have be so smug about it . . .

The color of the lenses was another question mark. Why red? Then you remembered something you had read . . . red lenses or red lights helped people kept their eyes dark adapted or helped them adjust to low-light conditions quicker. Of course that little nugget had been discovered during a romp through Wikipedia Wonderland. So massive grain of salt . . .

Of course, it could simply be aesthetics. It fit with the Devil theme. You imagined that seeing the sudden glint of those red lenses from out of the shadows would be quite intimidating.

“Or maybe he just likes red,” you muttered to yourself, putting the helmet down on the coffee table.

You drummed your fingers against your thigh, staring at the suit . . . why? Why would Daredevil abandon his suit and (possibly) walk into the night wearing (possibly) only whatever was under the suit?

“Which couldn’t be much,” you mused, your face flushing at the thought. Most images of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen were either low-quality, out-of-focus, or too shadowy to make out much. But from what you could tell, the suit was close-fitting. No much room for anything but him in there. Or nothing at all. Which was an idea that made your flush worse.

Matt might have been the leading man in your fantasies but he wasn’t the only one to appear. You had entertained thoughts about Daredevil. Very dirty thoughts. Which was really saying something considering some of the ones involving Matt . . . but there was just something about the vigilante that could made you feel feral.

You had the feeling that those fantasies were about to get more vivid. Because now, you knew what the suit looked like up close. What it felt like under your hands. Granted what it felt like without Daredevil actually in it. Which was, if you were being perfectly honest, a little disappointing. You might be carrying the torch for Matt but that didn’t stop other men from being attractive. Or your mind from idly (and somewhat guiltily) wondering if Daredevil’s suit struggled to contain his muscles the same way Matt’s suits struggled to contain his . . .

Something touched your thigh. You jumped before realizing it was just Trouble putting one of his paws on your leg. Probably looking for attention. You reached down to start petting him, scratching him behind the ears. Which he seemed to enjoy, purring as he crawled onto your lap. You were easily tempted away from your mystery.

“You’re a total lap cat, aren’t you?” you asked. Your only answer was louder purring.

You were starting to feel almost sleepy, sitting here with a purring cat in your lap. Especially on a day like this, gray and unusually quiet for New York. Which made the notification chime from your phone inordinately loud. Checking it required disturbing Trouble. Which he made very clear that he didn’t like.

“I know, I know, you were comfortable,” you said, checking the notifications. Mostly text messages from friends and family making sure you were okay. You had just sent off a couple of replies when you caught something out of the corner of your eye.

Looking away from your phone, you peered at the suit. What . . . oh. There was something inside the crumpled suit, a bit of fabric peeking out. Curious, you sat down your phone and touched it. Silk. You gave it a gentle tug and the cloth came out.

Immediately, you felt your face flush again. It was underwear. Specifically a pair of men’s black boxers. Black silk boxers. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen wore black silk boxers. For reasons you couldn’t really explain, this made you giggle.

The universe was a peculiar place. One where a blind defense attorney and a vigilante had interesting things in common. They both liked silk. They wear the same cologne. And estimating from the suit, Daredevil and Matt were the same height and had a similar build.

And apparently knew a lot of the same people. Matt carried a lot of the same business cards, personally knew the owners. Though you were a little unclear on how he had met some of them. Jessica Jones, you could see. She lived and worked in Hell’s Kitchen and her zero-tolerance policy for assholes often got her trouble with the cops. But the others were less clear . . . It didn’t help that when you had asked, the story you had gotten had been rather vague.

It wasn’t the only story where Matt, Foggy, and Karen got evasive. Another sign that there were secrets in the office of Nelson & Murdock. And not the normal client-confidentiality type secrets . . .

Glancing back at the suit, you noticed something else. Something you couldn’t believe you had missed. It didn’t look like it had been stripped off. None of the zippers or other fasteners were undone. You frowned, looking closely at it again. How could he have gotten it off without undoing any of the fasteners?

All thoughts of Daredevil were driven out of your head when Trouble let out a pained yowl. You snapped your head up to see him fall off the couch, writhing and twisting like he was having a seizure. You rushed toward him but then something weird happened. Trouble began to grow and swell, becoming bigger and bigger . . . body twisting and jerking the entire time . . . until what was laying on your floor wasn’t a cat. It was a man.

A very familiar man. Matt Murdock lay there, his body still twitching and spasming. His chest heaved and his forehead was beaded with sweat.

You couldn’t believe your own eyes. Had that really just happened? You pinched yourself. It hurt. So not a dream. You reached out and touched Matt’s shoulder. It was solid and warm under your hand. The muscles still twitching from . . . whatever that was. But gradually the twitching stopped and the tension in Matt’s jaw eased.

“Sorry,” he said. His voice was strained. “Didn’t want you to find out this way.”

Find out what? That he turned into a cat? Or . . . you looked at the suit. Then it clicked. All of the pieces suddenly made sense. Matt was Daredevil. The suit didn’t look like it had been stripped off because it hadn’t. The person wearing it had merely gotten much, much smaller.

“You’re Daredevil?” you asked, just to be sure.

“Yes.”

“And you turn into a cat?” you asked. You hoped not. He was a very cute cat but that transformation had looked like hideously painful.

His lips twitched into something like a smile. “Not usually. This was the first time.”

“Okay,” you said. You took a deep breath. Than another. Your boss was Daredevil. He had been turned into a cat. You had taken him to your apartment. He might have observed you having a dirty dream about him. This was fine. You were fine. Everything was fine.

Another breath. “Expected development?”

“No. Magic spell. I think.”

“Magic spell?” you repeated. “Like actual magic? You know, nevermind. Of course, magic is real. Why the hell not? We were invaded by aliens. There is a Norse God living uptown. Why wouldn’t magic be real?!”

You were babbling. But you couldn’t help it. It didn’t help that Matt was really smiling now. With the dimple and everything. Which had always left you flustered. Especially when combined with that fond look. Even if it almost immediately faded to something sober and tentative.

“Let me sit up and I’ll explain everything.”

“Okay,” you said. But as he started to push himself into a sitting position, you noticed something. Something that left you even more flustered. Matt was naked. Completely naked. Not a single stitch on him. You could see his . . . everything. Feeling your cheeks burn, you jerked back and whirled around to face the wall.

“Sweetheart?”

You felt your heart beat faster at the pet name. He had never called you that before. At work, he was entirely professional. And when you were at Josie’s or an outing, he just called you by your name.

“Clothes,” you said, feeling little frantic. You needed answers – to so many things – but you couldn’t have that conversation with him while he was naked. You would get . . . distracted. But none of your clothes would fit him . . . wait, the boxers! Where . . . you looked . . . there!

You scurried forward and snatched the boxers off the floor. Keeping your eyes firmly on his face, you went and dropped the underwear into what you hoped was his lap. “Your boxers. This isn’t a naked conversation.”

A soft huff of laughter. “No, it isn’t. Thank you, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart again? It wasn’t a slip of the tongue? Your cheeks couldn’t get any warmer but they sure tried.

You turned away again to give him some privacy while he dressed. For a given value of dressed. Considering it was only underwear. You fidgeted with the hem of your shirt and tried not to think about that. Or his . . . everything. You had limited success.

“I’m decent. You can look now.”

‘That’s debatable,’ you thought after you turned to face him. Yes, everything that needed covering was now covered. But the boxers fit him snugly enough that very little was left to the imagination. Not that you really needed your imagination anymore . . . . And that wasn’t even taking into account the rest of him.

You had known he had muscles. You just hadn’t realized he had quite so many muscles . . .

Matt realized that you had gotten distracted when it took a couple of times calling your name to get your attention. He was well aware that you were attracted to him but it was still gratifying to his ego to experience your body’s reaction to him. And the way the temperature and blood shifted to your face when you realized that you had been caught staring was rather cute.

But he soon sobered, remembering what you had just discovered. What he needed to explained. “Do you remember how I lost my eyesight?”

“I remember,” you said.

“Those chemicals didn’t just blind me,” he said. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He squared his shoulders, bracing himself for your inevitable reaction. Then he explained how his remaining senses had been enhanced to a superhuman degree. How he could hear everything happening around him, for several blocks. Further if he was focusing on someone he was familiar with. How he could very likely find Foggy, Karen, or you anywhere in this city if he needed to.

That his other senses were just as keen. Did his best to describe his world on fire. The others had poked fun of his metaphor but it was the best one he had found. He felt the usual frustration at not having the right words, the perfect words, to describe how he experienced the world. Words that help someone else understand his world without the misconceptions.

But such words didn’t seem to exist. He had to make do with the ones he had.

He took another deep breath, continuing in a very firm voice. “My senses do not change the fact that I cannot see. There are things my senses cannot tell me. Like what color anything is. Times when my world on fire isn’t as reliable as I would like such as when I’m tired or ill. My cane and other adaptive equipment aren’t props. I’m not pretending to be blind. I am blind.”

“Someone actually said that to you?” you said, sounding shocked. It was the first time you had spoken when he had started talking.

“Yes,” he said, trying not to remember how Foggy had spit out those words. Hardly the most painful thing that had been said that awful night . . . but the clear disgust in his voice had stayed with Matt for a long time . . .

“Who?” you demanded, your heartbeat sharply rising. He heard the shift of bone and muscle as your hands curled into fists. It was sweet that your first reaction was defend him. If it was completely unnecessary.

“Doesn’t matter,” Matt said, waving it off. “They didn’t really understand the explanation at first. Neither of us were in the right head space for the conversation. We’ve talked more since then and now they get it. And they apologized for that particular misunderstanding.”

You sighed.

You weren’t entirely surprised. Matt tended to be forgiving. Along with a rather concerning habit of ignoring or downplaying things when he was the one being treated poorly . . . And, as you silently reminded yourself, you didn’t know the whole story. That wouldn’t make what they said okay but it might make it understandable . . .

Regardless the decision to forgive or not to forgive was ultimately Matt’s, not yours. And he had obviously chosen to forgive whoever it was. Best to let it go and change the subject.

“Do you want some coffee?” you asked. “Or something else to drink?”

That bit of gravel in his voice might do all sorts of tingly stuff to your insides but he had been talking for a while. His mouth must be getting dry.

“As long you are making it anyway, coffee would be great,” Matt said.

“Coming right up,” you said and went into the kitchen. As you set up the coffee to brew, you did your best to process anything you had just learned.

Matt was Daredevil. It explained a lot. Foggy and Karen certainly knew. It was the only explanation for why they went along with Matt’s very obvious lies about how he had been injured. And why they didn’t seem . . . well, you couldn’t say that there was no concern. You had seen the pinched look of Foggy’s face when Matt was moving like it hurt him to breath. The worried, accessing look Karen gave particularly colorful bruises.

And yet, they had accepted every single one of his excuses from the plausible to the silly without question. Told you there was nothing to worry about when you expressed concern about Matt’s well-being. Even through sometimes neither looked like they really believed that . . .

Now you realized that they were concerned. It was just a different kind of concerned. Because they weren’t wondering how Matt kept getting hurt. They weren’t racking their brains trying to figure out who was hurting him or if all those worrying signs were related to some kind of health problem. Like maybe he was having seizures or something like that but was refusing to see the doctor . . .

But every theory you came up with kept hitting the wall for not being able to explain why Foggy and Karen didn’t seem to share your concerns. Why they clearly loved Matt but ignored that something troubling was obviously going on with him. . . . It hadn’t made any sense.

Now it did. Matt was Daredevil. They knew he was Daredevil. And knew his injuries were from fighting crime.

Matt had super senses. Which meant, you realized with a certain amount of horror, he had absolutely heard you moaning his name while touching yourself this morning. You buried your face in your hands with a soft groan. There was no hiding your non-platonic feelings anymore. The cat was out of the bag. Pun fully intended.

“What’s wrong?”

You jumped. You weren’t expecting his voice to be so close. He wasn’t crowding you or anything. His position by the edge of the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room was a couple feet away from where you were standing in front of the coffee pot. But you hadn’t heard him moving around. Apparently he didn’t need to be cat shaped to walk silently through walls.

“Sorry,” he said, though the little twitch of his lips belied that apology. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Somehow,” you said, willing your heart to slow back down. “I doubt that.”

“Do you?”

“I saw those lips twitch,” you pointed out. “You think making me jump is funny.”

“That is quite the accusation,” he said with mock seriousness. “Do you have any evidence?”

Using his courtroom voice was cheating. Especially when he was only wearing boxers. Pure cheating. You pulled out your stubborn streak, standing with your fists on your hips. “I know what I saw. I will not be fooled by your twisty-turny lawyer tricks into saying otherwise, Mr. Murdock.”

“That sounds like a challenge, sweetheart.”

The pet name said with that almost purring voice sent tingles down your spine. And brought renewed heat between your legs. Rather annoyingly the cocky smirk on his face did nothing to diminish that ardor. Maybe if he had been wearing more than boxers . . . or if he didn’t look so good half-naked . . .

A soft cough brought you back to the present. You felt your cheeks get warm again, realizing that you had been so busy staring at his abs that you hadn’t noticed him talking.

“Distracted?” he asked, a teasing grin spread wide across his face.

“No,” you said quickly, feeling the warmth in your cheeks intensify.

He hummed, tilting his head slightly to one side. “Lie.”

“What?”

“Oh, did I forget to mention that I can tell when someone is lying?” He said, feigning innocence. It wasn’t a very convincing performance. He was far too amused.

“No, that detail hadn’t come up yet,” you said. “How?”

“Mostly your heartbeat. It changes when someone is lying.”

Suddenly, something you had observed at the office now made sense. Your job was more on the reception and secretarial side but sometimes you acted as their paralegal. When acting in that role, you had seen Foggy subtly nudge Matt who would give a little shake or nod of his head. You hadn’t know what to make of it at the time. Now you realized that Foggy was checking to see if their client or whoever else they were interviewing was telling the truth.

When you asked about your theory, Matt was quick to confirmed it. A moment later, the coffee finished brewing. You pulled down the two mugs, then doctored them to each of your coffee preferences.

“You seem to be taking this rather well,” he remarked, after taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged. “It’s not that surprising once I started thinking about it.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

Matt chuckled. “What, you didn’t believe that I got that black eye tripping over a curb?”

“Not even a little bit.”

“Come on, I thought that one was very plausible.”

“Only for someone who doesn’t know you,” you said. “Or your friends pretending for the sake of your secret identity.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

You drank more of your coffee, enjoying the comfortable quiet. To avoid getting distracted by his half-naked body again, you kept your eyes on his face. Which probably wasn’t the best plan. Matt’s handsome face was a distraction in its own right. Especially when he wasn’t wearing his dark glasses. It wasn’t the first time you had seen him without them but the sight always pleased you. It meant Matt trusted you. Not with all of his secrets, obviously, but enough that he didn’t feel the need to hide himself.

Along with those lovely hazel eyes, there were further delights. The generous mouth, good cheekbones and that strong jaw dusted with facial hair. Heavily dusted today. He hadn’t shaved lately. So he had the very start of a beard. You had never seen Matt with a beard. You bet that he would look good with one . . .

“Penny for your thoughts?” Matt said, interrupting your attempts to imagine him with a beard.

“Nothing important,” you said. “Just noticed you hadn’t shave lately and was idly wondering if you were growing a beard.”

Matt made a thoughtful humming sound. “It is tempting this time of year but they get so itchy during the summer.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience,” you said.

“It is,” he said. “Wore one for a couple years during college. Shaved it off just after starting L1.”

“Any particular reason why?” you asked, making a mental note to ask Foggy if he had any pictures of bearded Matt. You needed to see them. For science. Or something.

“An especially muggy day in August when the air conditioners decided to stop working. And the girl I was seeing at the time liked me clean-shaven. Said my beard was too rough when I kissed her.”

A salacious grin spread across his face. “Among other activities.”

“Did she?” you said, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. Because your mind had immediately become consumed with imagining the delicious contrast between prickly beard on your thigh while his soft lips . . . warmth flooded your cheeks.

You saw Matt’s nostrils flare. Then the tip of his tongue slipped out to run across his lips. He made a soft moan that went straight to your cunt. It was impossible not to get worked up. Not with those images in your head. Not with that sound. You were equally unable to stop your breath from hitching as he stepped closer. And closer, stopping just shy of touching you.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. His voice had always done things to you but that huskier timber really made you shudder. There was only one answer you could give.

“Yes.”

And he was kissing you. Gentle at first, a delicate press of the lips with your head cradled in his hands. But it didn’t remain that way for long. Not after all those months of pent-up desire. Now that you didn’t have to resist kissing him, you all but devoured his mouth.

Matt matched your eagerness, seemingly just hungry for your mouth as you were his. Even the need for air barely kept your lips apart. The entire world might as well have disappeared. You were aware of nothing else. Only that mouth kissing you and greedily swallowing every moan you made. Only those large, warm hands sliding down your body, skimming the sides of your breasts until coming to rest on your hips. Only his body against yours. The edge of the counter digging into your back barely even registered.

At least to you. Matt made some grumpy-sounding noise, then his hands were gripping your hips and lifting you up onto the counter. Your startled yelp turned into a moan when he slot himself between your legs. Any lingering doubts you had about him finding you physically attractive were dispelled at the feeling of his growing erection rubbing against your core. You couldn’t contain a second louder, stuttered moan. Even with too many clothes in the way, it felt incredible . . .

“If you want me to stop,” he rumbled, nuzzling your neck. “Tell me to stop. Tell me no.”

“Don’t stop,” you said, your voice dangerously close to begging. But you didn’t care. You had wanted this for so long. “Please don’t stop.”

“I won’t, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to.” he said, then one hand abandoned its place on your hip to tug lightly at your shirt. “May I?”

“Yes, yes,” you said, rising your arms to help Matt pull off your shirt. Despite the heater chugging away, your skin still immediately pebbled. Your nipples had already tightened into peaks. You kissed him again as your shirt was tossed . . . somewhere. You weren’t paying attention to your shirt. All of your attention was Matt and the hungry, almost feral look on his face.

Matt ran his hands over your body, exploring every inch of bare skin from the tips of your fingers to the waistband of your sweatpants. So soft, even softer than he had dreamed. Keeping his hands to himself the next time you were at work was going to take some serious self-discipline. He blazed a trail of kisses down your neck until he found a spot that had you shuddering.

There, he applied little nips and lathed at the skin until he was satisfied there would be a mark. One that by happy coincidence should peek out from behind the collar of your work blouses. Good. That should let any would-be suitors know that you were taken. It was selfish but he didn’t want share this delightfully soft skin with anyone.

Or how responsive you were. He greedily took in all your reactions. The dancing rhythm of your heart. The breathy moans as his mouth continued its downward journey. The gasps when he started lapping at one peaked nipple while squeezing the other breast in his hand. The way you cried out his name when he latched onto that nipple and sucked. The way you arched your back, begging for more. How your nails bit into his shoulder when he obliged, swirling his tongue around the hardened nipple. The whines when he removed his mouth from that breast . . . and how it turned into a wordless cry when he gave the other breast the same attention.

Best of all, the scent of your arousal soaking through your panties. All because of him. You smelled just as sweet as you had been this morning. Only this time he wasn’t a cat. Soon, he would be on his knees. Soon, his face would be buried in that wonderfully drenched pussy . . .

Soon . . .

You were burning. A fire that Matt had lit, then steadily built with his hands and mouth until you burned with need. An urgency that the man himself didn’t seem to feel. He moved at a speed that could be best described as languid.

“M-matt,” you whined.

“Yes?” he asked, lifting his head from your breast. Seeing his lust-darkened eyes and kiss-swollen lips made the growing ache in your cunt worse. “What does my sweet girl need?”

My sweet girl . . . . Your cunt clenched desperately around nothing. “Need you.”

“Gotta be more specific than that,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

You were half naked on your kitchen counter and fully ready to have sex with this man and yet somehow that question still managed to fluster you. “Maattt.”

“I’m not a mind reader, sweetheart. You have to tell me what you want,” he said, sounding almost conversational. But his voice was too husky, his eyes too hungry, for that. The way his thumbs rubbed the skin just about the waistband of your sweatbands was another dead giveaway.

Your mouth opened, then closed.

“No need to be shy, sweet girl,” he continued, pausing to give another little nip to the top of your right breast. A spot that you hadn’t realized that so sensitive until he started lavishing it with attention. “No one but me will hear you.”

Biting your bottom lip, you considered that. He was right. It was just you and him. And you trusted him . . . Maybe you should start with something simple?

“My pants and underwear,” you said, managing to keep your voice steady. “I want them off.”

The smirk he flashed you was all kinds of wicked. “As you wish.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants and started tugging it down. Along with your panties. In a sharp contrast to his earlier leisurely pace, he quickly yanked down the clothes and tossed them aside. Like with your shirt, you found yourself too distracted to notice or care where your clothes went.

Matt gripped your knees and spread your legs wide. He then sank down to his knees, shifting forward until he was tantalizingly close to where you desperately wanted him. The sight once again had your cunt clenching around nothing. A deep rumble, almost like a growl, erupted from him. It matched the feral expression spreading across his face.

“Tell me what you need,” he demanded, his voice a growl full of gravel. You shuddered. You had never heard him speak like that. But it worked you up just as much as his courtroom voice. His hands tightened on your thighs. “My fingers?”

He lifted one hand away from your leg, then ran a single thick finger through your folds. You gasped when that finger brushed over your clit, then groaned with disappointment when that fleeting touch was all you got. Then felt your mouth go dry when he raised the finger to his mouth and licked off your slick. Especially when Matt let out a low moan, briefly closing his eyes in clear pleasure.

“Or my mouth,” Matt continued. You gasped when he leaned forward and gave the entire length of your cunt a single lick. You tried to lift your hips but Matt’s hands clamped down on your thighs and pinned you down to the counter.

“Matt!” you pleaded but the grip on your legs remained firm.

“Tell me,” He said, then blow a puff of air against your desperate cunt. He nuzzled your inner thigh, his rough stubble sending sparks down your spine. “What does this beautiful pussy want?”

“Maatt.”

“Tell me, sweet girl.” He kissed your inner thigh. Then another kiss. It rapidly became clear that your desperate cunt wasn’t going to get the attention it wanted unless you said the words.

“Matt!”

“Tell me.”

“Your mouth,” you begged. “Please, I need – fuck!”

Matt did another long, slow lick up your entire slit. After a teasing swipe across your clit, he turned his attention to your soaked entrance. There he lapped with soft, little licks which were obscenely loud. Like he was messily eating an ice cream cone. One that he clearly enjoyed, making a low noise that sounded remarkably like purring. The vibration contributed to making your own, much louder moans. Instinctively you tried to squirm but his hands kept you right where he wanted you. You could feel that familiar pressure start to build.

He pulled away. No! You started to protest but was cut off by Matt lifting your legs and throwing them over his shoulders. Then his mouth was back on you, his tongue circling your entrance before slipping inside you. Your hands scrambled for something to hold onto as his tongue fucked into you again and again

That something ended up being Matt’s hair. But he didn’t seem to mind, rewarding every tug on the hair twisted tightly in your fingers with a loud groan. Then his tongue slipped out of you, switching its attention to your clit. You cried out. He altered between teasing licks and stronger lapping as you chanted his name.

Matt wrapped his lips around your little bud and sucked. You almost screamed. Your legs began to tremble as you started hurling toward your peak. Then he thrust two thick fingers inside you. Your thighs squeezed his face between them. Close, you were so close . . . then his fingers curled. You fell over the edge calling out his name.

Your cunt clenched tightly around his fingers. Fingers that continued to work you through your orgasm. His mouth remained latched onto your clit, sending wave after wave of white-hot pleasure. Only you started to whimper from oversensitivity did he lift away from your clit. He withdrew his fingers, replacing them with his mouth. You let out warbling moan as he noisily lapped at your entrance.

By the time he pulled away, you were a limp puddle on your own kitchen counter. Despite your recent orgasm, your cunt clenched again. Because Matt looked thoroughly debauched. His hair mussed, eyes half-lidded, those pink lips swollen and glistening with your slick. While you watched, his tongue slide out and slowly licked it off.

Matt knew you were watching him. It was obvious from the way your heartbeat sped up. The hitch in your already heavy breathing. The fresh slick dripping out of your cunt, even more tempting now that he knew just how sweet you tasted. He settled for the slick clinging to his two fingers, putting them in his mouth and sucking them clean. Not as nearly as good as getting it directly from your cunt but the strangled groan you made watching him do it was its own reward.

Fingers now clean, he carefully lowered your legs from his shoulders and rose to his feet. Matt heard you shifting, pushing yourself back into an upright position. Then, your hands reached out and tugged his head down to kiss him. You moaned into his mouth at the taste of yourself.

But you didn’t stop there. Your hands leisurely made their way down his torso until you reached his boxers. Your fingers dipped under the waistband, then hesitated.

“May I?” you asked.

“Please,” he answered, eager to see what you would do.

Permission granted, you peeled his boxers down. His cock eagerly sprang free of its confines. As Matt finished pushing his boxers off, you felt a tinge of nerves. His cock hadn’t looked small during your brief glimpse earlier. But it had been flaccid then. Now that his cock was fully erect, you realized he was rather more . . . impressive than you had first thought. Or even imagined and Past You had been rather hopeful that he had a big dick . . .

“Sweetheart?”

The clear concern in Matt’s voice had your head snapping up. He was frowning at you, his brow furrowed with worry.

“You know you don’t have do anything, right?” he asked, his tone deadly serious. “If you want to stop right now, we will.”

“No,” you said, rapidly shaking your head. “I want to.”

He frowned, his head titling slightly to one side. Listening, you realized. Doing his human lie detector thing. “But?”

“I’m just a little nervous,” you said, tapping your fingers against your bare thigh.

“Why?” he asked.

You felt your cheeks warm. “It’s . . . um . . . you’re . . . ah . . . bigger. Than any . . . of my exes.”

“Is that so?” Matt looked distinctly smug. “I can be gentle. But if you’d like to wait –”

“No,” you interrupted. Because nerves wasn’t your only reaction to seeing his cock. Feeling suddenly bold, you reached over and wrapped your hand around his cock. And feel another tinge of nerves and anticipation at realizing that Matt wasn’t just long, he was thick. You started stroking him, slowly adjusting the firmness of your grip as you watched the reactions on his face. He moaned, his hands finding their way back to your hips.

You noted, with a certain amount of satisfaction, that he looked a lot less smug now.

Feeling more confident, you continued, “I don’t want to wait. I want this.” Your thumb swiped across the tip, smearing the weeping pre-cum. His hips jerked and out of his mouth came a beautiful groan that you immediately wanted him to make again. “Inside me.”

His hands tightened on your hips. That feral look was creeping back in. “I don’t – ah – have a condom.”

“Don’t want one,” you said. You knew it was a dumb thing to do. Reckless. But you were tired of all of the barriers that had been separating the two of you. The thought of another one just rubbed you the wrong way.

Your hand slide off of his cock. A faint whine escaped his throat. Tempting you to put your hand back. But it felt . . . coercive . . . to be giving him a handjob while asking him if he wanted a condom after you had just made it clear that you didn’t want one. Especially since you knew Matt had a people-pleasing streak.

“But I, um, have a box of condoms in my bedroom. If you’d rather wear one,” you offered, feeling renewed warmth in your cheeks. It had been an impulse purchase during one of those rare periods when you were both determined to tell him your feelings and confident it would go well . . . only to chicken out once you were actually in front of Matt.

“I don’t think many man would rather wear one,” he said. “As long as you were sure . . .”

“I am.”

“Okay,” he said. “When did you buy these condoms?”

There was a peculiar note in his voice. He sounded almost . . . jealous? But that couldn’t be right. Why would Matt be jealous?

“Last month,” you said. “Past Me, um, had a moment where she, ah, . . . was very confident that you’d agree to a date? And that sex might happen afterward?”

A smile spread across his face. “Past You would have been right. Past Matt would have agreed in a heartbeat.”

“What about Current Matt?” you asked, daring to hope.

“Current Matt agrees with Past Matt,” he said. “I would love to go on a date with you.”

Your heart gave a leap. “You would?!”

“Of course,” he said, utterly matter of fact. Like he was stating something obvious. The sky is blue. Grass is green. Matt Murdock wanted to go on a date with you. “I’ve wanted to ask you for a while.”

“Why didn’t you?” you asked.

“In part because you didn’t know about Daredevil,” he said. “Not telling a one-night stand is one thing. Not telling my girlfriend is something else.”

“Girlfriend?” you repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “If you would like to be.”

“I would like that,” you said, smiling.

“Good,” he said. Then he suddenly laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“All the ways I pictured asking you to be my girlfriend,” Matt said. “Standing in your kitchen naked wasn’t one of them.”

“Me neither.” You giggled. “We’ve done this all topsy-turvy.”

“We have,” he agreed. “Normally, I’d take you to dinner before burying my face in your sweet cunt.”

The reminder sent fresh arousal pooling between your legs. Despite that toe-curling orgasm, that particular body part was eager for more. A desire that only increased when his pink tongue darted out to slowly lick his lips. Then he made another soft moan. The same soft moans he had made while eating you out . . . your heart raced as something finally clicked together in your mind.

“Can you taste, um, . . ?” you trailed off, feeling your cheeks burn. You couldn’t say it.

“How wet that pussy is for me?” Matt said, his eyes darkening. “Yes. Having my mouth on you is better but from the air, the aroma of it, is still . . . intoxicating.”

Part of you was embarrassed. Especially when you thought about this morning, that Matt hadn’t just heard you touching yourself. But another, larger part of you was powerfully turned on. There was something very hot about knowing that just the taste of you, the smell of you, was putting that hungry look on his face.

You squirmed. Then something else occurred to you. “Technically you have taken me to dinner many times.”

“Very true,” Matt said, then chuckled. “Foggy has been saying that we’ve been dating for months.”

“Karen said the same thing,” you said. “Maybe they are right?”

“Definitely,” Matt said. “And we’ve been idiots.”

“Total idiots,” you agreed, then pulled him down for another kiss.

You could still faintly taste yourself in his mouth. Before you knew it, your hands were buried in his hair. Matt used his grip on your hips to pull you over to the counter’s edge. He pressed himself against you. Despite the intervening conversation, he was still hard. Feeling himself grind his cock against your cunt had felt good before. But now? Without any clothes in the way? It stoked that banked fire inside you into an inferno.

You wanted . . . no, you needed him. You didn’t care that you were in your kitchen. You needed that cock filling your achingly empty cut. You needed him to fuck you stupid.

“Matty,” you whimpered, breaking away from the kiss. “Need you.”

“What do you need, sweet girl?” He rumbled against your throat. “What does your pretty pussy need?”

This time you didn’t hesitate. “Needs your cock. Needs you to fuck me.”

He growled. You expected him to line himself up, to start fucking you right then and there. Instead he shifted his grip to your thighs and lifted you off the counter. Startled, your hands abandoned his hair in favor of his shoulders to steady yourself as he carried you out of the kitchen. Given the small size of your apartment, it didn’t take to figure out where he was taking you.

Sure enough, soon he was lowering you down onto your bed. He kissed you deeply as his knees encouraged your legs wider. Not that you needed much encouragement. He grinded against you, coating his cock in your slick. Sparks raced down your spine every time the head nudged your clit. It was so good. It was not enough. Your cunt clenched desperately around nothing.

“Stop teasing me,” you begged. “Please . . . fuck me.”

Which was apparently all he needed to hear. Matt took himself in hand, lining himself up with your entrance. Then, finally, he was inside you. You gasped, nails digging into his back. It was just the tip of him but the stretch was noticeable. Despite the clear hunger on his face, he didn’t move. Stayed right where he was while your cunt fluttered around him until you were ready for more. Slowly, he pressed in deeper and deeper. Until his cock was fully sheathed inside you.

You felt so good. So deliciously full. No one had ever filled you like this. Then Matt started to move, gently rocking his hips into you. Pleasure washed over you with each back and forth movement of his cock so deep inside you. You couldn’t stop moaning. You could feel yourself climbing back toward that precipice.

“Taking me so well,” Matt said, then groaned when your cunt clenched around him at the praise. “Ready for more, sweetheart?”

Your answer was another stuttered moan.

“Words, sweet girl. I need words.”

“More,” you managed to moan out. “More. Mo-”

You were cut off by sharp snap of his hips. His first real thrust into you. You cried out wordlessly. Cries that only got louder as the thrusts got faster and deeper. Instinctively, your hips began to move. You thought he couldn’t get any deeper. You were wrong. As soon as you matched his rhythm, you felt him sink just a little further inside you.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Matt grunted. “Just like that.”

Matt was always handsome. But there was something indescribably beautiful about how he looked now. The pull and flex of his muscles as he moved in and out of your body. Skin kissed with sweat. Hair, a fluffy chaotic mess. His face, for once, with no sign of worry or stress. Just pure pleasure. The grunts and moans spilling out of his mouth with each thrust only added to the beatific vision on top of you.

Your climax had been steadily building but now you were teetering on that edge. Just a little bit more . . .

Matt must have sensed it somehow because his next thrust was slower but impossibly deep and hard. You gasped, your back arching. He did it again. Your body began to shake, toes curling . . . Close, you were so close . . .!

“Matty,” you whimpered.

“Let it go, sweetheart,” Matt grunted. “Cum on my cock.”

Another impossibly deep thrust and you did.

Matt groaned as your cunt gripped his cock tightly as you cried out his name. He never stopped moving, drawing out your orgasm until you were a babbling, shaking mess underneath him.

Only then did he start chasing his release. He pumped into you hard and fast, his entire world narrowed down to you. The delightful pain of your nails raking up and down his back. Your heart pounding in his ears. The guttural noises you made as he fucked you. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet squelch of your cunt as he moved in and out . . . you were so fucking wet. All for him. Because of him.

He wasn’t going to last much longer. Not with the way your cunt kept clamping down on his cock like a vice. Feeling his balls start to draw up, he tried to withdraw. He intended to release himself on your stomach. But you loudly protested, back arching and frantic hands grabbing his ass in a bid to him keep inside you.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, don’t stop.”

“Gonna cum,” he managed to grit out.

Your hands only gripped his ass tighter. “Cum inside me. Wanna feel it.”

Truth. “Sweetheart.”

“Matty, please.”

That did it. He couldn’t resist your begging. With one last hard thrust, he buried his cock deep inside you and came.

Breathing hard, it was tempting to collapse on top on you. But he couldn’t. He was too heavy. He carefully pulled out of you and collapsed next to you. Still catching his breath, he gathered you in his arms, pressing your back against his chest. Perfect. Matt liked a good cuddle afterward. Didn’t understand what some men had against it. Your soft, naked body against his, smelling like sex and his pheromones? Yes, please.

For a moment, Matt attributed your little restless movements as simply getting comfortable. But quickly he realized that wasn’t entirely it. He reached between your legs. Felt you jolt when his fingers found your clit. Then moaned as he started rubbing gentle circles. You were already very sensitive. It didn’t take long for you to reach your peak again.

Matt buried his nose in the back of your neck. In a little while, he’d need to get up and get a washcloth. Clean up the mess he had made between your legs. But not right now. Right now, he was just going to enjoy having you in his arms.

The storm broke that night, after dumping almost ten feet of snow on the Big Apple. The powers that be had crews out clearing the streets and restoring downed power lines bright and early the next morning but it took several days to get the city fully up and running again.

You and Matt weren’t trapped in your apartment the entire time. Just a couple days. Despite the fact that neither of you were used to living with anyone, it was . . . comfortable. You cooked together in your tiny kitchen without much trouble. He did his share of the housework without prompting or complaint. You discovered during the brief power outage that, in addition to being a lie detector, Matt was a human furnace. Also that he was cuddler.

Once his phone was charged enough, Matt called Foggy and let him know that he wasn’t dead. He made Matt put him on speaker-phone so he could tell you both ‘I told you so.’ A sentiment echoed by Marci and Karen. Among many, many others.

The sex continued to be mind-blowing. And frequent. Because you both were having a hard time keeping your hands to yourselves. A shower became Matt fingering you, then fucking you against the wall. Watching a movie turned you kneeling between his legs, taking his cock into your mouth. Blissful Puddle was a very good look on him.

By time Daredevil slipped out of your window on the third night, your cunt had been given quite the workout and you had lost track of your orgasms.

Life went back to normal. Well, as normal as dating a vigilante could be. You worked. Matt saved people, in and out of the courtroom. You and Matt still went on your outgoings together, only with a lot more hand-holding and kissing. And often followed by enthusiastic sex in either your places or his. Matt quickly fulfilled his promise to introduce you to his silk sheets. You were very happy.

Tonight as you headed up to Matt’s apartment, you were filled with curiosity. Matt told you that he had a surprise. Then you reached his door, he pulled his usual trick of opening the door just as you raised your hand to knock. Just to make you jump.

“Having fun, Trouble?” you asked, entering the apartment.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he denied. But his eyes were too filled with mirth to make his protests believable.

“Lie.”

His lips twitched. But you were distracted away from whatever smartass remark that was about to come out of his mouth by movement behind Matt. You looked and to your surprise, it was a cat. A little brown-and-gray tabby standing in front of the slightly ajar bedroom door, its tail curled into a question mark.

“When did you get a cat?”

“I didn’t,” Matt said. “You did.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, assuming you want her.” He smiled. “I promise this one wouldn’t turn into a vigilante.”

“Certain of that?” You asked. The question was only partially teasing. The recent events had only cemented your desire for another feline companion. But, as much as you were happy with how things had worked out, starting to get attached to a cat only to discover that you couldn’t keep it wasn’t fun.

“Very. According to my magic expert, she’s just a cat.”

You filed away ‘magic expert’ as something to pester him about later. “Where did you find her?”

“Dumpster,” Matt answered, his expression turning grim. “Inside a knotted pillowcase.”

You stared at him in horrified disbelief. Not at Matt’s story. You believed him. But at the sheer cruelty. You knew people could be cruel. You weren’t that naive. But it still shocked you.

“Someone actually did that?”

“They did.” His voice reflected the same anger, the same horror, you were feeling. “Not the first time I’ve found something like that. Wouldn’t be the last.”

He took a deep breath. Visibly reigned in his temper, saving it for the streets or the heavy bag. “Normally I take the animals to an all-night shelter but they’re full right now. They’d still find somewhere for her with one of their fosters or something . . . but I found this one by the same dumpster where you found me. So I thought, maybe it was a sign.”

You smiled. The cat redistribution system at work. And that was that. The cat was officially yours.

You named her Blizzard.

END NOTES

Gordian knot is a legendary knot that became a metaphor for an intractable problem solved by bold stroke. Or in this particular case, one which Matt and Foggy dearly wish they could solve with one bold stroke.

That red light/red lenses thing comes from Wikipedia so treat it with the appropriate level of skepticism.

In Nelson vs Murdock, Foggy had every right to be hurt and angry with Matt. But even if it was deserved, doesn’t make what he said less painful to Matt. Personally, I think Foggy had hit that point of angry-hurt where you just want the other person to feel as badly as you do. And since Foggy is Matt’s best friend, he knows exactly which words will hurt the most. Moreover, I think he was too upset that tonight to really absorb Matt’s explanation about his senses. Hence some of his caustic comments during Season 2.

I have no proof that this incarnation of Matt has ever worn a beard. But shh, we’re having fun here.

It is my understanding that New York City during August is not only hot but miserably humid.

[starflungwaddledee]

For the music thing! 11!! That’s my lucky number hehehe

11- astronauts by rachel platten (also asked by an anon!) for magicapple 🍎 happy happy endings

Let's meet up far away where astronauts and g r a v i t y Have opened up the atmosphere, we'll be so safe up here Navigating the space we'll create our own star And I'll name it after you My, suddenly the stars are flashlights The u n i v e r s e will make your eyes shine Can't you feel the way that time stops? Everything that hurts drops off

hahahahaaaaa ohhhhh this was The One i was most embarrassed about someone finding so great job!!! it's the cheesiest possible song i have for them but it is unfortunately so so perfect and it's one of my favourites. the final bridge regularly makes my eyes water

this song, with its narrative of escaping together and hiding away from things that hurt you both ("there are places up here we can hide//we'll be safe way up high") and that escape being in the sky/space in particular has an extremely strong link to awtdy au, where as things get worse and worse they wear the dream of running away to the stars together so thin it is practically transparent. additionally the 'create our own star' line is sooooo specific and yet!? honestly i did a double take when i found this track!

so yes. extremely cheesy but... if you like some poppy tooth-rotters in your ship, this is a great great song for it!

and regarding the picture itself: despite everything, they are happy in the end, i promise.

i do think whether it's more canon compliant or in an au, bandee is determined to reignite magolor's sense of wonder. he is, imo, just as smart and driven as magolor, if a little less ambitious. in awtdy au in particular bandee learns everything from astronautics to blacksmithing to microelectronics to astrogeology with great enthusiasm!

however unlike magolor, bandee knows how to turn these off in order to just relax or delight in things- like planetary rings- and he's going to make magolor remember how to do this too; even if it takes several dozen years 🍎

[sehtoast]

Tender Threads CH5 (Homelander x OC)

chapter five: little spider

chapter directory | slow burn, hurt/comfort, fluff, spidersona as original character, original trans male character, smut, sublander

summary: don't be the odd one out, bug boy. time to meet the family

Should one find it comforting to approach the room in which their new coworkers reside and hear heavy bickering from beyond the door?  In a way, Benjamin does.  Despite the annoyance barely disguised on Stillwell’s face, the bug finds it nothing but reassuring that his teammates show no care for strict decorum.

Here he thought the new suit being firmly planted partway up his ass was to remind him to keep clenched and at attention.

There’s no doubt of who’s who when that sliding door parts.

“I’m just saying, a movie about freeing animals from an aquarium isn’t that cool of a concept.” A-Train says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Oh, and baby track star is?”  Counters The Deep as he leans over his side of the V shaped table.

“I’m just saying mine was a box office buster and yours flopped,” the speedster returns with a scoff. “Like a fish.”

“Hey, fuck you man!  At least my movies are about real problems!”

It takes but a simple clearing of the throat and a look not unlike a disappointed teacher arriving to find her class has devolved into chaos to get the two men to cease their bickering altogether.

“Where is Homelander?”  Stillwell asks, sighing in exasperation as her question is either answered by shrugs or flat out ignored.

The team exchanges uncertain glances.  Even Benjamin wonders where he is.  Given how the man in question stalked him mercilessly, he’d think Homelander wouldn’t miss this for the world.  There was satisfaction to be had in this, so just where in the world is he?

Judging by the look on Stillwell’s face, getting Homelander to follow directions was… perhaps a little difficult.

“Well, we can just continue without him.  Everyone,” she gestures to Ben, “this is, as you’re all well aware, Spider-Man.  Consider this your first formal meeting.  Play nice, behave yourselves, and absolutely no hazing the new guy.”

“Yes ma’am,” The Deep responds, which earns him a look.

“Hi, everyone.” Ben waves.  Meeting new people was never quite his forte either.  What was he really even supposed to do, give a speech? Thank them?  Absolutely not.

“We don’t haze anyone here, right gang?”  Chirps that over the top boy scout voice, suddenly appearing as if from thin air.  In the doorway stands Homelander, leather gloves held aloft in his hands and a smile fit to rival the sun beaming to greet the room. His eyes flit to Benjamin, giving him a full look up and down.  “Madelyn, I’m wounded.  You did introductions without me?  Sheesh.” 

“If you’d show up on time, you could be included in the fun.” She snaps back.

Ben knew a history when he saw it, and the two reeked of one.  Homelander, with a huffed laugh and roll of his eyes, saunters past her and makes his way to the head of the table.  The bug bites back a smile when that same swish of the cape from the other night is performed once again for Homelander to sit.

Bet that gets annoying.

“Good luck,” Stillwell whispers before her clicking heels echo down the hall and the door seals.

Yeah, just leave me to fend for myself…

“Well, Spider-Man, take a seat…”  Homelander goads with a gesture to the chair to his right.

That close to him?  Shouldn’t someone else–

“No need to wait for an invitation, bug boy.  Sit.”  The way he watches Ben approach sends a shiver down the bug’s spine.  There was something different in his gaze, something… unknown.  The initial up and down look Homelander had given him seemed only like he was checking out the new suit, but now..?  Benjamin takes his seat cautiously.

His focus snaps away from the bug suddenly. “All right everyone, you know the drill! How'd we do this week? Who’d we save? How are our numbers?”

A-Train and The Deep both begin rattling off their figures, with the latter giving far more enthusiasm.  A-Train’s latest movie, Training with A-Train, was a box office success.  The Deep’s recent sea creature activism campaign raked in a whopping twenty million in donations alone.

Maeve gives some spiel about toy sales with a clear lack of enthusiasm. Then comes Starlight, who mentions having stopped a mugging on her morning walk in the park.

Noir simply nods.

In the cross chatter, Ben analyzes each of their profiles on the HUD in his lenses.  He decides knowing as much about them is best and an excellent opportunity to play with his new tool.  He finds nothing terribly unexpected.  Schooling records, restrictions and limitations, medical information– which he’s surprised is so freely available,  and their regular names.

Reginald Franklin.  Kevin Moscowitz.  Margaret Shaw.  Annie January.

He tries to sneak a peek at Noir, but–

“How about you, Spider-Man?”  Homelander interrupts with a smug grin, leaning forward as if to show how utterly invested he is.  

Of course, Ben wouldn’t have any numbers to boast, no merchandise sales, no product contracts.  It’s all a way to single him out and make him look lesser– on his very first day, no less.  But Benjamin had something. 

“Well, uhm… last night I stopped a couple guys holding up a bodega over in Harlem, and some dudes trying to boost a car a few blocks over.  Oh!  And the day before that, I helped an old lady cross a busy street with her groceries since no one thought to help her out, y’know– I mean, I basically ended up carrying everything home for her, but she bought me a churro so… that was cool.”

Homelander stares at him with an arched brow and a look of mild amusement.

“Oh, I also got some guy from a car accident to the hospital faster than the ambulance could.  Rush hour traffic and all.” 

Behind the mask, Ben chews his lower lip between his canines.  He imagines Homelander didn’t expect him to have something to contribute, let alone something that took up more than a brief second.

Homelander’s eye twitches and he cracks a smile that’s all too fake.  “Wow,” he scoffs.  “Quite the full plate you’ve got there, helping all the old gals out.  Anyway…”

Once the attention is away, Ben goes back to his reading.  He decides to find info on Noir another day as looking over at him for any extended period of time would seem a little awkward, especially given their proximity.  Homelander, though?  It made sense that he should be staring at him.  All eyes on the speaker, right?

The team captain paces in front of the windows, hands behind his back as he laments that The Seven should be doing more, not just looking pretty and selling bullshit.  While he rambles about their god-given power, Ben tries over and over again to access Homelander’s information.

Everything on that file that wasn’t public knowledge was either redacted or nonexistent.  A censored first name, no last name.  No hometown, no education, no medical information.  No age, no birthday… Homelander was a ghost in Vought’s own system.

Which, of course, makes the bug all the more curious of his new boss.  Thus far the HUD hadn’t blocked him from accessing anyone else’s information, so why start now?  Hell, the real question to ask is why Vought would even give him a tool like this.  Did they want him to be able to just scrounge up any kind of information on anyone he wants at any given moment?  It seems a little… odd to simply hand something this powerful over to the new guy.

Of course, with Benjamin being who he is as a person, he’s determined to crack his way past whatever restrictions are preventing him from learning more.  Access to the full system was now a must, but he’d have to wait.  It wouldn’t do well to be caught causing trouble after just being hired.  

Especially not when his consequences were so clearly laid out by the star-spangled supe himself.

“Alright, everyone.  That’ll do it.  Get out there and make me proud!”  Homelander says with an all too forced smile before immediately pointing to Ben.  “Not you, though.  I want a word first.”

The bug wasn’t sure if it was the fact it was Homelander making him stay or the nervous side-eyed looks the rest of the team gave him that made his stomach practically do flips.  

He gulps when the sliding doors seal.

“So, bug boy.  What do you know, if anything at all, about what happened to Translucent?”  Homelander asks as he saunters over, hands behind his back.  His gaze pierces so cleanly through the mask that it’s almost sickening that he has the power to look clear through Ben’s only line of defense.  

“Uhm… I mean, not more than what’s out there already.  Didn’t he get hurt on some mission and he’s–”

“No,” Homelander says flatly.  “Nope, he’s dead.  No mission, that’s just some corporate bullshit Vought made up to explain the open seat while they scramble to unfuck everything.”  He turns on his heel, beckoning Benjamin with a gesture of two fingers.  “Come.”

The elevator ride down is tense and silent.  Benjamin resists the urge to look over at his new boss.  He’s not sure why; it’s not like looking at Homelander was a crime.  Would he follow through with that threat simply because the bug peeked over at him?  Did he know about the HUD?  Would he be pissed about it if he didn’t?

Questions built upon questions until the soft dinging sound announced their arrival to the basement that Benjamin didn’t even know existed.

Homelander saunters out, cape swaying with every step toward what appears to be a morgue.  He continues on, passing workers in lab coats until he stops before a glass window overlooking a separate room full of more staff.  On the table inside lays nothing– or so Benjamin thinks until a woman seemingly picks up a piece of that nothing and drops it into a plastic biohazard bag that sags with weight.

“That’s Translucent, right there.” Homelander announces, tapping his fingertip against the glass.  He stares at Benjamin intently.  “See the box in there by the corner?”

Ben cranes his neck, but he finds it, nodding.

“Made of fuckin’ zinc.  Only thing in the world I can’t see through.  So, not only do we have someone smart enough to kill a supe, they know how to fuck with us, too.”  With a loud sigh and a roll of his eyes, Homelander beckons Benjamin to follow him to a quiet, empty room.

“Now, of all of us, you’re the most active in this rat-fuck infested shit-hole of a city.  I want you out there with your eyes and ears open for anything,” he accentuates his words with a pointed finger. “When you find something, you come to me. Not Stillwell, not those morons in analytics.  Me. D’you understand?”

“I– yeah.  Yeah, gotcha.”

Homelander smiles, staring clear through the mask to read the bug’s expression.  A lingering silence tenses the moment before Homelander tilts his head to the side and inches closer, coming all but toe to toe with the bug.

“You…” he begins, voice low and a smile creeping onto his face more and more by the second to reveal those sharp teeth.  He pats Benjamin’s left shoulder and grips it– not too tight, but just tight enough.

The web-head stands firm, despite how his legs tremble and anxiety stirs in the pit of his gut.  In a flash, the mask is all but ripped off of his head, jostling him forward and causing him to plant his hands on Homelander’s chest to still himself.

Fuck, fuck, fuck–

“There it is,” Homelander lilts.  “That look in your eye.  God, I love it.”

Ben understood without it even being said.  Homelander likes making him feel vulnerable.  He likes how Benjamin backs down the minute the mirage of Spider-Man is taken from him.  How, even if he has it nonetheless, Homelander is the exception.

It certainly isn’t hard to see through the act of removing his mask.

Ben relocates a hand to grip Homelander’s wrist– the one belonging to the hand that holds his mask aloft.

Defiance.

At least what little he can muster, only to have his own wrist snatched and held in a grip stronger than anything he could ever hope to break.

“Ooh,” Homelander purrs, grin growing wider.  “I think you and I are gonna have tons of fun working together.”  He stares into Benjamin’s eyes, carnage incarnate within the oceans of his own.  Homelander leans in closer, almost as if he were a lover going in for a kiss, but he stops short of such an act to flit his gaze up and down the bug’s body.

Benjamin’s heart pounds within his chest, and he gulps thickly at what words follow, hating the way his body reacts to them– or maybe it was the fucking proximity, the tone, the feeling of Homelander’s breath against his skin, he doesn’t fucking know. There's an unwanted tingle of arousal that has him ready to jump out of his skin with pure horror. 

What– why– Oh god...

“You’re my little spider now.”

[septic-skele]

UT - It's Illegible Chicken Scratch

Summary: Papyrus' classmates think he's a tryhard. His teacher thinks he's not trying hard enough. Sans thinks he may need to do some research on dysgraphia.

A/N: In which I take that one line about Papyrus' puzzle notes (see title) and ruuuun with it

~

Papyrus had a…complicated relationship with his words.

Complicated: c-o-m-p-l-i-c-a-t-e-d. See, he knew how to spell it, unlike some of the other third grade students; he could recite the letters aloud without stumbling and recognize them when they were in a book with ease—so why couldn’t he put those very same letters down neatly on this expectant piece of paper?

His vocabulary (v-o-c-a-b-u-l-a-r-y) was supposed to be a point of pride. He and his brother were font-based by design; words were their specialty. Sans put his practice toward making even the smallest, most casual words more effective but Papyrus had always wanted to aim higher. Maybe it was the upper-caser in him; he devoured the puzzle of sounding out larger, longer syllables, echoing them over and over (even a little uncontrollably sometimes) until they settled just right in his mouth.

When he piped up to contribute to older monsters’ conversations, they would often exclaim that he was “so well spoken for his age!” Sans would look at him with such a fond warmth in his eyelights and reply, “Yep, that’s my bro. He’s the coolest.”

The other kids in his class didn’t seem to share the sentiment, not even after he offered to help them with the words of the day. He had hoped studying together would be the start to a friendship (or at the very least what Sans called a give-and-take relationship.) Maybe if they were friends, they would in turn help him in the areas of study where they all excelled and he might, theoretically, ever so slightly fall short.

Instead they accused him of thinking they were stupid, insulting them just because he knew they wouldn’t understand. They complained to the teacher that he was being a showoff, using all these fancy words to act like he was better than them.

Perhaps it had reminded his teacher of the bad mood she was in last week when Papyrus told her the spelling flash cards were too easy. Whatever the case may be, she had issued a challenge: “Well, if you’re so confident in using your words, you can practice your cursive with the fourth grade word list.”

It wasn’t the more advanced list that dropped Papyrus’ soul into the pit of his metaphorical stomach. It was that one particular word: cursive.

Reading and recitation were doable, give-and-take; he was given letters, words, phrases and took them with him for future use. Writing, however, was…not that. It was the far less fun kind of puzzle, too much giving with too much room for mistakes—and he made many, many mistakes.

The margins of the designated writing zone never moved yet somehow he always managed to over- or underestimate how much room he had on the paper, sentences skidding sideways. The level of concentration he needed to make letters fit between the lines was ridiculous and it usually led to him missing some crucial punctuation. The joints in his fingers ached with every painstaking swirl of the pencil, and that was when he put his all into typical uppercase.

Cursive was, true to the name, a curse, and his teacher was well aware. She couldn’t not be, considering the number of exasperated conversations she and Sans had about it after class. After just such an occasion this afternoon, Sans even put on the serious tone when they got home, cajoling Papyrus to explain what was wrong, to just be honest with him. If he had hurt his hand at some point and decided to hide it from him, if it had healed wrong and it was affecting his line work—

Some of their frustration must have rubbed off on him because Papyrus’ honesty was a little louder than necessary. “It didn’t heal wrong because I didn’t hurt it! Whenever I try to write, it hurts without being hurt! I can see—” That didn’t sit quite right in his mouth for the context. Hissing a sharp breath through his teeth, he adjusted. “I can vis-u-al-ize the words I want but my head can’t make my hand write them! Either hand. I’ve tried both!” When his brother’s eye sockets narrowed, his irritation gave way to pleading, his offending hands flailing at the equally offending worksheet. “Just look at it, Sans! I know those words and you know I know them! I can read them, I can say them, I just can’t make them!”

“You can’t,” Sans repeated, and though his tone was unreadable, it still stung. “Can’t”, however small it may be, was a word Papyrus rarely ever liked using, especially in regards to himself. He preferred to think with enough optimism and time, he could do anything! But this? Detailing every one of those curling, spiraling lines with no slips, no misjudging the size, no smudges or streaks?

“No, I…can’t.” Resisting the urge to hunch his shoulders, he lowered his gaze, took another sharp breath and tried to pretend it didn’t catch in his throat. “But…I can try harder. I can try really, really hard if it means my teachers will stop yelling at the both of us. And I apologize for yelling at you just now too.” That was rather hypocritical: h-y-p-o—

“Hey.”

Sans lightly nudged his mandible, coaxing him to peek back up. His sockets were still narrowed, still serious, but thankfully not disbelieving or angry.

“Just because you can’t do it doesn’t mean you aren’t trying. I’m an expert at not trying, remember? I think I’d know if you weren’t. And just because you’re trying real hard doesn’t mean you can’t have help. But if I wanna help, I need to know when something is hurting you. Cause your homework shouldn’t be doing that. Do your hands hurt every single time you write?”

“Not as much if it’s something short but…even then, the pencil doesn’t make the letters small enough to suit the smaller words. They sit right in my thoughts but not on the paper.”

“Huh. And your teacher, how often is she getting mad at you for this? As often as she gets mad at me?”

That sounded suspiciously like Sans using his casual words to achieve an effect Papyrus might not agree with (or even be privy to.) Why did it feel like he might get someone in trouble? “Only as often as I do it wrong…”

“Huh,” Sans exhaled again, and there was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it flash of anger, just as Papyrus happened to blink. “Well, seeing as she couldn’t be bothered to ask nicely, I don’t see why you should have to bother with this.”

“What? Why not? What does that mean?”

Sans shrugged, folding the paper with surprising neatness before tucking it into his jacket. “I’ll take care of it. I’ve slept through my third and fourth grade classes already; it ought to be a breeze.”

“Sans, you can’t just do my homework for me!” Papyrus sputtered incredulously. “That’s cheating! And it wouldn’t even be clever cheating, considering our very different, very well-known fonts!”

“Who said I was gonna do it for you? I’m just gonna supervise like Teach told me—heh, ‘like a real, proper guardian would’—while Papyrus does it.”

For a moment Papyrus had to uncharacteristically wonder if Sans had gotten enough sleep last night. “Right. Yes. Papyrus…which is me…who, as we just discussed, can’t do it.”

Sans’ only response to that was one of his annoyingly cryptic winks before he padded toward the stairs. “Our fonts are pretty recognizable, aren’t they?” he mused offhanded after three or four steps. “Couldn’t mistake ’em for anything but Comic Sans and Papyrus. We fonts are so recognizable, the computer’s got a database chalk full of ’em. In fact, I think I saw one under the P’s that looks juuust like you and it doesn’t even hurt. The wonders of technology!”

“Wha—Sans!” As soon as his brother took a shortcut out of sight, Papyrus was bounding toward the stairs, hollering after him. “That sounds like a lot of effort to not try while helping me, in the worst possible way!”

“Sorry, can’t hear you! Me and Papyrus are too busy studying real hard up here where it’s quiet,” Sans called down the hall. “And actually, we’re making so much progress and I’m so proud, I might just make a fancy printout of his work when he’s done to show your teacher!”

“Sans!”

Forgery: f-o-r-g-e-r-y.

[suzdin]

Two For One: Ch. 3

Part One | Part Two

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, pre-vampire Max, pre-Equalizer 2 Dave, familial drama and angst, mentions of drug use/abuse, fingering, oral (f receiving), spitting, oral (m receiving), dom!Dave, soft!Dave, dom!Max, unprotected p in v, degradation, choking, voyeurism.

Word Count: 10k+

Notes: I don’t even know. Max is an asshole as usual but also kind of sweet at one point, Dave is his normal creepy self but that’s why we love him. Reader has a magical vagina apparently

——

Dave barely slept without you next to him.

He could still smell you on his sheets, his skin. It was driving him insane, his proximity to you. So close yet so far. There were several times he debated getting out of bed and going to you, but he willed himself to stay. Dave knew he wasn’t a good man—a fucked up man, even—but there were lines even he wouldn’t cross.

Still, dreaming about sneaking into your apartment in the middle of the night to fuck you senseless was making him hard as ever. You made him feel young again.

He settled for fucking his hand to the video he took of you instead, hot tendrils of spend soaking his stomach as he honed in on the faces you made, listening to your pretty noises. It was nowhere near as good as the real you, but it was all he could do to alleviate the ache, the constant yearning he felt.

He wakes early the next day. Before sunrise. He knew you were unlikely to be up at this hour, so he tries to preoccupy himself with packing for the trip, neatly arranging his clothes in a small weekend bag, packing a smaller separate bag for toiletries. Lastly, in its own case, his trusty Beretta M9A1, which he tucks into the larger of the two bags.

He sips on a cup of tea, extra strong, his head fuzzy from only having gotten a couple of hours of consistent sleep at best. He googles the hours of your coffee shop, uncertain if you would even be there, to find it doesn’t open for another hour and a half.

He settles for walking to the 24 hour store on the corner and purchasing a can of Monster, toying with his phone, wondering if he should try messaging you despite how early it is. As he’s rounding the corner back to his building, glancing up at your window which is still dark, he finagles his phone out of his pocket and opens his texts.

There’s already one there from you, a simple “Hey”, when you’d texted him last night so he would have your number. It tugs at his chest seeing the lone message.

Dave: Morning. You up?

He hits send and instantly chastises himself for being so needy. It’s done now, though. Nothing he can do about it. He’ll worry about it later.

He goes back to his apartment and chugs the cocktail of pure sugar and caffeine, tossing the can into the trash, but it does little to curb his exhaustion, only elevating his heart rate. Finished packing, and complete with his intel gathering on Jonathan for the time being, he isn’t sure what else he can do before he needs to leave for Virginia. He can, of course, depart early, leaving nothing to the fate of traffic and other unknowns. But he doesn’t like that idea. He would much rather see you.

He starts to think of last night again, his dick hard again, and he grunts, annoyed with his never ending horniness at this point.

He tries to ignore his slew of persistent thoughts by turning on the TV to watch the early morning news, slumping into his couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table. The weatherman is currently reciting the 10-day forecast. Supposed to be nice weather into next week. That’s good news, Dave thinks.

He leans back and makes himself comfortable, rubbing his ever present erection over his pants, trying to take his mind off of you. He doesn’t want to jerk off again. He wants the next time he cums to be with you. In you.

“Jesus,” he mumbles to himself, wiping his eyes.

He checks his phone even though he’s sure you haven’t responded. Still nothing. He frowns and tosses the offending piece of technology onto the couch and shuts his eyes.

With your face the last image in his mind’s eye, Dave drifts off.

——

He startles himself awake, sleep deprived brain in a panic, concerned that he’s running late, concerned that he missed his window to see you.

He checks his phone for the time, breathing a sigh of relief. It’s only been half an hour, but it feels like he slept for half a century.

There’s also no texts from you. You’re probably still asleep. But part of him also worries that you’re dodging him.

He cards a hand through his hair, groaning in frustration. He needs to shower. And then he needs to eat. Food is the last thing on his mind right now, though. The only sustenance he wants—needs—is you.

It’s just after 5 AM. He could get in another cat nap in, if he wanted, but he’s worried he might not get so lucky a second time. He decides not to risk it, urging himself to get off the sofa and into the shower.

As he strips down to bare skin, stiff cock springing free, he can’t stop thinking about how the wet press of your body would feel against his. How you would feel sandwiched between himself and the shower wall as he drives himself into you over and over until your throat is raw from screaming his name.

He wishes you were here.

——

The edges of consciousness start to blink into existence. You can see sunlight filtering through the flesh of your closed eyelids, hear the distant sounds of the city that drift in through the window by your bed. You hear a dog barking somewhere and the grind of a garbage truck a block down.

And then another noise, foreign to your ears, breaking through the song of the city and the fog of your mind: a loud, aggressive buzzing from somewhere inside your apartment.

What the fuck?

You jerk awake, early morning sun too bright to your sleep-wasted eyes, and the buzzing is bellowing at you again, making your head throb. You grumble in aggravation.

You scramble out of bed, tripping over your comforter as you do so, to locate the source of the invasive sound. It doesn’t take you long to find it, a bronze panel on the wall with a speaker and button by the door that you’ve largely ignored until now, thinking it was defunct when the landlord never took the time to explain it to you.

You go over to it, cautiously depressing the button under your finger, mumbling a sleepy, and slightly irritated, “Hello?”

There’s the faint scratch of static and then a voice, tinny and distorted, but clear enough to understand and recognize: “Hey. Sorry if I woke you. It’s Dave.” His tone is apologetic.

You blink, rubbing your eyes. What time is it? Why is he here?

“It’s okay. Morning, Dave.”

There’s a pause. Then: “I brought you some breakfast. Can I come up for a minute?”

You let go of the button and sigh. You should really say no, but he went through the trouble of getting you something—your people pleasing nature rearing its ugly head once again—even though you were just going to eat the baklava you both forgot about last night for breakfast.

You press the button again. “Yeah, sure. I don’t think I have a way to buzz you in so I’ll be right down…” you say.

“No, no, it’s okay, I see someone coming down now,” Dave responds, followed by more static and what you think is shuffling. “What’s your unit number?”

It’s all a ruse on his part, of course, because he already knows the unit number and no one is actually coming. But he has to make it believable. He has to see you, take care of you—in more ways than one.

Before he left his apartment, he pocketed a piece of technology left over from his CIA days, a small spy camera roughly the size of a golf tee. Part of himself thinks he should feel guilty for even considering what he’s about to do. It was an invasion of privacy, surely, something most often reserved for criminals and terrorists. You were neither—far from it—but he knows he needs to keep you in his sights as often as possible. He’ll go mad if he doesn’t. Especially while he’s gone.

“Be right up,” he replies when you give your unit, tapping in the door code from memory and letting himself into the building.

He clutches the bag with your everything bagel and bottle of orange juice and heads up the stairs. He deliberated on getting you a coffee, but considering where you work, you probably have your own coffee at home, so he settled on orange juice for the vitamin C to cure the undoubted hangover you surely have.

He reaches the landing and finds you already standing in the doorway of your apartment, waiting for him, a cigarette already perched between your fingers, smoke curling to the ceiling.

You’re not exactly dressed to impress in your dark blue camisole, pink plaid pajama bottoms, fuzzy black slippers and sky blue house robe covered in fluffy white clouds. Your hair is a rat’s nest and everything about you screams disheveled and just rolled out of bed, barely having the energy to shower last night and then going to sleep with wet hair, but Dave slows when his gaze lands on you, taking in the full sight of you. Forcing himself to maintain composure.

“Hey,” he says quietly, a warm smile pooling across his face.

“Hey,” you offer back, mirroring his smile. You can’t help it—he looks good—damn good—in his slate gray tee and black sweatpants that don’t leave a lot of room for interpretation.

You blush feverishly and he responds in kind, averting his gaze and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. The audacity of this man to act bashful after what he did to you. Your stomach flutters full of butterflies.

“Is that Sal’s?” you query, pointing at the bag and diverting your wandering thoughts. “I love them!” You’re pretty sure Sal’s is one of the first places you ever noticed Dave.

“Yeah. Everything bagel with extra cream cheese,” he responds. “I’ve overheard you order it before. I hope that isn’t weird.”

Maybe it is a little weird, but it’s fine. At least he pays attention. Jonathan lived with you for months and still couldn’t remember a damn thing you liked.

“No, I think it’s sweet. Thanks,” you say, taking the bag from him and peeking inside.

“And orange juice for vitamin C and hydration. Good for a hangover,” Dave points out, hooking one corner of his lips into a lopsided grin.

You smile at Dave. You aren’t sure if you should ask him in or what the custom even is for a situation where you just met a guy and he fucked you into another dimension.

Your head adjusts slightly and you meet his gaze. A look is shared between the two of you—Dave giving you the same look he gave you last night, dark eyes and tightly pursed lips—arousal sparking hot between your legs as your mind starts to replay all the events from the previous evening. A blaze licks through you like unchecked wildfire.

Dave takes a tentative step towards you at roughly the same time Mrs. Tobin’s door starts to click open over his shoulder, your eyes going wide as you gather a handful of his shirt and yank him into your apartment, quickly shutting the door behind you before she can see the cigarette still smoldering in your hand, ash slowly flitting to the floor in a rush of movement.

You start to tell Dave that the old bitch has already reported you for smoking in the building, but the words don’t have a moment to leave your mouth, broad hands spanning your waist to walk you backwards, lips crashing into yours as you both share a desperate moan.

You grunt into Dave’s mouth when you feel the kitchen counter collide with your ass, still very much sore from the night before. He plucks the cigarette and bag from your hands, snuffing the carcinogenic stick out in the sink next to you and placing the bag on the counter for you to indulge later.

He undoes the binds of your robe to let it splay open, hands slithering around to your backside to cup both cheeks in his hands, kneading, pulling you apart.

You keen in reverence of his touch. You and Dave are an incendiary mix, fire meeting gasoline, your only time spent together so far a need to be so close your fibers might as well be fused at the seams.

“I missed this ass,” Dave whispers, giving it a small slap. “Couldn’t sleep because of it.” Because of you. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over being the first to pop your ass cherry and how well you took it.

He kisses you again, tongue dragging the cavern of your mouth, lashing against your own. You don’t even give it much thought as you slip your arm down the front of his pants to find he isn’t wearing anything under his sweats, hips bucking into your clutches as your fingers circle and stroke his shaft.

“Fuck,” he pants into your mouth. “I don’t have much time.” His eyes drill into yours, wild and chaotic, lips parted in a savage, carnal snarl. He should have been on the road fifteen minutes ago, but he couldn’t resist leaving without seeing you. Especially not now.

“We need to be fast, then,” you suggest, and that’s all the confirmation he needs. He removes your robe and lets it fall to the floor, fingers digging into the sensitive meat of your ass as he lifts you up to carry you to the bed.

You link your legs around his waist and hold onto his wide shoulders to steady yourself as he carries you, your back making contact with the mattress a moment later.

He rips your pajama bottoms down your legs, revealing that you, too, are not wearing any underwear.

“Prettiest fucking cunt I’ve ever seen,” he surmises, spreading you open, bending down to spit directly onto your sex. He doesn’t have a lot of time to prepare you, but he needs to give you something, gliding two of his fingers through the mixture of your arousal and his spittle, pressing said thick digits into your opening, pumping.

“Do you remember the safe word?” Dave asks you.

“Yes,” you say quietly. Your tunnel tightens around his fingers, sucking him in, your body already in pursuit of relief.

He lands a sharp smack to the top of your cunt with a growl, your walls squeezing even harder around his fingers. “Say it. And address me as sir.”

“F-foxglove, s-sir,” you reply, your voice wavering. He rewards you by curling his fingers against your sensitive patch of nerves, making you keen.

“Atta girl. Are you ready to take me?”

“Dave—I mean, sir—I have condoms

—“

He stretches an arm over you to slap a breast, this time. The sensitive one that he did a number on last night, causing you to choke on a gasp, your core flooding with arousal at the rush of pain.

“That’s not what I asked, sweetheart. Our rules from last night still stand. You need to trust me.” He deliberately slows his fingers, bringing them nearly to a stop as he looks up at you with not-quite-innocent, expansive brown eyes, awaiting your answer.

“Yes sir. I’m ready to take you, sir,” you acquiesce, rubbing your sensitive breast. He doesn’t reprimand you this time.

He pulls his fingers from you and stands, sliding the sweat pants down his legs and kicking them out of the way, revealing smooth, well muscled thighs; engorged sex flared red and weeping.

He spreads your legs apart and doesn’t give you any additional time to ready yourself, notching himself at your entrance and then shoving himself forward all the way until he bottoms out, exhaling a long breath as he does so, hips shuddering with pleasure.

He fills you in ways you didn’t think were possible, flaying you apart, making you feel every last centimeter of his length and girth, even with the initial shallow gyrations of his hips.

“Shit,” he rumbles, leaning onto his calves so he can watch you swallow him. “So good at taking me, sweet girl.”

He could watch you like this all day, split open and keening on his cock, but time is a mournfully pressing issue. He lifts your legs to rest your calves against the wide breadth of his shoulders, parting you even more as he wastes no time in breaking into an unrelenting sprint.

It sends you spiraling, the small of your back coming off the mattress with a loud cry that vibrates your lungs.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself cum.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hand finds your swollen clit just shy of the press of your bodies, gathering some slick on the pads of your fingers, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Still so sore,” you plead, your fingers flicking lightly between your legs. “Don’t know if I can, sir.”

Dave clicks his tongue. “I don’t care. You will cum for me. Or I’ll flip you over and fuck that sweet ass of yours again if you don’t,” he threatens, causing your asshole to pucker at the mere mention. “Make you leak my cum two days in a row.”

“N-no,” you mumble, your words rising and falling with every hard slam of his hips. “Please don’t.”

“Then cum for me,” he snarls, the bridge of his nose creased in a sneer, bottom lip jutted outward in concentration. He slaps one side of your hip to aggregate his point. “Cum on my cock or I’m filling your ass again.” His dick thrums just at the thought.

Your fingers move faster, circling and strumming at your clit, a definite sting of discomfort ever present but fading gradually as your pleasure begins to build, the tell tale sensation growing deep in your core. You never thought of yourself as a person to enjoy pain, or being so carelessly manhandled, yet here you are.

“Oh, Dave…” you whine, cupping your unmarked breast with your other hand, rolling the nipple between your fingers.

His grueling pace doesn’t falter. Your noises are driving him to the brink and he isn’t sure how much longer he can hold out, but he wants you to cum. Needs you to cum.

He’s poised on his knees, gripping handfuls of your upper thighs, slamming into you as deftly and expeditiously as he can manage at his age, with a back destroyed by years of hard physical labor.

You let out a high pitched moan and he grunts, fingernails digging into your flesh, leaving behind tiny pink crescent moons of himself there. Another stake in his claim to you.

“Alright baby, alright baby. Come on now. Cum for me.” His voice is soft and deep, eyes trained on your face. He can feel your walls tightening around him, and he knows you’re close.

The tight coil in your lower abdomen unfurls and your climax suddenly works its way through you, a cry rolling from your lips, back arching as you clamp down and strangle him, sucking him deeper. He growls, guttural and worshipping, as you peak.

He rears back to spit on you, a hot globule of saliva landing on your stomach and pooling in the hollow divot of your belly button.

“That’s right, you fucking whore, fuck— sit up and open your mouth,” he snarls in a deep timbre from the depths of his chest.

He doesn’t give you a moment to respond or even comprehend, pulling out of you and yanking you upright to the edge of the bed, digging his fingers into your hair at the base of your skull to pull your mouth onto him, and you part your lips subserviently.

He presses the slick, engorged head to your lips and pushes himself forward into your mouth. He’s so girthy, stretching you beyond what you’re used to, but you let your muscles slacken, everything relaxing to better accept him.

He groans and pushes deeper, a trek through the wet heat of your mouth, holding your head in place as he finds his way.

“That’s it, sweet girl, open up for me—“

He begins to thrust, shallow at first, working you apart centimeter by centimeter. He reaches the back of your throat and it is a struggle not to gag, tears breaking at the rims of your eyes, but you push through it, exhaling through your nostrils as you peer up at him through your lashes.

His hand finds the outer bend of your throat, collaring you, gripping snugly as he begins to rut faster, feeling himself moving in your esophagus in the cradle of his hand. It’s all too much, too much and somehow not enough to diminish his never ending thirst for you, cock twitching and balls pulling tight in his scrotum as he starts to empty himself down your throat with a loud groan, panting your name on his lips.

“Fuck!”

He keeps you there for several moments longer, everything from the waist down shivering and shuddering with exertion, until he starts to grow soft between your lips. His cock slips wet and heavy from your mouth, a thin line of spittle connecting and then breaking as he moves away.

He falls into bed next to you to catch his breath, landing on his back, one large hand settling on your thigh as he shields his eyes from the rays of sunlight with the other. “Thank you,” he says quietly, broad chest rising and falling with every breath.

You tilt your head at him. “No, thank you,” you counter.

You look down at Dave, the sharp cut of his jaw and plush lips peeking out from beneath his hand. An unexpected scorch of anxiety moves through you as it occurs to you that you’re liking Dave a little too much and too quickly, making you feel nothing but unsettled, your stomach doing flip flops. You don’t want a repeat of Jonathan.

“I should, um. Go clean myself up,” you say, pushing yourself off the bed. Dave’s hand slides from your thigh with a heavy thud against the mattress, and he watches you go, disconcerted at your apparent and sudden unease. But knowing this is likely his only chance to plant the camera, he lets you go.

“I’ll join you in a second,” he calls out. As soon as you disappear into the bathroom, he slowly scoots off the bed, quietly as he can to not arouse suspicion. He hears the creak of a faucet being turned and water spilling out.

He rises to his feet and glances around. Your apartment looks as much as he imagined it would, faded blue walls with a few pictures hung of what appears to be family, along with several pieces of art. You seem to like dark and semi-abstract, one of the larger pieces a bloody skull on a black background, daisies placed in the skull’s eye sockets, paint strokes appearing to be scratched together with a palette knife rather than an actual brush.

It stirs something in his soul, if he has one. He is the skull and you are the flowers. He steps closer for further examination but doesn’t see an artist signature anywhere. Did you paint this? Did your ex?

His jaw ticks.

You have a few plants in the window sill, some of them thriving and some not. The apartment is cluttered and unkempt but not trashy. You aren’t as fastidious as Dave, but he likes that about you. It compliments him, balances him out. He notices a few empty bottles of alcohol in the trash bin next to the kitchen.

He dips to grab his pants where the camera is stowed, reaching into the pocket to grab it as he continues to look for an optimal location. And then he finds one: a bent slat in the vent by your window, which directly faces the bed. The gap is just wide enough to slip the camera in between.

He moves to the vent and tucks the camera inside, between the slats, the lens pointed directly at your headboard. He maneuvers it into place until he’s satisfied with its placement, hoping it will stay put. He’ll be able to control it from both his phone and his computer.

As he turns to join you in the bathroom, he notices your own laptop propped precariously on a folding table in the corner, screen open to what appears to be a word document, cursor still visibly flashing. A work in progress of sorts. Curiosity gets the better of him and he moves over to the screen, bending to read the words written there:

Raye found herself in what appeared to be a pasture, grass as high as her chest, which was bathed in a gentle pouring of pale golden moonlight. Her shirt clung to her sweat-damp skin and her chest heaved with effort, legs pumping as quickly as she could move them, propelling her forward into the tall grass.

She was alone as far as she could tell. No cows or horses that she could discern, nothing that could act as possible interference for the creature in pursuit. No buildings in sight. Only a line of trees in the nearby distance, and swarms of june bugs that smacked into her face and body as she ran.

She knew there must be a road somewhere beyond the trees. She had gotten lost after running out of gas in the middle of her road trip down south, turning down the wrong kind of country road in the middle of Louisiana at night, which had landed her smack dab in the middle of the woods, her bearings and sense of direction scrambled, the thing chasing her still snapping at her heels. She had only glimpsed the massive animal for a split second before she bolted, her instincts telling her to run.

And then the inevitable happened. Her foot found a well in the soil, her momentum so great that she tumbled ass over teakettle into the dirt and grass, a cry of pain escaping her lungs as her shoulder made contact with the hard packed earth.

She only had a moment to look up before she saw it, the massive wolf-like monster’s jaws descending on her, fangs flashing silver in the glow of moonlight. Patchy tendrils of black fur streaking out of its dark, greasy skin.

It ends there and he hums to himself. You hadn’t talked about writing before, and he’d found no evidence of it otherwise. It’s good. Really good. You continue to intrigue him.

He makes it to the bathroom and you’re just starting to towel off, smiling at him with your eyes. There’s a damp rag on the edge of the sink. He reaches for it.

“May I?” he asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

The audacity of this man.

“By all means,” you reply, taking a step back, stumbling on a pile of dirty laundry. You watch and blush as Dave runs the moist towel over himself. Even soft, his size is impressive.

“So, what are you going to Virginia for?” you query, making conversation. His eyes meet yours and his expression grows somber.

“To see my two girls,” he answers honestly. “My ex and I… well, I get to see them twice a month. It… it’s a fucked up situation.” He doesn’t elaborate. This man is a fucking enigma.

You aren’t sure how to process this new snippet of information. Two girls? Ex? You must be making a face because he reaches for your hand.

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you last night—it just wasn’t the right time.”

“It’s okay,” you offer weakly. “I mean, kind of a shock, but it’s fine.”

He brushes his fingers over the back of his neck, regretful that he didn’t tell you sooner, so consumed in his desire of you he didn’t want to send you running for the hills. “Yeah, I get it. It’s a lot.”

You cross your arms. “What are their names and how old are they?” you inquire.

“Mollie is six and Alice is four,” he replies.

You nod. “It is a lot,” you confirm, a vicious knot twisting its way around your stomach. You weren’t a big fan of kids. Maybe this could actually be what prevents you from falling for Dave, a fact you couldn’t help to admit you were a little grateful for. “But it’s okay. I understand.”

His countenance darkens into a sad smile, those dark brown eyes gazing at you, shiny and big and apologetic. God, why does he have to look at you like that?

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and pulls you into his chest, arms circling your back, hands finding the swell of your ass and softly squeezing. He bends to kiss you, and in spite of yourself, you let him. It’s a tender kiss, delicate and gentle, reminding you once again that Dave is a man of many faces.

He breaks the kiss a moment later, staring into your eyes, brushing your hair back from your face. “I really don’t want to, but I need to be going. Will you walk me to my car?”

——

You walk Dave down. You don’t bother putting on real clothes, wearing exactly what you had on when you woke up. The only difference is you briefly ran a brush through your hair.

He walks with his arm linked around your shoulders. He’s proud to show you off even in your current state. You try not to think about it. You don’t need more reasons to get attached. You need less.

“This is me,” he says, pointing to a sensible black Elantra, which you’ve definitely seen around before.

“I hope you have a nice trip. Have fun with your girls,” you say.

“Always do.” That was a lie. As much as he appreciated spending time with them, it was always full of undue stress and bone numbing exhaustion, two weeks worth of anxiety crammed into a single weekend. If only he could take you with him to ease some of the suffering.

“We’ll have to go out again sometime when I get back,” he suggests. “I’ll call you.”

“Yeah, sounds good.”

He smiles. Kisses you, again, more passionate than the last, but not at all salacious. You break the kiss, this time.

“You’re beautiful,” Dave says, his hand resting against the column of your neck. “So beautiful.” His thumb traces your pulse point.

You playfully shove at his chest. He doesn’t budge an inch because he’s an immovable wall of flesh. “Stop it. I look like shit. And you need to go.”

“You don’t look like shit. But I do need to go.”

He goes to kiss you one final time, cradling your jaw. The last for who knows how long, depending on how long the hit takes.

A sound registers at your six. And then barking, loud and shrill, a familiar voice attempting—and failing—to calm the offending dog.

“Good mornin’, dear,” Mrs. Tobin says in a thick Irish accent, and you turn to find her coming back from her early morning walk with her Yorkie, Jack.

“Morning, Mrs. Tobin.” Your hand goes to your neck, doing your best to hide the dark marks on your skin.

“Morning,” Dave offers. He pretends not to be bothered by the interruption.

“Come now, Jackie boy, it’s just our neighbor and her friend,” she says to the small dog with a knowing wink, still trying to settle him. Her eyes track where your hand is. “Or maybe more’na friend. You don’t have to hide those from me, dear. I was young once too, yeh know,” she says with a short laugh.

You blush. Dave blushes, too. God. This man.

“Well, hope yeh have a nice mornin’. Let’s go, Jackie boy, give ‘em some privacy,” she says, tugging at the leash.

“You too,” you reply with a touch of annoyance. Dave lifts his hand in a wave. As soon as she’s a reasonable distance away, he finally gets to kiss you. Again. And it’s nice. Too nice.

Okay, maybe you are falling for him.

——

After hastily shoving the bagel down your throat, you end up going back to bed for a few hours. No work, no responsibilities. You put your phone on Do Not Disturb. If there’s a work emergency, they can call Maury or they’ll just have to figure it out themselves. You can’t always hold their hands for them. You’re going to take advantage of the opportunity to get some rest.

You wake later in the day to several missed texts and four missed calls from your mom. And one from Dave, from before he showed up at your door.

You groan and hesitantly open the texts from your mother. You let out a sigh of exasperation when you read what’s got her so spooked, deciding it isn’t worth it to call her back right away. At least not before you have some coffee to lift the haze from your mind. She’s waited this long; she can wait longer.

Mom: Ur brother is back in jail. Call me when u get a chanse ok?

Of fucking course he is. You toss the phone down with a roll of your eyes. Garrett has had so many run ins with the law since you were a kid, you’ve lost count at this point.

You brew yourself some coffee. One of the perks of managing a coffee shop is free bags of coffee, and this one is good—pumpkin pecan, one of the new seasonal flavors. You were as basic as they come when it came to anything pumpkin flavored.

You scarf down the baklava as you inhale your coffee, which you suppose is your lunch. You feel a little bad that you forgot to offer Dave half of it, but he got what he showed up for, so you don’t dwell on it.

Your mom calls again. You answer, this time, sighing as you place the phone against your ear. You don’t even bother with a hello.

“I already saw. Sorry to hear that, mom.” You really aren’t.

“Where the hell have you been? I was worried sick!” your mom chides. “Your brother’s in jail an’ you’re MIA?”

“Yeah, mom, I’m a grown woman with my own life in a different city. I was resting. I don’t have to be at your every beck and call, especially when it isn’t even that import—“

“The hell it ain’t! How’m I supposed to get him out of there? I don’t have bail money!”

You light one of your cigarettes and take a long drag before responding. “I’m not sending you money to bail him out,” you state firmly. “First of all, I don’t have it right now. And secondly, he’ll never learn if—“

“Then what’re we supposed to do?” she snorts.

“I don’t know. Leave him in there, or get a bail bondsman. Not my problem,” you say, your tone flat and apathetic. You’ve been numb to this issue since you were a teen. Since all the empty promises he made to you of coming clean.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kidding me!”

“No, I’m not. I’ll send you money for grandma’s medical bills, or groceries or rent, but I’m not sending money for this.”

“So, that’s it, huh? You just don’t give a shit about us?”

You roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised she doesn’t hear it through the phone.

“How’s grandma?” you question, notably changing the subject.

The line goes dead. You stare at the phone. She hung up on you.

Figures.

You don’t bother calling her back. There’s no point. You’ll never come to an agreement on the issue, anyway, and it will only stress you out more than necessary.

Garrett has always been your mother’s favorite. It used to bother you. As expensive as Boston is, and as much as you miss Texas and your grandma, you’re happy to be well removed from that life right now. Studio apartments are more your jam than living in trailer parks.

You decide that your anger with the issue is a good enough motivator to help you clean, which you’ve been sorely neglecting doing for far too long. You turn on your angriest playlist—Korn, Deftones, Slipknot, et cetera—and spend most of the day deep cleaning everything. The Deftones’ ‘My Own Summer’ comes on and you scream along to the lyrics. “Shove it, shove it, shove it!”

Not that it matters anymore. Two men have already seen your home in its state of disrepair, but it gives you something to focus on and decompress for a few hours, which is what you wanted.

You ponder texting Dave. Needing to vent to him or anyone since you don’t really have any friends that you talk to anymore. After some consideration, however, you change your mind. You don’t need to burden him with your bullshit. Least of all while he’s visiting his kids.

You settle on googling how to get rid of a hickey instead.

——

Max has never really dated anyone.

Not that he wants to date you.

He had tried to convince himself you were a one time thing. A quick and impermanent release of tension and little else. A means to put you in your place for publicly embarrassing him. So why can’t he get you out of his mind? Why have you been the first and last thing he’s thought about all day? He’s been fighting with his dick, trying not to think about yesterday, and failing miserably. He holed himself up in his office most of the work day.

It wasn’t just about the sex. It was more than that. But Max doesn’t date. He fucks and moves on. Simple as that.

But if that’s the case, why is he at The Beanery again, asking metal-face kid what your favorite drink is?

Vincent shrugs. “I dunno. She likes…cold drinks, I think?” he answers unhelpfully. Max isn’t a patient man. Or a nice one. But he’s trying, for you. He really is.

“You don’t know what she orders?” Max presses. His already paper thin patience is waning by the second.

“Not really,” Vincent responds. “Sorry.”

Max rubs his eyes with the pads of his fingers. He doesn’t want to show up at your door empty handed, although he isn’t really sure why it matters, or why he cares this much. He’s never wooed a woman in his entire life.

Flowers would be too romantic. He isn’t quite there yet. Not that he’ll ever be. But he needs to bring you…something, to make it less weird.

He’s fully aware he has no fucking clue what he’s doing.

“She likes the pumpkin fall latte. Iced,” another voice pipes up. A tall woman with brown hair that Max recognizes as the assistant manager steps out from behind a wall with a clipboard in her hands. Probably taking inventory, Max thinks. She doesn’t like Max—no one does, except Maury—but she wants to get him out of here ASAP.

“Thank you,” Max responds with a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says again, canting his brows in annoyance towards Vincent.

“I’ll take one. Large. And my usual.” He purses his lips, taking in a breath through his nose. “Please,” he adds, still trying his best, adding his signature crooked smile.

Sarah and Vincent don’t question why Max is asking after you or buying your favorite drink. They don’t care enough to know.

He runs the yellow tie around his neck through his fingers as he waits as patiently as he can manage, still struggling and failing to keep his dick on a leash. God, what the fuck is he doing?

——

God, what the fuck are YOU doing?

Max is at your door. And he brought you a gift.

He shoulders past you into your apartment without asking, causing your jaw to clench in frustration. He’s always doing that. Doing whatever the fuck he wants. It pisses you off to no end.

“You can’t just storm into my home, Max—“

“Here.” He hands you your drink which is partially melted due to the walk over, offering you his most flattering grin. He just wants to see you. He isn’t going to give up so easily.

You begrudgingly accept and take a heavy sip. It’s a nice reprieve from the rest of your day. You’ve been in a bad mood since the conversation with your mom, so sugar and caffeine are a welcome distraction right now.

You poured the time after you were done cleaning into your writing. Letting your anger guide your hand as you described the werewolf in your story tearing into Raye’s abdomen and slurping her entrails like meat spaghetti.

That isn’t where the story was going or what you had intended to write, but it helped to take some of the edge off. Until now, at least. You’ll change it later.

What’s more, you couldn’t find a good solution to your hickey problem, and you really hope they’ll be gone by tomorrow morning. You’re doing opening shift again. You wish Dave wouldn’t have left them in such an obvious, visible place.

Yeah, you really weren’t in the mood. Even if Max did somehow find out what your favorite drink is and bring it to you. What is it with men today, bringing you your favorite things…completely unprompted?

It’s baffling.

“Thanks, Max, for the drink,” you begin evenly. “I appreciate it, I do. But you need to go. I’ve had a weird day and—“

“What is that?” His eyes flash. He smirks, but it’s lacking mirth or humor. You don’t need to track their movement; you know exactly what he’s talking about.

“What do you mean?” you ask innocently, your hand involuntarily moving to your neck.

He grabs your arm to pull your hand away, stepping so close you can smell his cologne. His nostrils flare in anger. “Who did this to you?” he asks shortly, examining your neck.

The crass, cocky, self-important Max is gone. Now he’s just pissed.

“You did this to me yesterday, remember?” you retort.

“I didn’t do that. I did…this,” he explains, curving the back of his index finger against the vaguely incisor-shaped bruises on your neck. “But these? These aren’t my style.”

You step away from Max with a frown, taking another sip of your drink with your back turned. You aren’t beholden to Max. Or even Dave, for that matter.

“Did you fuck someone else?” Max accuses, stepping closer to you. “Who?”

“It doesn’t matter, Max. It really doesn’t.”

“It does matter.” He places his hands on his hips and stares you down.

“No, it doesn’t, unless it’s you, it’s none of your business who I fuck. And I’m not fucking you again, so get out,” you snap back.

Max isn’t going down without a fight. His lips twist into a grin, and he moves into your space, crowding you against the small table by your kitchen which you mostly use as a catch-all. It rattles as a result of impact.

“It was your white knight at the coffee shop. Wasn’t it?” he presses. He plucks your drink from your hand and puts it down on the table.

“No.” Your lips tremble. You’re a bad liar.

He raises his eyebrows in victory. He has you exactly where he wants you.

He isn’t sure why he cares. Or why he’s feeling so possessive over you. He barely paid attention to you before yesterday.

He cages you in with his hands planted on either side of your body on the edge of the table, nose bent to yours, looking down into your eyes. Brow wrinkled in disapproval.

“How does he fuck?” Max asks. Eyes burning holes through you, dick twitching in his slacks.

“Better than you,” you spit.

“Ouch, baby.” Max grabs the underside of your jaw, angling your head back, aquiline nose pressed firmly against your cheek. “Guess we’ll have to make a comparison then, hmm?”

Without warning, Max picks you up effortlessly and tosses you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You squeak in surprise, your legs thrashing against his torso.

“Max, put me the fuck down!” you yell. He doesn’t listen, his hand firmly rooted in the small of your back until you reach the bed, dropping you face down on top of your bedding and pillows.

He mounts you from behind before you have a chance to wriggle away, his full weight pressed into you, erection dragging your ass. You can’t help it—you moan.

“How many times did he make you cum, sweetheart?”

“Max, that really isn’t any—“

“How many?” he growls into your ear, snapping his hips against the soreness of your ass.

“Five,” you admit in defeat. “Five. Can you let me up now?”

His lips pull back in snarl. “Mmm. I don’t know. It sounds like I have some catching up to do.”

You huff out a breath as he rises, flipping you onto your back and sliding your pants down your legs. You’d actually changed into something other than pajamas, for once, but you’re still devoid of undergarments. He eyes you hungrily, licking his lips.

“Did he fuck you rough or soft?” Max asks, undoing the cuff links on his jacket so he can shuck it off. He takes it off carefully, draping it over the back of your couch, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Rough,” you answer, swallowing, watching him undress.

Max nods, eyes darkening with lust. He crouches in front of you, hands spreading your thighs apart. “That’s right. Whores always like it rough, don’t they?” You can feel his breath ghosting your inner thigh.

Fresh arousal seeps out of you, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Max. He grins up at you, visage remaining hard. “Looking real tasty for me, sweetheart.”

“Max…” you attempt to protest, but there’s little point. You’re fucked up as they come because you’re enjoying being used like this. Just a series of holes for both of them. One man didn’t want you, and now two men want you, at the same time.

It sure as hell made you feel a lot better about the entire situation. Empowered, even.

Your core throbs with more arousal as you imagine how it would feel to take them simultaneously; Dave pressed to your back with Max beneath you. Or Max fucking into you from behind as Dave spears into your mouth.

“Mmm. Such a good little whore,” Max coos, dragging two fingers through your slick. “Let’s start with the first of five, shall we?”

His fingers find your opening and he presses them inside, languidly rolling them inward, shallow to start and then traversing deeper. His fingers are already drenched in you by the time the meat of his palm reaches your entrance.

“She’s weeping for me,” Max muses, twisting his fingers to stretch you out more. “Isn’t she?”

“Mmhmm,” you moan, your hips mirroring the movements of his hand. “You feel so good.”

“Damn right I do.”

He opens you up further as he bends to lick a wide, slow stripe up your seam, a precursory taste, pausing at your clit to slowly circle it with the ball of his tongue. You’re impervious to stop your back from coming off the bed at the shock of it, Max’s arm sliding up to bar across your stomach to keep you pressed against the mattress.

“Don’t move,” he growls.

His mouth dips lower, hawkish nose grazing your clit as he does and you moan, writhing beneath him. His arm clamps harder.

His mouth finds your entrance and he begins fucking into you with his tongue. Your fingers dip into his dark, neatly groomed hair, twisting it, just to have something to grip onto while he works his magic between your legs.

Max finds himself grinding against the edge of the bed for some relief. He’s having a hard time not resigning himself to just saying ‘fuck it’ and sinking into your wet heat.

His lips move back up, tongue parting your seam, circling your clit again as he uses his other hand to slip three fingers into you.

Max hums as his lips close around your clit, the sound vibrating your bundle of nerves. You moan. “Oh god…”

Your fingers tighten in his hair. A simple action but one that spurs him on nonetheless, curling his fingers to fuck into you, lips suckling at your clit. It’s a struggle for Max to keep you against the bed.

He’s barely just started and you’re already about to lose it.

Max smirks between your legs. He briefly removes his arm from your stomach to free himself from his pants for some much needed relief, his cock swollen and aching as it springs free. He pumps himself a couple of times before moving his arm back to your torso, pinning you in place once more.

Max has always been more of a self-serving lover than anything. He had enough skill to pull at least one orgasm out of his partners, two if he was feeling generous — but five? He would never admit it, or even acknowledge it, but he’s more than a little anxious that he’ll be able to get that many from you.

He’s trying his damndest, though, as he applies more pressure to your clit, increasing the speed and force of his fingers inside of you. He ruts against the bed again, wanting nothing more than to fuck you into next Tuesday, but he can’t do that. Not yet.

There’s just something about you that makes him want to try. There’s also something about envisioning your white knight making you scream that’s driving him even further into a downward spiral of lust and longing.

His fingers curve just right, hitting the cluster of nerves against your cervix just right, lips suctioning just right, and you’re crying out Max’s name, chest heaving as you bear down on his fingers and cum hard.

He pulls his lips away, giving you some relief, riding out your high with his fingers until you whine for him to slow down. He does, but he doesn’t stop entirely.

“That’s one,” he chuckles, “Only four more to go.”

“Hey Max, um—“ you start, grabbing at the arm still barred across your stomach. It doesn’t move. “Before we continue, can we, establish a… safe word?”

Max pauses, lifting his face from between your thighs, to look at you. Really look at you. You’re serious. And it tugs at something in him. Sparks his imagination as to what your limitations could be.

“What did you have in mind?” The face he gives you is ponderous even as his lips still glisten with your slick and cum.

You look around. You don’t want to use ‘foxglove’, feeling that would be a bit convoluted and debased. You glance at the window sill, your eyes landing on the dead, brittle lavender plant you should probably get around to throwing out some day.

“Lavender,” you say. Because it’s dead. And because it’s also a flower, like foxglove.

He nods in approval. “Lavender,” he agrees. “If you want me to stop, you say ‘lavender’.”

He doesn’t give you time to process the thought before his head is back between your legs, lips sealing firmly around your clit, sucking hard. You buck your hips reflexively and Max pushes you back down with an irritated grunt, fingers marring your hip.

You resort to moving your legs when you’re unable to move your abdomen, and he pulls away from your cunt with a low snarl of disapproval, pinning your legs beneath his hands.

“Stop fucking moving or I will tie your limbs to the bed,” he threatens. You kind of want him to. And he absolutely would if he had a means to do all of them.

He goes back to lapping at your folds like a man starved, pushing you firmly against the mattress with all his might when your hips reflexively buck upward again.

It isn’t long before you peak a second time, your arms twisting the bedding because it’s all Max will give you the freedom to move.

“Good girl,” he praises, riding out the ebbs of flows of your orgasm. Watching your face, memorizing it.

His dick pulses hard and he can’t waste another minute without you sheathing his cock, all the noises you’re emitting in reverence of him turning him into some kind of feral, unchecked monster. He stands, removing the rest of his attire, no longer worried about being neat, tossing them wherever they happen to land as he rids himself of the hinderance.

He climbs onto the bed next to you, turning you on your side, resuming the same position from yesterday, sans tie. If he weren’t so desperate to cum, to make you cum, he would have taken the extra time. He likes you restrained and maleable.

But his yearning for you has rendered him restless and lacking patience.

If you and Dave are an incendiary mix, you and Max are a noxious one: two elements coming together to create an all consuming cloud of poison that steals your breath and chokes the person you once were right out of you.

He pulls your leg over his hip and slots himself between your thighs, palming himself as he glides the head of his cock through your slippery folds, gathering your slick and then pushing in until he bottoms out in a single thrust.

You are sore. Raw. Used. And you like it.

“Fuck,” he spits against your ear. “So fucking tight.”

He encircles your throat with a broad hand, tilting your head back and against his shoulder as he gives a few precursory slow thrusts, bottoming out and holding every third or fourth one, hips shaking with effort.

His grip tightens. Your vision swims and your core pulses hungrily around his length.

“You ready to get fucked like the little whore you are?”

All you can do is nod, unable to find your voice.

Max jerks your head back harshly. “Words, sweetheart. Fucking words.”

“Yes, I want you to fuck me now, Max. Please.” Your voice is pathetically small.

“Good girl,” Max commends, crooking his arm in the bend of your knee, splaying you open for him as he begins to rail into you with unbridled vigor.

You keen as he angles your head back even further so he can watch your blissed out face. Your mouth is hanging open in the shape of an O, a silent scream etched into your features. To his surprise, he almost finds himself kissing you, barely able to reel himself in from doing so. This is why Max doesn’t do face to face stuff—he doesn’t want his partners getting the wrong idea about him.

But with you he almost breaks.

Each slam of his hips is ludicrously loud. For a few moments you think you actually forget how to breathe.

He lets go of your leg and moves his fingers to where he’s currently cleaving you down the middle, dancing around your clit, flicking with expert precision.

“Yes,” you pant. “God, yes.”

“That’s right, baby. Wanna hear you,” Max praises.

He bites into the rounded hill of your shoulder, incisors bearing down, branding you with yet another mark in the shape of his teeth. At least this one can be hidden.

His pace doesn’t falter. While Max doesn’t share Dave’s calculating focus, he more than makes up for it with his tenacity and grit.

Your hips jolt when he touches a particularly sensitive nerve, your moans filling the air.

“That’s it, sweetheart. C’mon baby. Gimme another.”

You reach your third climax, your muscles briefly seizing under the duress of Max’s spell.

“Good fucking girl. Goddamn little slut, cumming as she’s stuffed full of my cock.” He presses his lips to the shell of your ear, whispering in a deep, dark timbre, “Two more.”

You whimper and shut your eyes. Max’s fingers never hasten their onslaught. Tears ring your eyes, body overwrought from the sting of overstimulation, but the last thing you want is to throw in the towel now.

“What would your white knight do if he were here right now? Do you think he would watch me fuck you?”

Max can feel your throat constricting under his palm as you swallow. “I- I don’t know.”

You already feel another orgasm building on the tail end of the last.

“Did he fuck you here? In your bed?” he presses.

“Yes,” you whimper.

“Mmmm,” he hums lowly. His dick twitches. He wets his lips, eyes trained on your face as he watches you. “Which hole did he fuck, sweetheart?”

“Max, don’t—“ Despite the humiliation you feel, you’re close, so close, to your fourth.

His fingers squeeze your face, digging in to the soft meat of your cheeks. “Answer me,” he tuts, gnashing his teeth.

“All of them,” you answer earnestly, honestly. “All of them… oh, fuck.” Your walls bear down hard, tightening around Max, vision pulling white as you pant his name on your tongue.

“You let him fuck your ass?” he barks into your ear. “You’re even filthier than I thought, you. God. Damn. Whore. Shit—“

Max can’t hold back any longer, scrotum tightening and cock pulsing as he pulls himself from your throbbing snatch in the nick of time, pumping himself in his hand and painting your inner thighs with thick tendrils of his spend. The groan that vibrates the barrel of his chest as he cums is inhuman.

He buries his face in the apex of your neck and shoulder, inhaling your post-coital scent. Savoring it. “Fuck. Fuck, sweetheart.” The edge in his voice is gone. It almost sounds affectionate.

He moves away from you, propping himself up on an elbow to admire the way his semen slides down the skin of your thighs. He swipes two fingers through the thickest part of it, bringing it to your lips. You open without hesitation, accepting him as he pushes into your mouth with a quiet murmur.

“Good girl.”

He grabs your hips, rolling you onto your back as he once again slithers to the lower regions of your body, eyes locked on your face.

“What’re you—“

Max shoots you a slanted grin. “You said five.”

——

It’s late. Too late, after a long road trip, after the stress and drama of picking up his daughters because Carol had insisted he was behind even though he’s sure he wasn’t.

Especially when you’ve been the only thing on his mind all day.

It’s later in the evening before he has a chance to check on you, his daughters already tucked away safely in bed. He sits at the table of his suite’s kitchenette and opens his laptop, dick already painfully hard and straining against his pants at the mere notion of seeing you.

Three clicks and he opens the camera’s live feed. The apartment is dark, and you’re curled up in your bed, watching television. He can’t make out what show it is at this angle, but from what he can hear, it seems to be some kind of reality medical show about weight loss.

He watches you like that for some time, palming himself through his pants, wishing he were there curled up with you.

After a while, when you don’t move, he clicks on the camera’s recorded footage and starts scrolling through.

Though you’re out of shot most of the time, he listens as you have the conversation with your mother, wishing he could pull you through the screen and into his arms. He can’t hear the full conversation, but he gets the gist of it, and it sends a dagger of pain through his chest seeing you so worked up.

He’s glad you’re well removed from that life.

After the phone call, you clean for several hours, before sitting down to write. He scrolls through most of that footage, pausing occasionally if something in particular catches his eye.

He stops scrolling when he notices your head lift toward the door. You get up from your chair, padding barefoot to the door to peek through the peephole. You sigh, shaking your head, reluctantly opening it for whomever is on the other side.

He can only partially see what’s happening, but he can make out enough to instantly recognize the man that steps inside.

Dave’s eyes grow a shade darker and his hand is in his pants before he even realizes what he’s doing.

He fast forwards to where Max already has you on the bed. By all accounts, Dave should be jealous. It doesn’t make sense that he isn’t, considering what Carol did. Considering that he nearly killed the man she was sleeping with with his own bare fists.

Given Dave’s skills and proclivity for killing, the man was lucky he didn’t.

But for some reason, with you, things are different. Everything with you is different.

Dave puts in his headphones as he continues to watch, letting out a quiet moan when Max’s face dips between your legs. The face you make is nothing short of euphoric.

He continues to stroke himself, precum leaking onto his wrist as he watches events unfold right in front of him.

He picks up his phone, thumbing the screen to get to your messages, opening it to type two words and hitting send.

Dave: Hey, you.

Your phone lights up a minute later.

—

Taglist: @ohheypedrito @kateispunk @survivingandenduring @annieispunk @awilderi @chronically-ghosted @onmysluttyknees @oberynslady @kellybelly1978 @sarap-77 @tb-gerschutz @daddy-dins-girl @alwaysmicado @morallyinept @guelyury @heavennumber2 @xxjigglynatxx @yippeeki-meow-motherfoster-blog

If I forgot anyone, please let me know! 🙂

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 29/03/2024

Semi-Charmed All Star

Season 3 Featured on: SiIvaGunner's Highest Quality Rips Volume A

Ripped by eva twin

Requested by Fezaki! (Request Form)

When I read Fezaki's request for this rip, it came with a pretty simple declaration on his part - that Semi-Charmed All Star may well be the best All Star rip on the entire channel. The comment kind of got me thinking for a while, because All Star is the kind of song that's at once incredibly recognizable yet also sort of old hat for use in memes today. The overly loud meme landscape of the mid-2010s was practically lead by Shrek's iconic door-slamming "SOME-BODY!!", and the song was used quite a fair bit in Season 1 of SiIvaGunner in particular, yet it never quite found the same longevity and fondness as other memes on the channel. Why is that - and how does Semi-Charmed All Star break free from that trend?

In terms of All Star's decline in popularity on SiIva, the simplest reason to point to is, bluntly, that it's at once both very easy to use and very overplayed, already beginning to feel a bit overdone back in 2016. With a steady rhythm and an all-too-common 4/4th time signature, the song is comparatively quite easy to make use of for low-effort mashups - it's no coincidence that, in Mr. Rental [B Side] ~ Out of Options, it was one of these All Star mashups that sent the Mr. Rental character on a rampage to destroy the very concept of mashups themselves. A song like Space Jam sort of occupies a similar space, likely being the absolute most mashed-up-with song in history due to its ease of use and popularity; but funny enough, due to the team's sheer dedication to finding new ways to use it to subvert the otherwise low expectations of the source, it's been wearing that position with honor rather than shame. Rips like Hoopache and Mother, Father, TechnoMan hopefully show what I mean - they go so far above what one would consider needed for a Space Jam rip and have kept the source alive along with its number-one infamy. Sitting comfortably in second place, All Star hasn't really had that luxury - it shows up from time to time, but once the bar of quality went up past Season 1, it felt like it got largely left behind.

And that makes Semi-Charmed All Star all the more interesting. In a sea of other All Star edits off of SiIva, the various ones made during Season 1, and the occasional attempts made in the years since to complicate it the same way as those aforementioned Space Jam rips, it stands at a really great balance. It is indeed an All Star mashup, but unlike most that popularized the trend, its not using the song's memed-up vocals - instead using its instrumental backing, in some ways just as iconic and recognizable, yet far less overplayed in comparison. The song its paired with, Semi-Charmed Life, is one I'm far less familiar with, yet it funny enough has notable history with All Star: The song was repeatedly used by the legendary Neil Cicierega in some of his mashup albums, the first of these, Mouth Sounds, consisting almost entirely of All Star mashups. I'm pretty sure this little nod to mashup history is intentional, as the game Semi-Charmed All Star is featuring - Rock Band - was directly cited by Neil as being the resource that made him interested in doing mashups to begin with. To my understanding, the two songs never actually crossed over on these mashup albums - in that sense, the rip is realizing an idea that was set up four years before its release.

More than that, though, the rip is just executed incredibly well, and a banger on the whole! There's little in the way of surprises to find, though I definitely chuckled at 01:14 when the vocals command a "STOP" only to be met by a sudden out-of-place guitar shred that interrupts itself, as if it just got caught being too loud. There's a real appeal to All Star's instrumental, a chill vibe that I described back in RNR (Rip No Riffs) and is sort of lost in its exaggerated vocal performance, yet one that feels almost more realized here in Semi-Charmed All Star. There's editing to the stems done to make the two songs fit better together, which is a layer of deep nitty-gritty analysis that I don't know if I'm able to discern just by ear (please remember while reading this blog - I'm not a musician!). But given just how naturally the two songs end up fitting together in the end, completely lacking that typical Season 1 roughness you'd perhaps expect from a rip using All Star - I'd say eva twin did a really good job here!! In line with a previous rip of hers I've covered on here, Blessing the Dire, Dire Rains, it at times feel as if Season 3 was aiming to better realize the ideas that Season 1 was setting up, even extending into its year-defining April Fools event as described with Fragile Snowman (Remastered). This is not to say that there weren't any *good* All Star rips in Season 1 either - the first rip linked in this paragraph is from Season 1! It's more that I feel like Semi-Charmed All Star better realizes the potential these rips have to be genuinely - and in a very distinct way - good, without going into full-on absurdist territory as Space Jam rips often does. A perfect balance is struck, althewhile paying tribute to mashup history in a pretty neat way.

Ah, gosh...All Star, what a song, what a bizarre legacy for Smash Mouth to leave behind. But I'm always happy to see it again, especially when done as well as it is here - and it's of course always a pleasure to feature eva twin's incredibly underrated ripping work on the blog. I couldn't find a way to integrate it into the post, but please - Go listen to Sable's Stickerbush sometime today, you won't regret it.

[serial-designation-vee]

@serial-designation-jey

From above, two pods boomed as they ripped the upper stratosphere of Copper-9. Light from the rockets, making the clouds glow hot blue and electrifying the unstable atmosphere. As the pods split the cloud cover in their descent, lightning flickered and cracked, striking one of the pods. The surge in power fried the automatic navigation systems, and the craft hurtled off course towards Camp 98.7. Crashing down, it left a trail of destruction and fire in its wake, setting the forest ablaze and leaving a gouge in the ground that ran for several hundred yards before the craft eventually came to a halt. The pod was unlike anything they had ever seen, complex ivory plating with intricate gold designs weaving throughout, the exposed areas revealing an almost muscular conglomeration of black wires that pulsed blue light towards the center of the craft. Upon the side were several logos, of which one V would recognize as her own parent company logo of JCJenson. The others involved were Faro Automated Solutions Inc, Far Zenith Corp, and Miriam Technologies.... As the two dissasembly drones would draw close, the pod let off a shrill tone and an automated warning. "WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! PROXIMITY SENSORS ACTIVE, SHIP IS STABILIZING, DO NOT APPROACH THE STASIS POD UNTIL INSTRUCTED OR RISK MALFUNCTION. PLEASE ENJOY OUR MESSAGE TO THE VALUED CUSTOMER ABOUT YOUR NEW GALAXTIC PAL WHILE YOU WAIT- Uh, is this thing on? This is testing log number uhhh... I've lost count... of project Gemini modelSD: B1-7A PIN: #LK-101, "Beta" or just B, I dont care... Okay... The pod is cooling down right now, but once it's stable, it should scan the environment and inhabitants around it so it can best modify itself to the environment and fit in, I know it might be odd but it will try to copy someone it sees but dont worry, there is a customization setting in the pod if you wish to change her appearance, not that ot will matter uh... Look, this is our last shot. What with earth gone and everything. I've installed various subfunction protocols into two sister drones. The other should be nearby. This one posseses: Minerva, Hephestus, Apollo, and Hades. The robot will tell you what those do, but uhm... She's designed to learn and adapt just as her sister unit A7-04 is, but specifically, she's much more attuned to it. Her sister unit is designed for combat and initial defense of this ones operations of study, terraforming and revitalizing. Make no mistake, though. B isn't defenseless. She is equipped with a highly advanced natite repair and re assimilation device and can construct weapons on her arms of which she knows two by default, but can learn more. The Specter Gauntlet High Energy plasma multitool cannon and the Specter Reaver blade arm. If there was any error during transport, I'd expect something to function incorrectly, and I can't help you. If the unit is severely damaged, return it to the pod for nanitic revitalization procedures to initiate a full system reboot and restore... I think that's it... good luck."

V watched the pod with a calculating gaze, one of her hands turned into a long blade and held out in front of J. They took in the words spoken to her, and their eyes narrowed. She didn't care what this was, they just didn't want it near J.

She remained at the ready, protective urge pulling at her every wire.

[crushculture03]

An Unlikely Reunion

Masterlist

It was Halloween night 2005 and Valerie's boyfriend, Chris, was hosting another halloween party, like he did every year. She was standing in the corner talking to her friends, when she felt a tap on her shoulder, Val turns around and is faced with the handsome face of a young man she's never seen before on campus. "Hey I-I like your costume" he says, clearly nervous. Valerie looks at him and smiles, she looks him up and down, admiring his loosely put together lawyer costume. "I like yours too, a lawyer I assume?" she says, the boy sheepishly nods his head.

"I'm Sam by the way, Sam Winchester '' he says and extends his hand out for her to shake, she smiles and shakes his hand "Valerie Singer, but you can call me Val ''. "I'm assuming you're Juliet from the 1996 movie?" Sam asks, "Yes! You're the first person to say that, everyone thinks i'm an angel but i'm juliet! My boyfriend is Romeo, but I'm not sure where he ran off too" she frowns slightly at the end of her sentence. Sam's heart drops slightly when he hears she has a boyfriend, he quickly gathers himself and says "Well it's a very nice costume, and you look beautiful in it by the way". She blushes slightly and grins "Thank you so much that's so sweet of you".

"So you enjoying the party so far?" he asks, "Yeah, it's my boyfriend Chris's party, he's the other half of my costume but I haven't been able to find him all night" she frowns. "Oh I'm sorry about that, he must be crazy to leave a pretty girl like you alone '' Sam says, Val chuckles "yeah tell me about it". "It was really nice talking to you but i'm going to try to find him, but here's my number, we should definitely hang out sometime" she says, quickly writing her number down on a napkin and handing it to him. "Yeah of course, good luck finding him and I'll see you around" he says, before waving goodbye to the girl.

Valerie pushes her way through the sea of drunk college kids, hastily looking in every direction for her boyfriend. After not seeing him on the first floor, she decides to make her way upstairs to check his room. She slowly approaches his bedroom door, her heart beating out of her chest as she hears the noises that are coming from the other side. She carefully turns the handle, revealing the worst possible outcome, her boyfriend Chris naked on top of another girl who wasn't her. "Chris?" she says, causing her boyfriend to leap off the bed. "Baby it's not what it looks like I swear" he says, the girl behind him wraps the sheet around her chest for modesty as she watches the scene unfold in front of her.

"Don't" Val says, stopping him in his tracks, "How could you? And is she even the first one!" Valerie yells. Chris looks away, his expression being the only answer she needs. "We're done Chris, I never want to see or hear from you again, you're dead to me" she states, tears slowly streaming down her face from rage and hurt. She slams the door shut and pushes her way past the other drunk party goers, she storms down the stairs, through the crowd and out the door. Sam notices her storm out of the party and quickly hurries to follow her.

Valerie had walked a little bit down the street, finding herself on a lone bench, she puts her head in her hands and sobs. "V-Val are you ok?" Sam asks as he carefully approaches her. "Does it look like I'm ok?" she mumbles. Sam sighs and sits down beside her, "No, you don't look ok, what happened? Something with Chris?" he asks, which makes the girl let out a soft cry. "He cheated" she says, disgust laced in her voice. "That asshole, want me to go in there and talk to him" Sam says, fully ready to confront Chris. "No its not worth it, honestly I think I'm just going to go back home, thanks for caring though, I know we just met so that's very sweet of you" , Sam nods his head in response "Yeah of course, anytime Val, can I atleast walk you back to your place, it's dark and late". "You don't have to, I don't want to inconvenience you" she says as she wipes some stray tears away. "No really I insist" he says, reassuring her, "Ok, thanks that's very sweet of you" she says and the two get up from the bench and begin walking in the direction of her apartment.

"You know my dad had a word for boys like that" she chuckles, "What would that be?" Sam asked, "He'd call them Idjits," she says, a small smile coming to her face. "You know what's funny I know someone who loves using that word too '' Sam says, "Really? Well maybe that person should meet my father".

The two walk in silence for a bit, just taking in the night and the presence of one another. Eventually they make it to her complex, "Hey I live in this same complex" Sam says, "Really? Man how have we not crossed paths sooner" she says, appalled that tonight was the first time she had met this man. "I don't know, but call me crazy, I feel like you and I have met before, that's why I came up to you at the party, something just drew me to you, and I'm not being one of those cliche guys, i'm being serious" Sam rambles.

"I don't think you're crazy Sam, I won't lie I feel like I've met you before too, honestly my long term memory is so hazy since I block stuff out, but we very well could have met before" she says, laughing slightly at the last part. "I'm the same way, everything before college and kinda during college has been a blur, but maybe sometime we could talk more? If you have the time" he asks nervously. "I'd love to, but I'll be out of town for a while, I think I'm going to go see my dad" She says, frowning at having to turn him down. "No worries at all, If you don't mind me asking where he lives," Sam asks, not knowing that in mere seconds his life would shift.

"Oh he lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota" she says, nonchalantly.

"Hey I know someone who lives there too, it'd be funny if it was the same guy huh" Sam jokes.

"My dads a bit grumpy, he doesn't know many people, he mainly works on cars and um other stuff" she has to lie on the last part, to cover up what her fathers other job actually was.

A sudden realization hits Sam like a tidal wave, "Your father works on cars? Does he happen to own a scrap yard" he asks, "Y-yeah, how'd you know?" she says, a tad bit creeped out.

"What's your father's name?" Sam asks.

"Bobby Singer, why?" she responds.

[unopenablebox]

For the ask meme: I, N, and V! I can never manage to pick just one question off those lists, I hope it’s not too many

I: How many fandoms have you written in? Do you have a favorite?

i've posted fics in 6 different fandoms, i will presumably keep adding to this list since in most fandoms i think i really only have a few premises that actually Get me and am unlikely to want to write more than a couple stories in it. this is not a good strategy for audience-building but fortunately i only want an audience for my fic in a very halfhearted way that doesn't involve making any strategic efforts to acquire one

i'm not sure i have a favorite fandom to write in given that. i think my one tortall fic was probably the most successful in terms of like, doing what i wanted it to do in relation to canon, which was both fun and encouraging, and people were really really complimentary about it so i feel very good about the idea of doing more there. i also really love canon even though it's completely frustrating and bizarre, which makes it very fun for me to write in.

my actual numerically "most successful" fics by far were both in uh. miraculous ladybug fandom. for some reason. and i'm not unmoved by the idea of a fandom that is like, active, but i don't think i can ever write for miraculous ladybug again because doing so might require that i watch the show, which doesn't sound fun at all

N: already answered!

V: Are there certain comments you’ve received on your stories that have stuck with you?

i got this comment on the aforementioned tortall fic the same day it went up and it felt like winning an oscar. total success

i've actually gotten what feels like a really disproportionate number of thoughtful, very positive comments on my fics given how little of an audience i have & how small the fandoms usually are. my girlfriend who writes actual published fiction is extremely jealous of the thing where when you write fic people just write back to tell you what they liked about it. very hard to achieve in non-fanfic circles

i'm also touched by all the people who seem to have been genuinely moved/felt Represented by my uh, heartwarming miraculous ladybug transgender lesbians fanfic, i think of them often, and im very glad i wrote it even though as above i cannot imagine writing anything similar ever again

[hopeymchope]

Surprises and takeaways from Capcom's "Platinum Titles" list

I never knew that Capcom maintains a list of every title they've ever produced that sold over a million units -- complete with how many units that game sold. But they do, and they just updated it! And it's fascinating!

There are currently 113 games on the list, although the way they arrange some of this stuff is INCREDIBLY specious. Like: Resident Evil 4 for GameCube and PS2, Resident Evil 4 for Wii, and Resident Evil 4 for download on PS3, PS4, Xbox 360, Xbox One, Xbox Series AND Switch? Those are three separate entries despite being ports of the exact same goddamn game! Like, if you're gonna do THAT, why is the PS2 version listed alongside the GC version?!

Whatever, peeps. Here are some highlights of the list:

The top two items on the list are Monster Hunter games: World and Rise. Of course. But Monster Hunter World: Iceborne is listed as its own separate game at #5. Kinda odd.

Resident Evil fans regularly decry Resident Evil 6 as one of the worst in the series. Despite this, it's also in Capcom's top 10 best-selling games EVER. (For some reason, the list piles every single version of RE6 into one entry, unlike so many other games here). It's #7. And it's the third-best-selling Resident Evil game to date, too!

Best-selling RE game? Resident Evil 7. It's #3 on Capcom's list. But Resident Evil 2 remake is RIGHT behind it, and it might surpass it soon. Overall, when you look at the entire list, it's hard to deny that Resident Evil is the most popular franchise that Capcom's got. Damn near every spinoff series is represented herein — as well as some one-off side games.

Only ONE game makes the Top 10 that isn't either a "Monster Hunter" or a "Resident Evil." That would be Street Fighter V, sitting pretty at #9.

In fact, there's ALSO only ONE game in the entire Top 25 that isn't a "Monster Hunter," "Resident Evil," OR a "Street Fighter." It's the one and only Devil May Cry 5 at #11!

Now it's time for "Games that are often called failures that still are on the Platinum Titles list celebrating their sales." We already mentioned Resident Evil 6 above, but how about Remember Me at #85? 1.3 million units sold for a brand-new IP from a largely unknown developer is FUCKING GREAT. And do you remember how negatively Marvel vs. Capcom: Infinite was received? EVO barely even had a tournament for it. But it's the second-highest seller in its series, with its #52 placement putting it only five spaces behind MvC3. (Ultimate MvC3 is, of course, its own entry on the list. Sigh.) Guess it did QUITE all right for Capcom. Also: Bionic Commando reboot isn't far behind Remember Me at #87 with its own 1.3 million cited sales. But I understand that they probably spent more on that and expected even more because of the name recognition. It wasn't a new IP, sure. Maybe you expected more from the name brand. But what about that widely maligned DmC: Devil May Cry reboot? Well, with 2.9 million sales in its initial release and another 1.3 million for its Definitive Edition, it's the second-highest-selling Devil May Cry game EVER. Only DMC5 topped it. But I guess those sales don't put it very high above DMC4's, which was probably disappointing given that a reboot was meant to reinvigorate the series. Even so, kinda seems REALLY silly to call that number a failure, huh? "Biggest seller in the franchise" is a success by ANYONE's measurements. Maybe Capcom just had stupidly unrealistic expectations, Square Enix-style. :P

We already covered the top-selling games from Street Fighter, Resident Evil, Monster Hunter, and Devil May Cry. So let's cover some other big Capcom franchises to see how their best-selling entries performed... under the below cut, that is.

I guess being a launch title for the XB1 helped Dead Rising 3 be the biggest in the series despite being absent from PlayStation systems, because it's at #27. And if they included "Apocalypse Edition" in that same entry, it'd have another million under its belt!

The original Dino Crisis made #42 counting ONLY its PS1 version, so it would logically be even higher if they counted the Dreamcast release. And Dino Crisis 2 ALSO made the Platinum list at #97! With all that in mind: Where's my fucking remake/new sequel?!?!

Onimusha 2: Samurai's Destiny is at #49 with 2.1 million sold, and the first one not isn't far behind it at #54 — ONLY counting the PS2 release, notably. Would it beat Onimusha 2 if they included the Xbox port "Genma Onimusha" in those sales?

I have a bizarre amount of affection for the Lost Planet series. Alas, my it's my least-favorite entry — Lost Planet 2 — that barely squeezes into the top 50 at #50 with 2.1 million sold. And my fav entry, LP3, isn't even on the list! At least part 1 made it to #67... but that only counts the 360 and PC release. For some reason, PS3 isn't counted in that total.

Okami HD first released on PS3. But in a blatant instance of Bullshit Accounting, its entry on the Platinum Titles list only includes the PS4, Xbox One, and Switch ports. And that's not even getting into the fact that it's just an uprezzed port of the PS2 game that already had a Wii port. Neither of those versions are counted here either, but this shitty accounting made #51 anyway. By the way, if you're wondering about that original SD version? Or even its oft-forgotten squel, Okamiden? They're nowhere to be found here.

Ace Attorney finally hits Platinum with #53 — the Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney Trilogy for PS4, Switch, and PC. Yup, for some reason they didn't include the 3DS, Xbox One, or mobile releases of the trilogy in that total, which... is fucking stupid as shit. God, I'm quickly getting SO sick of the idiotic accounting on this list.

It's questionable whether Dragon's Dogma: Dark Arisen should really be a separate entry from vanilla Dragon's Dogma, but Dark Arisen is the champ of the two at #55 with 2 million sold. Wait... Dragon's Dogma gets a sequel with those sales, but y'all have abandoned Dino Crisis, Onimusha, and Lost Planet?! What the hell, Capcom?

My personal favorite Capcom series, Mega Man, hit a series high in sales with Mega Man 11, which is (sadly) only at #65. Given that Mega Man is such a goddamn icon, that scarcely seems possible. And yet? Here we are. Somehow.

The original NES port of Ghosts 'n Goblins marks the highest showing for the Ghousts/Goblins/Ghouls franchise at #68, boasting 1.64 million in sales. It's surprising to see it's the top-seller from Capcom's NES glory days! The only other entry from this franchise to make the list is the SNES classic Super Ghouls 'n Ghosts, which is down at #107.

Capcom has a great history of excellent games based on Disney properties. The top-tier DuckTales Remastered is the biggest hit of the lot, though, and it wasn't even developed in-house by Capcom. Regardless, it sold 1.5 million units and rests at #73. Makes you wonder why the NES sequel never got its own "Remastered" incarnation...

The SNES port of Final Fight was famously compromised, but it still sold more than any other part of the series with 1.48 million units getting it to #74. It's a shame they don't include all the OTHER many ports of the arcade original in here... not even "Final Fight Guy." :P But at least Final Fight 2 managed to squeeze onto the list to give FF a second piece of representation. You'll find it at #109.

Whether people count Bionic Commando and Commando as part of the same series tends to vary by region AND by the continuity you're talking about. But the "Bionic" reboot from 2009 reaches #87 here, and the NES port of Commando cracks the list at #104.

The badass Strider Hiryu manages to make the list at #90 courtesy of the 2014 reboot simply titled Strider.

[yuuana]

Music Monday #237: ATEEZ - Everything release: December 2023 genre: Kpop, K-R&B cw: flashing, arson, a relationship dissolving on screen

And now for something completely the same: ATEEZ's final unit MV from WILL, in which everyone cries and things end up on fire. Look, no one ever said K-dramas lacked in, well, drama. ;) The lyrics spoil the story, but if you really don't want any spoilers, watch the video before continuing further.

Obviously a solo song from Jongho was going to be a ballad - in previous years, when the team was less busy, his solo content was a series of covers for kdrama OSTs. He's main vocalist for a reason and don't even get me started on his Mayfly-V stage during Kingdom. Everything is every bit as soulful and heart-wrenching as any ATINY could have expected, a song about loss and regret and knowing you can never make right the things you did wrong, but oh, if you could.... The soft piano opening, the way Jongho pours his whole heart into his voice from the soft opening to the soaring high notes of the climax that then trails off into soft wistfulness once more to the end ... you may need to keep a tissue close for this one.

This music video, unlike previous unit videos, is almost entirely story mode, as Jongho flexes his acting chops once more, now with less baby face. Most of the flashing is at the very start, where the video flashes through snapshots of the scenes we'll see play out a bit more in the video, so the bigger warning is really if watching a relationship fall apart on screen is a bugbear of yours. The lyrics already spoil the narrative, since the song starts out talking about never being able to see the other person again, but the video offers more context to why things ended up that way.

Interestingly, this video was shot entirely on sound stages - yes, even the snowy night scenes, which was a surprise to me, too. And it's not CGI snow - watching the behind the scenes, I was surprised and impressed at the number of practical effects where others would have gone with computer-generated. Some of the fire at the end is very obviously computer-added, but it's combined with actual on-set controlled fires that the old-school film fan in me quietly appreciates. Plus the snow. So much fake snow, it's a delight ... until Jongho told me how they made the fake snow and now all I see is that. XD

And now ... the lore paragraph! As with Youth, Everything is firmly planted in the A 'verse, with Jongho as a former basketballer living with his girlfriend until they break up because he's been a shit boyfriend. This means we've moved along the timeline a little bit, though that fits with the lyric in Youth talking about being in their twenties - Zero Fever implied Heroteez were still in high school. Of course ATEEZ lore has never been entirely linear and considering ATEEZ were already in their twenties during Fever era, the warehouse scene from the diary could just as easily be happening closer to this than first appearances lead us to believe. So once again we're left with more questions ... and the recent teasers ATEEZ have released have been no help at all - I have no idea where Not Okay is going to fall and ANITEEZ are in Halateez garb, soooo. Who knows. Not me. XD

This is the last WILL unit MV ... so of course yesterday KQ put out a performance version of MATZ which has almost no footage overlap with the original MV. I had initially assumed the difference in shooting days (Everything was one day, the other three shot for two days each) had to do with Jongho being on his own for this project. But now I'm wondering if secret performance versions also contributed, since the other three have dances and Everything doesn't. I suppose we will have to wait and see.

WILL is still available for purchase, ATEEZ just wrapped a two day concert extravaganza (based on what I've seen from it so far) in Seoul to kick of another world tour (additional dates in Japan in February, further tour details to come later), and oh yeah, Coachella in April, so another busy year of travelling the world, kicking butt and taking names.

Want to see Music Monday deep dives more often? Sponsor a song selection! For the low, low price of one (1) KoFi, I'll write up the song of your choice. ANY song of your choice. Yes, even that one that's been played to death. Yes, your obscure faves too. With sponsors, I can stop skipping weeks and falling further and further behind in the releases! Sponsor a current CB for the next open Music Monday slot or sponsor a throwback for a Thursday feature! But seriously, if you've been enjoying my selections and analyses, we (me and the foster kittens) would love a KoFi in thanks. DW | Twitter | Mastodon | Bluesky | Ko-fi | Patreon | Discord | Twitch