#descendants of the sun au

[rainbowpepper]

Oh, everytime I see you ~ 🎶

[shadowkoo]

Chasing Clouds - Prologue

→ Summary: Namjoon made the decision early on in his training that he would abstain from dating or entering any form of relationship while in active duty. He’s determined not to burden anyone with the likelihood of being to be notified of his death or causing pain to someone he loves by his long absence. Ironically, he found himself drawn to you, a doctor who challenges his beliefs and contradicts everything he upholds.

↠ namjoon x f.reader | 1k words | 18+ �� genre: military au, angst (future chapters include: doctor au, s2l, slow burn, smut, fluff, romance

→ Warnings: Read at your own risk! war, ptsd, bombs, guns, violence, injury, death, blood, (future warnings include: murder, use of other weapons, smut warnings)

→ Author Note: my favorite kdrama of all time is descendants of the sun and in honor of my fifth rewatch, I wanted to write this series! it takes place about a year after the show ends, just so you know the timeline :) i would recommend that you watch it first, but it’s not a requirement - it just gives insight to some of the character's personalities (plus i’ll take any opportunity to tell people to watch it lol)

Prologue

MAY 02 - 0340 - USTANA

The darkness of the night feels heavy; its weight is unsettling as the soldiers start their most recent assignment. Namjoon has an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. It’s twisting and turning like never before. He isn’t usually nervous before missions; he hasn’t had a reason to be. He's always followed through and completed his tasks without issue; which is one of the main reasons everyone has such high hopes for him.

Tonight is different though, and he knows the others have the same odd feeling as they all take off their dog tags and set them aside. If captured, they need to remain anonymous.

"You guys know the drill. Once we locate the hostage, everyone will need to be attentive because it'll only be a matter of time until the whole building knows it's been breached. This isn't another exercise boys, lives are at stake here,” Big Boss, Captain Yoo Shijin, says to his team of special force soldiers.

"As this is the last mission of your training term, I expect nothing but excellence in your delivery of the hostage. We've orchestrated the specifics of this mission in such a way that will prove whether or not you are cut for these types of diplomatic high-profile assignments," Wolf, Big Bosses best friend Seo Daeyoung, adds.

"Whatever you do, don't compromise the mission. Don’t use your birth name to communicate, use the nicknames you were given, as well as ours," Big Boss hollers, finishing off their short speech as the back door of the aircraft opened.

Ustana, the country they’re secretly entering, is known for its drug and weapons problem due to its corrupt government. If things end badly, it will reflect on Korea. That’s why the team’s identities and nationalities can’t be known.

The plane jolts, narrowly missing the projectile that was aimed at the steel bird in the sky, solidifying the seriousness of the current situation below.

Namjoon repeats his orders to keep some level of sanity and peace of mind as he descended from the sky with the rest of the Puppy Pack, the soldiers in training to join the Alpha Team.

‘Find the hostage. Mislead the enemy. Return home. Stay alive.’

Once on the ground, he waits for the signal to ambush the guards watching the doors and proceeds to lead the group. Shijin and Daeyoung follow behind with the rest of the soldiers at their feet.

Daeyoung nods, giving Namjoon the go-ahead to align his gun on the enemy. This is the part he often tunes out. You need to be able to turn the switch, as he calls it, on and off with this kind of job.

He aligns his scope with the target and quickly pulls the trigger before moving to the others nearby before they even realize what’s happening. He watches as their bodies drop, waiting to see if anyone else runs into the room, but it’s quiet. Almost too quiet…

"Wildcat, All clear,” he says into his mic, letting the others know their access point is now safe for entry.

‘Find the hostage. Mislead the enemy. Return home. Stay alive.’

It takes less than two minutes for the group of highly trained soldiers to find the hostage. He’s badly beaten and unconscious, his body hunched over in the chair he’s tied to.

Wolf keeps watch by the side door while the team works on releasing the man. Jihoon, another one of the Puppy Pack trainees, helps Namjoon carry the man back to where the transport aircraft is waiting.

“I don’t want to jinx anything, but that was almost too easy…” Jihoon says, looking at Namjoon.

He agrees. Something’s not adding up…

He peers through the open door of the transport helicopter, gazing outside. They’re waiting for the last of the group to make their way onto the craft, and he just wants to ensure that everyone is safe. His shoulders relax when he can see their dark forms exiting the building.

Namjoon turns to look back at Jihoon, “I see them, they’re-” his sentence ends unfinished.

“What is that?” he says, taking a step closer to the unconscious hostage that Jihoon and a combat medic are helping. He points out the red blinking light on the man’s neck. It’s not a laser from a gun. It’s coming from inside his skin. ‘It’s almost as if…’ His thought trails off. “Run!” he screams, though it’s too late.

The bomb’s detonation rips through the helicopter, unleashing an intense burst of energy. In an instant, the searing shockwave propels fragments of debris outward. The air vibrates with a deafening roar, drowning out all other sounds.

The chaotic energy tears apart surroundings and scatters the remnants in all directions. A plume of smoke and fire billows upward, consuming everything in its path. The impact leaves a scene of devastation, marked by shattered glass, twisted metal, and a sense of raw destruction.

Namjoon feels the force of the explosion in his chest and is thrown far from his comrade, and debris crashes around him. His head bounces against the ground, and the ringing in his ears is so intense, he believes he will never hear again.

Jihoon is several feet away. His eyes are frozen open, and blood trails down his face from the head injury he suffers from. Namjoon reaches for his lifeless friend but it’s all too much.

Then, everything fades to black.

← series m.list | next →

©shadowkoo 2023. All rights reserved.

[sakurasfallingstar]

I can't help but feel that Descendants of the Sun (k-drama) is so ShiSaku coded, and you can't tell me otherwise.

[anotherrosesthatfell]

Well new heights

[starays13]

So I’ve had this scene rotating in my brain as if my brain was a microwave

[canon-vi]

" Susanin (Sebastian) and the witches "

E. L. A. Untold stories by: @anotherrosesthatfell

[plushietheplushbearcreature]

Ref sheets for Sun and Moon Sr. in the Descendent! AU (+ the babies)

[ceiling-karasu]

World Building continued: Backstory for the wars involving Flower Hill, Teikoku, and Usuhan Jiyeog, and subsequent occupations.

Apologies in advance for this being so long. I wanted to know how widespread Japanese weasels are in real life, and found something interesting I could use.

Japanese weasels originate from three areas of Japan, that being Honshu, Kyushu, and Shikoku.

Coincidentally, Japan famously has three Ceremonial Regalia in the form of a sword, magatama beads, and a mirror. These items are not seen by anyone other than the royal family and certain priests (images on the internet are recreations of what they could possibly look like, and those seen in public are symbolic stand-ins), but they symbolize the authority of the royal family.

Which allows me to make a backstory for my AU to help explain the wars and occupations, very loosely based off of events and locations in history, especially since animal biology limits certain events from happening.

In the past, there was an Emperor, who preferred for Teikoku to be in isolation. Under his rule, and of those before him, are smaller prefectures run by princes, lords, or other lessor royal families.

Contact with the United States Alliance and other nations led to a period of aggression and imperialism surrounding the empire of Teikoku, as they strove to fight against a stagnating economy that believed in its own superiority in the world, as well as a strict caste system preventing innovation.

Eventually, after some time, three princes are sent out to conquer the final few neighboring islands, so that may join the empire, and provide a larger force for when they make a move for the peninsula and the mainland.

The three princes are named after their prefectures, and the Emperor has given them each one of the Imperial Regalia as proof of their superiority.

The Sword

Honshu is the main island of Japan, and is also known as the dragonfly island. Teikoku will call it Tonbo, which refers to dragonflies, which are fierce and deadly creatures. As such, their Imperial Regalia is the sword, Yūki no ken (the sword of valor), and is based off of Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi (Grass-Cutter). Tonbo is the main physical fighting force of Teikoku.

The Magatama Jewels

Kyushu is smaller than Honshu, but it had a lot of trade circuits around the ocean and the mountains. So I will make a prefecture named Kairo (Circuit), and have the area be responsible for trade and roads around the empire, as well as in the fighting forces. I would use the famous Magatama jewels (Benevolence) to symbolize their rule.

The Mirror

Shikoku means four provinces, and is the least populated area of the three areas. Shikoku also has a lot of temples (perhaps run by green pheasants, the national symbol of Japan), which draws in a lot of pilgrims. But they also maintain a lot of gateways to other prefectures. So maybe Genkan for entryway. They are responsible for planning and strategizing for the other two. They can have the Michi no kagami, mirror of the path to represent wisdom/truth, based on the Yata no Kagami.

VERY loosely taking inspiration from The Tale of the Heike, a collection of Japanese epic poetry with many translations and retelling (actually written down 200 years after said events supposedly happened), which says that the royal families that held these Regalia were defeated in a naval battle, and threw themselves and the treasures into the sea. Subsequent legends suggest that many search and diving parties have been led to recover the Regalia.

In my AU, I hold that the items were thrown into the sea, with the princes believing that they could return for them later even if they were captured, although they managed to escape. It was a complete disgrace for the Emperor, as without the Ceremonial Regalia, the legitimacy of the entire palace was thrown into question.

And then the box holding the Magatama washed up on the shores of the peninsula.

It is returned as a gesture of good will, but as no good deed goes unpunished, Teikoku believes that they must have taken the other Imperial Regalia for themselves, starting a land invasion. The small army is annihilated by farmers, fresh out of overthrowing their own monarchy, wielding guns, which Teikoku has never seen before.

Which results in a larger army being sent, which is also defeated and the princes captured and possibly executed by the hedgehog army in the north of the country. At this point, without the authority of the Ceremonial Regalia, and increasing economical desperation, the country is forced to undergo a reformation. While there is still an Emperor, he does not hold as much political power as he once did.

Teikoku left behind settlements of soldiers and colonists controlling the southern portion of the peninsula, which they name Usuhan Jiyeog, who take up ruler-ship and fish farming.

The hedgehogs use the proof of their power in defending their areas to take control of what they would name Flower Hill.

It is a strongly held belief that before they backed away from Usuhan Jiyeog, the Emperor promised that anyone who managed to retrieve the Ceremonial Regalia from Flower Hill would be reinstated as the next emperor, and be rewarded with power beyond their wildest dreams.

Did the other two, heavier, items, even wash up on the shores of the peninsula like the jewels, locked in an airtight box? Or did they sink to the bottom, as they were heavier? Who is to say...

But alongside the greed, desperation for power, and food production issues, the temptation of finding the supposedly stolen Imperial Regalia locked away in some distant stronghold is a good enough reason as any to attempt to occupy Flower Hill.

Now, I'm not about to retcon what I have already written and say that Commander Jogjebi wanted the sword and mirror, and Huinjogjebi is a weasel of science who would likely not be interested anyway. But claiming that Flower Hill stole precious items and symbols of their country in the past, and them not being able to disprove it, is enough of an excuse to make quite a few countries in the international courts turn a blind eye to the happenings surrounding Flower Hill.

Oil Production

I did figure out the oil and gas situation. I did go ahead and give the Jindo Empire a large amount of oil. The Venezuela country below the United States Alliance is now the República de Cultivos Oleaginosos, and is trying to prevent the wolves' country from occupying their regions.

Meanwhile, the vast majority of the world's oil in my AU is being produced in this country.

While it used to be many different nations in the past, the leaders understood that their vast oil and gas reserves would result in large scale invasions, and agreed to band together into the Equatorial Allegiance.

[lonelimbless]

DESCENDANTS OF DARK

NOTE: this is mostly me brainstorming about the thing I previously mentioned in my last post. Information regarding the AU may change in a later date.

- I'm not sure if I can have this AU fit side-by-side with Sun Setted but as of now, it's gonna be it's own thing. It's also heavily focused around the Dark siblings, with some showcase for Ales and Mr Dark. Raymesis is more of the main lead here because I feel like he needs and deserves it. Mr Dark is (currently) MIA but still serves an overarching role... somewhat.

- Story goes with the Dark siblings encountering Ales Mansay one day after they struggle with finding what they can do after the disappearance of their father/creator. Ales, being the Mr Dark admirer, just decides to take them in and sought to make use out of them. They did aid him and get involved with his plans in some way, especially regarding nightmares and corruption business. However, they weren't completely loyal to him since his fondness with their father and his obsession with lums n' achieving order really puts them off, especially Raymesis. Yet, they stuck around with him, even after the events of Origins nevertheless because they have nowhere else to go.

Raymesis is the oldest and the most aware of the sibs, his powers are mainly shadow-based and acted the key role in the majority of things. He's also very intelligent and attempted to manipulate Ales by suggesting the corruption of the Kings and capturing the Nymphs when he became fully aware of Ales' goal. He wasn't sure how to make of it but didn't care in the grand scheme of things, he just wanted to get something out of this.

Zephyr is the middle child. While she say be mostly chaotic, she can actually be a wildcard. Her powers are storm-based. Tychon, at last, is the youngest and is quite fond of learning new things from Ales for the sake of it, despite his reticent behavior. Unlike his siblings, his powers revolved around luck (or misfortune, specifically) and uses this to bring dread to others.

They don't really view Ales as a guardian figure, just more somebody that they're stuck with cause, again, where else can they go?

... And that's how far I've gotten. This is me making notes for myself so I wouldn't forget this, so don't mind me. I'll make more out of this eventually.

[minteayoongimakesmewoozi]

i think tanyame could do descendants of the sun. tanjirou could be a more wholesome version of yu sijin. ayame could be a more exasperated version of kang moyeon. the scene where yu sijin asks kang moyeon, "should i kiss you or should i apologise?" very very extremely tanyame

[angstandhappiness]

LMAO YES

Damn, there he goes!

[tiderider]

tag  dump.

.     arc  i  ⤍  pre  d1 .     ›     by  the  skin  of  our  teeth .

.     arc  ii  ⤍  d1 .     ›     let  there  be  violence .

.     arc  iii  ⤍  post  d1 .     ›     here  there  be  monsters .

.     arc  iv  ⤍  d2 .     ›     heart  of  the  nonbeliever .

.     arc  v  ⤍  post  d2 .     ›     burning  in  the  baptism  by  fire .

.     arc  vi  ⤍  d3 .     ›     feeding  the  wolf  its  meal  of  hate .

.     arc  vii  ⤍  post  d3 .     ›     through  the  heat  of  the  sun .

.     arc  viii  ⤍  post  d3 .     ›     a  knife  that  never  stops .

.     「 au 」  here  to  tear  your  kingdom  down  ──  descendants  au .

[shadowkoo]

Chasing Clouds - series m.list

𝑨𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕

→ Summary: Namjoon made the decision early on in his training that he would abstain from dating or entering any form of relationship while in active duty. He’s determined not to burden anyone with the likelihood of being to be notified of his death or causing pain to someone he loves by his long absence. Ironically, he found himself drawn to you, a doctor who challenges his beliefs and contradicts everything he upholds.

↠ namjoon x f.reader | 18+ | status: on-going ↠ total words: to be updated once complete ↠ genre: military au, doctor au, s2l, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff, romance, descendants of the sun au

→ Warnings: Read at your own risk! war, ptsd, violence, injury, death, murder, bombs, guns, knives, use of other weapons, (smut + additional warnings will be noted in each chapter)

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔

Captain Yoo Shijin - Big Boss, Alpha Team

Seo Daeyoung - Wolf, Alpha Team

Kim Namjoon - Wildcat, Puppy Pack Trainee

Jung Hoseok - Bambi, Puppy Pack Trainee

Lee Jihoon - White Knight, Puppy Pack Trainee

Dr. Moyeon Kang - Big Boss’s wife

Dr. Y/N Song - 1st year intern

𝑪𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔

☁ Prologue

☁ Chapter 1 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 2 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 3 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 4 - coming soon

☁ Chapter 5 - coming soon

main m.list - wips - updates - ao3 - kofi

©shadowkoo 2023. All rights reserved.

[curtins]

SALVATORE — jujutsu kaisen x reader minors dni

prologue. → going on summer vacations with the jjk men and things get a little...hotter?

pairings. satoru gojo x afab!reader / suguru geto x afab!reader / nanami kento x afab!reader / choso kamo x afab!reader / ryomen sukuna x afab!reader / toji fushiguro x afab!reader

warnings+. non-sorcerer/jujutsu au, from the back, exhíbitíonism, mild food play, ríding, máting press, creámpíe, against the wall, oral (f. receiving), fíngeríng, hey even in a cave! reader is called good girl, princess, baby, darling, my love.

word count. 4.1k! song inspiration. salvatore — lana del rey

a/n. update #1 writing this fic had me looking up shit on wikipedia pages abt cities around the world, had me checking meteorology maps...tried to choose cities i've been to but i was still racking my brains. update #2 btw whenever i write smut like this i'm filled with outstanding self awareness and minor shame but thats the fun of it 😭 this is day no.3 of me trying to rewrite this all from scratch update #3 day 4! fawkkkk i wanna go on holiday too now. lmao if i was in the sukuna one, i would have been mad as hell, istanbul is stunning <3

mp3. everything looks better from above my king, like aqua marine, ocean's blue

TOJI FUSHIGURO — all the lights in miami begin to gleam 📍 miami, america

"o-oh, fuck. think she's really tellin' me to keep going like this, don'tcha think?"

your boyfriend is mean when he's like this. sharp, jade eyes narrowed as they take in the sight of your puffy folds swallowing him up over and over as he's stuffing himself into your sticky walls. and if you turn your head away, from where you're smashed against the pillow, you can see the floor-to-wall ceilings of the high-rise penthouse that offers an uninterrupted view of miami's glittering skyline.

"how - how, did you even get this place, hah, toji?" it's a wonder you can even get a coherent sentence out right now, your guts are practically being stuffed with inches of your boyfriend's veiny cock, and it's leaving you, well, delirious.

but with humble credit and thanks to what you can assume is your own nasty grip, toji's not faring much better either. his brawny frame is practically shuddering, and while you can't see his face in this position, you're certain that a sharp canine has sunk into his lip, and his breath is coming out in hulking groans.

"heh, you're n-not meant to ask questions like that, princess? gotta, ohhh, gotta keep some business s-secrets up my sleeve, huh?" and he's practically a beast right now, handling you on all fours of this king-sized bed, draped in silk sheets the colour of red wine, "just a reward for a-, haah, a job well done."

any job well done from toji was most likely something illegal, but you can't even bring yourself to care, not when there's a bucket of chilled champagne on the glass table to your left, and certainly not when his fat cock is smearing right through you, leaving a coil in your abdomen that only he can unravel.

you whine, feeling the fat tip of his cock practically rummage and make a home in your cunt, "toji, wan' more," and you're pushing the plush of your ass against his pumping hips, and you hear his sharp intake of breath.

a rough hand has snaked underneath you, creating a small gap between you and the bunched-up fabric on the bed, and his callous fingertips are now circling sloppy, messy circles over your clit, leaving you bucking in his hold.

"n-now, stay still, princess. not done with you yet."

SUGURU GETO — ciao, amore. soft ice-creams. 📍 amalfi coast, italy

you're not sure how long you've been trembling under suguru's mouth, but it must have been an eternity under the ministrations of his tongue.

the sun has been blazing high, casting a golden glow over this part of the private beach, hidden away from the towns bustling with tourists like yourselves who had descended upon the coast for the summer.

soft waves lapped in ebbing waves, the rhythm breaking the perfect stillness of the afternoon, in this wooden cabana, separated from the terracotta villas.

and no, your mind was nowhere near admiring the turquoise waters of the ocean, but rather your lover's mouth practically exploring every inch of your cunt like this.

the tapered tip of his tongue had long been probing around your fluttering pussy, taking in every last drop of your pearlescent luster that was practically dripping over his chin.

not to mention the absolutely sticky and languid trails of melting ice-cream, each biting cream drop that fell on your hot swollen folds getting promptly cleaned up by the one who was enjoying this sweet game.

"shhh! don't wanna get kicked off this beach, do ya, pretty?"

and suguru looks positively devious, his violet eyes gleaming with crude intent. his black hair is a tangled mess, long locks falling victim to your clawing nails that tumble carelessly over his bare back, kissed by the sun and glowing with a soft, rosy pink hue.

and when he smiles, the sunlight catches onto his lips, making the slick on his mouth sparkle and wink up at you.

"been - it's been an entire hour by now, can't you just let me cum," you huff, closing the plush of your thighs around his ears, boxing him in.

geto flashes you a mischievous grin, running a slow finger through your sopping folds, and lightly brushing over your entrance as you mewl again.

"where would the fun in that be, pretty?" he murmurs, "love seeing how wet this cunt gets for me, need to let me have my fun."

what a devil. clearly, getting under your skin is a sport for him.

you're hardly given a moment to breathe before he's jostling two thick digits right into the thick of it once more, in and out, in and then out, as his thumb find its home on the slope of your bare mound again.

"besides, we can take it slow for 'nother hour, can't we?" and now suguru's toying with your clit, and his teeth lean down to graze the swollen, throbbing bud, "gotta see just how much you can beg for me."

NANAMI KENTO — catch me if you can, working on my tan 📍 gold coast, australia

"w-wait, darling," nanami shudders under your touch, under your fresh set of nails raking small patterns over his neck, "anyone could just walk past here, y'know."

you curl your lip, before pressing your mouth in an open mouthed kiss to his stretched neck, warm and flushed.

you can feel the galloping thrum of his pulse beneath your lips, the heat almost intoxicating, mingling with the faint tang of the pool water's chlorine, and the scent of banksia and frangipanis in the air.

you can also feel his thick cock dragging through your walls, as you ram the weight of your hips over and over again. it seems like the shimmering skyline of surfer's paradise was just what nanami needed, after months of work, and you're determined to make the most of your time here.

he's got you bouncing practically like a ragdoll, heavy balls swinging up and smacking your skin in what little space remains between the two of you, and he's panting into your chest, "whatd'ya gonna do if someone sees?"

"mhm, don' care, no-one's here, nanami."

his broad arms loop around you in the pool chair, as you straddle the sizeable bulge that's making a tent in his briefs, "nasty, sometimes, aren'tcha?"

you smile, as your husband's large hands roam over your back, making you arch your back into his touch — as he deftly pulls at the tight knot holding your damp bikini top together.

"ah, don't get shy now. let me see these," and you can only nod hazily as he lets your tits spill out, and press up against his bare, chiselled torso, "wanted this so bad, just a minute ago, yeah?"

"s-still want this," and for good measure, you grind your hips down over his cock with even more pressure, feeling him jolt with a quiet 'fuck!' underneath you.

"haah, that's not fair, darling," and he's crashing his weeping, curved tip so far into you, that you're certain you're seeing stars on the saltwater horizon, "what happened to playing nice?"

you know you should be weary of the flicker of challenge that glints in his stern brown eyes, softened by the haze of your squelching cunt, "do y-your worst, otherwise what? can't keep up?"

a cocky smile curves over his mouth, and that's the wave of satisfaction you were looking for, hoping that he'd take the bait.

he leans further back in the pool chair, now with an arm wrapped lazily around your gyrating hips, but you can feel his grip tighten, stealing the humid air right out from under you, "we'll see who can't play nice when you're begging for my cock to fill you up."

CHOSO KAMO — all the lights are sparkling for you, it seems 📍santorini, greece

"hey, shh, shhh..."

choso's voice is a low rumble as he glides his thick, leaking tip down your slick core, and you shiver as the cool ocean breeze mixes with the warm slick gathering between your bodies, "w-wow, you're doing so good, handling it so well, my love."

you must have made a good choice, choosing this suite. one carved seamlessly into the tan-rock of one of the island's famous caves. and well, your sweet boyfriend has been fucking you so incredibly that you feel your eyes start to water, blear away from the pretty blue and terracotta accents on the mantelpiece.

his girthy cock sinking into you send shivers to your pussy that leave you fluttering and squeezing around him tighter, clenching around the veins as he sinks even deeper, so the thickened head is practically kissing your cervix, and filling you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

"d-does it feel good for you too, cho?” you gasp, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers playing with the soft choppy strands that fall around his shoulders, "this...this is what you wanted, right, baby?"

the pale mauve of his lips curves into a faint smile, and despite the sharpness of his thrusts making a home in your gummy walls, there's a tenderness in his shadowed, hazel eyes as his palm glides down your torso, cupping your tits gently, "w-would go anywhere in the world, if it was with you."

and he's looking at you with such love that you just cannot help but believe him when he says, no, shudders out a "you're so beautiful."

the sound of the water lapping against the rocks below fills the room, mixing with your soft whimpers, as the slow roll of choso's hips leave your puffy folds weeping. the thick, throbbing head of his cock brushes against your g-spot, right there, and you moan, lost in the sensation.

"god, y-you’re so good at this," he breathes into your ear, his voice hoarse and strained, and suddenly far more shaky, "ah - could do this forever."

"w-will you?" you whisper, eyes fluttering as you lose yourself in what is surely ropes of stringy white cum painting you lovingly inside, "wan' feel you all the time, cho."

choso's misty, flushed gaze locks onto yours, filled with a heat that makes your heart race, and fireworks shoot through your abdomen, "think you're g-gonna be my wife someday, yeah?"

you bite your lip, a shy smile painting your face despite the way that he's practically jostling inch after inch into your pussy, pressing into you like a vice, "really mean t-that, cho?"

"ahh, 'course i do," he shudders, brushing a thumb down the swan-arch of your neck, "now, hold onto me."

RYOMEN SUKUNA — dying by the hand of a foreign man, happily 📍istanbul, turkey

"huhh, oh my god! you're an animal," you huff at your fiancé, who's currently sprawled on the plush bed underneath your straddling thighs, under the sheer curtains that billow softly in the warm breeze from the open latticework windows.

and right now, sukuna looks like a mess.

and it brings you a great deal of satisfaction to see your usually composed and aloof fiancé so undone and disheveled, as he grins up at you — the black markings on his face creasing with the movement.

his rosy-pink hair is a tangled heap, but you can't resist running your fingers through the short, tousled spikes.

and his lips, which have been marking you up consistently for the past ten minutes, gleam glossy and full, as his crimson eyes lock onto yours with the smug satisfaction of a cat who's gotten its way.

he'd barely waited a mere minute after the two of you had arrived back to your hostel's room, from a whirlwind tour of the sultanahmet district, before he had pounced on you, and had practically tore your long skirt off.

you don't quite think it's worth mentioning that you've been pawing equally at your boyfriend in the same time as well, pulling his thick and lengthy shaft out of the confines of his boxers, and swiping a thumb over the angrily-gleaming tip.

"d-didn't even take a second to think about all the places we just saw? the history lessons, and - sukuna, were you even listening?"

by now, you're fighting back heaving shivers at the way the pads of his calloused fingers run under your top.

"hah! yeah, yeah. history and all that," he murmurs, low and amused, but his focus is clearly elsewhere, his lips now resuming their previous task of snapping at your torso, letting pretty berry-red marks beam.

you roll your eyes, though a smile tugs at the corners of your own glossy mouth, "y-you're impossible," and you try not to squirm as his forefinger and thumb on each hand pinch at a nipple under your top, "don' even know why i bothered bring this...this camera around. the guide said that these sights were o-once, oh fuck, sukuna, get a grip, said the sights were once-in-a-lifetime b-breathtaking."

"breathtaking, huh?" sukuna shifts closer to you, scooting you further over his wide lap, and his voice has dropped to a low and sultry whisper that sends a shiver down your spine, and leaves you aching, "i think you're breathtaking. wan' explore this," and here, he snaps at the elastic band of your lace panties, "instead."

"and besides, i was listening," and now, he's patting his sculpted, exposed thighs behind the plush of your ass on him, "the guide said that this city straddles two continents."

he's emphasising his words with a deliberate tap, clearly hoping you'd catch the awful word-play.

"say something like that again, and i'm booking the next flight home."

"hah, so now you hate it when i am cultured."

by now, his two rough hands kneading at you has left you...airless. thick heat has been pooling in your core, and you just can't help but let out a soft whimper, "sukuna…only wanted y-you to focus."

he shakes his messy head, laughter rumbling deep in his chest, under thick pectoral muscles, "no can do, brat. you’re my focus now. done enough sightseeing outside today, wanna do something inside."

"you’re impossible!" but you gasp as he skims a thumb over your cloying, dewy clit, making you jolt.

you know he must be in a rare, mellowed mood because he breathes, "impossibly in love with you," and it's quiet, teasing as the heat of his breath ghosts over your skin, "now tell me how much you want this, and maybe i'll think about giving you a different type of lesson."

franky, by now you want nothing more than to be filled with heavy, hot inches that curl into you, sloshing their way to the most sensitive spot of all, and sukuna must see that on your face.

"i -," you begin, but the words falter as he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, and the weeping tip of his cock taps against the wet pool staining your underwear darkly translucent.

"just say it, brat. tell me how bad you want it, i'll even be nice this time," he urges, his voice a sultry purr, "just gon' give it to you as you ask, yeah?"

"wan' you in me, 'kuna," you finally admit, breathless, "i want you so much it hurts."

"good girl," he mutters, his eyes darkening with desire. "now you're getting the right idea."

you sigh, content, but then still your rocking hips suddenly, "but after this, we're still going out to the bazaar for dinner."

"for fuck's sake."

GOJO SATORU — like a boss, you sang jazz and blues 📍paris, france

you're not quite sure where exactly you should be training your ears, whether you should be listening to the sultry notes of a saxophone that wrap around the plush velvet booth where you and gojo are seated.

or the thick, clingy swish of his fingers practically bullying themselves in and out of your pussy. the air is thick with the scent of expensive cigars that make you wrinkle your nose, and fine whiskey (that makes gojo wrinkle his nose) and the sweet tang of your own slick, privately, just for the two of you.

your boyfriend sits close to you, his left hand tight on your waist, and the other working a fine instrument, bunching up underneath your ysl silk dress.

"baby, look at how your perfect cunt's talkin' to me," he's whispering, and you can hear the sheer glee in his voice, his breath hot against your ear.

meanwhile, your jaw is slack and you're doing your best to not meet his touch with a sultry, rhythmic grind of your own hips, but the knot is quickening and tightening within you.

but gojo just smiles, and you can see the blue in his eyes darken underneath his sunglasses that have slipped slightly down the slope of his nose, "but can't have everyone hearing this melody, can we? might think you were the main fuckin' attraction for the night and not -" he cocks his head to the quartet serenading the paris night sky, and the other patrons of this filthy wealthy club.

you just sink your teeth into your painted lip, suppressing a whine as he curls three fingers within you, reeling you entirely pliant and having you lean against his broad chest under his jacket, "b-but satoru, 'm getting close."

he's being awful, you think. and when he had pulled his hand out earlier, it had been entirely coated in a ribbon of your arousal, the slow syrup beginning to run down his slender digit, but he had parted his lips and let not a drop go to waste on his tongue.

the music is swelling, it's a jazzy crescendo that fills the air, and your gaze hazes and wonders, focusing on the open window where the eiffel tower stands ablaze in lights. soft gasps are escaping your lips, when gojo starts slamming his fingers up and up further, right up to his glossy knuckle, clearly searching for your g-spot.

and you are so glad that this booth is turned away from the rest of the club's patrons, for if they saw you, it would be no secret as to what exactly was going on underneath your gown.

"focus on me, love. just focus on how you're soaking me."

he's pressing his fingers impossibly deeper, stroking your walls in a way that make it impossible to think of anything else but him.

"gojo, please…" you breathed, struggling to keep your voice low, "what if someone sees?"

he laughs, pressing his mouth to your neck, and you know he's inhaling the new scent that you had picked up at the luxury flagship stores earlier, his treat.

"let them. paid good enough money to get in here," and now he's getting more insistent, practically ravishing your aching pussy now, "besides, they wanna say anything about it? i'll cut out their tongue."

"p-pretty sure that's, mmph, i'm sure that's i-illegal, 'toru."

"don't want your pretty head thinking about anything else right now, 'kay?" and god, it's one of life's greatest works, how he just knows how to work his magic like this, and the way that he's pinching, rolling and twirling his fingers has you convinced that the holy six-eyes technique, passed down in the sacred tradition of the gojo clan, is being put to nasty work.

sure enough, a little spark! there, and a bigger zap! against your clit practically confirms your suspicions, as does the unearthly glow you catch in gojo's wide eyes, and you can feel yourself hurtling towards a precipice, panting open-mouthed against him.

"dirty girl, you don’t want to make a scene, do you?" he says this like he was not the one who pulled you into this booth, and palmed his way up your slip-dress. like he's not the one who tore into your lace panties, and shoved them into his pocket.

"it feels so good, satoru,” you babble, barely able to contain yourself, as he scissors his fingers wide, nudging your walls apart, "i can’t — "

"then don't," he interrupted, his voice low and commanding, "just let it happen. i want to hear you, i wanna hear her too, but only if you can keep it down."

you nodded, breathless, watching as waiters in impeccable black-and-white attire glide between the tables, carrying trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres and glasses of dom pérignon.

"good girl," he murmured, his fingers curling just right, pushing you closer to that exquisite precipice, "now, be quiet and enjoy the moment."

just as he pinches your clit, you feel everything around fall away in shattering starfall. bolts of lightning shoot and splash through your lungs, stilling your heart, leaving your cunt pulsing with a life of its own, fluttering against satoru's fingers which still haven't stopped.

it's only then you realise that the band has stopped playing, and the other patrons of the clubs are leaning out of their seats, slapping their hands together in fervount applause.

but you can only stare, dazed and boneless from the remnants of an excellent fucking orgasm, as gojo leans in, just over the shell of your ear.

"how about we go back to the hotel room? wanna see an encore?"

[anotherrosesthatfell]

Why do you call your story Children Of sinners?

Also, I like to know the rest of title meaning like sin of the Virtues and destiny of sun descendant because I'm pretty sure Dream is supposed to be the main character but at this point I'll see Hope point of view

Oh that's easy-

Destiny of Sun Descendant

So the reason is simple- yeah I agree with Dream not being the main character anymore because this story focus on people around him.

As Sora is the real sun descendant and Dream is the fake one. Their destiny changed. Dream took the someone's else place and take the wrong destiny. Sora destiny is taken so he was casted away in somewhere else (rip)

Sins of the Virtues

This story is about star sanses, murder time trio, neutral side and some spirits you already know. They called themselves virtues yet they committed unthinkable sins.

For example, kindness. Having kindness as your virtue yet you use it to commit a sin? Emotional manipulation and emotional abuse. That's a sin.

Children of sinners

Lux, Palette, Drop, Crescent, Angst, Merciless and Goth. They're children of the sinners. Their parents committed sins, let them deal with the consequences.

For example Hope is destined to go to hell and Passive doesn't allow that thus he challenge the gods. The gods then make a game, using the children instead of the sinners themselves.

Lux was never meant to be a guardian or the queen, she was a mistake to this world because she wasn't supposed to have magic that belonged to Palette. Her parents committed sins and she had to deal with it

Palette in the other hand was supposed to have magic, he was supposed to be a good child yet due neglects and high expectations. Here is it.

[salingers]

hayride.

dbf!joel miller x f!reader summary: visiting (the) home depot with your dad's best friend, joel miller. [and, him eating and fucking you, in the hay field located behind the store]. warnings: 18+ mdni. age gap. agoraphilia. au. begging. brat!reader. cream pie. daddy!joel. daddy!kink. dirty talk. dom!joel. (anal) fingering. jealous!joel. language. no outbreak. oral sex. no use of 'y/n'. praising. smut. unprotected piv. use of 'good girl'. use of 'slut'. word count: [about] 2,600. a/n: hi, more october-set smut, before the month's over. thank you for welcoming me into the fandom, by supporting my debut, october's end. [part two's next month]. cover by me, divider by @saradika. @saradika-graphics.

A decade’s fleeted, since the last time that Joel Miller’s arcing, bedroom window’s framed your body; You’re nearly an apparition.

Your mere silhouette’s evoking long-neglected memories for Joel; Your private school’s fussy graduation. Whistling, from the bleacher’s humid, metallic plank. Joel’s abruptly blinking away his proud reverie.

Your haphazard, gauzy curtains aren’t proffering any privacy. Your dresser’s girlish; A dust-ladened and weathered wicker. You’re scrounging the half-dozen drawers, sorting teenaged remnants, Joel’s guessing.

It’s arguably morally awry, that he’s guessing at all. You’ve unearthed an ivory-colored pair of panties. You’re sampling the garment’s width, against your clothed waist; Your index finger’s hooking the pliant underwear and slowly stretching. Joel curses, “Fuck’s sake.”

Joel’s denim-clad groin’s growing taut; You’re unbuttoning your pants. His conscience’s hollering, QuitWatchingQuitWatching. Then, Joel’s belatedly swiping his curtain’s panel shut. The plaid, trembling fabric’s punishing him. You’re right there.

Your peripheral’s revealing that brown, tartan material’s now obscuring Joel Miller’s looming, perusing shadow.

Your phone’s deeply droning, near plummeting from your nightstand’s uneven, wickered top. You answer, “Hi.”

Dad’s beginning, “Hi, you.” Before, “Room ‘lright?” 

You aimlessly nod, “Yeah. Need ‘t paint it, though.”

The flat, stark white’s reminiscent of an operating room. A scalpel amid your dominant, gloved hand; Your abandoned internship. You’re certainly color-drenching this bland, interim room.

Dad’s conveniently chirping, “Y’know, Joel’s headin’ over ‘t The Home Depot. ‘Jus asked if I needed anythin’ for work.”

You humorously say, “The Home Depot?”

Dad amusedly huffs, “The one ‘n only.” Then, “I’ll dial ‘im back. Tell ‘im ‘t bring ‘ya.”

You’re nervously inquiring, “He won’t mind?”

Dad’s chuckling, “Kid, seriously? ‘S just Joel.”

He hasn’t been just Joel, since his absurdly sexy appearance in Dad’s FaceBook album, dorkily titled, ‘Fishin’ Missions’. Dad’s askew lens, recording Joel’s roughened, veiny hand, sizably surpassing his fish’s ample breadth; His arm’s rind, rugged and sun-freckled.

 That heathered-gray muscle-tee; Hued identically to Joel’s own silvery threads. Accentuating. Your horny musing’s interrupted, when the doorbell’s nostalgic ding’s reverberated. A leadened, salacious feeling’s pin-balling your rib’s conical-shaped cage.

You’re descending the stairway’s carpeted tread. A once-over’s rushedly ensuing, amid the entry way’s gritty mirror. You’re timidly turning the front door’s bulbous knob; Your skin’s avidly warming.

Joel’s gruffing, “Waitin’ on an invitation?”

You’re feignedly snark, “Go ‘head, Miller.” 

Joel’s arousingly large. His belt’s leathered and suppled; Tapering his tender waist. You’re deliriously visualizing biting it. Your teeth’s individualized grooving, engraving Joel’s every-day accessory.

He’s beckoning, “C’mere. Settlin’ in okay?”

Your pulse’s embarrassingly hurried, as Joel’s hugging you. Your nose’s upturned, against his collar’s corduroy lapel; His inherent aroma’s autumnal. A heady medley of burnt cinnamon, earthy hay.

You breathlessly retort, “Y–Yes. ‘Jus fine.”

His beard’s deliciously graying and scruffy; Bristling you. Joel’s inching away; A hand’s kneading your elbow’s point, “Grown. Ain’t ‘ya?”

You’re muttering, “Think anythin’ in my ‘ol dresser’ll fit?”

Joel rasps, “Be fittin’ somethin’ ‘a mine. Talkin’ like that.”

You teasingly tut, “Oh? Promise?”

His jaw’s tightening, “G–Get in my fuckin’ truck, ‘lready.”

The retail store’s unmistakingly orange and tan exterior’s materializing onward. Joel’s hushedly threatening, “Got ‘t behave.”

You’re amusedly assuring him, “Me? ‘Course.”

He’s backwardly parking. His arm’s generously imposing against your seat’s cushiony spine, “Lot ‘a clients ‘a mine, in ‘ere.”

His chin’s abutting along his broad, reaching shoulder’s top. Joel’s delectable, lofting nose’s leading his prominent side-profile; His pursed, upper lip’s capped under an impressive, stiff mustache. Your cunt’s pulsating. You need to rabidly rut against Joel Miller’s aging, sun-tinged face.

You’re resignedly sighing, “Fine.”

Joel replies, “Bratty fuckin’ girl.”

His accent’s aggressively Texan; Languid. Syrupy. You’re involuntarily leaking, beyond your underwear’s cottony corral. The archaic radio’s uttering early-seventies Linda Ronstadt, until Joel’s halting the ignition.

You murmur, “Any cute clients?”

Joel’s apparently unimpressed; He’s agitatedly rolling his coffee-shaded eyes. Tutting, “Best be ‘lone, when I find ‘ya.”

You’re unpromisingly shrugging, before evacuating his Ford’s heated interior. Whispering, “See ‘bout that, Miller.”

Your skin’s momentarily rasped, from the atypically frigid, October wind. The store-front’s decorated seasonally. There’s pallets, upon pallets, of pumpkins; A uniformed variety of classic orange and creamy white.

You’re distractedly mulling around carving or painting pumpkins, while Joel’s unexpectedly wrapping his freshly-shedded, heavy chore-coat against you; His hand’s comfortingly scrubbing your shoulder’s taut blade.

Joel’s deeply humming, “Better, darlin’? Hm?”

You’re instantaneously arming the clothing item’s perfectly tenderized sleeves, “M–Much, Joel.”

You’re leaning, subsequently touching his torso’s muscular crest. Joel’s thumbing your collar’s curving bone, “Warm, here?”

You whine, “Yes.”

Joel’s beginning to crane downard, until he’s chinning your shoulder’s trembling shelf. You’re gasping, as he’s fingering your loaner, Carhartt jacket’s bottom button, from behind. His arm’s caging you.

His calloused pinky’s reaching, before flitting your pant’s folded fly, “And, here?” He’s wagering, “Warmer?”

You’re groaning, “Ngh. Y–Yeah.”

Joel carnally scolds, “Filthy fuckin’ girl. A–Askin’ me ‘bout other men? While your pussy’s pre-heatin’ ‘f me?”

His finger nail’s raking your zipper’s aluminum teeth. Joel’s tauntingly whispering, “Ain’t brattin’ much, now.”

You’re begging, “L–Let’s leave.”

He’s instantly moving. You’re incoherently stunned, as Joel’s adopting an orange-colored cart, “Find ‘ya in the paintin’ section?”

You’re spluttering, “J–Joel. ‘S not what I meant.”

Joel’s winking, “Darlin’, I know what ‘ya meant.”

He’s ambling ahead, bypassing the automatic door’s yawning jaw. Your dominant hand’s flexing, electrocuted in palpable pleasure; It’s reminiscent of Mr. Darcy. You’re involuntarily summoning an image of Joel, dressed as the aforementioned aristocrat, participating in Halloween.

Joel’s robust shoulders, heaving against an incompletely unbuttoned, wispy shirt. His chest’s foggy-toned, furling hair. His head’s rain-rustled, curly strands. A high-waisted trouser; Ascending his belly’s delectable slope, whilst canopying his cock’s dilating weight. You know it’s big.

You’re unfocused; Footing the hardware store’s threshold. There’s an assortment of motion-triggered, Halloween decorations erected nearby. You’re curiously setting one, an animatronic ‘Boogeyman’. The creepy distraction’s festively futile. Joel Miller’s still permeating your skull.

The paint attendant’s named ‘Ruger’. A gun manufacturer namesake’s befitting, given Ruger’s camouflaged, distressed t-shirt. He’s an Austin, Texas quintessential, twenty-something male; A ‘modernized’ mullet-and-mustache duet? Check. A smothering of ‘patchworked’ tattoos? Check.

He’s flirtatiously greeting, “Sugar. How can I do ‘ya?”

You’re brandishing an array of complimentary paint-swatches, against his counter’s crest, “Do color-matchin’?”

Ruger’s endorsing, “Best ‘round.”

You’re inwardly wincing, but Joel’s abruptly approaching. So, “Ain’t doubt it. Clothes shouldn’t be an issue?”

Your palm’s routing your breast’s pocket; Ruger’s murmuring, “T–That jacket? ‘Moss’ by Carhartt. Got codin’.”

You’re falsely enthusiastic, “Really? You’re the best.”

Ruger tosses an isolated thumb, signaling to his computerized, machine mixer, “Told ‘ya.” Asking, “Color’s goin’ in your bedroom?”

You’re agreeably nodding, “Yep.”

Ruger’s grinning, “Lucky paint.”

You begin, “You? Feelin’ lucky?”

Joel’s reprimanding, “Lucky that I ain’t kill ‘im.” Before, “Passin’ at my girl. Gettin’ paid ‘t do that?”

Ruger’s answering, “N–No, Sir.”

Joel’s deeply repeating, “No.” Then, “Two gallons ‘a Sherwin-Williams. Emerald. Matte finishin’, both of ‘em.”

You’re second-handedly embarrassed and incapable of meeting Ruger’s apologetic, parting peer. Joel’s efficiently emptying his cart’s plastic-composed basin, before rehoming his kindred supplies, upon the check-stand’s laminate surface. You muse, “Emerald’s two-hundred dollars ‘a paint?”

Joel’s genuinely offended, “Ain’t payin’. I’m gettin’ it.”

You’re avidly insisting, “Don’t have ‘t do that, Miller.”

Then, Joel’s rapidly reaching outward; Yanking your belt’s fraying loop. You’re firmly tugged against him. He drawls, “Want ‘t do it.”

His breath’s cinnamony and smoky; An inebriating merging of gum and cigarettes. You dizzyingly respond, “Y–Yeah?”

Joel’s languidly leaning, before brushing his nose’s point against your ear’s lobe, “Yeah.” Whispering, “Paintin’ your bedroom the color ‘a my jacket? What’s that ‘bout, darlin’ girl?”

You’re shyly stammering, “D–‘Dunno.” Accusing, “Sayin’ aloud, ‘my girl’? What’s that ‘bout, Joel?”

Joel’s grinning, “That? Want ‘t find out?”

You’re panting, “Oh?”

His palm’s barreling behind; Stuffing his pant’s pocket. You’re savoring the rattling sound of his key-ring’s recovery. Then, Joel’s rapidly shoving the mixed-metal wad inside your rear-pocket. His bulky hand’s harshly kneading your bottom’s fleshy heft; Your cunt’s thumping.

He demands, “Go ‘head. Right behind ‘ya.”

You’re ocularly rummaging around Joel’s unkempt vehicle. American Spirits. Matches. A thrifted, Patsy Cline cassette. Big Red. Coins. A dog-eared, John Steinbeck novel. The sexual suspense’s dampening your sternum; Sticky. Sweaty. You’re beginning to desperately undress.

The Carhartt coat’s discarded. Your flimsy henley’s unbuttoned. Joel’s egressing from Home Depot’s aromatic interior, before pausing at the Garden Center’s check-stand. No way. A hundred-dollar note’s being thrusted, from Joel’s girthy hand, unto the cashier’s gloved palm.

This broad, burly man’s buying you fucking pumpkins. He’s pensively plucking them. His brow’s furrowing; His forehead’s wrinkling. Joel’s literally examining them, heeding any blemished gourds. You’re bewilderedly blinking, as Joel’s palming them, like they’re… Basketballs.

Your waist’s winding, impatiently rutting against his truck’s benched seat; Your pant’s denimed seam, slotting your cunt’s drooly entry.

Then, Joel’s jerking the back-seat’s door ajar. Asking, “Pick ‘em ‘lright? Did ‘ya see?” His scruffy chin’s jutting, at his quartet of pumpkins.

You’re swallowing, “Y–Yep. Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s gruffing, “C’mon. ‘Course, pretty girl.”

His arm’s effortlessly flexing, tanned and veined, amid transferring his plastic-bagged supplies. Joel’s guessing, “Need ‘t be fucked, in ‘ere?”

You shamelessly moan, “Mhm.”

He’s teasingly whistling, “Yeah? Ain’t far from home, baby.”

You’re grumbling, “T–Too far.”

Joel’s patronizing, “Gettin’ cocked, in ‘ere? ‘S really slutty.”

You sigh, “Don’t care. C’mere.”

The shopping cart’s rapidly returned, before the driver-seat’s groaning under Joel’s jeaned ass, “Needy pussy.” His construction boot’s tamping the brake’s pedal, “Ain’t it? Get ‘t fingerin’. Feed me somethin’ warm.”

Your brassy button’s unhitching; Your toothy zipper’s buzzing. You’re hurriedly shrugging the denimed material downward; Ankling it. His mouth’s prematurely parting. Your underwear’s transparent, flooding in arousal. Joel’s dangerously speeding, departing the feebly-populated parking lot.

He’s feverishly warning, “There’s an empty hay field, ‘round back. Bit ‘a off-roadin’. Yeah?” Directing, “Give ‘em.”

Then, Joel’s toughly tugging your panty’s waist-line. You’re shamelessly obedient; Your fabric restraint’s promptly removed. His beefy, index finger’s impatiently suspended; Pumping. Your pussy’s watering his passenger-seat’s cushioning; Your underwear’s encircling Joel’s commanding digit.

The all-terrain truck’s bumpily impeling, devouring the barren field’s acreage. Eyes involuntarily shutting, Joel’s blindly steering, inbreathing your underwear’s deluged gusset. His nostril’s flaring. His cock’s pitching, prodding below his crotch’s denimed rein; You’re stuffing your pussy’s well.

Joel’s harshly moaning, “Listen ‘t that. Cryin’ fuckin’ hole.”

You’re whimpering, “M–Mm. Ngh.”

He’s greedily ringing your plunging wrist; Yanking. The rapid removal’s obscenely squelchy. Then, Joel’s immediately slurping your index and middle finger’s balmy glaze; Your thumb’s pinning upon his chin’s graying, scratchy underside. The truck’s recklessly slowing.

Joel’s haphazardly parking. The halting, howling tires begin spewing an autumnal confetti; A misting of dry hay and auburn leaves. You’re suddenly hoisting against Joel’s bulging lap; He’s instantaneously hammering, before spitting out your moistened finger’s duet.

And, Joel Miller’s finally kissing you. His groan’s pouring, beyond your esophagus. Licking your mouth’s rippled roof; Siphoning your tongue’s humid pad. Your naked pussy’s pouncing upon Joel’s clad cock. He’s thumbing your cheek-bone’s divot and cupping your jaw-line’s hind; Whimpering.

He’s arousingly exhaling, “Ngh. ‘S fuckin’ tasty.” Then, Joel’s dropping horizontally. Laying, “Fixin’ ‘t guzzle ‘ya.”

His head’s hedging the passenger-side’s door; His boot’s budging the driver-side’s door. You’re drawing upward, as Joel’s guiding you. Your dewy hole’s ramming against Joel’s awaiting face; He’s nosing your clit’s distended mound. Your innard thigh’s twitching, “G–God. Feel fuckin’ good.”

 Arousal’s rigorously sopping Joel’s beard. His mustache’s coated and creamy. Your behind’s leveraging; Ass firmly spreading. Joel’s maneuvering and manhandling you. He’s lapping, nearly pornographically swigging. You’re internally levitating; Your spine’s liquefied, “A–Ahhhh. Joel, Joel.”

Joel’s innocently whispering, “What?” Then, “Asshole’s puckerin’. Need pluggin’?”

You’re deliriously nodding, Yes. His center digit’s tantalizingly traveling below. Brushing your clit’s crest; Scooping your cunt’s slick. Your fluttering, furthest hole’s aching, against Joel’s circling, finger’s pad. He’s beginning to tandemly traverse; Eating. Fingering.

Your stomach’s tightening, as Joel’s knuckling you. His head’s nuzzling; Shaking. His beard’s rigidly whiskering, across your core’s folding, before he’s relentlessly sucking. Your clit’s flickering; You’re blindingly cumming. Joel’s airily humping; His cock’s englarging.

He’s hoarsely speaking, “A–‘Atta girl.” Praising, “Drippin’ inside ‘a my fuckin’ ear?” Sniffling, “Up my fuckin’ nose? Good, wet girl.”

You’re dizzyingly horny, “Miller. PleasePleasePlease.”

Joel’s grinning, “Please?” 

Your puffy pussy’s eagerly lowering, “Yes.” You’re gyrating, against his lap’s ridge, “Fuck. F–Fuck me.”

He’s grunting, “Fuck ‘ya? Fuckin’ slut. Keep beggin’.”

Joel’s leaning upright and sitting upward. Your disoriented shirt’s being tossed away. Licking your throat’s trail; Skimming your nipple’s peak. You’re nakedly stamping atop his torso’s towering mass. Your skin’s goose-bumping, “Ngh. P–Please, Daddy.”

His brow’s amusedly arching, “Y–Yeah?” Demanding, “Who’s.” Thrust. “Your.” Thrust. “Daddy?”

Promising, “You.”

Joel’s approvingly nodding; His driver-side door’s thudding open. His arm’s muscularly solid, whilst effortlessly upholding you. You’re burrowing, at his throat’s protruding, pulsing vein, as he’s regressing vertical. His anterior boot’s pressing upon decaying hay; A gelid gust of wind’s wreathing.

He’s attentively mumbling, “Shiverin’? Let’s warm ‘ya. Hm?”

His beard’s balmy and cunt-scented. You’re being settled, amongst his driver-seat’s aged upholstering. You’re amorously fidgeting, as Joel’s flitting his belt’s metallic prong. The accessory’s yanked from his fading Wranglers, as Joel’s abutting the cushion’s edge; His zipper’s deliciously drawing.

The belt’s noisily plummeting; A leathery slap, against the floor-mat’s rubbery surface. Your waist-line’s eagerly grasped, whilst Joel’s positioning your pussy’s twingeing hole. He’s hissing, during an arousing upheaval, of his cock’s entirety; The seeping tip’s bypassing his belly-button’s nook.

His t-shirt’s becoming translucent, as pre-cum’s dampening it. You’re following the ample shaft’s terse twitching. Blurting, “Need. That.”

Joel’s attractively smug, “This?” He’s robustly swatting his cock, across your clit’s cummy summit, “Think it’ll fit?”

You whimper, “F–Fuckin’ make it.”

He’s lowly whispering, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth.” Then, Joel’s abruptly and aggressively entering, “Go ‘head. Keep mouthin’ off.”

The truck’s boisterously creaking, as Joel’s ruggedly rutting. Your cervix wall’s convulsing, crowning his cock’s head. Your shiny spend’s glossing Joel’s graying, pubic tuft. His groin’s angrily clobbering, striking your cunt’s doused expanse. You’re incoherently stammering, “N–Ngh.”

Joel’s responding, “Can’t hear ‘ya, bratty girl.”

You’re painfully stretching, inside-and-out. His jeaned, lower-portion’s gloriously grating your thigh’s rear. Your right-side leg’s hooking through the steering wheel’s median; Your left-side leg’s perching, against Joel’s widening shoulder’s tier, as he’s weightily falling forward, “Say somethin’?”

Your limb’s achingly pinned vertically; Your body’s contorting, creating an indecent, ninety-degree angle. His focused, sun-wrinkled forehead’s grown moist. His furling, silver-tinged strands begin cascading. The benched seat’s dilapidated stitching’s imprinting, decorating your back’s extent.

Your taint’s repeatedly thwacked, by Joel’s brimming balls. His angle’s hitching, hitting that spot. You’re shrieking, “A–Ah.”

Joel’s accordingly bottoming-out, “Doin’ good. Stretchin’ well. Ain’t it?” His hip’s briskly oscillating, “Good girl. Good pussy.”

You’re shuddering, “D–DaddyDaddyDaddy.”

The pleasure’s pouring. Your cunt’s palpitating; Your spine’s taut. Joel’s resultantly stroking, maintaining his pacing, but drilling harder. He’s licking, crossing your hung jaw-line’s road. His tenderized t-shirt’s feathering, against your exposed nipples, over-sensitively tapering them.

Joel’s rasping, ���C’mon. Flood my fuckin’ truck.”

His tone’s arousingly languid. That’s it. You’re breathlessly cumming. Every extremity’s tightening, before blissfully dissolving. Your vision’s brightly impaired. Your climaxing moan’s fractured, as Joel’s ingesting it. His mouth’s restorative, whilst being ruining. You’re whispering, “Flood me.”

He’s whimpering, “Y–Yeah?” A prominent vein’s materializing, against his throat’s girthy rind, “Ain’t wet ‘nough, ‘lready? Greedy hole.”

Then, Joel Miller’s hotly erupting. His length’s flinching. Your fatigued, flittering hole’s wringing him. His aging brow’s bunching; You’re caressing his cinched expression. Your right-side leg’s being removed, amidst the steering wheel’s medial opening. Joel’s comforting, “Hurtin’?”

You’re indifferently shrugging; Joel’s unconvinced. His palm’s expertly massaging your leg’s weary ligament. You’re pathetically sighing, making Joel laugh. He’s kneading your knee-cap’s exhausted muscle, before fingering your calf-tendon’s aspiring knot. You stammer, “T–Thanks, Miller.”

Joel’s questioning, “How ‘bout Lowe’s, ‘morrow?”

You’re grinning, “Sure. If ‘ya sleep-over, tonight.”