#hot take hes not even morally gray

[nightmare-foundation-2]

If I see another person call ozpin manipulative I might actually go feral and attack someone

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐈 𝐍𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐑 ❞

❝ PROF. GETO'S CLASS IS SO HARD, BUT HE'S SO HOT!! ❞

✧ pairing: professor!geto x f!reader (part one of the prof geto series)

✧ summary: you were a 4.0, straight A student, until professor geto's class, the same far too hot ethics professor fawned over by faculty and students alike. you didn't understand what was so special about him...until you start having dreams about him.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, a lot of smut (mostly fantasy), depictions of student/teacher relationship (only ok in fiction not irl!!!), reader is a grad student in my mind, but age is vague, masturbation (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), sex (p in v), getting off to his voice in recorded lectures, arousal from reading his writing, amateur's take on moral philsophy and ethics, art by @/jatinsohanvi, google scholar graphic by platonic loml @laneysmusings

✧ wc: 10,149 (i have a problem) | part two

“You’re late,” 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto’s class was that you could never be late again, unless you would like to be chided in front of all your peers for your tardiness. 

Your first impression of Professor Suguru Geto himself was that he was truly the most breathtaking man you’d ever laid your eyes on. His inky black locks tied into a neat bun, his deep royal purple vest buttoned over a crisp white button up with pressed gray slacks, his pretty lips pressed in a small frown, as his dark gaze pierced through you. And you don’t know what stirs in your chest — a fleeting moment that is tucked away under a bite of your bottom lip and burning cheeks. 

And now you knew why when you had walked into class, the amount of unfamiliar faces in this course had far outnumbered the ones in your usual course load — the same reason why this man undoubtedly had three chili peppers next to his professor rating on some website out there. 

And now you were faced with him staring you down as you stumbled down the stairs of the all too full lecture hall. 

As you muttered apologies, and took your seat far too close to the front of the class, smack dab in the very front of the very same professor whose eyes still were concentrated on you, before sliding back to the class at large. 

“Now, where were we?” he says, continuing the lecture. 

Ethics was not your major — you were a philosophy grad student, and although the two went hand in hand — no, they were not the same thing. Ethics are the moral principles — like rules to follow to live a moral life — people can follow, while philosophy is the study of knowledge, reality, and existence. And this class encompassed both — an ethics and moral philosophy class. Your eyes slid around the room — and compared to all the random majors stuffed into this classroom, you had no doubt you’d do well. Your eyes met Professor Geto’s — maybe one slight doubt. 

And when you get your first essay back, you eagerly flip to the last page of the paper, wondering what accolades and compliments you’d receive this time. Your eyes find the grade, and your stomach drops, a gaping maw that consumes you from the inside out. 

You got a B. 

A B+ — an 88 on your paper in this course, and you stared at the grade on the very last page of the paper you had collected from his desk — Professor Geto had insisted everyone submit their papers both physically and electronically — his scrawl in red pen littered each page of what you thought was a thoughtful and even clever paper on the existence free will and the ethical and moral dilemmas that surround it. And he had given it an 88. 

You had a 4.0 point average — you had gotten the highest scores in some of the most difficult courses required by your major, and now you were going to be derailed by a class you took on a whim? That’s not happening. No, you were going to get him to change your grade. You were seeing as red as the ink that tore your paper to shreds. 

“Come in,” your knuckles had rapped against Professor Geto’s door, your heart in your throat, as you heard his reply, entering his office. His office was as pretentious as he was. A much larger office than you had seen before (poor Professor Ijichi had a shoebox of an office), while Professor Geto’s was three times the size, outfitted with large, beautiful windows, distinct bookshelves, and even a lovely deep mahogany colored couch with decorative cushions. And you knew why that was the case — Professor Geto was an expert in his field, revered, even at his relatively young age. And the university had coveted him, and managed to lure him to work behind these ivy covered walls. While other professors who have been here longer are stuck with offices that don’t begin to compare. 

Academia was truly hell. 

And yet, Professor Geto seemed to rule over it with an iron fist. Even now, you found your professor looking as annoyingly perfect as ever — his elbow resting against his desk, pen in his other hand, as he flipped through more papers on his desk, his hair in a messy bun, a few black strands falling across his furrowed brow, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and his dark gaze flicks up from his work to you, and his lips curl, your name leaving his lips, “good to see you, please sit,” 

You had planned to attend these office hours in victory, to apologize for your misstep in the first class, and let your professor praise your paper to no end — but instead you were going to see why your paper was graded so harshly. 

Your speech was ready, you were going to lay it out, you had the perfect explanation and the excellent reasoning “Professor Geto—” 

“I know why you’re here,” he cuts you off, lips forming in an utterly condescending smile, “you want to discuss your paper, correct?” 

“I am, I wanted to—” 

He sits forward in his chair, setting down his pen, “I’m going to save us some time by explaining my comments on your paper, do you have it?” and you close your mouth, pulling the paper out of your folder and handing it to him, “Your paper was one of the best in the class — it was thought provoking, grounded in research, persuasive, even made me consider some points I hadn’t before—” 

You blink, his praise catching you off guard, your thoughts twisting in on themselves, “Then why did you give me B?” 

“You didn’t allow me to finish,” he sighs, as he flips through your paper, looking up to meet your gaze,  “your paper was excellent when it came to philosophical concepts, but your ethical conclusions on the other hand, could use some work,” 

You gaped at him, “What did I possibly—” 

“To put it simply, you were trying to use your knowledge of philosophy to cover up your lack of knowledge in the field of ethics,” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“And that’s okay, because that means I have something to teach you don’t I? That’s why you’re in this course, to learn,” he gives a tight lipped smile, tilting his head. Oh you’d like to learn a lot more from him — like the ethical dilemma of wanting to murder your professor, “and I’m here to teach — and this paper is a teaching moment — and from your expression, I assume you didn’t read the comments I left in detail,” 

And your cheeks burn, as your eyes fall away from him, “Not fully in detail,” you still swallow your shame, and meet his gaze, “I don’t mean to be a bother, Professor, but how can my paper still receive a B — I’ve never received that low of a score on any single paper—” 

“There’s a first time for everything,” and you have to bite back your retort, “yeah first time having an annoying prick for a professor,” and he rises from his desk to hand you back your paper, “the bottom line is, I know you’re capable of better, this class isn’t going to be easy — I’m not going to hand you accolades for no reason. You have to earn them — if you aren’t up for the challenge, you can drop the class.” 

The option was there — you could simply drop the course, rid yourself of Professor Geto and his ridiculous criticism forever. You could take a class with one of the many professors who delighted in your papers (even the ones you’d written at 3 AM and submitted not proofread), and go on with your life and preserve your 4.0 GPA with ease. 

But then you looked at him again. He was unfairly hot, even when he was fucking putting you down, he stood in front of you, offering your paper, his fingers long and thick brushing yours by mistake as you took back your paper, a watch on his wrist gleamed in the low light of his office. You glanced around his office, saw the awards on his walls, pictures of him giving lectures or receiving honors, and the books that lined his shelves weren’t dissimilar to your own academic shelf at home. And your eyes fell back to his, as he stared at you curiously, lips pursed, as your paper slightly crumples in your fist. 

“Next paper is due in two weeks?” and he pauses, before his lips curl in that same grin. 

“Yes it is,” and a smile graces your lips, lightning quick.

Like hell you were going to let him win. You were going to get him to praise your papers (and maybe that wouldn’t be the only thing he praised) — if it was the last thing you do. You’d get an A in his class, hell, you’d get him to beg you to be his teaching assistant (he’d look very nice on his knees for you, wouldn’t he?). 

You rise from your seat, and grab your bag, “I’ll see you at your next office hours then, to discuss my paper topic,” and he watches you leave, his eyes piercing into your back as you do. 

“See you soon.” 

Oh, he would. 

“Right on time,” Professor Geto barely looks up now when you knock on his door, his door now always ajar for office hours. 

Now you had made a habit of showing up for his office hours, you’d bring your paper topic all picked out, along with your handpicked sources you had chosen for your paper, all typed up in a neat bibliography. And he’d kindly rip it apart with that same damn smile on his lips. It had been a few weeks, a few papers later — and you finally had worked your grade up to an A-, not quite an A+, but you’d get there. You had to. 

Because it wasn’t just about your GPA now — you were going to get Professor Geto to praise you — through any means necessary. The man was stubborn, even when you’d come back with an improved draft, he’d only hand it back to you with a smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips, with no compliment to be had — only small check marks scribbled in the margins in your papers, with the occasional “good” written next to it. 

“Well, we all know what happens when I’m late,” he laughs, a noise that makes the ice dagger clutched behind your back ever so slightly melt, “I made you laugh, extra credit?” 

And he rolls his eyes, and you notice that his dark eyes are hidden behind glasses today — and god, why does it only make him even more gorgeous? He’s already brilliant, it’s unfair for him to look as if he was sculpted by the gods as well, “It takes a lot more than a chuckle to earn extra credit,” and you can’t help but bite your lip. 

No, no, he’s the worst. It didn’t matter he was the epitome of every academic’s wet dream, you were above that. You had a goal. 

“So, can we discuss my next paper?” you hand him your bibliography, and he takes it, delicate fingers flipping through, your mind notes the absence of a ring on either hand, before brushing the thought aside. 

“You’re writing on the morality of good or bad actions,” he hums, as he looks over the sources you had chosen, “Scanlon, good — have you read—” 

“‘What We Owe to Each Other?’ Only about a million times — well more like six,” and he nods appreciatively, “of course you’ve read it,” 

“I didn’t just read it, I wrote a paper on it, similar to yours, actually,” and your eyes flick up to meet his, he’s leaning forward in his chair, red pen in hand, as he scribbles notes in the margins, as well as on the back of your bibliography, “of course I don’t have your penchant for rambling,” 

You pout, “I don’t ramble — I like to make my point—” 

“Many times, and the same one,” and your mouth opens, only to find a wry smirk on his lips, “I’m teasing, another one of my very tedious qualities, and how you stand it during class astonishes me,” 

You cross your arms, unable to meet his eyes, as you choose to stare at your bibliography instead, “You’re not completely tedious, more like irritating,” and he huffs a chuckle. 

You had to admit, begrudgingly, Professor Geto was a…good teacher. And you had your fair share of awful teachers — many of them were brilliant, accomplished people in their fields, but didn’t know how to translate and convey that in their lectures to students who simply knew less than them. But Geto…he knew how to break down complex concepts and theories of moral philosophy and ethics to a science, he knows how to make students understand these complicated topics that you had seen other professors fail to, and he does it while being an intellectual dreamboat to most of his students — the ones that swarm his desk after class, still there even as you slowly make your way out of the lecture hall. 

“A rare compliment from you,” he raises an eyebrow, “I’m touched,” 

“You’re one to talk,” you furrow your brow, and a smile pulls at his lips. 

“Didn’t know you wanted my approval,” he tilts his head, leaning forward to lean on his elbow on the desk, “well, you have improved remarkably in the class so far, and if you keep going like this, I may have no choice but to praise you,” 

“You will,”

“Someone is very sure of themselves,” a pause and then he adds with a quirk of his lips, “as you should be,” and he’s sliding your bibliography across the table again, and passes it back, “read the sources I recommended, and see about adding them to your paper — you may have some overlap in the other papers you chose so use your discretion on which ones you use,” 

“So don’t repeat myself?” You raise an eyebrow, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“You learn fast.” 

And you do — returning to your apartment to work on your paper, as you flip through his notes — as much as you hate to admit it, his notes and criticism did help — annoyingly so. He was far more detailed and perceptive than any other professor you had. Most had let you skate by without a second thought, and you wrote papers like you deleted your internet history after a scandalous romp through elicit websites — tools, clear history — and then onto the next paper or exam. But Professor Geto forced you to face your shortcomings, face the things that you didn’t like to give a second glance to, lest your rejection sensitive self feel the agony of having to deal with criticism. 

Each time you did it, you got a little better, and he had a little less to say — time and time again. 

You leaned back on your bed, scrolling through the papers he recommended, but so what? So what if he was a good teacher? Doesn’t mean he has to be as infuriating as he is — he knew exactly what to do to get under your skin, and he didn’t prod at it, he scratched it. 

And you found yourself typing his name (“suguru geto”) and T.M. Scanlon’s name into the search bar of your university’s library collection, and his paper pops up right on top. 

You stare at the paper for a good minute, before you click on it — and you start reading. And reading. And reading — and fuck— 

It was good. It was more than that — it gave you so much insight on this topic, it made you rediscover T.M. Scanlon’s work in a new light — and you bite your lip. And it wasn’t just the research — the way it organized, the way it was presented, the way it was written — it was eloquent, but it wasn’t unreadable or incomprehensible. It was…really good. 

You imagined him, pouring over Scanlon’s work as he wrote notes in the margins of his copy, pages dogeared and passages highlighted, as he sat in his office typing away at this paper. His sleeves rolled up, his hair let out of his usual bun, his glasses perched on his nose as he read, only his desk lamp and computer illuminating his office. The keys of his computer clacking under his touch, lengthy fingers pitter pattering as he wrote his thoughts and analysis of Scanlon’s work — his brow furrowed in thought. 

And you felt yourself flush, swallowing the lump in your throat, as you kicked off your blanket — it was so warm all of a sudden, pressing your thighs together. You shook the thoughts from your mind — what the hell were you doing? You glanced at the time, 2:39 AM it read back at you mockingly. You sigh, shutting your laptop down, and putting it aside — you need to do your skincare and brush your teeth. You glance back at your laptop—the familiar of your flush clung to your skin like a forbidden kiss— 

And you clearly needed sleep. 

“Can you read this passage to me?” Professor Geto’s voice said, as he stood in front of you in the lecture hall — as you stood behind the podium that faced the entire class — hands in his pockets, in an olive henley, his hair tied in the usual neat bun, his black bangs falling in his eyes as always, glasses on, instead of the usual contacts. The class sat all around you — his exercise in getting the class to participate and get comfortable speaking in front of others, just as philosophers had done in the past (his very own “literary salon” he called it). 

You swallow, keeping your eyes fixed on the book in front of you, “‘When I ask myself what reason the fact that an action would be wrong provides me with not to do it, my answer is that such an action would be one that I could not justify to others on ground I could expect them to accept—’” 

“What do you think Scanlon meant by this?” he asks you, but his gaze was different this time, it held the amusement it always did when it came to you, but it was warm — no — it was burning. His lips were pursed, as he crossed his arms, the henley’s fabric seemingly straining under the action. 

“He meant that an action that is wrong in his eyes when he couldn’t expect others to accept the ground on which he could justify it,” and his lips curve into that damned smile, as he takes a few steps closer, rounding the podium, as he brushes past you, the brief touch of temptation incarnate — the dangling apple of Tantalus personified before you. 

“And can you give me some examples of what kinds of actions would be wrong?” and he’s standing behind you now, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him — but you can feel his gaze on you. 

“Senseless murder,” and he hums in approval, his breath felt like it was warming your skin, “wanton violence, reckless assault—” 

“What other everyday wrongdoings could fall under this category?” and suddenly the class before you is gone, and it’s just the two of you in an empty lecture hall, “theft, lying, student-teacher relationships?” 

And your breath catches in your throat, his cologne strangling any sense left in your mind, as his body heat nearly radiates off him, “Professor Geto—” 

“Suguru,” he corrects you, and he’s reaching for you, but he pauses, “can I—” and you only can nod, and his fingers brush your hair aside, ever so gently, “would this be considered a moral wrongness, sweetheart?” his lips press a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and you shiver at the softness of his touch. 

“Well, I am a student in your class, and even though I’m of age, it presents a power dynamic and a favoritism that might be—” and your sentence cuts off as his arms wind their way around your waist, pressing himself to your back, “I—” 

“Go on,” he’s murmuring his words against the nape of your neck now, as he pulls his glasses off to place them on the podium, “might be what?” 

“Might be viewed as morally wrong—” and he’s chuckling, the vibration sending a delicious shiver down your spine, as he presses more butterfly kisses to your neck. 

“How can something be wrong when it feels so right?” he asks, and his hand is sliding down your side, “feels so good, does it even matter what society views as right or wrong? Do their rules pertain to what we’re doing here?” and his fingers toy with the hem of your pants, teasing and pulling, as he pauses, waiting for your answer, “what do you think—” 

“Please,” you swallow, as you turn to look at him, seeing his lips in that same smile that haunted you, “touch me,” 

And his smile only grows wider, “Good girl.” 

BUZZ. BUZZ. BUZZ. 

Your eyes flutter open, your breath caught in your throat, as you stare at your ceiling, your hand reaching for your phone to silence the alarm. And you squeeze your thighs together, a distinct ache between your legs, your skin all too warm. 

What the fuck was that? 

You skip office hours the next week. You couldn’t bear it — you could barely tolerate going to class now, as the dream invades your nights, with filthy variations that leave you perturbed and horny (mostly horny). The common theme only being that each time you get close to anything remotely that’s anything (a kiss, a touch that’s more than a caress, anything at all), you wake up. 

It’s as if your dreams are edging you — you groan into your pillow — and it was working. 

You’re so wound up, you’ve even resorted to using your vibrator before bed, wondering if that would make a difference — it did, but only with you having a dream of Professor Geto using a vibrator on you during class — the vibrations growing even faster when you were speaking as he watched you— 

You needed to stop thinking about this. But how can you? 

God, it’s even worse when you’re in class. You sit in your usual seat, front and center — and why does it feel like his eyes are on you far too often? Even as he lectures Professor Geto attempts to catch your eye during his lecture, trying to make a point, you all but glue your gaze down to the textbook and your laptop, typing away his words, trying to drown out the whispered words and groans from your dream that ring in your ears. You can’t stop seeing him — unless you want to skip class, which you really couldn’t when attendance and participation counted for a good chunk of your grade. 

Class ended and you were packing up your things. You had to weather the storm — avoid being alone with him until the dreams were just a distant memory— 

And then you heard him say your name— 

Your eyes flick up to meet Professor Geto — who had his usual swarm of students waiting by his desk, but he parted the crowd, he approached your own seat, hands in your pockets, “Do you have a class after this?” 

“No, I don’t—” the words slip out before your sleep deprived mind can put the pieces together. 

“Then can you please stay after class? I’d like to talk to you,” he says, and before you can say anything, he turns to speak to the students waiting for him. 

And now you wait — your anxious energy singing at the frayed ends of your nerves, as you tried to hold yourself together — wondering what he could possibly want to speak to you about. His students dissipated one by one, until it was just you and him left in the lecture hall. 

Just. Like. Your. Fucking. Dream. 

You round the row you sat in, before walking down to speak to him, “Is there something wrong? The next paper isn’t due until the end of next week—” 

“It isn’t about the paper,” and your heart squeezes, as you try to keep your breathing even, as he steps closer — and why, why did he have to opt to only wear a button up today —  and a deep royal purple one no less,  “I wanted to check in with you,” and he begins to undo the cuffs of his shirt, rolling them up — exposing his forearms and the pretty veins that ran along them — the same arms that he had used in one of your dreams to bend you over that desk, the whispers of heated kisses along your neck—

You needed to get out of here. 

You blink, “I’m fine,” and he tilts his head. 

“I only ask because you’ve looked tired the last two classes, and you didn’t show up for office hours this week,” he crosses his arms, unhelpfully, as he purses his lips, the lines of his brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine, Professor, I appreciate your concern — I just haven’t been sleeping well,” you admit — it was the truth, “and that’s why I didn’t come to office hours. I was trying to catch up on sleep,” 

He nods, sighing, fingers raking through his hair — those same fingers that would feel so pretty around your neck— “I know I’m hard on you,” oh he would be, “but it’s because I know you’re capable of more — most of these students are taking the class for an elective, but I know it’s more than that for you,” yes, it’s so you can finally earn his praise, “but I’m also here for your benefit, so if you need an extension or anything else, please let me know,” 

God, all you wanted was for him to maybe wrap you in his arms and kiss you, or bend you over, pull your clothes off and fuck you, or just to leave you alone all together. 

You weren’t sure which one you wanted the most at this moment. 

“I will, Professor Geto, I appreciate it,” you murmur, biting your lip, as you try to focus on the task at hand — getting out of here, “I don’t think I need an extension, I’ve made good progress so far. I just need to finish it, so I can revise,”

“Well, let me know if anything changes,” his lips curl, “ok?” And you nod, and if you weren’t so hyperaware, you swore you would have imagined it — but you didn’t, “good girl,” 

And you pause a moment — his lips did move, you pinch yourself discreetly — and you know it isn’t a fucking dream. You only smile in return, giving a curt nod and goodbye, before beelining out of the classroom. 

But you didn’t stick around long enough to see the slight flush on Professor Geto’s cheeks — nor did you know that you two were thinking the same thing about yourselves— 

What the fuck were you doing? 

But to your relief, the dreams do subside, and you’re finally able to rest — but the thing that doesn’t subside is your awareness of your professor. 

You sit in class, watching him teach — and you knew he was attractive, hell, it was one of the things that made you all the more embarrassed to have him ream you out — having your super hot professor rail at you for your mistakes wasn’t on your list of shining achievements (lest it was him actually railing you—). 

You needed to stop doing that. 

But it felt as if you weren’t the only one who was hyper aware. You felt as if his eyes skimmed over you during class this week, his replies to your weekly discussion board were less biting than usual, and his office hours were surprisingly canceled this week. First time all semester, but you weren’t so full of yourself that you thought it had anything to do with you — right? 

Either way, you had submitted your paper and now you were done with this week—and as class finishes, you slowly pack up, looking forward to the week being over with and for a personal rendezvous with your bed. But as the usual gaggle of students make their way to chat with Professor Geto, your eyes flicker up to meet his, as he stares back a moment. 

And you can’t make yourself look away, and for a moment, neither can he. 

But then a student calls for his attention, so his eyes flicker away, a smile on his lips as he spoke — and you turn to leave, grabbing your bag, as you look back— 

But why did his smile look so strained? 

There must be something wrong with him. 

Professor Suguru Geto drummed his fingers against his desk, but he felt more like shoving his things off his desk — if only to distract him for a moment. He pulls his glasses off, and runs a hand down his face—god, he hadn’t been sleeping well. No, his nights were plagued, plagued by you — you had slipped into his dreams ever since that day he stopped you. 

Why had he stopped you? 

It wasn’t the first time he had personally stopped a student who seemed to be struggling, he could count the times he had on both his hands. 

But this, this felt different. 

You were different. 

But why were you different to him? He rubs his temples, from the moment you had stepped into his office he thought he had read you — an overachieving student used to getting their way, As handed out to them, and an inability to take criticism. 

He knew, because he used to be one of them. But he knew you needed to be challenged to grow — but it was a matter if you would accept it. And from the moment you asked him when the next paper was due, he couldn’t help but smile. 

And his time spent in office hours with you grew more enjoyable each time you came. And when you hadn’t last week, he couldn’t sit still, checking the time, checking his email, and even checking if his office hours had been accidentally listed wrong in his weekly email to the class (they weren’t). And the hour and half passed with many students hungry for his time and his charm  — but not the  one he was looking for. 

Then those words had slipped from his tongue when he had stopped you, left his mouth like he was possessed, and now he had found himself here. Found himself thinking about how your lips parted when he said it, thinking about how you were feeling, thinking about you, you, you— 

There’s a knock at the door, “Professor Geto?” 

And it was you. 

“I apologize, I know you canceled office hours, but I just had a few questions I didn’t get to ask you in class,” your fingers toy with the ring you wore, a folder in hand, a soft smile on your lips. 

“Of course, come in,” and you did, your dress was painfully short, the fabric riding up as you sat, the folder in your lap, “is this about your paper?” 

“It is, I was reading a few papers, and after our conversation, I couldn’t help but find your paper,” and he tilts his head, “and I want to include it as a source in my paper, but I had a few points you made that I wanted clarified,” 

He raises an eyebrow, and he can’t help but tease,  “Clarified or criticized? Are you planning on turning the tables on me?” 

“Well I do have a red pen,” you click your pen, lips curved in a smile, and there’s a hint of heat that he wishes to unearth, pluck from the earth and possess himself, “but I promise I’ll be civil,”

 “I have no doubt,” he had a million when it came to you — but that wasn’t one of them. He runs his fingers through his hair, a few strands coming loose, “of course, let’s discuss it,” 

“You discuss Scanlon’s idea of a social contract, everyone within this moral society agrees on what’s right and what’s wrong — the basic principle is that if there is a rule no one can reasonably reject as a basis, but is there such a rule that can exist?” 

He tilts his head, “Scanlon’s theory relies on this premise — are you questioning me or the premise?” 

“Both, actually,” you shrug, crossing your legs, “is there a magic switch that changes every person to be rational? Because I think only rational people can agree on what rules cannot be reasonably rejected — what about people who are cruel, inconsiderate, self-absorbed? Do those traits go away when operating under Scanlon’s social contract? You propose in your paper that moral reasons are not subjective — nothing is uncolored by human opinion,” 

“No, but—” 

“How can we agree on what is truly right or wrong? How can one hundred people agree on that when everyone views these actions in different ways? Right and wrong? Black, white, or gray?” you rise from your chair to hand him his paper printed out, the paper more red than white with the amount of writing you’ve done, “like for example,” you lean forward, your hand braced against the edge of his desk, “can one hundred people agree that student-teacher relationships are wrong? Because one veto,” your hand trails ever closer to his, toeing that dangerous line either of you had even yet to approach to cross. But here you were, seemingly barreling toward it. 

And he didn’t want to pull away. 

He swallows, whispering your name, “This can’t—” and you were so close — too close, your perfume hypnotized him, your fingers brush against his and he can’t help but hold them, his thumb rubbing across your knuckles, “they can agree that it’s wrong — the power imbalance from the authority of the professor and the age difference—” 

“I disagree, so the rule isn’t legitimate, right? Even if one disagrees, the rule cannot be make valid,” and his breath catches as your fingers slide up his arm now, resting on his shoulder, as you lean over his chair now, as your other hand toys with the loose strands of his hair, “if the two of us can’t even agree, then how could a hundred, or a thousand, or a million?” 

“But—” 

“But what?” you pout, your fingers dragging down his chest, toying with the top button of his button down, “I don’t see you pulling away, do you want me to stop, Professor? Because I will,” 

And he swallows thickly, but he can’t stop you — he doesn’t want to, “But, we shouldn’t — it isn’t a reasonable objection—” he tries his hardest to stand firm, but he only crumbles when your fingers brush his cheek, tracing the cut of his jaw. And it feels like flames tickling at his skin, begging him to thrust his hand into the fire. 

“Like I said, people are not reasonable,” your lips draw closer, and he can feel your breath warm his own, and god, why are you so tempting? And your lips stop short, barely an inch between your faces, “and besides, would you rather be reasonable or satisfied?” 

And there’s only one answer — you. 

He leans forward, lips nearly brushing yours— 

RING. RING. RING.

He jerks awake from his desk, papers sliding as he does, his breath caught in his throat, and his eyes wander — and finds no one else there. 

A dream. He runs his fingers through his hair again, crumpling the paper he had oh so lovingly drooled during his nap. He needed to get his shit together. 

But his current predicament wasn’t making that easy — his cock strained against the fabric of his pants — was he a grown adult or a horny teenager? 

Fuck. It wasn’t going away — no matter what he thought, his mind kept circling back to you. 

And his eyes slide to the time: 1:40 AM. 

Far past the time any soul would be here, even cleaning staff would have been long gone. It was just him—

And you. 

“So good for me, baby,” he’s panting, palming his erection, an embarrassing amount of precum drips from his cock for a barely wet dream. He ignores the gnawing guilt in the back of his mind — but he can’t help but imagine the image of you, spread out on his desk, hiking that oh so teasing sundress up, only to find your underwear drenched — just for him. 

His fingers would slide up your plush thighs, squeezing to draw a gasp from your pretty lips, “Professor—“ you’d say, unable to form a sentence, all those brilliant falling away under his touch, until it was just him occupying every crevice of your mind. 

“Where’s that mouth now? So needy f’me,” he’d murmur, “but such a good girl,” and you were, his thumb tracing his slit, smearing his pre-cum, as he imagined you spread on his desk, your puffy folds nearly showing through your far too translucent panties, “my best student’s so pliant for me now,”

And his hand moves faster, and he can imagine your fingers reaching for him too, your smaller fingers wouldn’t be able to even touch as much as he can — but god it would feel so much better. 

But he’d want you to feel even better than he did.  

He’d tug your underwear down, stuffing it in his pocket (his fee for all of additional office hours), and he would prep you right — fuck you open with his fingers, two or three, before he tasted you. Your fingers would dig into his scalp as you moaned his name again and again, before you came all over his face. 

He’d lick his lips clean of your release, before dragging his cock down your sweet cunt, watching his precum mix with your cum, as your walls flutter around nothing, craving to have him sink into you. 

“Professor, please,” you’d beg with pretty, kiss bitten lips between pants, “please,” 

“Where’s all those quips now, sweetheart?” he’d tease, as he would let his tip tease your clit, pulling a moan from your lips, “all those words fall away when you want this cock, don’t they? Been thinking about you like this, wondering what you’d look like spread out under me,” and he would lean down to kiss you, “it’s even better than I expected,”

He’s jerking himself off in earnest now, the lewd noises of his hand around his cock filling most of the silence, his low groans filling the rest. And he’d finally sink into you, inch by inch, until he’d kiss your cervix with his weeping tip. 

And, god, he wishes his fingers fisted around his cock would be as good as your cunt would feel around him. He would fuck you slow at first, “I know those boys can’t fuck you as good as I can, as well as I can,” he’d tell you, as he would pick up the pace when you’d tell him to, making you cum again and again with his cock, thumb rubbing at your clit, until he was finally close. He’d either cum all over your stomach, marking you with his release, or if you’d let him, he’d cum inside you, filling you with his seed—and then he’d watch it drip out when he would pull out. He groans your name lowly, shuddering as he comes all over his hand, hard. 

Fuck. 

That’s the hardest he’d cum in a long time. He’s a mess — panting and flushed, as he leans back, head against the back of his  chair, too spent to even clean up. And then he finally does, cleaning himself up well, and collecting his things to leave the office. 

But he only treated the symptoms, not the problem itself. His hard-on is gone, but his mind is still filled with thoughts of you. How he’d kiss you sweetly after, how he’d clean you up, care for you gently, make you rest because you never seem to do enough of that, and he’d let you relax — finally relax, as you slept the night in his arms. 

As he heads to his car, he knows that he’s utterly fucked (without even being fucked) because he has feelings for you. And he didn’t know if they were going to go away as easily as he hoped. 

But he hoped they would. He owed it to you, your education, and your future career not to act on these feelings. 

And he sighs as he sits in his car, starting it, but why did it hurt not to? 

It was that time again. 

Your next paper had come around again, and you needed to prepare a topic before you went to speak to Professor Geto. You had put it off, something you had never done with his class, but you wanted to limit the amount of time you spent with him, if only for the sake of your heart. 

Watching him in lectures was bad enough, your thighs pressing together as you watched him speak, his impeccable looks and intelligence a deadly combination for your heart (and your body). You could barely focus, your eyes too fixed on the way he wrote on the board —  his fingers too lithe and too thick, his voice all too alluring when discussing Kant and Aristotle and you can’t help but think what he’d sound moaning your name. 

God. Fuck.  

Either way, you needed to listen to the lectures again since you weren’t able to pay attention. Maybe without watching the video would be better, you settle on your bed, notebook and pen in hand, as you place your headphones on. His voice filled your ears, and you’re scrawling notes. 

But your mind begins to wander. He’s lecturing on the deontological ethics, and all you can think about is how he could make you cum with just that voice of his.  

Shit, you shifted your thighs again, feeling that familiar ache again. What would he sound like when he moaned? How would it sound to have him touch you, run those long fingers down your thighs, and whisper filthy things in your ear? 

As you listened to the lecture, his voice became white noise as your fingers slipped past the waistband of your shorts, and you shut your eyes. 

“That’s it, sweetheart, spread your legs for me,” he’d murmur in your ear, his chest pressed to your back and he’s urge your thighs wider, and his fingers would press against the wet patch on your panties, and he’d hum, “so wet f’me and I haven’t touched you yet, Princess,” his lips would kiss your pulse, “you like my voice that much?” 

“Professor,” you gasp, as his fingers would tease you through your underwear, the fabric growing more soaked by the second, “please—“ and his thumb would ghost around your clit, teasing you, as his long fingers would piston in and out — they would reach so much fucking deeper “I need to—“ 

“Already begging? I knew you learned fast, but not this fast,” and his fingers would tug the crotch of your panties aside, his fingertips tracing around your outer lips, before a finger pushes past your sweet cunt, “fuck, my favorite student’s pussy is so fucking tight. These boys are not fucking you right,” and you whimper, his finger would be so much thicker than yours, as you glide another finger inside you, the two dragging against your walls, “listen to your pretty cunt,” he’d grin against your skin, “and the wet squelch of your pussy, “so pliant for me, takes my fingers so well,” he’d murmur with a chuckle, “practically swallowing me up,” 

And you’re bucking your hips against him, wanting, needing him deeper, because your fingers don’t reach as far as his does, moans leaving your lips. 

“I’m so—” you’re moving faster and faster, his lecture still filling your ears, your pre-cum soaking your shorts and onto the bed sheets, “I can’t—” 

“Come on, Princess, use those big words of yours, you have no problem usually,” his hot words would whisper in your ear, and you’d hear him rub his erection against your ass, trying to get himself off, and you’d grind against him, wanting any friction, “tell me,” 

“Let me cum, please,” and he would smile, running his fingers through your hair, before he bore his thumb down on your clit and sunk a third finger into your needy cunt, just as you did now. And it’s too much for you, your toes curl, your messy walls fluttering around your fingers, as you cum all over your shorts and sheets with a groan of his name. Your fingers were soaked, as you pant, trying to gather yourself, as you came down from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmur, tugging off your headphones, so your cunt doesn’t have to twitch listening to his dulcet words again. And you’re pulling your fingers out, your cum dripped down your fingers, as you shifted, far too wet underneath you, as you tried to slip off your bed to take a shower and clean yourself up. 

And then you realized, you didn’t even hear any of the lecture. 

Double fuck. 

Why was this so difficult? 

You stood near his office, trying to work up the urge to approach his door for office hours? Since it’s almost the end of the semester, there had been an influx of students attending office hours, and with everything, you had found excuses in your head to avoid office hours. But you couldn’t avoid him anymore. 

For your final paper in the class, you had to have a meeting with him during office hours to discuss your topic, complete with bibliography and outline. And it was almost time for your meeting. 

But you didn’t know how to go in. 

The last few weeks in class have made things worse. You couldn’t help but watch the other students fawn over Professor Geto, his lips curled as he spoke to them. And you’d leave class without a word. You had to stick through the semester and your feelings would disappear with time. You wouldn’t have to see him, you wouldn’t have class anymore, and you couldn’t talk to him. 

Or wouldn’t. 

But now you had to. And you didn’t know how— otherwise than just to do it. 

You knock at his door, “Come in,” and you open the door to see an empty desk, blinking, “I’m over here,”

And your head snaps to your right, and Professor Geto is sitting on his couch, his legs crossed with a stack of papers in hand. His jacket is slung over the side of the couch, his deep maroon button up sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. 

“I thought you lived at your desk,” you raise an eyebrow, “decided to change it up for the end of the semester?” 

“Everyone needs a change of scenery,” he leans forward, placing the stack of papers on the table in front of him, “do you want to sit here or move to the desk?” 

You shift in place, before moving to the couch beside him, “This is fine,” he stares, “what?” 

“Just surprised, you always have something to say,” he leans on his elbow, “no smart remarks today?” 

“Fresh out, can I offer you my proposal for the final paper instead?” You say dryly, and he cracks a smile, holding out your proposal. He clicks his red pen, readying his sword. 

He takes it, his dark eyes darting back and forth as he reads, his brow furrowed in concentration — and you can’t help but want to reach out and smooth his brow for him, tease him that he’ll get wrinkles. But you can’t. Can’t because that would cross a line that neither of you should cross. 

“You’ve come a long way,” he says, as he flips it back the front, writing only a few notes here and there. 

“But?” You wait for it. 

His gaze flickers up, a tilt of his head, “That was the end of my sentence,” 

You pause a moment, “Really?” 

“Really,” he scribbles a few more notes, “I look forward to reading the paper, it will be excellent I’m sure, maybe you’ll even get higher than a B+,” 

“Oh, ha, ha,” sarcasm dripping from your tongue, but you can’t help but smile, “you’ll miss me and my endless need for academic validation,” but was it really academic validation you were after now — your eyes gazed at him sitting with the tip of his pen pressed to his lips — or was it his? 

And it’s his turn to pause, and his lips curl into a soft smile, “I will,” 

Your breath catches, “Really?” 

He chuckles, “Really,” he licks his lips, his eyes glancing downward at your proposal than at your face, “I’ve enjoyed our chats this semester,” 

“Have you? Even when I argued with you,” a half nervous half serious laugh dies on your lips when his gaze meets yours, far too serious for your heart to take. 

“Especially then,” his fingers run through his hair a moment, before he speaks again, “I can’t say you could say the same,” 

“And why couldn’t you?” his eyes flicker with an emotion you can’t grasp fast enough, before it slips away into the depths of his dark irises. 

“Because you stopped coming,” his voice is soft, his tone barely even, and this gives you a real pause, heat flushing your body, as if his words had set every nerve ending alight, your mouth growing dry along with it, and it gives him a reprieve he needs to brush it aside, “you don’t have to, of course, these office hours are not relevant to your—” 

“I didn’t stop coming because I didn’t enjoy it,” you cut him off, swallowing the lump in your throat, “I stopped coming because I did,” 

He stares, “What do you—” 

“I don’t want academic validation anymore, I don’t care about my GPA,” you consider it a moment, “ok I do,” and he snorts, “but I care more about validation from you,” 

“From me?” he says, and his gaze tries to meet yours and it can’t — but his fingers brush against your skin, making your breath catch, your eyes finding his, “and what kind of validation do you want?” 

And you can’t find the words, and you hesitation makes him shake his head, “I apologize, I shouldn’t have—” 

“Will you have a drink with me?” and he’s speechless for once, “after the semester is over, of course — I know it wouldn’t be ethical before,” 

And his eyes find yours again, “Some would say it would be unethical after too,” 

“I would say it depends,” 

“On what basis?” and you can’t help but smirk. 

“Am I being graded, Professor?” and you delight in a small crack in his smiling veneer as a light flush dusts the tops of his ears, “and if I’m good, will you call me a good girl again?” 

He swallows, “I don’t want to cost you your education or your—” 

“I understand the risks, but we aren’t contemplating shifting a trolley to hit one person or five, or murdering one healthy person to save five sick ones,” and he raises an eyebrow, “it’s a drink to celebrate the end of the semester,” 

“And if it's something more?” he nearly whispers, the softness of his voice reflected in his features, as his fingers that rested on the couch twitched beside yours. 

“Then we’ll cross that bridge then,” and then you add with a small smile, “Or hit the metaphorical person with the trolley,” and it pulls at the corners of his lips. 

“You make a fair point,” and you gasp in mock surprise.

“The first time all semester you agree with me,” and he chuckles, a noise you wished you could hear him make innumerable times more. 

“Not the first,” he replies, before leaning forward, pressing your outline back into your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “we both agree you’re a good girl, don’t we?” 

And your breath catches, his words warm your skin, turning your blood to lava, “Professor,” and he smiles again. 

“When we go for drinks, call me Suguru.” 

~~~~ 

The semester wears on and finally draws to an end, but finals induced hibernation begins for you. A mix of papers and exams, you finish everything — including your paper for Professor Geto’s class. As always, he has you submit a paper and electronic copy, the paper copy to be dropped off at his office mailbox. And you do just that, the mailboxes being only around the corner from his office, and your heart squeezes at the thought of him. After this, the class was over, it was done. You weren’t his student anymore. 

And you place the paper into the mailbox and sigh, chewing your lip as you pass by his office, but find the door closed (and locked, as you quickly turned the doorknob to test it). Where was he? This was the time he was usually in his office, but maybe he had left campus for the semester — had he forgotten about your drinks? 

Fuck. You hadn’t even discussed a time or place, you had left it vague — “after finals.” Your cheeks burned at the memory, you were far too flustered to elaborate. And you had spent far too many nights imagining him calling you a ‘good girl’ in many other situations. 

And then you heard a call of your name, your gaze snapping up, your heart leaping, but only to see the department head. 

“Hi Professor, how are you?” and the two of you make polite chit-chat, until he asks you. 

“Have you applied to be a T.A. for the department?” and you blink, “applications just opened and I think from what I’ve heard about you around the department, I think you would be an excellent candidate.” 

“I’d love to be — how does the application process work?” and he explains that it’s a double blind process where applications are viewed without personal information of the candidates, and then matched with a professor based only on resume and writing samples. 

You can barely listen to the department head, still far too distracted with thoughts of Professor Geto — so you agree to apply, if only to placate the department head, and make an excuse to leave. 

It had been a week or so, as you lay in bed in your apartment, staring at your ceiling — you hadn’t even bothered to get Professor Geto’s personal number. You couldn’t even reach out to him if you tried, as the only way you could was through his university email, which was out of the question — the university had rules against a professor and student dating, and if anyone found that email — you sighed — it wouldn’t be good. 

Maybe it was for the best. 

The only communication you had gotten from him was an email from Professor Geto’s mailing list to the class from a few days ago, stating that he was out of state in a conference, and he would return soon, but your grades would be emailed to you. But the paper copies would be available to pick up in his office from 3:00 PM to 6:00 PM on Tuesday. It was almost time to pick up your paper, and your nerves bit at you as you thought about the possibility of seeing him. Who knows if he would even be there to begin with. 

Would it be anything? Would it be nothing? Was there not any point to this at all? 

Oh, great, you were becoming existential. 

You sat up, the only thing you could do was go. So you do, taking your time to get dressed. If you were going to see him, you might as well look your best. 

Fuck. You couldn’t go in. It had taken you longer to get back to campus than you thought, and now there were only a few minutes of his office hours left.

And you’re about to knock when the door opens, and you find yourself face to face with the man who has consumed every thought of yours for the last few months — good and bad alike. 

“Late again?” and you can’t help but smile. 

“I prefer fashionably late,” and his eyes rake over your outfit, making your cheeks burn. 

“You certainly are,” and he steps aside to allow you into his office, and you glance between the couch and the desk, but he makes the choice and sits at his desk, “I have your paper right here,” and he’s rifling through his file of papers, “how did your finals go?” 

“If I have an A on this paper, perfectly,” and a smile tugs at his lips, and you raise an eyebrow, “what? Something funny?” 

“Not at all,” and he pulls your paper out, ha “I just recall you saying you wanted something more than, what was it? ‘My academic validation?’” 

And your cheeks flush, “I did, but I also didn’t hear from you,” and your fingers reach for the paper, and he holds onto it, “Professor,” 

“I couldn’t reach out to you because I was still your professor, but once you get this grade, I’m not anymore,” and his gaze is sharper without his glasses today, his dark blue Henley doing nothing to help the flush on your cheeks — memories of your dreams flooding your mind, “and once you get this grade back, I’m not anymore,” 

“And what does that mean?” you can’t pull your eyes away from his, but his fingers let go of your graded paper, “how about you look at the last page of your paper and see?” 

You pull the paper into your hands, flipping to the last page: 

99 — I was impressed by this paper not only by the content but by its comprehension and use of both ethics and philosophy. But I was also impressed by the person who wrote the paper. You’ve shown determination and growth throughout the semester — and you have reminded me what we owe to each other. And I think we owe each other a drink, and a chance for this. 

You feel his eyes watch you as you read, your eyes finally meeting his — his brow knit together, his lips pursed, concentrated gaze trying to decipher your reaction. 

“Why a 99?” And his eyebrows raise, as if to ask, “that’s your question?” 

“You had some spelling and grammar errors,” 

“Really? You couldn’t let it slide?” And he tilts his head, before he sees your lips curling into a grin. 

“So you think it’s funny to mess with your professor?” And his voice drops, a playful tone that makes you nearly shiver, as he leans forward, resting his chin against his elbow. 

“You’re not my professor anymore, are you, Suguru?” he likes that by the way his teeth bite his bottom lip briefly, his eyes flitting to your lips for a moment and back to your eyes, “so I guess we’re using that trolley after all,” 

“If you want to,” he says softly, “I wouldn’t blame you if you change your mind, it’s a risk,” 

It was. It was a risk to your reputations, your careers, your futures — especially to yours. But, your eyes met his again. 

“Contractualism is about avoiding risk,” and he nods, as his gaze falls away, “but some risk is necessary in life, and I think this is one that’s worth taking,” 

“We will have to be careful,” he murmurs, but already his fingers are twitching, far too eager to touch you, “we can’t make any mistakes. I don’t want to hurt you,” he adds softly. 

“I know, I don’t want to hurt you either,” and you rise before slowly rounding his desk, “but I want to know what it’s like,” 

And he can’t stop himself — he gets to his feet, his fingers finding your cheeks and he kisses you. You can taste the black coffee on his lips, his kiss is gentle at first, so chaste and fleeting that you’d swear he didn’t kiss you at all — and so it’s not a second before your lips find his again, in a deeper kiss that steals every ounce of breath from your lungs, and leaves only heat behind. This was dangerous. The very risk you were both trying to avoid, but as he’s pressing you into the edge of his desk, you can’t find the logic you misplaced when those goddamn fingers you’ve been dreaming about squeeze your hips. 

“Fuck,” he’s panting — god that word sounded more sinful on his lips than it should — as he presses sweet kisses to your neck, “we shouldn’t be doing this here,” 

“Not very ethical,” you chuckle breathlessly, as your fingers rake through his now disheveled bun, “but I can’t find the sense to care,” your noses brush, as you can’t help but smile, “what would Scanlon or Kant say about this?” 

And his arms lift you onto his desk, several papers crumpling underneath, “Who the fuck cares?” he’s hissing, his lips find yours in a searing kiss, as his thighs press yours apart, as he settles himself between your legs, his knee grazing your core, drawing a delightful gasp from your lips, “I know what I want,” and his eyes soften, his fingers tracing the length of your cheek, “do you?” 

Before you can answer, two pings catch your attention — your phone and his computer lighting up with a notification, and you both pause a moment, as your eyes glance at the banner notification on your phone, skimming over the words. The T.A. positions have been assigned. 

“Fuck,” you hear him mutter, and you gaze snaps up to his on his computer, the email now opened on his screen, “this can’t be right—” 

“What is it—” and the question dies on your lips as your eyes find where his rested — 

You — you were his T.A. for next semester — for the very class that you met in. 

Fuck, indeed. 

✧ read part 2 now

✧ a/n: lets all remember that student and teacher relationships are bad in real life. it's ok to live vicariously through reader but unfortunately no professor will be as hot as professor geto or gojo T_T. s/o to @/laneymusings and @bucky-of-the-opera for beta reading this for me and being just absolutely wonderful!!

✧ tag list: @sokkasmoon, @unoriginalideas, @waytootiredforthisss, @sinnerstardoll, @secret-pages-of-my-heart, @drthymby, @hanlay, @catsgomurp, @hatsunemitskislobotomy, @esuz, @difficultdomains, @poopyface222, @iwassentfromhell, @diogodxlot, @totallynotcc, @llovekami, @deadmarygolds, @teatreeoilll, @carcarcraziiv2, @forest-hashira, @aliyalala, @esuz, @that-goth-bisexual, @hehehehesthings, @imjustmememe, @j1jay, @iwassentfromhell,

[milla-frenchy]

The date

5k0 | Joel Miller x fem reader ; Frankie Morales x fem reader | ao3 | Masterlist

Summary: you’re in an established relationship with Frankie and both of you want to spice things up. You meet a man via a dating app, Joel

Warnings: 18+ mdni. cuckolding, cucking chair, fingering, public fingering, masturbation (m), dirty talk, praise kink, size kink, oral (m/f), ball sucking, piv, rimming, anal play, creampie No age specified

a/n: @aurorawritestoescape thank you so, so much as always, for beta-ing and everything, baby 💕😘 dividers @saradika-graphics 🙏

The meeting was set for 6pm at a bar in Austin.

Frankie and you had been a couple for several years, and you wanted to spice things up. The idea of watching you ​being fucked by another man was turning him on since he playfully brought up the idea while you were fucking, his cock brushing your g spot. 

Taunting you that you would probably like to take a cock other than his and how beautiful you would look, spread by another shaft. How proud of you he would be if he could watch you, knowing that even in that moment, you would still be his, maybe more than ever. The way you had come instantly on his cock had made him spill his cum deep inside you in the second that followed. 

Since then, he whispered it to you regularly, in the hollow of your ear, or with his eyes fixed on yours. Just to feel you clench on his shaft. He also said it while caressing your tear-soaked cheek, his fat cock reaching the back of your throat. 

Until he really suggested to share you with another man. You carefully looked at him, to detect the slightest trace of a joke that did not exist. He suggested it timidly, but the idea of fucking another man in front of him, the fact that he wanted to watch it, was really turning you on. You loved that your man, who could sometimes be reserved, was so sure of himself, of your relationship. He wasn’t afraid to lose you, he knew what he meant to you and that no one could take you away from him.

So you discussed it thoroughly, until finally signing up on a dating app.

You were now waiting at the bar for the man you matched with (“cuckolding, man in his 40s, dirty talk appreciated, dom vibes”).

“Good evening,” you heard while you were kissing, sitting at the table. You looked up, and there he was. Joel Miller.

You had been breathless when you looked at his pictures on the app, just as you were now, meeting  him. His gaze was deep. His brown eyes, his face were beautiful. His beard was slightly covered with gray hair. His green flannel shirt accentuated his broad shoulders. His voice was warm, drawling. Hot.

Joel shaked Frankie's hand, then he nodded and smiled at you. A smile you returned shyly. Frankie invited him to sit at your table, and the conversation flowed immediately. Joel was no stranger to that type of gathering, while it was your first time. He was single, worked in construction, and he lived in Austin too.

The purpose of the meeting in that bar was to see if there was a connection between you. If you were attracted to him, if Frankie trusted him, and if Joel wanted to go further. You sometimes looked at his neck, his forearms, his prominent veins, his hands. His thick fingers. His attitude exuded quiet strength, and self-confidence.

You had agreed online that he could touch you at the bar, if the attraction between you was there. After the three of you drank your first shot, he brushed your back with his large hand, before resting it on your lower back. His caress was light but firm, and you felt shivers run down your spine. 

His eyes landed on Frankie, to check if he was still okay with it. He nodded. Seeing you being seduced by that man was already turning him on and he was getting hard.

Joel placed his hand on your bare knee, your skirt hiked up your thighs, just after Frankie said something funny that made you laugh.

“I love that little laugh, it’s really cute. It’s one of the things that is gonna get you fucked tonight. That and these hips that are just begging to be grabbed, sweetheart.”

You held your breath when you heard him. Your panties were soaked even though he had barely touched you.

His hand slipped between your thighs, and glided to your panties which he delicately pushed aside. His middle finger ran over your wet folds and you couldn’t stop a moan from escaping your lips.

“Quiet. Don’t want a sound here, keep your moans for the bedroom,” he said firmly as his middle finger found its way between your walls. Your pussy clenched on his finger as you squirmed on your stool, and he smirked.

“Curling your toes already? Oh, sweetheart��� you’re never gonna forget this night.”

He brushed your folds one last time and removed his finger, leaving you panting. You looked at Frankie, surprised by the effect the man already had on you. Frankie was just as astonished as you, but you could see how much he enjoyed it. His eyes were sparkling and he adjusted himself.

Joel didn’t touch you anymore for the rest of the time you spent at the bar. Frankie and him talked like old friends, and all you could hear was your pussy squealing with excitement. 

When Joel was looking at you, you felt yourself losing your composure. If he saw it, he didn't show it, until a little smirk proved to you that he just didn't want to make you uncomfortable, which you appreciated.

You couldn’t wait for the three of you to leave, but you didn’t want to seem too greedy - as if you hadn’t already spread your legs and moaned for him.

An hour later, you finally left the bar. Frankie and you in your car, Joel following in his. You had decided that it would happen in your house. You didn't want to be in a cold, unfamiliar place.

As soon as you entered, Joel wasted no time.

“Let’s check on the rules. Frankie, if you tell me to stop, I’ll stop, no questions asked.” Then he turned to you “what’s your safe word, sweetheart?”

“I’ll use “red” if I want you to stop. “Orange”, if I want you to slow down.”

“Okay. If you use either of those words, depending on the color I’ll stop, or slow down, no questions asked. I want you to know that you have to use them if you don’t feel comfortable. Are we clear?”

“Yes, all clear.” His expression was serious and solemn, and it reassured you, even though Frankie was going to be there the whole time.

“If you don't use them, I'll consider that you're ok with what I'm doing. Do you agree?”

You nodded. 

“I need to hear it out loud.”

“Yes, I agree.”

He turned to Frankie.

“Yeah, ok with that.”

Joel looked at you again, and added “and if your mouth's full, tap on my thigh twice.”

You felt heat on your cheeks hearing the implication of his words, and said “Ok, I'll tap on your thigh twice. What… What do I call you?”

“Well, my name’s Joel, and I’m fine with that,” he answered with a cute smile.

You took a deep breath and then added “Ok, follow me to the bedroom then, Joel.”

An armchair was set up near the bed, and Frankie sat down in it, as planned. You had also agreed that he would barely intervene, so as not to influence what would happen.

Joel rolled up his shirt sleeves. His charm and aura were devastating.

You felt intimidated, being in your room with the two men. With your boyfriend, sitting in that chair, facing the man who was going to fuck you soon.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Joel asked in a calm voice.

“Yeah…yes, I’m ready.”

He moved closer to you and grabbed your waist. His mustache ran along the warm skin of your ear, your cheek, your neck. Then he placed his lips on yours, kissing you lightly. Testing the way you would respond. Your lips pressed against his, and he held you closer to him, one arm around your waist. His tongue caressed your lips softly, gently and you parted them, freeing your tongue to meet his and creating a sensual dance. His lips were warm and your mind was lost for a few moments, as you kissed a man other than Frankie for the first time in several years. His hands roamed your body, one brushing your back covered with your top, the other squeezing your waist against him, against his cock that you felt hardening. You moaned, feeling the moisture flow between your walls, your lips still against his, your tongue in his mouth, until you pulled away slightly to catch your breath, your bodies remaining pressed against each other.

“Show me how wet you are, feeling my cock against you.”

Your eyes widened slightly, before you caught yourself. That’s what you were here for. To have sex with someone else, a stranger, who would probably act differently than Frankie. You wanted someone confident. And that’s exactly the type of man you were facing. He wasn't aggressive, he knew how to make you feel confident. He was perfect so far.

You pulled away from him a little more, just to slide your hand under the hem of your skirt and panties. You slid your fingers along your folds and then pushed two of them into your pussy, to coat them with your wetness. You pulled your trembling hand out, holding it up near your face. Your digits were shiny. Joel gripped your wrist softly and brought it close to his mouth, and took your fingers between his lips. He licked your wetness, his eyes fixed on you. It was so hot and sensual that another flow soaked your panties. 

He released your wrist, once your skin no longer bore the trace of your arousal, and he unbuttoned his shirt before placing it on the dresser in your room. He then removed his t-shirt, taking his time. Aware of your gaze fixed on him, and of each new inch of skin he was offering you.

“You're dripping since the time I fingered you at the bar in front of your man, aren't you?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Now… You wanna be a good girl for me?”

“Yes, Joel.”

“On your knees, then.”

You didn't wait any longer, you couldn't wait to see his cock, to take him in your mouth, to taste him. You kneeled in front of him, then looked at Frankie. Joel lifted your chin while he unzipped, wanting your eyes on him only.

“I wanna see how pretty you look with your lips around my cock, baby”, he said, brushing your chin with his thumb. He released it to grab his cock resting in his jeans. 

You knew he was big, thanks to the pictures he sent you at your request. But you didn’t expect him to be that big. So thick and long. You had never seen a cock as big as Frankie’s. Joel’s seemed slightly shorter, but a little thicker. Your thoughts drifted, wondering how it would feel if they both fucked you at the same time. Joel’s voice interrupted your train of thought.

“Focus on me, and open up. Wide, or it ain't gonna fit, baby.”

You opened your mouth, parting your lips. He wanted to be in charge and you willingly let him lead. He pressed his tip to your lips then said “tongue.”

You darted it out, and he rested his cock on it. His thickness felt heavy. Then he placed his hand on the back of your head, keeping his shaft in the other one, before sliding it between your lips. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Frankie grab his bulge, then unzip his jeans, and finally pull his cock out.

“Eyes on me when I fuck your mouth, baby. Your man’s gonna jerk off soon, and you’ll hear his wrist fuck his shaft. You can listen to it, but your eyes stay on me, clear?”

You nodded as he thrust deeper between your lips, and you moaned.

“I know baby, I know. You're gonna be a good girl, and you’re gonna let me fuck that hole. And then, I’ll fuck the next one.”

You heard Frankie mumble “fuck,” and Joel thrust his length into your mouth. He used your mouth like he promised you, like a fuck hole. He wasn't aggressive, just in charge, self-confident. He knew how to deal with you, and it was turning you on.

“Feels good, doesn’t it? Sucking this big cock? I can see that your man has a thick dick too. You like sucking his dick as much as you enjoy sucking mine, sweetheart?”

He didn’t give you a chance to answer. He didn’t want, or didn’t need to. Instead, he squeezed your throat in his large palm, feeling his shaft slide into it.

“You take it so good, baby. I can’t wait to see how your pussy takes me.”

He held your head with both hands as his cock was buried deep in your throat, and told you “don’t move. Stay like that. Just take it.”

You tried to pull back but he held you down, saying in a calm voice “breathe through your nose, sweetheart. You can do it.” He loosened his grip slightly, long enough to feel your throat adjust to his cock, then added, “yeah, just like that. You’re doing great.”

He released you, letting you take control for a few seconds. The accumulated saliva flowed down to your chin. 

Then he fucked your mouth, alternating rhythms. Taking advantage of the warmth of your mouth for a long time, all the way to your throat, then fucking your mouth quickly. Sometimes making his length weigh on your tongue. Your jaw was sore, but you didn't want it to stop, intoxicated by the taste of his precum, by the width of his cock. Never ceasing to imagine how he was going to fuck you.

Sometimes, when you weren’t completely focused on Joel, you could hear Frankie jerking off, and mumbling “fuck” or “you’re so hot, baby” a few times. 

Your pussy was clenching regularly, eager to be filled. But Joel was taking his time.

“Lick my balls now. Let’s see if you’re as good at that as you’re at sucking my cock.”

He was so good at praising you that you felt like you would agree to anything he would ask you.

He held his shaft in his hand, and brushed his balls soaked with your saliva with the other. They were weighty, thick and fell heavily when he released them. Looking up at him, you licked one ball then the other, before taking each one of them in your mouth. Sucking, licking their thin, delicate skin. Releasing them with a “pop”. He growled, enjoying your tongue and lips on his balls full of cum.

“Ok, that’s it, sweetheart. Take off your clothes, now. Lemme see how pretty you are.” 

He removed his jeans and boxers, while you took off your blouse and skirt, standing shyly in front of him. “You’re beautiful, baby. Frankie's a lucky guy.” 

He approached you, unhooking your bra, his chest pressed against yours, his nose brushing your hair and breathing in their scent. Then he knelt down, sliding your panties down your legs. His eyes fell on your pussy as he removed that last piece of clothing from your feet. “Oh damn, they’re soaked… poor baby. You need it bad, huh?” Once again, he didn’t wait for your answer and asked Frankie: “wanna jerk in it? Bet it’d turn you on even more”, he added before throwing them at your boyfriend.

Frankie smelled your panties and wrapped them around his shaft. You knew how much he loved your taste, sliding his tongue into your pussy and eating it longly, but his gesture made you moan.

Joel told you to lie down on the bed, and said to Frankie as if you weren’t even there, “she’s a fucking natural. I love when they're a little shy. Knowing that they’ll lose control at some point. Being half ashamed, half cock dumb.”

You heard Frankie take a deep breath hearing him, echoing your own. Joel was a menace, in the best way. He was a combination of confidence, charm, and undeniable charisma. He had a natural dominance and he knew it, was playing with it. You realized that you were still lost in your thoughts, despite lying in front of him, offered. You met his amused gaze, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“I wonder when you'll lose control, baby. ‘cause you can be sure of it. Sooner or later, you’ll lose it.”

He knelt between your legs, grabbing his cock with one hand and spreading your folds with the other.

“Damn, look at that… Could you be any wetter?” He brushed your clit with his thumb for a few seconds. He seemed to be thinking about something, as you felt your pleasure rise again.

“I should eat ya. To make it easier for you. But I’d really love to feel you squeeze my cock right now. You’re okay with that?”

You looked at him and swallowed before nodding. Yeah, you wanted to feel him spread your walls.

“Wait,” you said as he nestled in your entrance. “I don't wanna use the safe word, just… show me. Show me your cock one last time, before you thrust in me.”

He took it in his hand. He was proud of his cock, you could feel it, and he was right. You looked at his red, oozing tip. Covered in precum and your saliva. Its thickness made your heart rate increase and salivate at the same time.

“Ok… fuck me, Joel.”

Still kneeling, he smiled and grabbed your hip with one hand, and lightly pushed his tip in your pussy. Then he paused and looked at your body. Your hard nipples, your heaving stomach, waiting for more. Your chest, rising quickly. Your fists clenching the sheets.

You looked at Frankie, who was leaning forward on the chair. He had let go of his cock, hard as steel. You saw his tip glistening with precum. Your panties balled up in his clenched fist.

Then you looked at Joel again. From his curls, to his broad chest, his lower abdomen. You couldn’t see any lower anymore. He pushed in, feeling your walls painfully spread for him.

“Fuck… fuck! you're big…”

“I know, sweetheart. But you can take it,” he added, continuing to push gently. “Fuck baby, that’s it. Let me in your small, tight cunt.”

You had never felt so open before, the sensation was suffocating. A mixture of pleasure flirting with a little pain.

“I know baby, I know. You're gonna feel so good, soon. Just a little bit more…fuck!”

He was breathing harder too, as if he was holding himself back from coming, already. He spat on your clit, before letting go of one of your hips to brush your most sensitive place, trying to make this easier for you. Your moans were the only sound in the room, as Joel continued to thrust slowly, and Frankie was now sitting on the edge of his chair, leaning forward. Finally, Joel’s balls rubbed against your skin, and he stopped, buried all the way into your core.

“You’re fucking gorgeous like that, all spread out for me.” He was still breathing heavily, trying to control his cum that only wanted to spur against your walls.

You looked at him, panting too. You couldn't take your eyes off him, while he was still kneeling between your thighs, totally offered to him. He was magnificent and his gaze couldn't detach itself from you either.

He held your legs wide open, his hands placed on your hips, as he slowly pulled back from your channel, keeping only the tip inside you, before pushing back in. His breathing wasn’t calming down.

“Fuck… you’re so fuckin’ tight. I gotta… gotta eat ya. Don’t wanna shoot my load yet.”

He pulled out totally and lay down, leaving you empty, a plaintive moan escaping your lips. His arms wrapped around each of your thighs, gripping them with his hands before diving shoulders forward. He didn’t pause, didn’t seek to kiss your lower stomach. His tongue snaked out, tracing a line up and down, just above your ass to your clit and you let out a whimper.

“I’d wanted you to come, crying my name, since I fingered you at the bar.”

“Fuck,” you murmured. 

He started licking you again, never taking his eyes off you. His piercing gaze fixed on you just above your sweaty, throbbing stomach. His tongue delved between your folds, deeply, seeking to drink all your flowing desire. He licked, sucked, patiently, your wetness that flowed continuously. You looked at Frankie quickly. He had moved back to the back of the seat, hands placed on the armrests, gripping them tightly. You assumed he didn't want to come right away either. He nodded when your eyes met, a silent way of telling you to enjoy the moment. Repeating, without any words needed, that he was ok with all of it. Yet he couldn't help but intervene, and a part of you was afraid he wanted to stop all of it, but he quickly reassured you.

“Fuck, baby… you know how much I love to eat you. And watching you, while another man is eating your beautiful little pussy... it turns me on so much, you have no idea.”

You moaned when you heard him. You loved him so much. 

He started to jerk off again.

“You gonna come in his mouth, baby? You gonna come in another man’s mouth?”

He jerked off harder, and you nodded slowly.

At the same time Joel's tongue left your core to lick your folds, flat, slowly, repeating the motion several times, brushing your clit. The touch was driving you crazy, and you tried to lift your hips to feel him more where you desperately needed it, but he held you firmly against the bed.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he smirked. So you stopped lifting your hips as long as you were able to, until your movement resumed unconsciously. And finally, his tongue focused on your clit, swirling over it. It was tense, out of its skin, just waiting to explode under his tongue.

“I need to stretch you more.. Cunt’s too tight, don’t wanna come too soon.”

He pushed one, then two fingers into your pussy, your walls squeezing them instantly.

“Mmmm… you like that, uh? Want you to come for me. I need to stick my dick in your cunt again.”

"Come, baby," Frankie said in a low voice. “Fill his mouth. Give it to him.”

Their praise was the last thing you needed to come, chanting “Joel, Joel…” your back arching violently as your clit pulsed under Joel’s tongue and your pussy on his fingers.

You heard Frankie moan louder, then saying “oh… oh. Fuck, fuck, baby!” just before coming, white pearls coating his thighs and fist.

Joel’s tongue stayed pressed against your clit until your shaking stopped, and you released your grip on his head.

“Damn, sweetheart… I love the way you moan for me. Your man loves it too,” Joel added as he straightened up, wiping your wetness from his mouth and chin with the back of his hand.

“That was so fuckin’ hot, baby,” Frankie said, making you smile, while your eyes were still closed and your breathing was slowing down.

Joel crawled up and lay between your thighs, his knees spreading them apart. He nestled his tip at your entrance and pushed himself in slowly, all the way in, in one thrust. More easily this time. His tongue sought yours as one of his large hands cupped your cheek. “Takin’ me so good,” he breathed between your lips before kissing you again.

You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, and the feeling felt so familiar and yet so new. You loved feeling another cock inside you, you loved kissing someone else. You loved having your man watching you. And oddly enough, even though you wanted Joel to fuck you for as long as possible, you couldn't wait to feel Frankie's cock again.

Joel rubbed his lower stomach against you, exactly where you needed it. You wanted to come again, as he wanted it too. Brushing your clit with each thrust, his lips left your mouth to kiss your neck and then nibble on your earlobe.

“Joel…” you whined, accompanying his movement by pressing you more against him.

“Yeah. You're gonna come again for me, sweetheart? Gonna come on my cock?”

“Yeah, I… fuck, it's coming. Don't stop. Don't stop please…”

“I won't, want you to squeeze my shaft. It’s so hot to feel you rub against me to get off.”

“I… Joel… I'm gonna… I'm gonna come.”

His lower stomach brushed against you again and the orgasm took hold of you, your nails digging into his shoulders as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. Your body was shaking even harder than the first time, and you clung desperately to him.

“Fuck, Frankie.... She’s coming so fucking hard around my cock.”

“Damn, baby…”

Your shivering didn't stop, and your pussy was contracting continuously.

“It's ok sweetheart, I got you. Keep comin’ for me.”

Your head leaned back on your pillow, as your fluttering stomach and limbs were still trembling slightly.

“Shit… You're fucking beautiful baby. Can't control anything, right? I got ya… I got ya.”

He held you tight against him, still thrusting, brushing against you with the same slow rhythm until he felt your muscles relax beneath him. He placed a hand on your cheek, his piercing gaze trying to catch yours. Until the ceiling stopped swaying, the room stopped spinning, and your eyes finally met his. You felt the heat reach your cheeks, realizing that the orgasm you just felt was one of the strongest you had ever experienced.

“That's it, I’m so proud of you. You're doing so good, sweetheart.”

He kissed your forehead, softly, tenderly, then he added “Now… I wanna hear how wet that pussy is. All fours, baby.”

You settled onto your knees and hands, still a little shaky, and as his hands settled on your hips, you didn't expect to feel his tongue run along your ass and linger on your ring, making you moan and stick your ass out.

He knelt and grabbed your hips, then said “fuck, you like it? I won’t fuck your ass tonight, I need you to dry my balls or I’m gonna explode. But another time, maybe.”

He didn’t wait for your answer and thrusted in one go, gripping your hips, leaving you breathless.

“Told ya your hips were just begging to be grabbed,” he said, before pulling back suddenly, leaving just his tip in your pussy and thrusting again roughly.

You bit your lip as you heard him, your body rocking back and forth as it could only follow the movement of his hips as they slapped against your ass. You could vaguely hear Frankie jerking off.

“Tell your man who’s fucking you. Whose cock’s in your cunt?”

“I… you… fuck… can’t…”

“Mmm sorry, what was that? I can barely hear you over all your moans, sweetheart…” he said, teasing you, but slowing down his pace so you could answer.

“Yours, Joel, fuck… Your cock is in my cunt. You're the one fucking me.”

“You’re doing so good. Keep taking it, just like that.” You didn't really have a choice, except to use your safe word and that was out of the question even if you were practically breathless. He was fucking you too good, filling you up perfectly.

His hands still tight on your hips, he was thrusting deep and hard, making you bend your elbows and bite the pillow. His thumb brushed your ring then he pushed in lightly.

“Gonna come… Gonna fill you up. Deep in your cunt.”

He thrust in, two, three more times, then his fingers squeezed the flesh of your hips as he pushed in as far as he could, his balls against your ass and you felt his cock twitch, just before his cum spurt out, covering your walls. His grunts made you smile, it was the only energy you still had.

He pulled out laying down next to you, and Frankie immediately took his turn between your thighs, spreading them wide, your bodies right next to Joel who was watching you, lying on his side.

Frankie buried himself in your dripping, sore cunt, hands on your waist, already thrusting all his length in, licking, sucking one of your nipples. He couldn't even talk, overwhelmed by the night, by your vision that couldn't leave his mind. He knew he would love to share you, but didn't know it would move him, turn him on, that much. He wanted to fill you now, not in a possessive way, but he needed to feel you around him, needed to feel your cunt filled by another man's seed. If he hadn't been in such a need to fuck you, he would have licked your sore pussy, cleaning it of someone else's cum. He told himself that maybe there would be a next time, and maybe another opportunity to do it. The thought made him even harder.

Your arms around him, you were kissing his cheek, his neck, his lips, holding him tight between your thighs. Proving him you were his, always, and it was making his head spin.

He asked Joel to kiss you, and he loved to hear you moan as you two were making out just below him. He knew he wouldn't last, he didn't want to. He knew you were spent, too. So he just thrust in, thinking about you blowing Joel. 

About Joel's head between your thighs. Frankie's favorite place in the world. About Joel's dick pushing your walls, slipping in your tight cunt.

He was surrounded by his love for you, by how good you felt around his cock. He shot spurs of cum quickly, adding it to Joel’s, and the thought made him moan one last time. 

He sighed contentedly when your pussy stopped milking his cock. He seemed as exhausted as you and Joel were, and you fell asleep without even realizing it.

When you woke up the next morning, Joel had left a note on the nightstand. “Any time.”

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[whorediaries-09]

Girliee I have a request for kinkotober hehehhe

Sirius x reader with body worshipping and ‘please let me fuck my babies into you’

omg he’s just so perfect I can’t. Thank you!

yeah he's way too perfect 🫡

you're screwed up and brilliant;

pairing- artist!sirius black x reader warning(s)- 18+ content. a/n- to be sirius' muse 😮‍💨

prompt- body worshipping + 'please let me fuck my babies into you.'

the diner. kinkotober masterlist. kinkotober rules.

sirius has never been the one to break his own morals. through all the years he's worked on his art, with various models sitting on the stool while they posed for him, he's gained enough experience to control his emotions and not let his art persuade him. he'd taught himself to believe that his art was nothing but strokes on his canvas, and he wasn't in love with any of his models.

but sirius didn't know what he was putting himself through when he decided to hire you as his model. from being just strokes of paint on canvas, from you being just a model to be his muse. he didn't know how it began, or when it began. maybe it was after you'd admitted that you were more interested in his art rather than the cheques he wrote for you. maybe it was after you'd remembered the order of his favorite tea which he'd revealed once in flowing conversation. maybe it was after you'd lingered around him, looking at the different paintings on his walls. maybe it was after he'd realized your efforts of trying to get him know better.

you always lingered around his chamber, making conversations with him. today however, feels different. it almost feels as if you linger around for a purpose. he doesn't know if it's because of the request-or rather his wish he'd accidently spoken about to you, or if it's something different.

'do you think i can't be a nude model for you, sirius?' you ask. he doesn't reply. he stares at you, trying to study your body language.

well you certainly hadn't forgotten about his words, even though he'd told you to.

'no, no, it's just th-' he stops as you walk closer, leaning towards his form where he's sitting. his eyes travel up and down, taking your form in, the one he'd only dreamed up so close. your finger is on his lips, quieting him.

you see his pupils dilate, the artery on his neck vibrate faster. his crotch tightens against the fabric of the slacks he's wearing. his breathing grows ragged, and behind his pupils his gray eyes darken into a storm of growing desire. you smirk, running your tongue over the top row of your teeth.

'you're so precious, sirius,' you say. he unconsciously spreads his legs, and you straddle him. 'you know that?' you ask. you take his hands into yours, placing his cold touch on your hips. he grips the delicate fiber of your sundress, pulling you closer. his lips sooth over the burning skin of your neck, as he breathes you in.

it's slow, delicate and intimate as he eyes you up and down. he's pushes his hand between your skin and the fabric of your dress, his touch electrifying. he feels your wet arousal seeping through your underwear onto his groin. he groans, bucking his hips at the feeling.

'you're so beautiful,' he whispers, as if breathless. his hot breathe tenses over your warm skin and you moan, as his fingers feel the stretch marks on your hips. he digs his nails into them, his lips loitering over your skin, as he tries to feel every uncovered part of you.

'you drive me fucking crazy,' he says, tightening your legs around his waist and picking you up. he places your bottom on his desk, throwing away the tubes of paint, the mug of dirty paint water and his brushes. right now, he could care less about those.

right now, you were his art.

'i know that,' you tease. he chuckles, voice low, throat raw. right now, he could practically feel his heart beating against his ribcage, as if trying to be free from the strong confines. he'd finally gotten you just like he'd wanted, in his dirty dreams of sins. the nights he'd woken up, soaked in cold sweat, his cock erect and leaking against his sweatpants. he had stroked himself at the thought of your distinct scent and the moan that had once left your lips when you'd dropped a vase on your toe.

'no you don't,' he said, slowly untying the ribbons of your dress. he took his time, eyes and hands exploring your body, counting the moles on your skin, watching as the sleeves of the dress slip from your shoulders, revealing your chest to his hungry eyes. he takes a deep breath, his fingers digging tantalizing over the skin of your inner thighs, so close to where you need him, yet so far away. you practically feel your vulva swell with need as he kisses the nape of your neck, soft and sinful, trailing your jaw but never reaching your mouth. there's nothing he wants to do but, ruin you. ruin you for everyone else but him.

he presses his finger against your clit, watching as you bend your back, and spread your legs wider for him. his touch is cold, a contrast against your heated core.

'you don't know how many nights i've spent, withering on my bed, at the thought of you, at the lack of you,' he says, on his knees. he bunches the fabric of your dress at your hips, kissing his way towards your core. 'you don't know how much i've tried to control myself. you don't know how many times i've wanted to bend you over his desk, and fuck you till the only thing you remember is my name. you don't know how many times i've touched myself at the mere thought of you,'

you clasp his head between your thighs, his mouth at your core. you knead your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer to your sopping core.

'show me then,' you say, voice fumbling at the feeling of his tongue against your slit. 'show me how much i don't know. show me how much you've been restraining yourself,'

as soon as your words register into his brain, he knows he won't stop. he can't stop. he plunges his mouth into your cunt, licking and kissing away like a starved man, while simultaneously thrusting his fingers into you. it's like he's known your body for your entire life, and he knows exactly how to bring you to the edge of your pleasure. he knows exactly where to touch, lick, kiss and press to have your walls pulsating around him in a mere moment of minutes.

and just like that, your core tightens, and your thighs do too, as you feel your orgasm plunging at it's climax. you bite your lip, trying to restrain the moan which hangs at your lips.

'cum for me,' he says, the vibrations of his voice harsh against the sensitive bundle of your nerves. your thighs shake as you release yourself onto his tongue, and he laps up every bit of it like a quenched man.

'fuck,' he says, standing up on his feet, kissing, licking and biting your body as he does so. he's gentle as he lays your back on his desk, sliding down the dress across your body. he throws it on the floor, unzipping his trousers, and pulling down his boxers, revealing his cock in all it's glory.

he catches you staring at his cock, and smirks, as he lines it up against your slit. he holds you close by his waist, against his chest. he's slow, taking his time to feel you as he enters you. he feels your wet, pulsating walls around him, the sounds leaving your lips a sweet melody to his ears.

'oh fuck, sirius,' you groan, with his first thrust.

'that's right darling, say my name,' he encourages you, his lips on your hairline.

he starts pulling his cock out, and pushing it back in, first slow, letting you adjust to his size and girth. you feel the nerves on his cock against the walls of your cunt. his tip touches your sweet spot, and you almost lose your mind.

'god, sirius you're so-so-good,' you whimper, almost pathetic. your toes curl as your core tightens. he hides his nose in the nape of your neck, taking in your scent. it feels like the nights he'd fucked his fist, at the thought of your intoxicating scent.

except it's not, and he's actually inside you, feeling you in all your glory. he's doomed, it was destined to be doomed.

his thrusts grow erratic, and you tighten around him, with your toes curling and mind blackening. you see stars with each of his unrhythmic thrusts, the coil of orgasm boiling in your stomach, before your breathes falter and you release yourself around him, painting his torso with your orgasm.

'fuck,' he groans, running his fingers through his sweaty inky locks. you feel him throbbing inside of you, his libido wearing off.

'god, you're driving me so fucking insane, m'love. please let me fuck my babies into you,' he says, holding your chin, his eyes gazing into yours.

'please,' you whisper, cunt sensitive, with his thrusts. he whimpers, before releasing hot ropes of his cum into you, filling you up to the brim.

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©whorediaries-09, 2024.

[giuliettagaltieri]

Chase for Prestige

Pairing: Presidential Candidate!Coriolanus Snow x Strategist!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: The Performer

Warning: elitism, morally gray reader, greed, mentions of drugging, self induced injury, violence, death

Word Count: 3738

3 of 6

After graduating from the University, you and Coriolanus set your plan in motion.  With your minds working together, and Dr. Gaul and the Plinths behind him, it was not that difficult to do.

Coriolanus was a perfect man to become a President.

He has the intellect for it, the support, the charisma, and the right name.

It was not a wonder how in just a couple of years, young Coriolanus Snow was able to climb high in politics.  A fresh graduate, already contending with veterans.

With the media on his side, he showed them that what Panem needs is something fresh.  Someone new to govern them.

President Ravenstil is an old man, he has suffered too much.  And it seems he was only waiting for the young Snow to fully come to age and take the seat that was rightfully his.

When Coriolanus announced that he is filing candidacy for President, you were with him.

Thanatos Swansworth’s daughter.

The Districts felt an old fear creeping up their bones, similar to what they felt over two decades ago.

But Coriolanus Snow was not the only candidate.

There was also Hilarius Heavensbee.

Not the greatest politician but he did have the money and influence.

“Heavensbee visited the grave of Felix Ravenstill.”  You say from the couch in Coriolanus’ office.  “Claimed to avenge his good friend when he becomes President.”

Coriolanus puts his pen down as he listens to you read from the newspaper.

This is not good.  This will garner the attention of the Capitol.  And with President Ravenstill stepping down, it seems only fitting to have someone who will avenge Felix as a replacement.

“I regret telling you that.”  You sigh as you make your way to the refreshments table to pour yourself a cup of tea.  “Focus on your speech for tonight.”  

He bristles.  “How could I when my enemy has the upperhand.  He offers kindness and empathy.  What do I have to offer?  The name of my father and games?”  Coriolanus snaps at you.

But you don’t respond to him as you check the teapot for remaining hot tea.

“What are you doing?”  He grumbles, eyeing you with frowned brows.  To his surprise, you plunge your hand inside.  “Y/N!”

Your hiss as Coriolanus yanks your arm away, making the teapot drop and shatter on the hardwood floor.  “What has gotten into you!”  You have never heard him so angry.  Not even when they stripped him off his name and status and sent him to District 12.

He rushes you to the powder room and places your hand under the faucet.  His teeth were grinding against each other as he observed your skin for any permanent damage.

“What were you thinking?”  His voice is low and barely contained.  He was behind you, trapping you between him and the lavatory.  Every rumble of his chest sends a shiver to your spine.

You smile as you gently move your fingers.  No serious damage.  Your skin still stings though.

“Giving you a chance to be kind and empathic.”  You laugh, one cut short by how he squeezes at your hip warningly.  “You’ll have to cut my steak for me later, Mr. President.”  The frown in his brows deepen as he hears the smile in your voice.  “I will make you do everything for me, Coriolanus Snow.” 

He did not like what you did.

Not when you grimace at the slightest touch to your hand.

The Plinths held the dinner party for Coriolanus, a celebration before his District Tour.

Many influential people are present in the party and for those who could not come, the party is being televised, all throughout Panem.

You are by his side the entire time, your good hand holding on to his arm, whispering information to his ears for every person that comes to shake his hand.

It was fascinating to watch how easy it was to inflate their ego.  They genuinely thought that Coriolanus Snow had the time to know their name and worry how their orchids were thriving this year.  No, it was all you.

You with your sweet smile and alluring voice.

Many expressed their worry for your injured hand but you always manage to turn it back to Coriolanus.  Telling them you had a little accident with your tea this morning, that it could have been worse had it not been for Coriolanus Snow.

They were so touched by his concern for you.  They start to see him in a new light.  He was not only good to Sejanus Plinth, but he was also doting on you.

Coriolanus Snow is a firm politician but he is also capable of warmth.

Many of them sneakily tried to ask about your relationship, but you were smart enough to deflect their questions.  Not confirming them but also not denying, just enough to keep their attention on you.

And it was finally time for the speech.

Coriolanus made people shed tears that night, fueled the narcissism of the Capitol citizens, but also gave a smidge of hope to the people of the Districts, it is not much but they do learn to start trusting this young Snow.

You are at your table, sharp eyes glinting at Coriolanus, sipping your champagne as you watch your handiwork.  You were careful enough to wear a gentle smile, for the cameras, lest the public mistake you for plotting something malevolent.

For the grand finale, he walks over to your table, his eyes on you the entire time as roars of applause ring heavily in the air.  He gently holds your elbow, careful not to hurt your hand and places a featherlight kiss on your wrist and closes his eyes, making the public believe that you are his anchor, grounding him.

Your lips part at his display of affection.  It almost seemed real.  You place your good hand on your chest as you smile up at him, your eyes turning glassy from all the emotions you are supposed to be feeling.

The ruse does not end there.

Just as you asked, he cut your steak for you, excusing himself from the conversation with the president to focus on the task.

You kick him under the table, it was sweet but this is the president he is talking to, and to put it to a pause just for your meal-

“What a sweet boy you are.”  The President’s wife coos and the President nods in agreement.

“It is hard to come by a good woman, especially for men like us.”  The President tells Coriolanus who chuckles.

“Indeed, sir.  That is why I have no intention of letting this one go.”  Coriolanus nods at you, making everyone around the table laugh.

“Don’t worry, I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.”  You place a hand on his forearm.  “You are stuck with me.”

The President laughs harder at that.

It seems like Coriolanus knows what he is doing.  It made him look committed.

The Capitol is sad to see you off in your District Tour.

Hilarius Heavensbee, calls it foolishness in an interview once.  So many can go wrong on the tour.  You can be ambushed in the middle of speeches, poisoned in the homes you stay in, and even road accidents are a possibility.

You indulge a reporter as you are about to depart with Coriolanus, you smile at the camera as you hold on to his arm.  “Hilarius Heavensbee is right to be afraid, but a coward to hide in the walls of the Capitol.”

The ratings for Coriolanus rose dramatically after your comment, and the man cannot be more proud of you.

Or so he thought.

District 4 was fairly a peaceful place.  The land was beautiful due to it being situated on a large body of water, one that you do not see much from the Capitol.  The stench was something else but with the position of being President on the line, Coriolanus managed to tolerate it.

The mayor was wary for some reason.

He was sweating intensely.  His eyes darted all around, jumping at the slightest of sounds.  It did not sit well with either of you but you smiled for the cameras still.

He was nearly rushing you and Coriolanus to a fairly sized yacht.  

The ship you saw your father buy on an impulse once could collide with this one and your father’s ship will not even feel the slightest tremor.  It was exceptionally gigantic, especially to a four-year-old girl.  Your father bought it for your family should the Capitol fall in the war.  You never got to see that ship again when he got his head blown up with a sniper.

When you manage to get to a considerable distance from the port, the mayor was able to breathe more calmly.

“Is something the matter?”  Coriolanus smiled kindly, but you hear the sharpness in his voice.

The man stills his movement, his breath coming to a stop too as he looks at you like a deer caught in headlights.  He opens his mouth and closes them quickly.  He looks like he is about to burst into tears.

“You-you see, Mister Snow, sir…”  He stammers.

“Yes?”  Coriolanus raises a brow.

The mayor heaves a rather large sigh. 

“We m-might have received word that a…a group of people might have been uhm, they might cause…a smidge of trouble.”  He scratches at his head, trying to make it sound light and funny but he is obviously failing, soaked with sweat now.  “But there is nothing you should worry about.  We are taking care of it.”

You wanted to punch the man.

“And you thought it might be wise to bring us here in the middle of the ocean when someone declared a threat against us?”  You ask coldly.

“We thought, this way…w-we can select who could be around you, Miss Swansworth.”  He grimaces at your tone.

Coriolanus looks around the deck.  The reporters are stationed on one side, waiting to cover the party that will be thrown at dusk.  Peacekeepers are also deployed in the area.

You pull Coriolanus close by his tie, the mayor looking away with his cheeks flushing.  It seemed too intimate for him to see.

“We cannot have rebel attacks in the news.  It would prove everything Heavensbee said to be true.  Everybody would laugh at us!”  You say through gritted teeth.

Coriolanus clicks his tongue, hating how true your words are.  He places a warm hand on your back and leans down until his lips brushes against your ear, tickling you.  

The reporters are going haywire at the romantic gesture being offered to them.

“We will proceed as planned.”  He whispers lowly.  “For now, let’s retreat to someplace more private.”  Coriolanus straightens up and looks at the mayor testingly.  “Mister mayor, could you provide us a quieter deck?  Miss Swansworth would love to rest before the party begins.”

The smile you gave the mayor did not reach your eyes.

“Of course!  Right this way, please.”  He guides you inside the yacht and Coriolanus had his hand on the small of your back, keeping you close.  Peacekeepers stationed themselves inside and outside the doors.  A silencer now attached at the tips of their guns.  The mayor opens the door leading to a smaller deck, an empty one, one you’d love to explore.

“You can rest here, Miss Swansworth.”  He smiles nervously at you, his feet sweating at how you look at the place with indifference.  “Mister Snow, I would send refreshments for you and the Miss.”  He walks over to the door.  “Excuse me.”  He almost runs away from you.

“How rude.”  You say plainly.  “Acting as if I will bite his head off if he breathed wrong.”

Coriolanus leaves your side to rest on a plush sofa.  “You wouldn’t?”  He busies himself with a pile of magazines that featured successful men of the Capitol.  He is somewhere in there too.

You scoff, walking over to the empty deck.

“Stay where I can see you.”  He reminds in a manner that is intended for children.

Rolling your eyes, you venture further into the deck, the sun is setting beautifully, it would be a shame to stay indoors.

You close your eyes at the soft breeze, listening to the gentle lap of the waves and the seagulls flying above.

“My my, what a stubborn girl.”  Coriolanus sighs as he comes to stand next to you.

“You are not my father.”  You quip, brow raising at him. 

He only smiles darkly at you.  “No, but I expect the same obedience from you.”

Coriolanus chuckles when you huff, your lips forming a delicate pout.

In the calmness of the descending twilight, you both share a comfortable silence. 

Behind the beauties that publicity offered you during the tour, one thing that you appreciated is the places you got to visit.

Coriolanus was not the best company but he is slowly becoming more and more tolerable.  At times you even begin to have trouble trying to guess if his actions are part of your ruse or not.

A mistake.

You inhale sharply, turning away from the tangerine glare, your back to him.

Coriolanus Snow watches you as you walk away from him.

“Problem?”

He leans on the rails, his arms crossing.

You sigh as you grip your wrist behind your back and rocked on your feet, still not looking at him.  You appear rather insecure and it bothered him greatly.  Y/N Swansworth can be a shy girl but never insecure.  Not even once.

“Yes.”

Coriolanus strides over but you take another step back.  He narrows his eyes at you warningly.  “Tell me.”

You purse your lips, doe eyes glancing at him before looking away.  “I should not.”

Patiently, he waited for you to continue talking.

You started walking further and further until you were farthest from him.

“Are you asking for a chase, sweetheart?”  He says playfully.  Coriolanus found it comical to watch your eyes widen.

“No.”  You are quick to rid your face of vulnerability.   “I would like a moment alone.”  You spoke distantly.

Coriolanus knew better than to force you to do something that you quite obviously do not want to do.

He straightens up and gives you a charming smile, similar to the ones he gave to the cameras, you hated it.

“I will leave you to yourself then.”

You bite your tongue as you watch him head to the direction of the door.  You wanted to stop him.  To get him to stay…with you.  But your longing eyes, hidden by the dimming nightfall, can only look at him.

A soft thud from behind you steals both of your attention.  Coriolanus pauses his steps by the door.

“Y/N?”  He calls.  “Come here.”

With the lack of light, you struggle to see clearly what is happening, but with the mercy of whatever gods are looking down at you, you manage to see a silhouette of a person on top of the rails.

He was startled to see you, his movements freezing.  But that moment of shock did not last long as he seethed at you, his hand fished something from his pocket and you did not wait around to see what it was as you ran to Coriolanus as fast as you could.

But the man was not having any of that.

You yelp as a heavy mass slams against your back, knocking you to the ground.  It takes everything in you not to scream when your foot lands badly, now twisted in a weird angle.  Tears spring in your eyes as a burning pain rips from your head as your hair is being held in harsh fingers.  A cold sting against your neck had you squeezing your eyes but a muted bang stills every movement.

You look up to see Coriolanus still pointing a gun not very far above you, his eyes wide and afraid.  The fillet knife clatters on the deck and you groan as the man collapses on top of you.

Loud footsteps echo around the deck and you are yanked by your arms but as your feet make contact with the floor, you cry out in pain.  

You sniffle as you collapse on your bum, pretty dress splayed around you as you try to be brave, swallowing your sobs as you shiver from the fright.  Rough hands grab at your tear stained cheeks, turning you from side to side.

“It’s alright, I got you.”  He murmurs as the peacekeepers fill the area, the body being dragged away and taken care of.  You clutch at Coriolanus’ arms as you sobbed openly at his chest.  “You’re safe.”  It was the only promise he made that you found yourself believing.

The mayor was hysterical.  The doors and blinds shut, separating you from the people in the main deck.  He is kneeling in front of you and Coriolanus, sobbing like a newborn child deprived of his mother.

“We cannot let the people know about this.”  You spoke sternly, the ice on your foot had a biting cold, not making you feel any better.  “This never happened.”

Coriolanus’ leg is bouncing without a pause, his eyes livid as he refuses to let you get as far away as a meter from him.

The peacekeepers offered a drink to the Mayor before he leaves, which you think might have been tampered with as he was unnervingly happy afterwards, perhaps a bit loopy.  He joins the party with a glass of wine that a peacekeeper thrusted to his hand.

“You’d have to follow him.”  You spoke gently, trying not to wake his anger again.

“How many times would you have me tell you?”  He asks, agitated.  “I will not be leaving your side-”

“You have come this far, Corio.”  You spoke quietly, eyes looking anywhere but him.  “Surely you don’t intend to make a mistake now.”

This gets him to reconsider.  You turn to him with your most convincing smile. 

“Nobody is foolish enough to attempt another attack after that.”  You do not know that of course but you will say anything just to get him out there.  “We are doing so well, Coriolanus.  Do not ruin this for us.”  You plead.

Coriolanus looks away from you, contemplating.

“We were supposed to do this together.”  He sighs, eyes downcast.  It is a look you have seen often in his youth.  “And I let you get hurt.  On my watch.”

You smile, a real one this time.

In that moment, the peacekeepers and the people outside seemed to have disappeared as you were certain that it was just you and Coriolanus existing at that moment.

“I will never forget what you did for me.”  You caress his face.  He killed a man for you. 

“You still got hurt.”  He frowns, jerking away from your touch. 

Coriolanus Snow is sulking.

Laughing softly, you place a kiss on his jaw as you give him a knowing look.  He keeps his face straight but he looks at you from the edge of his skeptical eyes.

“Don’t play games with me.”  He warns you but you only giggle.

“I will be seeing you in a while.”  You say as you fix the ice better on your swollen foot.

Coriolanus wanted nothing else but to pull you back to him but he decides against it and he gets on his feet.  He gives you one last look before heading to the party.

Peacekeepers were quietly deployed around the yacht to prevent the public from noticing anything unusual.  The party was already packed with them by the time Coriolanus joined in.

You watch a live feed of the party from a channel that broadcasts all over Panem.

They are all expressing their disappointment in your failure to attend the party.

Coriolanus charmed them by saying that you had fallen asleep while the two of you watched the sunset, he told them you were too precious to be awakened from your slumber.

The people of the Capitol will believe you of course, but your enemies will plant seeds of doubt from this error.

You cannot let that happen.

The mayor was laughing at something Coriolanus said, others present at the table laughing along with him.  They did not know that the Capitol politician knew how to jest.

Coriolanus laughed along with them, though his eyes often wander to the closed doors that separated you from him.

“Missing Miss Swansworth?”  The mayor wriggles his eyebrows at him.  Perhaps the peacekeepers added a little too much on the drink.  He is starting to get too friendly than Coriolanus would have tolerated.

He chuckles lightly.  “I am.”

Everybody in the table looks at him dreamily, their hands in their chests.

“I have the perfect distraction.”  The mayor exclaims.  “You must try this, Mister Snow.”  The mayor pushes a plate of Lobster Thermidor to him.  Coriolanus knew better than to try anything that is not approved by the food taster you hired. 

He smiles and pats his toned abdomen.  “Oh, no.  Thank you, but I have satiated my appetite.”

The mayor frowns at him.  “But these are the best lobsters in District 4!”

Coriolanus nods at him.  “And they are exquisite, Mister Mayor!”

With such flattery, the mayor blushes, smiling bashfully at the others who praised him.

As the night progressed, Coriolanus kept glancing at his watch, dreading the speed of time.  Time was moving so slowly, he wondered if this was a form of punishment.

“I cannot believe you started the party without me.”

Coriolanus never looked up as swiftly.

There you stood, in a long evening dress he had not seen before, smiling brighter than any stars overhead.  You are standing on your feet, posture perfect, with no trace of injury.

He was in disbelief and he wanted nothing more than to tell you to get back inside.  His brows pinch when you glide with perfect steps, face as angelic as ever.

Coriolanus was quick to get to his feet and pull the chair next to him for you to sit on.

“Thank you.”  You smile at him.

The media was quick to cover your arrival.

“You’re not supposed to be on your feet.”  He seethes.  His smile barely kept together and you can see his teeth gritting.

In a closer look, he can see how your eyes are a bit glassy, lips quivering, and your temple moist with sweat.  You lean closer to him and beam.

“The show must go on.”

Hunt for Glory

[cynicalclairvoyantcadaver]

If Poseidon and Athena were written accurately, how would they react to Percabeth?

So I said in this post that I wanted to see more of Poseidon and Annabeth interactions where Poseidon is judging Annabeth.

And honestly, let me share my hot take here-

Based on their mythological counterparts, PJO Athena would probably have fewer problems with the relationship, seeing as she is logical and practical, so she would be able to accept that Percy and Annabeth love each other. I mean, she could be annoyed with the relationship, but she would definitely be less judgmental and more lenient, I think.

(I wonder if she'd see the abuse in the relationship though-Annabeth verbally, mentally and physically abusing Percy. I wonder if she would stop it either).

And PJO POSEIDON would actually dislike Annabeth. He loves Percy and Percy loves Annabeth, so he'd let her live for Percy's sake, but other than that, he does not care for the girl and might even minorly inconvenience her if he could get away with it just to be petty-

Because Poseidon is petty. He's very volatile-one moment he can be kind and gentle, the next brooding and raging. And he's second to Zeus in being morally gray in the myths-that is, he's a very dark shade of grey for some people. He would love his children a lot, though, so there's that. And maybe if he was feeling nice or generous, he wouldn't inconvenience Annabeth.

[cherrychaiparadise]

the cold water of my heart (christ, it's boiling over)

Maybe you should’ve just left it at that, let the moment pass. But some part of you knew that it wouldn’t, that even if you had, another would rise in its place. The swirling water acting like a shield from the outside world, stranding you and this handsome man in some place out of time. Outside of reality, where normal didn’t apply. So, you let yourself loosen, let yourself voice the desire you’d been burying deep within your chest for the past hour or so, maybe longer.

pairing: frankie morales x f!reader (no physical description, except for hair below the shoulders and is wearing a bikini) summary: you and frankie get it on in the hot tub rating: 18+, minors dni tags: ski resort au, hot tub sex, soft dom frankie, exhibitionism, praise kink, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, nipple play, dirty talk, begging, frankie morales has a filthy mouth, frankie is tired, mentions of the tf boys word count: 7k

crossposted on ao3!

divider by @firefly-graphics

He leaned back, letting the gentle rumble of the water beat into his sore shoulders. The years of service had finally begun to take their toll on his body. Muscles tense and weary, joints cracking against each other, tendons pulled tight, strung together like a misshapen marionette. 

Shouldn’t have let the guys fuckin’ drag him into this, Frankie thought. Sinking further below the surface of the bubbling water, letting a jet pound into a particularly stubborn knot that had tied itself together in his upper back, just between his shoulder blades. But they’d insisted, Benny going as far to joke that this was the “Better, more legal, snow.” That’d earned him a hard elbow to the rib cage from Ironhead, no matter that the younger Miller was the fighter.

They’d been supportive, though. All of the guys agreed that it would be a much needed trip. Reminiscent of their youths, Will and Ben especially, who’d grown up in Colorado and had been sweltering in the Florida heat for years. Frankie had reluctantly come along, never having experienced much of the cold, but never one to sit on the sidelines while the rest of the crew did some stupid shit like blowing their hard earned money on a ski resort.

And Frankie thought that Pope was just looking forward to teaching clueless women to snowboard. Using the excuse to put his hands on their waists, whisper words of encouragement softly in their ears. Cheeky fucker was right, too. Frankie’d seen him with at least three different women today alone. Meanwhile the only woman Frankie had in mind was the masseuse at the resort spa, maybe he’d book an appointment tomorrow. Despite the hot jets and warm lights, the jacuzzi wasn’t enough. 

It was late, and his fingers had long since wrinkled into that weird, spongy texture. He considered getting out, heading to the queen sized bed that awaited him in his shared room with Santiago. Shared. Frankie grimaced, remembering the last woman Pope had been working up. Her too loud laughs at his dumbass lines, the way she’d shrugged off her puffer jacket, even though it was well below forty that afternoon. Maybe he’d wait out here a bit longer, maybe he still had more muscles that would loosen. 

The area was mostly empty, too cold for the majority of vacationers, despite the nearly scalding temperature of the hot tub. Sequestered into a hidden pocket behind the hotel section of the resort, tucked away in a small trail off the pool, which was also silent. Puddles sitting silently on the gray stones neatly worked around the circular tub, a mixture of condensation and melted snow. White, hardened snow more condensely packed along the iron railings surrounding the patio, fairy lights weaved beneath old snow. Creating an ethereal glow through the millions of frozen crystals, almost setting them aflame.

Music and laughter drifted faintly from the main lodge, where the resort was hosting its first Christmas party of the season. Where his friends were likely warm with wine or wandering hands along a woman’s arm. Likely both, for Santiago. Frankie chuckled to himself, glad to be alone. He loved the guys, loved that they were having fun, but he was just… fucking tired. 

The oldest member of the team, long since out of active combat unlike Pope. Or Benny, who was still young and quick on his feet, fucking fighting for sport. Even Will, who spoke for a living, had remained running endless drills or sparring with his brother. Leaving Frankie stiff and aching, his stomach softening into a plush curve. Not that he minded, he could care less about his physical appearance, really. He was just sick of being a step behind, sleep catching up to him an hour or so earlier. Feeling like he had to work twice as hard just to keep up.

A shrill, groaning creak broke him from his melancholy thoughts. Opening his eyes, Frankie straightened, lifting his sagged body out from under the water. His breath hitched at the cold air on his shoulders, the gust of icy wind brushing through his damp hair. He felt his eyes adjust, tracking the distant figure approach through the key-coded gate. Huddled together in a pale blue towel, shoes slapping against the wet floor. The warm lamplight curling around the soft silhouette to reveal a woman, her hair falling freely and limbs shivering profusely as she shuffled towards the steamy glow of the hot tub.

Frankie tried to keep his eyes down as she settled her things into the wooden chair, notably right next to his. Tried to focus on the colorful bubbles, the foam bubbling along the water’s surface, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, being alone in a hot tub with a stranger this late into the night. Part of him was surprised she was still getting in, to be honest.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked. Striking him with the soft timbre of her voice, slightly rough, as if she’d been out in the cold for too long.

He lifted his head to respond, voice nearly catching in his throat as he drank in the sight of her. Midnight blue bikini clinging to her curves. The bottoms cut high along her hips, revealing the slope of her ass. Top drooping low, arching along with the swell of her breasts. He had to avert his eyes at the outline of her nipples, clearly hardened in the cold winter air, poking through the thin fabric of her swimsuit. Fuck, and he’d been trying so hard to make her feel safe, and here he was fucking ogling her at his first glimpse. 

“Yeah, no problem.” He said, tongue heavy in his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t taken as long to respond as it’d felt. But he must’ve done something right, because she smiled brightly, a puff of her warm breath drifting past her lips as she thanked him. Floating up to mix with the steam rolling off of the hot water. 

The water rippled against his bare chest as she stepped in, her hand barely brushing against the metal railing, leaving fingerprints in the visible condensation. He tried his hardest to find the tile floor of the jacuzzi through the thick bubbles when she hummed at the warmth of the sauna as she lowered herself beneath the frother surface. 

Only then did Frankie feel safe enough to look up from the imaginary point on the floor, now that her too-soft looking body was hidden beneath the white fluff of the bubbles. Her eyes had fallen shut, lashes whispering against her cheeks. Lips slightly chapped from the harsh mountain winds, moisture already creeping its way along the smooth slope of her shoulders. Droplets of water spattered across her collarbone, carving a path down towards the crevice between her breasts. Head leaned back against the curved edge of the pool, smaller particles of water clinging to her hair.

Shit, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he’d seen. Like a siren washed up from the sea, enchanting unsuspecting men with her otherworldly allure, only to drag them back with her to the watery depths.

Maybe he should’ve gotten out earlier after all, escaped his fate, because he was completely and utterly fucked. 

~

The water felt heavenly wrapped around your nearly freeze-dried skin, you had to fight back a moan. The December sky was painted above you, bright splatters of white and yellow and blue painted across a black canvas, the moon hung full overhead. The slowly changing hues of the bubbles mirroring the heavens above. It was stunning, the space around you.

Not to mention, the man in front of you.

Broad chest dappled with a light sweeping of freckles. Brown hair mussed and curling upwards from the moisture in the air. Strong, curved nose and almost sorrowful brown eyes. He was beautiful, you thought, nearly rivaling the sky above and waters below. Suddenly aware of the lack of space between the two of you, no more than four or five feet apart. 

You glanced up at him, surprised to find him already looking at you. A soft shade of pink spread across his cheeks, already flushed from the heat. You pursed your lips, fighting back a grin at his response to being caught. “Avoiding the rest of the world too?” you asked, trying to build a bridge across the small space that separated you. 

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, before meeting your own as he spoke, and again you were struck by the roughened edge to his voice. A stark contrast to his otherwise soft demeanor. “Something like that,” the edge of his lip tugged upwards as he tilted his head to the side. “Mostly just my roommate… ‘ve got a feeling he’s got another, prettier roommate in mind, if you know what I mean.”

You bit your lip, feeling your smile spread across your cheeks at his joking answer. “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

He snorted, an abrupt, unexpected noise which he quickly reigned back in, as if its escape had been just as much of a surprise to him. “Nah,” he shook his head, curls bouncing with the movement, lip still curled up into a small smirk. “Doubt that fucker even notices I’m gone.” His words were harsh, but his features held nothing but fondness.

Smile still comfortably spread across your lips, you slightly shifted forward and gave the man your name. Who knows, you were at the same resort, maybe you’d run into him again. 

He swallowed, as if taking in the consonants and vowels, the way the sound of your name curved in the air, before returning it with his own. “Frankie,” he leaned forward, arm outstretched towards you. His hand was warm against your skin, grip firm as he politely shook your own. You couldn’t help but notice how much bigger his hand was, the way his fingers stretched all the way around the outside of your hand, nearly connecting with his thumb. Leaving your skin feeling cold as he pulled away. “You here alone? Or…”

You quirked a brow. Forward, wasn’t he.

“Shit,” he choked, face immediately flushing with color once again. Water splashing against his chest as his arm jerked out in panic. “That’s- that came out differently than I’d mean it to,” he laughed quietly, running a hand through his hair, damp curls pulling back before quickly coiling back into place. You smiled, finding his flustered state endearing. “I just meant if you were here with friends, too. I kinda was brought as a hostage by my buds…” he trailed off again, clearly struggling to properly formulate his thoughts. 

“Nah, not friends,” you met his eyes, trying to convey your reassurance. “I’m here with my family. Never too old to grow out of annual family vacations, apparently.” 

“Ah,” he nodded. “That’s sweet. That your family does that.” He’s right, it was. You almost asked about his family, but caught yourself, worrying that would be too invasive. “My mom’d take me to her parents for the holidays every year. Don’t know how she did it, ‘know I must’ve been a little shit in a car for seven hours.” He chuckled to himself, eyes softly glazing over as he relived the memory. 

You didn’t know how much time passed after that. Alternating between amicable banter and comfortable silence. The two of you sharing stories and watching the lights change color. Humming along to familiar holiday tunes drifting from the lodge and listening as the occasional owl hooted from the snow-covered pines overhead. Laughter echoing between you, bouncing off the water, fizzling into the air along with the pop of the bubbles. You’re not sure how, or when it had happened, but somehow the two of you had drawn together, closing the small distance once between you. 

Steam curled around you, hazy ribbons floating in the air, and you briefly wondered if they were what drew you together. Wrapped themselves around your relaxed forms, around your wrists and ankles and tugged and pulled until the two of you sat side by side, bare feet occasionally bumping into each other with the gentle push and pull of the jets. 

Feeling the delicate skin of his ankle graze against your toes, droplets of water splashing into your lap as he gesticulated while speaking. Finding yourself enraptured in his movements, the plush curve of his lips when he spoke, the way his biceps pulled taught and chest flushed when he laughed. 

How his brown eyes fell to your lips when you smiled. Dropped even lower when you’d lean forward or turn a certain way. He seemed to track your motions the same way, going as far to push a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Stealing your breath as warm fingertips brushed featherlight against the wet skin of your cheekbone. Lingering as he pulled back, fingers softly curling along the counters of your face. His thumb barely kissing the edge of your lips as he finally let his hand fall back to his side.

Maybe you should’ve just left it at that, let the moment pass. But some part of you knew that it wouldn’t, that even if you had, another would rise in its place. The swirling water acting like a shield from the outside world, stranding you and this handsome man in some place out of time. Outside of reality, where normal didn’t apply. So, you let yourself loosen, let yourself voice the desire you’d been burying deep within your chest for the past hour or so, maybe longer.

“Warm,” you murmured, eyes fluttering shut at the loss of his heated skin. 

“Hm?” his brows furrowed slightly, even though you knew he understood the meaning behind your statement. Just as affected by the headiness of the thick steam and lulling rhythm of the bubbles and the closeness held between your bodies. You opened your eyes to find his head tilted, and under any other circumstances, you would’ve taken it as confusion. But not here, not now. Not with him. His eyes unabashedly on your lips, wet and glistening and waiting.

You leaned closer, the tip of his aquiline nose just brushing against yours. “Frankie,” you breathed against his mouth. Your eyes flittering up to his, finding them dark and hooded and wanting. Nearly begging, begging you to let him, to confirm that you wanted this, too. Normally one to wait, to follow the lead, you hesitated for a fraction of a second before pushing the past aside. You didn’t want to wait, you already knew the answer. He was asking for both of you with those big brown eyes, shining in a way that looked like he was in physical pain from waiting himself. 

“Please.” It was more of a warning than a request, giving him a moment to deny you, to tell you you’d been misinterpreting this entire situation. He responded with a soft exhale and a sharp raise of his brows. As if he was begging you as much as you were him. Letting yourself give in, give the both of you what you desired, you took in a breath of the warm winter air and pressed your lips to Frankie’s.

~

Frankie’s mind seemed to spark and fizzle like a faulty wire before finally clicking back into place. Commanding his heavy arms to rise, wrapping around the silky skin of your waist, tugging you flush against him. He smiled internally at the quiet gasp he’d drawn from your lips, fresh confidence driving him to deepen the kiss. Running his tongue along the outer edge of your lips, faintly tasting sweet chocolate and the tang of the chlorine. His hand lifted up to cup the back of your head. Fingers tangling with the damp hair at the base of your neck. Shifting positions so that his touch traced along the curve of your spine, causing you to shiver beneath his touch.

Only seconds had passed, yet he found that you were an instrument he wanted to play till the sun’s golden rays overflowed from the mountaintops. To master the pull of your strings and dips of your intricate curves. Draw sweet melodies from you all night until his hands could no longer work. Until your body had completely melted into the silky water of the jacuzzi and the firm pressure of his touch. 

He bit back a groan as you pulled back, leaving wet handprints on his chest that quickly evaporated into the humid air. Already, your lips were swollen, hair clearly messed where his hand had been tangled with your locks. Your chest heaved as you inhaled, his eyes brazenly dropping to your tits. Nipples hardened in the winter breeze, practically begging to be pulled between his fingers and twisted till he draws sweet cries from your lips. Eyes brightly reflecting the warm glow of the lights, darkened with a shadow of something else. Like a siren, he thought once more. Yet he found himself more than willing to fall, to dive headfirst if it meant more of this. More of you.

Your lips parted as if you were going to say something, but no noise came out. Instead you leaned back into him, threading your small fingers into his hair. A rough noise escaping him as you tugged, pulling him back into your wanting mouth. Your tongue dipping past his lips. Again that warm sweetness and cinnamon filled his senses as he let you take your fill. Loving the heady blend of sensations. Little blossoms of pain at his scalp laved over by the wet caress of your mouth on his and the satiny strokes of the hot water. 

He would happily let himself drown in your mouth, he knew. But he wanted to taste more.

Tilting your neck back, Frankie ruefully separated his lips from yours, noting the needy whine linger in the back of your throat. “Shhh, sweetheart, trust me,” he watched you give him a rushed nod, taking the opportunity to bring his mouth to the smooth column of your neck. Shining with the glimmering sheen of water, he began licking up the droplets. Tasting the blend of tangy chlorine and the warm musk of your skin. Feeling your pulse fluttering beneath his tongue, Frankie closed his mouth around the cord of muscle and sucked into your skin. 

Your moan rumbled up in your throat, reverberating into his wanting mouth. Fuck, he wanted to draw more and more of those pretty noises from you long into the night. With his mouth, hands, cock, whatever. Anything to keep that sweet song pouring from your lips.

The water swished around him as he repositioned himself, pulling away for a moment so that he was standing between your spread legs. Your knees hugging his outer thighs as he curled over you, moving his mouth back to your skin. Letting his lips wander down your neck, no more than a whisper along the sparse hairs that coated your skin. Bringing his lips to the spot where your neck connected with the tip of your collarbone. Getting a feel for the soft, squishy skin there before using his teeth, gently biting into your inviting flesh. 

As another quiet moan fell from your lips, Frankie used the moment to bring a hand to the soft roundness of your breast, finally getting his fill. Shamelessly stroking you in the place he’d been denying himself all night. Head spinning as the weight settled in his palm, warm and smooth and not quite enough through the fabric of your swimsuit.

A whimper tumbled out of you as he grazed a thumb over the peaked bud of your nipple. And fuck him if that didn’t send another jolt of heat straight to his already full cock. Drawing his thumb back, Frankie slowly traced a circle along the outer edge of your areola, not quite where you needed him. Eyes drinking in the deep rise and fall of your chest, the water swaying in rhythm with you. Bringing his thumb closer, just to the base of the hardened skin, before retreating and continuing to rub teasing circles “Frankie, please,” you breathed, voice choked and airy.

“Please what? This not enough for you?” He hummed, a slight pout drawn into the melody. 

Your pretty face scrunched up at his mocking tone, and Frankie almost felt bad. Almost. But he wanted to hear more of your pretty noises, hear you ask nicely for what you wanted. “Touch me, ‘s not enough.” 

His mouth curled into a sinful smirk, something inside of him drawing tight upon realizing how easy it was to get you to beg. Part of him wanted to wait, to deny you just to see how far you’d go to get what you wanted. Later, he decided. There was plenty more to make you beg for. 

Finally letting his fingers return to your aching nipple, he brushed a finger back across the peak, giving your tit a sharp squeeze before pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Needing to be a bit rougher than normal to keep it from slipping away beneath the fabric barrier. The whimper formed, stronger, in your throat and he knew he couldn’t stop. Twisting you between his fingers, almost enough to hurt, but not quite yet. Your hips bucked below the surface, back arching against the tiled wall, bubbles crackling just below your ribcage. “Not-” you whined, brows pinching together, clearly frustrated. “Still not enough, not-,”

You writhed beneath him, body tightly coiled as he continued to work your nipple, having brought the other hand to cup your other breast, wanting to give it a similar attention. Watching the way you’d brought your hands to the sides of your swimsuit, seemingly unconsciously pulling at the skintight fabric, nails digging into the synthetic material as you dragged your hands down your torso. 

Gripping the bare skin at your waist, he pushed your body back against the wall of the hot tub, your body nearly weightless in the water, he lifted you slightly to get a better angle before pressing his mouth to your tits, replacing his finger that had been tightly twisting and twirling. Laving his tongue over the chlorine-soaked fabric, feeling the hardness of your nipple beneath. Using a flash of teeth to nip at you through your swimsuit. 

Still, you tugged at your bikini straps, not quite pulling them down but playing with them, drawing his darkened eyes to the thin fabric at your shoulders. He pulled back, watching your breasts sway with your heavy breaths, one of the straps falling from your shoulder, exposing a faint glimpse of the rounded flesh at the side of your breast. Thoughtlessly raising a hand to trace along the bare curve, entranced at the give of skin beneath his calloused fingers. “Something you need, beautiful?” His gaze didn’t leave the patch of your partially exposed tits, begging to be freed.

Your eyes were wild as they met his. Dark with need and alight with some proprietary sense of hesitation, of knowing that you were still in a public area. That anyone could come through the iron gates, could see you like this. Flushed and needy and heaving with desire. “I-, I just want more.” Your voice was tight, like he could break you with no more than a touch. 

Fuck him. He shuffled forward, letting his aching cock press against your core, only separated by the thin layers of fabric. Clenching his eyes tight at the sudden contact, the way it burned a trail up his spine. Grunting when he saw the same expression mirrored across your own features.

“I need you to tell me, sweetheart,” He leaned down, placing a chaste kiss to your uncovered chest, the fabric peeling down to reveal a peek of the silky skin where the colors shifted. Giving way from tougher skin to the sensitive softness of your nipple. “You want this off? Hmm? Want me to give your pretty tits the attention they deserve? Bet they’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured into the curve of your skin, fingers dancing up your ribcage to land below the swell of your chest. Holding you there as he leaned back, meeting your eyes. Waiting for your permission. 

He wanted this. Wanted it here, now, didn’t give a fuck who saw. But he needed you to want it too. “Need to hear you say it, please.” He lifted his head, pressing a warm kiss to your lips, holding you like a treasure he desperately desired to keep close. 

You opened your mouth soundlessly, and for a second he was sure you were going to say no. Push him away and tell him to fuck off, that he was a pervert and a creep and everything that wasn’t enough for. But instead, you tugged down the remaining strap, the fine strands of fabric dangling from your shoulders. Remaining material above your chest already drooping low without the support of the straps. 

Instinct drew him forward, but his mind kept his hands in place. “Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me this is ok.” 

Your eyes were nearly black with lust as you spoke, voice firm. “It’s ok, Frankie. Don’t stop.”

~

He moved like a predator, was your first and only thought, before the straining cups of your bikini top were torn down, breasts spilling out over the wet fabric into the night air. You’d expected the shock of the cold to pierce you, but were instead caught in the heat of Frankie’s gaze on your bare tits, his hands returning to them, almost reverently now that you’d fully revealed your upper half. 

“I was right,” he whispered, more to your chest than you, you realized with a sprinkle of amusement. Pupils blown wide as he soaked in your appearance, feeling his hand clench at your side before returning to your exposed chest. “Fucking perfect,” he pinched the hardened bud between deft fingers, and you gasped at the feeling of his skin on yours. Just enough pressure as you silently begged him still for more. Needing his mouth back on your skin. 

Accepting your unspoken plea, Frankie closed his mouth around your tight nipple, and you let out a frighteningly loud cry as the wet heat enveloped you. “Fuck, Frankie…” you whined as he give it a suck before laving over the peak with his tongue. Swirling it in his mouth, bringing it between his teeth with a slight pinch and a gentle tug. Eyes flitting up to yours to gauge your reaction. Knowing your face was nothing more than a canvas for the pleasure he painted across you in long, flowing strokes. All the while continuing to work your other breast with his large hand, keeping you suspended between two constant pools of bliss.

Your body wound tight, warm energy swirling beneath your skin. Buzzing across your nerves, so hot it fucking hurt. The backs of your arms ached, the cool concrete digging into your skin, but you couldn’t be bothered to care. Not when Frankie had you arching into him, hips beginning to grind against his. Feeling him hot and hard and digging into the swell of your inner thigh, so close to where you needed him but nowhere close enough. Constantly assaulted by his tongue and hand relentlessly working your sore tits, bordering on the edge of pain and something else. 

Briefly you wondered if you could come just from this. If you dropped a hand between your legs, pressed down on your swollen clit that had been throbbing for what felt like hours. If that would be enough. If that would send you over the edge, send you reeling into the ecstasy your body was chasing. “Frankie, shit, I-” it took you a second to collect your words, scattered along with the nerves that lit up your body. 

He switched tits while he waited for you to continue, big brown eyes looking up at you patiently, mouth latching onto your other nipple while he lifted his hand to your spit-slathered breast. Nipple glinting in the warm light, slick and shiny with his saliva.

“Need you to touch me- your thigh.” Your eyes locked onto the thick muscle of his leg, watching the tendons clench as he shifted his weight, immediately catching onto your meaning. 

Pulling back from your chest with a wet, lewd pop, he braced his arm on the stone beside you, the cords of his bicep flexing with the movement, close enough that you could see the droplets of water beading on his tanned skin. “You’re learning,” he smiled, tilting your chin up with the bottom of his finger. “Asking for what you want like a good girl.” 

You nodded eagerly, mind overcome with a deep-set hunger, greedy for the pleasure you knew he could give you. Tongue heavy in your mouth, feeling like you were capable of doing nothing more than sinking deeper into the water, letting its hypnotic pull overcome you while Frankie played with your body like he’d studied it for years.

“You think you could come like this?” he pinched your nipple harder than before, enough for you to cry out in pain, though it quickly melted into simmering pleasure which Frankie immediately caught on to. “Bet you could, bet you want to.” He dropped his mouth to your ear, voice lowering an octave. His words were hot on your skin as he spoke. “Let me give you what you need, please.”

His eyes met yours once again, warm and rich and filled with desire. You’d never felt like this before. So wanted. Like Frankie had made it his mission to give you as much as he could. Not just for you, but for him. Because he enjoyed it, enjoyed bringing you to the edge of pleasure and holding you there, leaving you teetering near the precipice before letting you fall deep, deep into the waves of ecstasy. 

“Please,” you repeated back to him, the hiss of your plea being the last thing you heard before he jerked your nipple with a harsh twist and slotted his knee between your waiting thighs. The pressure kissing firmly against your swollen clit and breaking the dam inside of you. Cunt clenching around nothing, spasming as you can feel yourself gush into the billowing water. 

Churning waves roaring in your ears as your body tensed and released, shaking with the effort, feeling as if all the building pleasure was pouring out of you, leaving you helpless to stop it. Feeling your vision go fuzzy, like you’d sunk below the surface and everything was glazed over with flashes of light and sprays of water. 

You heard Frankie murmur your name against your ear, his hand now gently caressing the flushed skin of your cheek. Hard concrete pressing against the back of your head, you lifted yourself up, slowly opened your eyes to find his own looking back at you. Dark and heavy and wanting. Yet he maintained the gentle brush of his thumb against your skin, slowly drawing you back to the present, even though you knew his mind was just as lost as yours. 

“Shit, Frankie,” you smiled up at him, feeling a little silly. “That was- fuck,” you laughed and he pressed a kiss to your lips. Initially soft and quieting, it quickly changed, his own desire fueling him on. You could feel the energy building beneath his skin, his hands dropping lower to the cute little bows that held the strings of your bikini bottoms together. Fisting with the plump curve of your ass, thumb slipping beneath the drawstring, but leaving your remaining clothing in place. Ever the gentleman.

The gentleman who then continued to spin you around, lifting you as he settled into the bench seat, back leaning against the wall, before settling you into his lap. His cock jutting up against your soaked pussy, putting pressure back on your swollen clit and fuck, even with your previous orgasm it still wasn’t enough. Circling your hips, you put a hand on his chest, savoring the feel of his bare skin warm beneath your fingertips. “Frankie,” you ground into him, realizing how fucking empty you felt. “Need you, want you inside me.”

His grip on your hips tightened, hard enough that you knew there’d be finger-sized bruises tattooed into your skin tomorrow. “Fuck, sweetheart, can I?”

You knew that this was risky, fucking crazy, actually. Fucking a man you’d just met in open air, where anyone could still walk in and see,  at a resort your fucking family was attending. But you didn’t care, couldn’t even bother to worry. All you could focus on was the burning between your legs, the way your body was screaming at you to be filled. And with the way Frankie was straining beneath you, you knew you’d have to stretch to take him. But god, you could already imagine how it’d feel to be full of his cock, have him deep inside you, murmuring filthy things in your ears while he’d gently rut up into you. And yeah, you didn’t give a shit.

“I’m on the pill, and clean.”

Frankie nodded. “Me too. You sure?”

So fucking sweet, this man. “Please, Frankie. I want you to fuck me.”

~

Frankie had to bite his tongue to stop himself from cumming right then and there. The determination in your eyes, the deadset desperation for him. He couldn’t wait any longer, needed to be inside you. “Fuck, yeah, ok,” he babbled, fumbling for a moment to pull the drawstrings, moaning when he felt the fabric come free and float away, leaving you bare in his lap and all for him.  

“Shit, baby- fuck,” Words temporarily evaded him as he soaked in your appearance. Naked and glimmering with beads of clear water reflecting the light off your skin. Leaving you glowing like a fucking angel and fuck, everything he wanted to do was far from holy, but at the same time he wanted to worship you until the sun rose and set and the silvery moonlight coated the snow once again. 

It took him a moment to collect himself, feeling you hot and waiting above his painfully hard cock. The little swirls and arches of your hips causing him to meet your thrusts, jutting up into you even within the confines of his swim shorts. “Hang on a sec, just-” he trailed off, burying his head in your shoulder, your wet hair tickling his nose. Clenching his hands around the delicious swell of your ass, willing himself to focus, needing to last longer than a fucking teenager.

Finally having collected himself, Frankie pulled back, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Only to find you beaming down at him, extending a soft hand to run through his tousled curls and he could help but lean into your touch. Turning towards you to plant a soft kiss to your palm, trying to convey his gratefulness for your patience. Wanting nothing more than to make this good for you, loving the way you’d come apart under him before. Needing to break you apart on his cock.

Freeing his length from the shorts, Frankie took a moment to drag his head along your folds, easily parting for him with the slick that had gathered there. “Fuck, sweetheart, so fucking wet for me,” he murmured as he continued teasing the outer edges of your pussy, collecting the wetness before it was washed away with the water. 

You moaned sweetly, breath warm against his neck where you’d settled yourself. Arms thrown tightly around his shoulders as he held you, one hand at your hip, one still firmly planted on your ass. 

“You sure this is ok? Out here where anyone can see?” He double-checked out of caution, and something else too. Some sick thrill shot down his spine at the thought of getting caught. Of being seen fucking into you, your tits bouncing as you cried out in pleasure. Letting everyone know how good he’d made you feel. 

You nodded against his skin, and he felt something build within him. Reaching between your legs, he slowly parted your folds, notching the tip into your tight, waiting pussy. Savoring the gasp that it tore from your parted lips, hot and moist on his neck. “You sure? Not scared, are ya?” He continued working himself inside of you, the added friction from the water halting his rhythm, but not his determination.

A whimper sounded against him, and he felt you clutching him tighter, nails digging into the smooth skin of his back. Taking the moment, he canted his hips, sheathing another several inches within you so that he was almost halfway in. And fuck, he needed to take another deep breath. The tight heat of your pussy gripping him was almost too much. Combined with the dull pain of your nails piercing his back, he had to be careful. Still, he continued.

“Not worried someone’ll see you like this? Getting fucked in a hot tub? Pretty tits out for anyone to see?” He gave your breast an emphatic squeeze, never tiring of the way the soft skin felt spilling between his fingers. Drawing another whine from your lips, face still buried into his skin. “Nah-ah, sweetheart, no need to be shy,” he gripped your jaw, gentle pressure but still enough to control your movements. 

Your eyes were glazed over, a trail of drool spilling from your mouth. Looking perfectly fucked-out for him, and he hadn’t even started. “There we go, baby, make sure they can see that pretty face too, see how much you’re enjoying this.” You moaned something that vaguely resembled his name, but he couldn’t be sure. 

“Let them, you know why?” He didn’t give you time to answer before thrusting the rest of his length into your cunt, feeling you grip him as the air fled from your lungs. Brows drawn tight as you accommodated to the stretch. “Because this pussy is just for me. Taking me so well, aren’t you?” You nodded, hips slowly shifting above him as you adjusted to the intrusion. Frankie was well aware of his size, and knew that it often took people a moment or two to get used to him.

“Yeah, there you go, knew you could do it,” he praised, placing a kiss to the soft spot of your neck, feeling your body loosen into him, your walls relaxing around him, giving him room to test out a slow thrust. “So good for me, baby.” 

Beginning with a slow pace, Frankie dragged his cock back, feeling your cunt grip him, like you were trying to keep him inside. Grip on your ass tightening, he leaned back in, slowly pushing his length back inside of you, the wet drag heavenly against his cock. Your hips tilted against his as you began meeting his thrusts. Riding him in rhythm as he fucked up into you.

The hot pull of your pussy combined with the pressure of the jets against his lower back was heavenly. Pressing at his muscles while you drained the pleasure from him, milking it from his body, which happily gave you his all. Loving the way your cunt fluttered around him, alternating between deep, stroking clenches and quick little pulses. So fucking responsive.

His eyes transfixed on the bounce of your tits, wanting to suck them back into his mouth, roll your nipples with his tongue more. Taste your skin in his mouth, the sweet combination of winter air and chlorine and the faint trace of your body’s natural musk. Sweeter than anything he’d tasted before. Mind wandering to how your pussy would taste, how you’d leak for him. Let him lap up your juices, fuck them back into you with his tongue until you were nothing but a writhing mess for him to savor.

“Shit,” Frankie felt his pace faltering, clearly spurred on by the thought of getting his mouth between your legs. Maybe later… “I’m sorry sweetheart, fuck- I’m close.” He tried to focus on something else, tried to slow down, anything to slow his quickly impending orgasm. But his body seemed to move on its own, hips hammering into your heat, your tight cunt sucking him in, wet and tight and perfect and fuck- it was too much.

“Want you inside- cum inside me, please, Frankie-” your voice broke off, and he’d been so busy trying to slow himself down he hadn’t even noticed the tears that had formed at the corners of your eyes. The way your breathing had picked up and head had thrown itself back, lips chapped from where you’d been digging your teeth into the plump flesh. Looking just as fucked as he felt.

And whether it was seeing you or hearing your words or the idea of tasting you ingrained into his mind or some combination of the three, Frankie felt that rope inside of him snap. Head falling forward as his hips jerked once, twice, and fuck, he was cumming. Heat flooding his stomach and shooting through his throbbing cock, feeling the warm spurts shudder through him as he poured himself into your soaked cunt.

Panting heavily into your sweat-slicked shoulder, Frankie planted a kiss against your wet skin, feeling your body stir against his. Just breathing you in, listening to the soft bubble of the jets, feeling your pulse flutter against him. 

Pulling out, he felt the rush of water around his spent cock. Reaching a hand between your thighs to find himself spilling out of you, cum already being washed away by the rushing water. 

He leaned back to find a lazy smile spread across your face, hair plastered to your forehead. Brushing it out of the way, he pressed a matching kiss just above your brow before pulling you into his chest. Loving the way you let it happen, your body melting into his. He let his cheek rest on the top of your head, your hair tickling his flushed skin.

And as he held you, he realized that the music from inside had finally died down. Leaving him alone with the rhythm of your breaths and the melody of the wind.

[just-here-for-the-moment]

She Comes First (Part I)

This was started as part of @wannab-urs DMAMC fic challenge, but I just did not finish the fic on time (sad trombone)... so here's Part I (the buildup) and I'll post Part II (the payoff) as soon as it's finished.

Please go check out the rest of the DMAMC tags for more delicious fics!! This has been a really fun fic challenge, and I'm still happy with everything I've written so far.

Word count: 10,299 (nobody look at me!) Rating: Explicit, for 18+ only legally (but really ages 35+ only for the vibes, this is adult shit) Outline: alternating dual POV; Frankie “Catfish” Morales x domme!fem!Reader insert (Reader insert is 40+, able-bodied, has boobs and a pussy, wears corporate/business clothes to work, and wears pumps/heels) but otherwise is a total blank slate (no physical description, not white-coded, no blushing, no descriptions of hair or skin) Warnings: Femdom; Frankie is brand new to SSC (safe/sane/consensual) BDSM; characters drink alcohol; curse words and vulgar language (all the good stuff you expect from one of my smutfics); eventual smut; lots and lots and lots of talking about BDSM limits (but I tried to make it hot). 

You settle yourself at the bar, resting your feet on the brass crossbar of the leatherette stool, sinking against the low backrest with a sigh as you wave down the bartender. 

What a week… Fuck the clients and their demands, and your boss’s caving every time they snap their fingers. A drink to start, and then some well-deserved Friday night play. 

Hopefully there will be at least one interesting man tonight, someone you can invite to a hotel room and use as the finest form of stress release. Someone who can be a good boy, who can obey your orders and give you pleasure that you’ll return tenfold when he earns it. 

You look up, using the large mirror above the bar to scan the room behind you, taking advantage of the fact that it’s tilted at an angle, giving you a view not only of people walking behind you, but also the booths and their occupants. You can stare for as long as you like—no one really ever notices anyway, engrossed in their own good time. 

Of course, there’s always one guy who wants to catch your eye, come over and sit next to you and seduce you (ick) but you can see that type coming from a mile away, and they’re not who you’re interested in. Finance or tech bros, ties loose and eyes too shiny with whatever top-shelf shit they’ve imbibed too much of before you even walked in. 

As the bartender places your drink in front of you, you catch the reflection of a booth full of men behind you and a few feet to your left. A young one, very blond and muscled and wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt seated next to another, darker blond man in a sedate navy blue polo, a short, trimmed beard giving him a corporate look. The two seats opposite them are occupied by a shorter man in a black shirt, his dark curls shot through with gray, and the fourth man is different, a little taller and a lot broader than the others, wearing a mesh baseball cap.

He’s wide through the shoulders, arms straining beneath a soft chambray denim shirt, even softer-looking curls escaping from beneath the brim of his hat. He’s smiling and even laughing at moments, but he’s much quieter than the other three, especially the rowdy one you’ve nicknamed Muscles and the smirking dark-haired man seated next to the wall. You see all four of them raise their beer glasses to toast to something, but their laughter is gone, replaced by somber expressions. The shortest one, the smirky one, mouths an “Amen” but you can’t hear it over the din of the bar. 

You consider the group, carefully scanning each of them for tells, little hints that any of them might be of interest, might be a good time for the evening. 

The youngest one—he’s too ebullient, too boisterous for what you want to give. He wouldn’t pay attention, wouldn’t follow instructions and be a good boy. And definitely not the smirker in the black shirt; he’s handsome and he knows it. He’d be a brat, try to wrest control from you, make it a challenge that he’s leading. The other blond, the quieter one; he’s handsome enough, but something about the set of his jaw and the way he carries himself when he strides up to the bar to order another round—that power, that inner peace—this is not his thing, you can tell. And that leaves…

Baseball cap. Soft, kind eyes and a strong nose, plush lips just beneath a patchy little mustache. A little sad, much quieter than the others and much larger. He’s a big boy, all broad shoulders and work-strong arms under that soft blue shirt, his sleeves rolled up his forearms for comfort, but giving a show of how strong he must be. A physique crafted by hard work and daily routines, entirely different from the sweat-slick muscles of the younger blond. That one must be a gym rat or a boxer or something, self-focused when he flexes his bicep at the short, dark one in the black shirt and gets a smirk and a “Fuck you” in return, a playful slap that glances off his elbow as he cackles and lowers his arm.

Baseball cap laughs and shakes his head, eyes flicking to his heavy glass stein, two-thirds full of golden, bubbling liquid, still working on his first drink when Polo Shirt returns with a tray of three beers for himself and the others. He’s savoring, sipping where the others quaff, holding a palm out and shaking his head with an emphatic “No,” that you can read on his lips in the mirror after the younger blonde raises his arms and shouts, “Shots!” loud enough for you to hear it over the crowd. 

Baseball cap is enjoying himself, taking it slow, licking his lips after each sip of beer. It must be his reward for a Friday night, a work week well-done, a rare treat on a night out with the guys. You can tell he’s comfortable with them. It’s not the quiet nervousness of someone awkward, someone new who’s trying to fit in with a louder crowd. These are his friends, and they take him as he is, even when he’s got his eyes down, trailing a blunt fingernail over the graffiti marks on the solid wood table instead of joining in the jovial conversation. 

He lifts his eyes and suddenly they’re locked on yours in the mirror, dark and rich, eyes you could drown in if that was your thing. He flicks his gaze away for a moment and you blink—and there he is again, a little shy after another nanosecond of eye contact, flicking his eyes away and then looking down, taking a sip of his beer with the same focus he probably used for final exams in school. His eyes find yours in the mirror once more and this time you smile, gentle and soft, just a curve up at the corners of your mouth. Baseball cap’s dark eyes go wide for a moment before he swallows hard and looks back down at his beer.

Bingo. 

He’s the one. The shy ones, the gentle giants, the big guys with kind eyes—they’re your favorite. Much more relaxed in middle age than the college boys you sometimes play with, the eager ones who are so distracted by their nerves that they can hardly follow direction. You know that you fulfill some kind of mommy kink or older woman fantasy for them—and you don’t mind, because you know the rules on both sides of the game. But the eager young things get tiresome after a while, and it starts to feel like you’ve signed up to teach, rather than to enjoy yourself. 

You let them down gently but firmly, with a kiss and a reassuring pat—letting them know that they did good, but it’s just not going to turn into a long-term relationship, and maybe they should share those fantasies with a woman their own age. You tell them to look for someone serious, a girl who scares them a little, who they would never normally approach for a date. You know that there are plenty of young women at their university who would jump at the chance to boss them around in bed, and that there’s a girl for each one of those young, eager boys—a stressed-out hard sciences major who just wants to exercise a little control in her own life, and she’ll eagerly wield all manner of paddles and punishments if they ask her sweetly to dominate them. 

You’re tired, too, of the single men who have been in the scene long enough to know what they want—and what they want always seems to be a collar, a lifelong promise of devotion on both sides, and you just aren’t in the market for that. The usual circles of people in this town who are looking for some casual weekend play have gotten stale. They’re mostly couples in long-term relationships—and god, you know it’s selfish, but you don’t want to share. You want someone entirely focused on you, who won’t be thinking about what their own domme might do to them later, who will eagerly come when you call instead of having to ask permission from someone else to go on a playdate. 

And that leaves… fresh meat, new men. Men who you screen very carefully before you start a casual hookup. Men who look like they’ll be a good little pet in bed, if they can follow instructions, if they can shed any of the hang ups they have and go all-in with you for a night or a weekend. Men who have a deeply-buried desire to cede control, who have maybe never voiced it to a woman in their entire life, but who need it just as desperately as they need air. 

They’re just looking for someone to call it out of them, to give them the words they don’t have yet to describe what they’re longing for, what they ache for deep down when they’re fisting their cocks in the shower and replaying scenes from their favorite porn videos in their head. The whips, the restraints, the high heels and the stern voice of their favorite porn star dominatrix. The way she pulls the male actor’s hair when she tilts his head back and spits in his mouth, towering over him as he kneels before her, his hands behind his back and his cock as hard as iron and she hasn’t even looked at it yet, let alone touched it. Those are the men you need, the ones who have desired this for years, but have always been too shy or embarrassed or scared to ask for it. 

And if Baseball Cap fits that mold, you’ll gladly take him home for the night. You could do so much for him, let those desires out of the little box that he’s buried them in, tell him it’s okay to ask for what he wants, put his desires first for once, instead of always trailing behind his more extroverted friends. And, hey, if you shoot your shot and he’s not into that, there are plenty of other subby little fish in the sea. But he looks delicious, and you want to hook him with a lure he doesn’t even know exists right now. 

You decide to play a game, to see if you can get his attention and keep it. 

He’s so sweet, glancing up at you in the mirror when he thinks you’ve turned your gaze away, only to find that your eyes are still scanning him, gently assessing him, an appreciative little smile on your lips. Then he ducks his head and goes back to his beer.

His cheeks go pink after the second round of this game, his ears after the fourth or fifth, starting flushed and then blazing red. He’s a cutie, shy and growing more bashful by the second as his friends catch wind of what he’s looking at and start to rib him for it. 

Muscles cranes his neck over to look, his playful eyes wide as he sees you in the mirror. He turns back to Baseball Cap with a shit-eating grin and says something that makes Baseball Cap hide his face behind his hand. Polo shirt goes for casual, turning his gaze to the bartender as if he’s gauging how busy the line for drinks might be before he slides his eyes over you without a change in expression. 

Smirky gives you a big grin and a very flirty wink in the mirror and you drop your smile, raising one eyebrow with a shake of your head. Not you, Smirky.

You shift your gaze to look at the reflection of his friend, making sure that Smirky can see your eyes trailing from his work-worn boots to his hips, all the way up his arms to the top of his well-loved baseball cap. Smirky gets the message and elbows Baseball Cap, leaning down to murmur something in his ear that makes Baseball Cap sit up with a start, shaking his head and pulling on his earlobe in nervousness. 

Smirky elbows him again, hard, and you’re delighted when Baseball Cap turns back to look at you and catches your eyes in the mirror, bashful hope written all over his face, the shyness dropping away bit by bit as his interest grows. You smile again, tilting your head at the empty stool next to you at the bar and he turns back to his friends, eyebrows raised for help, seeking guidance. 

Good boy, you think… What a good boy, asking for help when you need it, opening up to the idea of coming over here, seeing what the pretty lady wants with you. 

He looks back at the mirror, sees you still looking, then takes a larger gulp of beer before rubbing his hands nervously on his denim-clad thighs. He braces his legs and then slides out of the booth, turning his back to you for a moment to look at his friends for a final bit of guidance. 

All three shout, “Go!” to him in unison, you can hear it over the din, and just as he turns to approach you… a slimeball slides into the seat next to you, wrapping one arm over the back of your barstool as if he has any right to your personal space or attention. 

Your heart falls when Baseball Cap takes in the scene, his hope fading to disappointment as he looks away and then strides off to the restroom, as if that was his plan all along. 

“Wha’s a pretty little thing like you doing here all alone, sweetheart?”

You take a sip of your drink and swivel toward him, knocking his arm off the back of your chair with a scowl. 

“Not interested. Please leave.”

Slimeball’s confused expression slides over his face slower than it should, a clue to how inebriated he already is. This was going to be irritating, the drunk ones always making more trouble than you want. Not that any man took rejection well… you could count on one hand the number of men who had taken your “No, thank you,” gracefully and apologized for bothering you before disappearing back to mind their own beeswax. 

“What d’ya mean? I’m just trying to make a little conversation, s’all.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Baseball Cap’s three friends start to slide out of the booth. Trouble-stoppers, good guys, you can tell. You’re grateful for their presence, even if you can handle this sort of thing entirely yourself… just in case it gets ugly. They stay standing near their table, watching carefully and taking their cues from you instead of rushing in to white knight the situation—and that’s even better than just being willing to step in. They seem like men who care about and respect women, green flags all around. 

“But you shouldn’t have to drink alone, pretty girl. M’just tryna save you from a boring night.”

You narrow your eyes at Slimeball and lower your chin, scowling at him like you’re an angry bull facing off a threat, and then… oh no, here comes Baseball Cap back from the restroom, stopping abruptly when he sees his friends focused on you, watching intently as Slimeball tries to put his hand on your thigh. If looks could kill, Slimeball would have a hole in the back of his head right now. 

In the corner of your vision Baseball Cap looks pissed off, but you sense it’s not uncontrolled anger. He’s quiet in the way he settles his body, one hand waving his friends back into their seats while the other hangs at his side, making a loose fist and releasing it, over and over. Not immediately springing into action, not itching to start something ugly in the crowded bar, but prepared just in case—the rest of his body still, taut, alert… ready. 

You slap Slimeball’s hand off your knee, then you raise your volume and lower your pitch, making your voice deep and loud, hoping the sound will carry to Baseball Cap and his friends, letting them know you’re okay and can handle it. 

“I said ‘no’ and I meant it. Leave. Now.” 

Fortunately Slimeball takes the hint, his face dropping into a disgruntled pout: he’s just a little boy who thinks the world owes him something, that women are vending machines that he can put kindness or attention or flirting tokens into and get guaranteed sex in return. A little boy whose Mommy didn’t say “no” enough, a boy who never learned that women are human beings, and that every man who is lucky enough to walk the Earth was born of a woman and he better damn well respect his origins.

“Fuck you, you fucking bitch.” The waft of his pathetic liquor breath hits you and you turn back to your own drink, making a show of being entirely unbothered. 

“Slut,” spits Slimeball as he moves to dismount the stool and almost slides to the floor. 

Ah, a classic, the final paradoxical rebuke from many a damaged man—you won’t put out for him, so you must be a slut, secretly fucking every other man in the bar and withholding your public favors only from him.

Slimeball turns and lurches toward the back hall, heading for the men’s room, or maybe the exit to the alley where he can vomit and regret his life choices—you don’t care which. You shake your head to yourself and look up in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap is sliding back into the booth, and when he looks at you again, there’s a small smile and a nod, acknowledgement that you’re capable of handling jerks and idiots by yourself. He tunes into the conversation his friends are having, and he looks like he’s lost interest in answering your call from before, no longer riding the wave of brimming courage he had built up just a few minutes ago. 

You sip the last of your drink and ponder your next move. Maybe it was time to be more bold, more direct, except… now Smirky is needling his friend, talking intently to Baseball Cap, but only succeeding in making him more and more defiant, his head shaking so hard it seems like his hat might come right off. Muscles joins the pile-on, while Polo Shirt puts one hand out across the table, entreating Baseball Cap in a gentler way. 

He shakes his head again, and Smirky shoves him, launching Baseball Cap halfway out of the booth, making him stumble a bit until he rights himself and stands up. He moves to sit down again, but Smirky slides across the seat and blocks him, staring up at him stubbornly with a stern, “Go,” that you can lip read in the mirror. 

Baseball Cap sighs and wipes his broad hand down his face, then reaches up and lifts the cap a few inches to sweep his hair back before he squares it on his head and takes a first, hesitant, step toward you. 

You watch in the mirror as he approaches, long legs clad in faded denim, moving slowly but smoothly toward you. Good boy.

Baseball Cap sidles up to you at the bar and you turn to him, smiling so that it reaches your eyes, so that he knows that he’s welcome to approach you, that you’re eager to talk with him. He’s much broader up close, and his eyes are so soft. A sudden image pops into your mind: your legs thrown over those shoulders, his face buried between your legs while you grip his hair, and you feel electricity begin to tingle in your core. 

He clears his throat and swallows, eyebrows knitted slightly, his plush lips parting with a quick flick of his tongue as he takes a deep breath.

Oh, he’s precious, so nervous and hopeful. Eager boy. This is going to be so much fun. 

“Hi, I’m—” his voice goes scratchy and he clears his throat to try again. “I’m Frankie.”

He puts his hand out and you grip it firmly. 

“Nice to meet you, Frankie. I was hoping you would come over and talk to me.”

He smiles, some of the tension leaving his shoulders, but not much. Still unsure of himself, uncertain of what this might be after getting a front-row seat to your swift handling of the other man’s unwelcome advances. His brown eyes go crinkly at the corners when he smiles, and you guess he’s probably forty, give or take a few years. 

Excellent. A man who has some years under his belt, who won’t be afraid to have an adult conversation with you, someone on your level for once. Fully grown, experienced, handsome. A man. 

“So, do you live around here, or-”

You put a hand up and cut him off. You don’t want Frankie to try to charm you, to make small talk because he thinks he has to. You smile as warmly as you can so that he doesn’t think you’re upset.

“Actually, Frankie, I’d like to skip the small talk and tell you that I want to have sex with you. Is it alright with you if we just talk about what I’m interested in doing? See if you’re open to it?”

Frankie’s jaw drops, his beautiful mouth opening an inch or so, and it makes you want to bite his dimpled lower lip, make him speechless again and again, reduce him to a quivering, happy puddle.

You hold his eyes, watching the gears turn quickly as he snaps his mouth shut and blushes furiously, trying to recover from the shock.

“I—um, yeah… I mean yes. Yes, please.” He smiles and ducks his head, then meets your eyes again as he relaxes totally, all nerves gone now. “I’d like that. Thank you for being so direct.”

Your heart sings. What a polite guy, respectful and eager and appreciative.

“You’re welcome. So you’re up for talking a little more?”

He nods, perfect white teeth showing in his soft smile. 

You hope he’ll be receptive to your next command, another little screening tool of yours. Small commands, reasonable things, before you pull the curtain back all the way and tell Frankie exactly what he can expect if he decides he wants to go further.

“In that case, go tell your friends they can take off without you.” 

You tilt your head in their direction, and Frankie grins, all happiness and dimples, now that he knows he doesn’t have to wade through the usual chit-chat and awkward “getting to know you” questions. He doesn’t have to try, he doesn’t have to calculate the odds of striking out, or figure out a way to rebuild his confidence if this falls apart.

You know that simple, direct commands can bring relief, remove the stress of having to make decisions and weigh consequences. It’s a gift to the right man when you flip the gender-norm tables and show your strength and your assertiveness, let him know that happiness and gratification are just on the other side of following directions.

And Frankie seems to be receptive to it.

“Yes, ma’am.”

You smile, watching in the mirror as Frankie lopes back to the booth, stands with his back to the bar and hooks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate to his friends that he’s ditching them. The butterflies between your legs flutter harder.

Muscles exclaims “Whoo!” like his favorite team just scored a touchdown, and you chuckle to yourself as you see Smirky pass a folded twenty-dollar bill across the table to Polo Shirt.

Frankie returns to sit in the empty stool next to you. You raise your hand, signaling to the bartender for a refill while Frankie peruses the menu to see what else they have on tap. Within thirty seconds his friends are standing up to leave, and since Frankie has his back to them he can’t see Smirky approaching with a mischievous look on his face. 

You look over Frankie’s shoulder at Smirky and shake your head once, firm, mouthing a stern, “No” at him. And thank god he’s not stupid, he just makes a little moue, a pout of disapointment but pairs it with a nod, understanding that his intrusion would not be welcome.

Smirky follows Muscles and Polo Shirt to the front door, and then they’re gone and you’re finally, blessedly alone with Frankie.

And now the real fun can begin.

Frankie can’t believe his good luck. His head is still spinning from your bold and direct manner, not to mention your sparkling eyes and winning smile. He can’t remember the last time a woman knocked him off-center this fast, and he welcomes it. 

Frankie trails his eyes over the bar menu, wondering why more women don’t just… say what they want. He could have saved so much time, skipped so many bad dates and hookups if he’d met a woman like you decades ago. He settles on a lager, and after he places his order with the bartender, you touch the back of his hand softly, just a graze, and he turns his eyes back to you.

You’re so… intense is what Frankie wants to think, but that word has negative connotations. And you’re definitely not a negative experience, you’re just so specific and present in the moment—direct—and the more Frankie thinks about it, the more he likes it.

“There’s a booth that just opened up in the corner,” you nod your head toward it. “I’m going to go sit down. Please bring the drinks over when they’re ready?”

Frankie nods, eager to please. “You got it.”

You smile, and Frankie feels like he’s just done something good, something that makes you happy. He’s surprised to find that he wants to do it again and again, and as you slide off the bar stool, he reaches his hand out to help you down, get you steady on your feet so that you don’t wobble in your office heels.

“What a gentleman,” you say. You shoot him another warm, soft smile, and Frankie swears his heart is going to explode with pride.

Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Frankie is so fucking thankful that he came over to talk to you. (He’ll never tell Santi it was his shove that finally did it—his ego is already big enough, the asshole.) But Frankie is already counting his lucky stars as he watches you walk away, hips swaying gently, mesmerizing him until he’s startled by the bartender plunking two glasses down in front of him.

Frankie opens a tab (hoping he’ll have much more time with you this evening), and carries the drinks over to you as carefully as he can. He sets them on the table and then pauses, a thought occurring to him.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” Frankie tries to keep his voice even, steady, but it seems to want to crack and go higher, his heart fluttering in his chest with the hope that he can do more for you.

He doesn’t know why. You’ve already told him what you want—to talk more about having sex with him—so it’s not like he needs to court you or gain favor. But something about you, about your assertiveness, makes Frankie want to please you. You’re clearly a very strong woman, you know what you want (and heaven knows Frankie is still wondering why you want him), and that strong personality of yours is calling to him like a siren song.

You shake your head. “No, but thank you. Sit down.”

That smile again, your sparkling and curious eyes… you’re intoxicating. Frankie tries to hide his disappointment, but he’s hoping that later there will be something else he can do for you, get for you, hell—make for you that will please you again.

“So…” you take a sip of your drink and meet Frankie’s gaze as your eyes sharpen. Not mean, just intelligent and direct. No bullshit.

It’s a breath of fresh fucking air as far as Frankie is concerned, and he feels just as floaty as he did back on that frozen mountain in Colombia, where the air was thin and ice cold. He smiles and waits, his instincts telling him that you’re about to blow his mind, and he won’t interrupt you while you’re in the middle of it.

“I wanted to talk with you more, Frankie, because what I’m looking for is very specific.”

Frankie swallows a sudden lump, worrying that he’s not what you’re looking for. It’s the result of damaged confidence born of too many conversations with girls whose wide eyes suddenly turn to Benny when he walks by. And far too many bored and disinterested women who get Frankie as their consolation prize when Santi hooks up with their best friend, and the happy couple (for the night) shoves their two wingmen together out of pity. Are you about to dismiss him?

But no, that couldn’t be right, because you had asked him to stay, invited him specifically to talk about sex. You’d already chosen him. And that thought cheers Frankie immensely. He thought he had read your signals correctly, he just wasn’t absolutely sure, so he talked himself out of coming over to you about nine different times. But now… now there is nothing to misread. You chose him, invited him, selected him. He’s wanted.

Frankie takes a deep breath, raising his eyebrows and nodding to you, holding your eyes with his own even though yours are almost too pretty to look directly into. But he wants you to know that he’s listening, taking you seriously.

You smile again, mysterious and secretive, and Frankie’s gaze flicks to your mouth as you open it to speak again. Whatever it is that you’re looking for, whatever specific thing you need, he’s determined to give it to you.

He wonders for a moment whether that’s crazy, whether he’s too far gone already for you when you’re still basically a stranger. And then he suddenly realizes he doesn’t even know your name! But Frankie knows, feels it with a conviction that he hasn’t felt in many years that he’ll be what you want, do what you need, twist himself into any shape that you’re seeking.

As long as you keep looking at him with those sharp eyes, that discerning smile. As long as you let Frankie stay in your orbit, he’ll be whatever kind of “specific” you demand.

You cock an eyebrow, “What do you know about dominant and submissive relationships?”

Frankie blushes, ducks his head and takes a sip of his beer, collecting himself. Your direct and plain language is doing things to him, and he wants to answer you just as frankly and matter-of-fact as you deserve.

“Ah, um… I know about them, a little bit about them, but I’ve never been in one. Does that answer your question?” Frankie hopes it does, and he feels a sweep of relief when you nod.

“It does.”

You smile again and Frankie can’t tear himself away from your eyes. He wants to make them sparkle like that every day. He smiles back at you and feels… happy, proud. He did it right, answered you correctly, and he wants to do it again.

You sip your drink, and Frankie watches you flick your tongue across your lower lip to catch an errant drop. He’s mesmerized, could watch you do that over and over again. 

You continue, “And from what you know, would you be interested in that dynamic? In taking part in a sexual relationship with one partner being dominant and the other partner taking a submissive role?”

Frankie feels his ears turn red. He’s never been one to be “mean” in bed, to do anything that might hurt his partner, and now he’s not sure if this is the right answer or not, but what the hell—

“I’ve never really thought about it. Everyone kinda knows about it from that book that came out, but I just— I honestly don’t think it would turn me on to tie a woman up…” Frankie trails off. Was that the right answer? Are you going to be upset?

He’s reassured by your chuckle and the way that you lean closer, grasping the back of his hand with your soft one, giving him a quick squeeze and a pat before you let go to take another sip of your drink.

“Good. Okay, that’s good for me to know.”

Frankie wonders where this is going, because if it turns out that he’s not what you’re looking for… he might just swear off dating altogether, become a monk and go live out the rest of his life somewhere remote, somewhere that would wipe the stain of utter disappointment from his psyche.

“I’m actually not looking for someone to tie me up,” you smile.

And Frankie is relieved again, happy to continue the conversation as long as you’ll keep smiling at him like that. He relaxes his shoulders, trying to drain the tension built up from the rollercoaster of unease and happiness that he’s been riding for the past thirty minutes. He wishes he was cooler, more like Pope, more outgoing like Benny, as self-assured as Will—then maybe he would stop psyching himself out and just be able to go with the flow.

“And I’m not necessarily looking for someone that I can tie up, but I do like being in charge.” You wink at him, and Frankie feels something warm behind his sternum. Interesting.

“Would you be open to that, Frankie? Would you like me to be in charge of you?”

His cock immediately stirs at that, and Frankie swallows hard. Images of you standing over him in a vinyl bustier and stiletto-heeled boots suddenly flash through his brain.

A blindfold. Handcuffs. Spankings.

Frankie feels lightheaded, all of his blood rushing south as he opens his suddenly-dry mouth and closes it again, blinking rapidly to try to come up with something that isn’t just heavy breathing and awkward noises.

He nods, having no clue about where this idea has been all his life. Of course you would be in charge, you’re so perfect for it.

A parade of ex-girlfriends marches through his mind, and now it’s like a spotlight is shining on his memories, showing everything in crystal clear detail. Frankie recognizes that his favorite women, the ones he had fallen madly in love with throughout his life—they were the strong ones, the bossy ones—all the way back to his first crush in elementary school.

A girl named Maria with long, straight black hair in a ponytail had chased him around the playground, taunting him with threats of a kiss. Frankie had been embarrassed when he tripped and fell, the other kids laughing at him, one boy shouting that he had brought the dreaded curse of ‘girl cooties’ upon himself. But when the girl kneeled over him, blocking out the sun, she was backlit perfectly and looked just like Frankie had imagined an angel would. She kissed his cheek with a loud smack, Frankie’s heart did a flip, and he wondered why her strawberry lip gloss suddenly smelled so good.

When she ran off to find another victim, disappointment flooded his chest. Frankie had felt the phantom kiss lingering on his skin for days, wondering if and when he could get her to chase him again. Whether he could earn another kiss, another brush with sweetness.

“Yeah—” Frankie’s voice cracks again, and he swallows hard.  “I—fuck, yes. Sorry for my language, I just… how did you know?”

Your mouth turns up and your eyes flash amusement, but he can tell you’re not laughing at him, you’re just pleased with his answer. And there goes that warm sensation flooding his guts again, his heart beating just a tad more rapidly at the images that are now somersaulting through his brain.

You, fully in charge, dressed for a day at the office. Frankie on his knees in front of you, naked and vulnerable. Your soft hand cradling his jaw. Your firm voice calling him a ‘good boy,’ telling him he’s done well, telling him you’re proud of him.

Frankie bites his lip, huffing out a breath to calm his racing thoughts.

“Well, I’ve been doing this for a while, and I’m not shy about asking for what I want,” you smile.

You shrug. “It’s not like I’m psychic. If you’d said ‘no’ there would be no hard feelings on my part. I’d simply pay for your beer and send you on your way.”

Frankie chuckles and shakes his head, full of wonderment at how perfect you are. How you seemed to read him so well and pull him in, make him want to do things for you, serve you, be whatever you need him to be. It doesn’t feel manipulative—it feels like it’s meant to be. Fated. Predestined. And Frankie wants to follow you wherever you’re about to lead him.

“So,” Frankie grins. “Where do we start?”

You chuckle at Frankie’s eagerness and squeeze his hand before walking him through the basics. Testing. Contraception. The ins and outs of the arrangement you’re looking for. You introduce him to a confidential online sexual preferences quiz, guiding him through how the website will take his answers, compare them to yours, and the list of results will only show things that you both agree on. You’ll build out your domme/sub agreement from that list, and you also make it very clear to Frankie that he’s in charge.

He quirks an eyebrow at that. “Me? I thought… I guess I don’t understand. Can you explain that?”

You smile at him, so proud of this man for speaking up already and telling you what he needs. He’s so good already, and while you came here tonight with the intention of picking up a casual fuck who might be interested in a scolding and a spanking, you’ve pivoted to introducing Frankie to the bigger picture, walking him deeper into the forest, showing him the possibilities of long-term involvement. 

You don’t want to move to the bedroom too quickly, Frankie’s going to need a deeper understanding before you start linking his sexual desire to the dynamics of this kind of relationship. Ground rules first, build that anticipation, then you can start connecting wires in his brain and making sparks.

“I get it, it can be confusing if you’re just learning.” You take a sip of your drink, catching how Frankie’s eyes drop to your mouth, and the throbbing between your legs gets a little louder. “But I’m proud of you for asking. It’s a good sign that you want to learn more before jumping in with both feet.” You wink at him, and his reaction is note-perfect. 

He sits up straighter in the booth, smiling like he just won a prize. You couldn’t have planned this better, and you thank your lucky stars that the Universe saw fit to send this man into your life tonight. 

You lean forward and rest both elbows on the table, crossing your forearms in front of you. “While the dominant partner is ‘in charge’ during a scene, the sub actually holds all of the power in the relationship. You decide when you’re ready, you decide when you’re done, and you ask for what you want. I get your consent for every single thing that we do, and you get to turn your brain off and enjoy it.”

Frankie flushes pink again, and you reach out and take both of his big, work-worn hands in yours. “You’re doing so well for me already, Frankie. I like how you ask for what you need, and that’s a really good quality in a submissive. It’s not just about taking orders; you have to speak up for what you want at every turn.”

He gulps hard, his eyes brightening as he opens his plush mouth. “I don’t—I don’t mean to sound rude, but what do you get out of it?”

“Me? I like taking care of my subs. I like making sure that you feel good, that you get exactly what you need, and I like seeing the effects that a good domme/sub relationship has on the rest of your life.”

“What do you mean?” Frankie knits his brows and tilts his head a fraction, and his great big brown eyes put you in mind of an eager little puppy. The electricity buzzing through your core increases, and you have to stuff it down before you break all your rules and drag him to the nearest hotel. 

Control, you remind yourself. Dommes like you stay in control, both of the scene and of themselves. Breaking rules only confuses a sub, and more than anything, submissives need consistency. You’ll (hopefully) get a chance to make him make those big puppy eyes again soon, as long as you stay in control.

“Well, a good, healthy dynamic between a dominant and their sub builds trust, and when you have trust—something you can rely on—it carries over into the rest of your life. For me, it provides a sense of control that I may not have in other areas of my life, and it makes me feel good to make you feel good. Those good feelings lift me up for days afterwards. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Frankie nods, encouraging you to go on.

“And for a sub, a rock-solid relationship with a dom can increase your confidence, build good discipline, and give you an outlet for all the other stress in your life. And I think you would agree that self-esteem, good habits and routines, and stress relief are all really important in life. Subs just get theirs from a different place than most people.”

Frankie nods thoughtfully, then licks his lips and ventures a question, his eyes flicking down to the table, nervous. “And what—what if I, um… how do I know if I’m any good at it? What if I do it wrong?”

You squeeze his hands, make sure he’s looking at you while you smile reassuringly. “You can’t screw it up, Frankie. You’re in charge, remember? There’s no secret test, there’s no hidden ‘gotcha’ moment. It’s all about what you want and how much you want to try. There won’t be a pop quiz or a grade on this, trust me.”

Frankie swallows hard and looks skeptical for a moment, then nods again. “I trust you.” 

He smiles and squeezes your hand before leaning back.

After making sure that Frankie has digested all of the important information and that you’ve gotten his number, you tell him firmly to go home, sleep on it, and only fill out the online quiz tomorrow, if and when he’s ready. You shoot him a text so he has your number, and as he’s opening it, his mouth twitches and his eyes dance with amusement. A dimple appears in Frankie’s cheek, and you chuckle. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, handsome?” 

Frankie flicks his gaze to yours and you nearly crumple at the sight of his crow’s feet, the adorable crinkles highlighting just how much his smile reaches his eyes. “Just—I mean, I realized I said yes to all of this without even knowing your name. So what do I call you? What name should I put in my contacts?”

“Missy.”

Frankie nods. “I like that. Is that short for anything?”

You grin, “It’s short for ‘Mistress’.”

Frankie blushes, hot and fast, and you see the shiver that runs through him, his broad shoulders quivering as he sits up a little straighter. He smiles softly and types rapidly, then slips his phone into his pocket. 

“And Frankie?” you add. “If you change your mind that’s entirely okay. You haven’t committed to anything tonight, and I really won’t have any hard feelings if you decide that this isn’t for you after all.”

“I’ll text you either way,” he says with a serious nod, and you know he means it. Then he stands up out of the booth, gives you a quick handshake, and heads for the door. You clock the new spring in his step, the way his shoulders are squared and steady, no more nerves or self-doubt weighing him down. 

He’s gorgeous, and you know that even if he does decline, that you’ve at least infused Frankie with some confidence that he can take with him the next time he goes out to a bar. 

But, god, you hope he says yes.

Frankie gulps, then looks around behind him as if he isn’t alone, as if there were anyone standing behind him who could see and judge what he’s doing. 

He shakes his head and huffs a laugh at himself. He’s a grown man on the far side of forty, and he’s hunched over his laptop in his own home trying to hide the half-chub he’s got going in his boxers like a teenager. He presses the flat of his palm down against his cotton-clad arousal, trying to stave off the throbbing long enough to finish this damn quiz. 

But it’s not his fault, everything he reads sends images of you pinballing around in his brain. Every. Single. Question makes him want to stop and rub one out, just to have the mental clarity to continue. But you had said ‘no touching,’ and damn if Frankie was going to fuck up and disobey the very first order that you gave him.

“Okay,” Frankie murmurs, “Question five: Give partner an erotic massage? Yes, fuck yes…” The mere thought of getting his slick, oily hands on you, feeling the warmth of your skin under his palms, being asked—no, being allowed to touch you and bring you pleasure makes him weak. Shit…

He takes a deep breath and swears he can still smell your perfume from the bar invading his senses. The urge to reach his hand down into his boxers and give himself a firm grip is overwhelming now, and he’s still got dozens of questions to go. His lower belly churns with desire, and he’s so horny it almost hurts.

He loves this. Then he hates how much he loves it. It’s sweet, exquisite torture, and Frankie is giddy, nearly nauseated at how excited it makes him.

His eyes had popped open at 5:30 in the morning, the way they always did after so many years of active duty. No alarm except the morning wood that was raging in his underwear, barely able to get it to go down enough to pee. He had woken to thoughts of you, memories of the bar last night, of the way you had taken control of the conversation and opened his eyes to something that he hadn’t even known was possible.

Frankie had done his best to distract himself, doing laundry and dishes, taking a quick jog and doing 200 push-ups and then showering, filling the hours until closer to 8:00, a decent time when he could text you. His thumb hovered over the ‘send’ arrow, still unsure of the text he was about to blast into the ether, two words he’d finally crafted after a dozen drafts, each sounding more pathetic than the last.

His heart palpitated as the words flew to your phone, and he breathed a huge sigh of relief when his sparse, direct, “I’m in,” was met with a simple, “Good boy,” and a few short instructions. 

Take the quiz. Answer honestly. Don’t touch yourself.

Frankie’s eyes had nearly bugged out of his head at the last one, and he briefly thought about pushing back, but he realized this was his first real opportunity to show you how good he could be, how well he could listen. There was no way he was going to disappoint you if he could help it.

He shot off his reply breathlessly, “Yes ma’am,” and bit his lip as he waited for a response. All he got was a “thumbs up” appended to his text, but he reasoned that any response was good, although he did feel a little foolish. What had he expected? A novel? Gushing praise?

Frankie shook his head, reminding himself to temper his expectations. 

He races through questions eight, nine… twelve… fifteen. All “no.” No, he does not want to tie you up, spank you, or use degrading language with you. He doesn’t want to do any of the dominant actions himself, he knows this. 

But question sixteen arrests him in place, and suddenly he can barely breathe. Have partner use restraints on you? makes his tongue swell in his mouth, and his cock twitches violently as it steals more blood from his brain. He can’t click the “yes” button fast enough. Questions seventeen through twenty-four are all “yes,” because they are the opposite of the previous questions. 

Yes, he wants you to spank him with your hand, yes he wants you to tell him what to do in the bedroom, and YES, he wants you to call him pet names. 

Have partner use a belt/flogger/paddle on you? and, Have partner call you degrading names? both get a “maybe” but they make him salivate all the same.

Frankie grips himself through the black cotton of his boxer-briefs, and he wonders if this is going against the “no touching yourself” rule… but he also can’t proceed with the rest of this questionnaire without doing something to try to tamp down his raging erection. Just a quick squeeze, strangle the fuck out of his goddamn traitorous cock for a few seconds, and maybe he won’t pass out.

Frankie tries to remember the last time he was this turned on, but nothing since puberty has even come close to this. The anticipation, the mental imagery, the sheer desire that you’ve ignited in him is practically cruel, and he thinks about asking if he can see you tonight. And if that’s pathetic… well, then he’ll embrace being pathetic, because he needs to see you again more than he needs his pride.

He steels himself against the throbbing in his groin and finishes the questions.

Your phone chimes with an incoming text, and you nearly throw your knife down on the cutting board in your haste to grab your phone from the dining room table. You expel a few curse words at your foolishness. No need to cause a kitchen accident just because you’re eager to see if it’s Frankie. 

“Down, girl,” you scold yourself, and you grimace at how unlike you this is. 

What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the domme, you’re in control of yourself, and you’re not ever this wound-up over a guy. Frankie is a very handsome, very broad guy, but a guy nonetheless. Guys are playthings, scene partners, subs. Guys are people, too, but at most you get sexual satisfaction from them and give them some, along with spectacular aftercare. There’s no feelings involved. Not since… not since you realized that you prefer being the dominant one, not since Nick—

You refuse to go there. Ancient history, old enough to buy itself a drink at a bar by now. Feelings aren’t part of the deal, not since forever ago, and you refuse to examine why there’s a little flutter in your tummy when you pick up your phone to see that Frankie has checked in, a quick, “Done!” accompanied by his unique code for the online sexual compatibility quiz.

You bite your lip and wonder if you should text back… but you wouldn’t even know what to say, so you give his text a thumbs-up, then watch as three little bubbles appear, then disappear, then appear again. What’s Frankie up to? Is he changing his mind? Your stomach sours at the mere thought of it.

The bubbles disappear again and don’t re-appear, so you sigh and force yourself to finish chopping the vegetables you were working on and shove them in the fridge to cook for dinner later. During cleanup, you realize you’ve had one ear out for the phone this whole time, and you shake your head at yourself. 

This isn’t a high school crush. He texted what he needed to and that’s it. Stop being silly.

You dry your hands on a kitchen towel and grab your phone, settling into the couch with your back against the arm rest and your feet propped up on a pillow. You catch an anticipatory grin spreading across your face at the thought that you’re about to see inside of Frankie’s head. 

You enter his unique user code, and you know that you’ve used this online quiz enough times that you’ll fly through the questions. At the end of your answers, the app will generate a list consisting of everything that you and Frankie matched on and email you both. A single “no” is a veto, and that item won’t appear, but everything that’s a “yes” for both of you, or a “yes” for one and a “maybe” for the other will land in your email inbox in just a few moments.

Your heart thuds as you refresh your email for the third time. Is the website taking longer, or does it just feel like it because you’re giddy with anticipation? Where is that stupid email? 

Just as you clench your teeth and growl, the email appears, and your heart suddenly clogs your throat. You wriggle to sit up straighter on the couch, and you’re almost afraid to open the message. Will he be into what you’re into? Will you only match on three things? What if this is a mistake, and Frankie’s just not ready for this kind of arrangement? 

You breathe, sucking in air as slowly as you can, and then out twice as slow. Your eyes water as you stare at the subject line, and you tap your phone screen before you can talk yourself out of it. 

And there it is… 

He’s perfect. You knew it, had felt it in your bones last night at the bar. You didn’t want to believe it, to place so much trust in something that might fall through, but here it is in front of you. Frankie is your perfect match. You couldn’t have designed a better sub if you tried. He’s into everything that you could want, and now you’re drooling at the possibilities.

You arch an eyebrow at a few of his answers. Frankie’s apparently an adventurous boy, and he’s checked off a few questions that surprise you, things that you wouldn’t have thought he’d be ready to try. But those can come later. 

Right now, you’ve got an aching throb building in your core, and you sigh and plop your phone down on your stomach, wondering if it’s too soon to text Frankie and ask him to meet you somewhere. And just as you’re trying to figure out how to phrase it without sounding too desperate, your phone pings.

You pick it up to see the notification, and a wide grin spreads across your face. It’s from Frankie, and you swipe hurriedly to open the text, your heart fluttering as you read it once, then again, and again. 

I don’t want to sound too eager, trying to stay cool here. But I would really love to see you again. Soon.

You sigh, bite your lip, and try to stop the butterflies that are exploding in your gut. You know this isn’t normal, and you can already tell that these feelings—this crush you have on the tall, broad, eager man—are nothing but a recipe for disaster. But you can’t bring yourself to deny it… 

You’ve got it bad for Frankie, and you’re typing out an equally eager response before you can stop yourself.

Frankie paces, trying to ignore both his erection and the nerves that are shredding his stomach. He refuses to stare at his phone and wait to see if you’ll respond to his desperate, pathetic message… so he just treads a path from the kitchen, to the living room, to his bedroom, and back. Frankie keeps his eyes pinned to the ceiling or the walls. Anywhere but down, to avoid the sight of his fucking ridiculous hard-on.

Don’t be a dumbass, Morales. She’ll text you when she texts you. You just gotta—

His head buzzes when he suddenly remembers the second half of the quiz process—the email showing what you matched him on—and he practically runs back to his laptop, stubbing his toe on the coffee table, landing awkwardly in his rolling chair and nearly tumbling out of it. His fingers shake, fumbling to open his email program, looking to see if the results are there, and oh, shit… there it is, top of the inbox. A detonator that could blow his whole world wide open.

Frankie’s heart races in his throat, and he’s suddenly scared of what he’ll see if he clicks to open the email. 

Does she…? Will she want…? What if…?

He gulps, and his pupils blow wide when he sees that you’ve matched him on nearly everything that he’s been fantasizing about for the past twelve hours since he left you at the bar. Fuck.

He leans back in his computer chair to give his cock some breathing room, and his eyes scan the list as his hand drifts across his stomach to his—no!

“Fuuuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “Off-limits, Morales. Don’t fuck this up.”

Frankie shakes his head as if that will clear the tumbling swoops of desire that are still torturing him. He breathes deeply, counting to four on each inhale and exhale, until he feels clear enough to proceed with reading the list. But he knows it’s futile, knows he won’t feel anything close to calm until he sees you again, and he hopes against hope that you’ll agree to meet up with him soon. 

And, shit, was that message too much? What if that turns you off? But what if you say yes?

And just as he’s trying to talk himself out of his worries, Frankie’s phone pings in the other room. *** The hotel bar is dark, buzzing with chatter as Frankie navigates his way between tables and guests. He dodges a few servers and busboys who are tidying up after a jubilant group of what he assumes are work conference attendees, based on their lanyards with plastic badges dangling from the ends.

It’s a few minutes before 5:00, and Frankie is still nervous, but at least his hard-on has gone away. He’d spent the entire day distracting himself with the tiniest of errands, the flimsiest excuses to get out of the house, whatever it took so that he wouldn’t spend his afternoon drooling at the list of quiz results or grinning like an idiot at your response to his pathetic, overeager text. 

How about tonight? 5:00? And a map to the hotel bar linked just below it. 

He’d responded with a cool, collected, “See you then” and then ran to his room to fret over what to wear. Frankie’s wardrobe wasn’t extensive, so at least the torture had been brief, and he’d settled on a new-ish pair of black jeans and the tropical-print shirt that Santi had ragged him about for years. 

“You look like you’re modeling for a men’s cologne sold at a gas station, pendejo.” 

Frankie rolled his eyes at the memories of Pope’s playful insults, then spent the intervening hours cleaning his Jeep inside and out, returning library books, and shopping for groceries before heading home to start getting ready. 

But the nerves had stuck around, and somehow Frankie’s hand slipped while attempting to trim his scruff, resulting in a patch so uneven that he’d had to shave the whole thing off. He’d cursed at himself, but then reasoned that if a clean-shaven face and a too-wild shirt were enough to turn you off after everything so far, maybe he wasn’t the guy for you after all. He’d polished his least beat-up pair of work boots and then hit the road, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel the whole way, his stomach half eager butterflies and half churning knots. 

But when he catches your eye across the room, everything settles. You wave at Frankie from your perch on a high stool, tucked into a table in the corner, and when you smile his whole world stills. There’s nothing else in Frankie’s mind but you. No more clattering of glassware, no more tipsy strangers talking too loudly, no more bodies blocking his path to you. Frankie feels like he’s floating as he crosses the last few steps to your table, and his heart leaps as you slide off your chair to greet him with a hug.

He folds you into his embrace, and when he catches a whiff of your perfume, something in Frankie melts. He wants to propose marriage right then and there… or at least pledge himself to you like some kind of knight in a fairy tale. You’ve been the focus of nearly all his waking thoughts for almost 24 hours, and even a few of his sleeping ones. 

He’s not sure what’s coming next, but he’s all in, and he can’t even find it in himself to care if this goes bad or he ends up brokenhearted. Whatever you want to give him, Frankie will take with open arms, and he only hopes that he can give you back everything that you deserve.

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 1610! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Based off of Conan Gray’s song, Heather.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Unrequited love, one shot

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Unrequited Love, Really rushed, It’s like twelve here damn, short one shot, Reader is a hopeless romantic idk anymore, not proofread, it’s mostly just poetic shit idk

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ ill design it tomorrow goddamn it i just wanted to write, might wake up and rewrite idfk

“𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫,”

Suddenly, all of what was left of November passed, with the dead, scarlet leaves the only homage remaining of the autumn that’s escaped your grasps. Autumn left as quick as it came, you couldn’t even bid a proper adieu.

When you think of December, you think of this icy wonderland— a winter that’d leave you huddling in the comfort of thick coats and hot chocolate, while patiently waiting on the nearing holiday that was prancing around the corner. Instead, what poured was not the icy flare of snow, but rain heavy enough to send you and Miles bolting off for cover.

In the thick downpour, your giggles emanated throughout the dim alleyways as the two of you sought sanctuary beneath a bus stop, somehow able to shield yourselves from the pitter-patters that raged on in a sideway fall.

“Oh my God, your hair.” You pointed at his drenched curls, a low laugh following along. Miles shook his head, running his fingers through the fluff of his waves when it poofs up again after a few turns. “It’s got magic, don’t worry.”

You brush your hands over the drenched skirt of your uniform, cursing to yourself. “Kinda need that magic for my clothes too.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t a magical being like me,” He huffs while wiping his hoodie. “You’s a mere mortal.”

“Okay, extraterrestrial being, control the damn weather then.”

“Hell yeah I will,” He snaps his fingers up to the skies. “Rain harder f’me, clouds!”

And the rain oh-so-gracious heeds his command. After a short while of cursing him out, you and Miles sat by the bench with your laughs easing down— replacing the excitement with a shared sort of exhaustion. With your heads pressed against the graffiti-covered glass wall behind you, you take a moment to subtly angle your head and look at Miles. He doesn’t notice it at first, but when he catches on, he turns and exchanges the stare with his own, a subtle “What?” escaping his lips.

From the chill of your spine, you mumbled.

“Nothing.”

You sheepishly looked away. “I’m just.. So exhausted, God. I need to work on my cardio.” A small fit of coughs exit your lips, covered up by the block of your wet sleeve. “I don’t understand how you get to run so quick— I couldn’t even see anything.”

“You still caught up pretty quick,” He beams. “Gotta admit, you’re a quick runner.”

“Thanks, I practice by running away from my problems.” A heft chuckle followed. “M’just kidding.”

Miles takes notice of your quivering hand— a frail shiver emanating ‘til the tips of your fingers. For a moment, the short idea of wrapping his hand over yours crosses his mind, but he shoots it down as soon as it came. It inches only a tad bit closer, but the image of someone else flashes in his mind when he looks at you like this.

“What a mood.”

“Running away from problems?”

“Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “You? You run away from your problems?”

He lazily shrugged with a hum. “Everybody runs away from their problems every now and then. It’s aight.”

“In a way, I guess,” You lean a little closer, but your shoulders never touching. “But in the end, no matter how much we run away, it’s all gonna end up catching up to us.”

Miles shoots you an amused look. “You been paying attention to philosophy class lately?”

“Prof Martha and I are besties, y’know.” A tint of sarcasm colored your words, redefining your connection to the strict teacher. “She likes me so much, she calls my name first during every fucking recitation.”

“It’s cause you’s always on that damn phone.”

“With or without my damn phone, nothing can make me sit still throughout her lecture.” A gruff huff escaped your mouth.

“Damn, not even me?”

You looked at him, wondering if he was flirting with you or if it was just your delusional brain whispering sweet theories into your ear. But even then, you admit.

“Ionno, maybe.”

You couldn’t even look him in the hazel of his pretty eyes.

“Maybe?”

He sounded half-disappointed, but you didn’t want to plant a presumptive seed inside your overly creative brain. That word alone’s enough to craft you a million what-ifs later on when you’re fading into the world of your dreams.

A chill runs down your spine.

“… I think I’m definitely gonna get sick tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit,” He sits up. “We definitely can’t have that happening.” Immediately after, he starts taking off his sweater. You flush, rambling on with the same question; “What the fuck are you doing!?”

“Our presentation’s tomorrow, and if anybody’s gonna be presenting the damn thing, it ain’t me— so you,” He tosses it over to you. “You wear this for now.”

You hesitate for a moment, dragging your hands towards the red polyester with a raised brow.

“How about you?”

Miles shrugged. “I can make do. My system’s made out of steel.”

“Made out of steel but you can’t perform for shit?” You pull the sweater over your head, the fluffy thing engulfing you into warmth. It was still somewhat damp from the rain, but it was better than earlier.

“Huh,” Miles sat back as you looked up to meet his gaze. “.. Would you look at that. It looks better on you than it does on me.”

Your eyes glanced down at the crimson, your hands smoothing out the creases of the cloth. “Really? I don’t usually wear this shade.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m more of a.. Less saturated kinda gal.”

“.. I mean, you can have it if you want.”

You shot him a look of disbelief. “.. Does this sweater have a hole because if you’re giving this away I—“

“It doesn’t have a hole, [Y/n].”

And your name rolled off his tongue so gently, it caught you off guard.

“I just think it looks better on you.”

Upon that murmur, he crossed his arms over his chest and sunk deep into the comfort of his seat. You’re stuck contemplating with an open palm, straightening the creases of his sweater. “Are you really giving this to me? ‘Cause I can give it back to you after laundry day.”

He shook his head. “Just.. Think of it as an early Christmas gift.”

“.. Thank you, then.” A smile crossed your lips. “I’ll keep it forever.”

When you see the way he looks at you— like a sort of guilt laced in hesitation, but a certain sort of awe. At that moment, a sense of hope lingered inside you like a dream. You think, maybe, just maybe, that helpless look in his eyes— that sort of gut wrenching longing— was crafted entirely and solely, exclusively for you.

But you knew that gaze of his wasn’t for you.

And you knew exactly who he was pretending you to be.

Oh, if only I was her.

Feelings, your feelings— erratic, volatile, and erupting out of you like a bird unwilling to be caged. You wanted to speak, say it— just say it.

But your hair wasn’t as golden as hers, your cheeks weren’t as rosy as hers. You wanted her effortless pixie hair cut, her ballerina grace. She reminded you of those flowers fleeting in the wind, like the purple heaths they called ‘Heathers’. You wanted to smell like her sweet perfume, do everything the way she does, just so Miles could look at you the way you imagined he’d look at her.

His doe-eyed sweetness. You wished you could own it, you wished he’d spare at least a part of it for you.

Rather, you wanted all of him for yourself.

You wanted a glimpse of this girl beyond the confines of Miles’ dabbles in watercolor and markers. You’d much rather prefer the object of your jealousy walk across your sights, smile with the bunny teeth he likes so much, and make your stomach churn rather than have you dwell over a 2D image you couldn’t help but gauntly skim past.

What is it about you that I can’t make Miles look at me?

Maybe if you’d meet her beyond his sketchpad and recollections, then maybe you’d understand why he can’t get her out of his mind.

At that moment, she was just someone you wished to be.

The bright red of this polyester which you deemed unfitting of your skin. You wondered if Miles truly meant it when he said it suits you— or if what he truly meant was that the shade would’ve looked great on her.

As the sweater was yours, but Miles was hers.

Your arms meet with a tiny press, and you feel his shiver. It was only so subtle, but at the ease of his shoulders, you couldn’t help but think as he looked onto the empty space with a blank stare.

Wish I were Heather.

[strawberrystepmom]

gojo x f!reader are in a semi established relationship aka idiots in love. reader is a teacher/sorcerer. reader is referred to as future wife in jest. angsty to start but gets sweet at the end. italics indicate reader’s internal thought. this is v self ship coded bc a girl has been Experiencing. wc 1.2k

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune

Why did I agree to stay and do this job in the first place?

The thought ricochets between the walls of your skull like a speeding marble, rolling so quickly it’s nothing but a technicolor blur that will settle wherever it wants when all is said and done. You don’t have the luxury of a distraction tonight and after a terrible day, your confidence and what feels like your sanity is in splinters. It has felt like this for months if you dare to be honest with yourself and now the unavoidable wall of your own mind is in front of you.

The too hot shower you just finished that left you breathless and warm cheeked didn’t rinse away anything except for the external grime. Your brain itself still feels thick and heavy, temples pounding while you shrug the robe wrapped around you to the tile floor below. It is far from your favorite thing to shower on campus but you had the intention of washing all the misery off and leaving it here rather than dragging it back to the currently empty apartment you share with Satoru. He’s off on another mission hours and hours away from you and your bed feels like a labyrinth when he isn’t sharing it.

A little voice in your head convinces you he’s taking these missions solely to get away from you in this state and you can hardly blame him. As hard as you work to keep a smile on your face, you fail more often than you succeed. The weight of said failures and struggles makes your head even heavier, resting atop your neck like a crown of thorns.

It’s late and you haven’t even bothered to think about how you’re going to get home from campus, still decompressing from your first solo mission in a while after being looked at by Shoko for minor bruising. The mission was completed successfully but it merely added to the weight of the loneliness and hurt you’ve been feeling. Being responsible for ending suffering you didn’t create is a heavy burden.

Your phone pings on the wooden bench in front of the lockers near the shower and you grab it, sniffling. Glancing at the screen, you gnaw your lower lip and a tear streams down your cheek. You’ve cried so much lately it never comes as a surprise when you start again.

Satoru: call me?

Normally his message and the use of the winking cat sticker in addition to the words would make you smile but you can’t find it in you to do that tonight. Of course, he’s already heard about your failures. You’re certain your employer, friends, and community keep him on speed dial to come and gather your pieces when you can’t keep them together. You have doubts about how well meaning their intentions are; everyone loves a downfall after all and yours feels closer every day.

You: still at the school and can’t talk. love you, be careful.

Someday I’ll push him away and it will stick.

One day, soon you imagine, Satoru will decide everyone was right about you all along. You’re avoidant and selfish, a mess on a good day. Your bones are good but the flesh that covers them is rotten as a discarded plum, falling from the branches of the only home it has ever known, at the end of spring. You are no good. Not like him, even in his shades of light gray morality. Not like your fellow sorcerers. Not like your students.

Your phone pings again.

Satoru: why are you making me suffer???

Satoru: please please please please please~

You place the device face down and focus on changing into the extra set of clothes you always keep in your office. Sorcery is messy work and your shaking fingers fasten each of the buttons on the simple white top.

Why do I keep doing this?

Vibrations make your phone move across the wooden bench and you jump, picking it up with a sigh.

“What?”

A chuckle from the other end, one that instantly makes the tension in your shoulders relax, isn’t as unwelcome as you assumed it would be when you refused to call him. You picture his smile when he laughs, the dimples you love to press your thumbs into. Even your tortured mind conjures memories of the delicate crinkle of his nose when he grins and the cleft in his chin.

“Someone has her sassy pants on today.”

Sighing, you let the world roll off of your shoulders. Finally.

“Technically I don’t have any pants on right now.”

“Without me?” He sighs and then remembers you said you were still on campus. You hear him shift wherever he’s at and you sit down on the bench, preparing to put your pants on, holding the phone to your ear with your shoulder. “Why are you pantsless on campus? Is there something you need to tell me?”

A snort escaping in response, you smile for the first time in what feels like days. Truthfully it has only been a few hours, you’re a pro at keeping up appearances at the very least, but each has felt more and more forced.

“Nope, just had to wash off some gore and didn’t want to bring it home with me. They’ll probably ask us to break the lease if we start washing curse chunks down the drain.”

He chuckles again and you want to be frustrated with how carefree he seems but find it difficult to hold his good nature against him.

“Aren’t you considerate?”

Sliding your pants on, you stand in a fluid motion and hop to settle them in place on your hips, fastening the button.

“Something like that,” you mutter. Sitting back down on the bench, you cut to the chase. “When are you coming home?”

“Why? Miss me?”

“Terribly.”

You respond flatly and suddenly your phone chimes, a request to video chat coming through from Gojo. Answering it, you don’t bother to hide the wistful smile on your face and he grins at you from your bed at home.

“Well come home then, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You could have led with the fact you’re there.”

He twists his mouth to the side and shrugs. Rolling your eyes, you smile back at him. It’s impossible to stay mad at someone you love so much it threatens to tear you into pieces when he’s gone for too long.

“I wanted to surprise you and it looks like I still managed to do it.”

“Yeah, you still manage to do that a lot.”

“Oh stop it, you might make me think that my future wife actually likes me.”

Giggling, your face warms at the insinuation he’s making. He can tell you’re feeling better now that his eyes are on you and the relief he feels is immeasurable.

“Hurry, I’m getting bored and you know what happens when I get like that.”

You know better than anyone that a bored boyfriend spells nonsense so you pack up the last of your things, ready to leave your troubles behind on campus just as you intended to start with. Self doubt, suspicion, distrust - it’s all gone as soon as he gives you his grace to carry on.

“Don’t get antsy, I’ll be there soon.”

Another irresistible chuckle comes through your speakers and you feel lighter than air by the time you disconnect from the call and prepare to head home.

He’s the moon that guides you through the darkest nights and tonight is clearly no exception, his cool and disarming light shining through all of your cracks to remind you things are brighter than you think.

[sun-stricken]

Random Gratsu hc’s

Job dates. Training dates. they’ve probably had like 3 real dates not counting anniversaries

Grays childhood nickname for Natsu was Ashes, it was one of the first he called him and probs the only one that wasn’t driven as an insult.

he stopped calling him that at some point in their early teens, but he accidentally let it slip post forming the team and Natsu wouldnt respond to anything else from him for like a week straight

Gray has chronic pain, and he will drape himself over Natsu when it gets bad bc hes a human heating pad. Natsu takes it in stride even if hes having a conversation with someone

If Natsu gets too flustered (or turned on, or angry) his temperature will rise a lot, and since Gray runs cold their first kiss (and plenty after) created light steam

its happened during most of their firsts as a couple and it always makes Gray laugh which in turn causes Natsu even more embarrassment which creates more steam

its a vicious cycle

Gray fell first, Natsu fell harder

Gray isnt bad at flirting per se, hes just awkward ans gets too embarrassed with it. He prefers to ‘flirt’ with actions (looking him up and down, gifts, being touchy)

Natsu unintentionally flirts, hes not the type to hold back and says what he means. So he ends up giving the most genuine, love struck compliments known to man and he doesn’t even realize.

However, his deep hidden knowledge of actual flirting comes out when they’re fighting

Even though they argue constantly they have a rule against going to bed angry that they follow religiously, and if that means they don’t sleep for days on end sometimes thats nobody’s business but theirs.

When they started dating the original plan was to wait to tell people, but Natsu, who was genuinely vibrating with excitement and a need to tell everyone, broke within the first week

(what he doesnt know is Gray actually broke first, telling Cana the day of the first date (He needed moral support and shes had to listen to him moon over him for years! she deserved to know!))

Not that it really mattered, half the guild thought they were dating already

There was no formal announcement, they just started making out in the guild and that was that

ironically, the guildmates closest to them were the ones that had no clue and were surprised. And the ones that werent that close went on abt how ‘it was so obvious’ and ‘how could you not know?’

Once the shock and awe died down, ppl started panicking trying to figure out who to give the shovel talk to

baseline; it was very eventful

Before they started dating every now and then you could catch Gray looking in pure awe at Natsu when hes beating the shit out of someone

He doesnt even try to hide it now, even if hes the one Natsus fighting

Gray, staring at Natsu: hes so hot
Lucy, concerned: ??? Hes about to kill that guy!!
Gray, sighing dreamily: i know

They dont actually know how they started dating. one minute they were fighting and the next they were making out, two days later they were on a date in a restaurant way too fancy for them. and that was that

Gray has used Natsu as a human lighter so many times over the years its likely he doesnt even carry one any more

Natsu will eat the flame if Gray tries to use one till he asks him

[qveerthe0ry]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY @for-a-longlongtime 🎊🎈🎂

You are the best Tumblr friend anyone could ask for. I’m so grateful for you and your incredibly supportive (enabling) tendencies, your insanely beautiful fic writing brain, and the ear you always lend to me to vent to.

Also for the gif of Oscar Isaac’s Dick and Balls that you sent me earlier today that inspired me to write a little FishPope blurb 😌 This is my gift to you and I hope you enjoy 💕 Love you!!

Smush

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Santiago Garcia Rating: 18+ mdni Warnings: bulge worship, cock worship, cock warming

Sometimes Frankie just gets a little restless. 

He wants to relax. After a long day of work, and whatever project Santi’s got him working on in their garage, and making and/or eating dinner, all he wants to do is relax. 

He grabs a shower, sometimes with Santi, sometimes alone. He’ll change into pajamas— now that it’s summer, pajamas consist of underwear and a baggy old shirt. Then he grabs an ice cold beer and settles on the couch for some mind-numbing television while Santi reads or scrolls on his phone. 

But sometimes not even the most outlandish reality show can’t settle his restless mind.

Usually Santi notices it even before he does himself. A ‘knock it off’ grumbled at him above his reading glasses cues him in on the way he’s bouncing his leg up and down. 

Tonight, he’s grinding his teeth to some unidentifiable rhythm in his head. He only notices because he pinches his cheek between his molars and winces. His jaw aches a bit, he must’ve been at it for a while. 

He glances over to Santi. He’s got a really boring looking book in his hands, nestled in the corner of the couch. 

His thick thighs are spread open, inviting. Almost as inviting as the soft bulge protruding from his tight gray boxer briefs. 

Frankie’s mouth starts to water, alleviating that little nick his teeth caused. 

He shifts slowly at first, inconspicuous, and Santi doesn’t notice. So he moves again, lying out on their couch, so his head rests on Santi’s leg. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting comfy.”

“Hmm.”

Santi lifts one hand away from his book to ruffle Frankie’s curls and god, he’s got magic hands, the way one simple touch has his mind going pleasantly empty. 

He’s staring at Santi’s bulge now, shamelessly, since the man’s obstructing his view with his book. 

He knows it’s a mouthful, even completely flaccid. God, he bets it’s so warm and smooth. He shifts a little closer and takes a slow but deep breath and fuck. 

He smells so good. Even freshly showered, there’s always a hint of Santi’s natural musk, something so malty and deep that seeps through the fancy, expensive body wash he likes. 

Frankie wonders if it makes him a freak, that he likes it so much. Not that he really cares.

He wants more of it. He wants the smell and feel and taste of him all at once, to overwhelm him and just shut his brain off. 

So he adjusts up onto an elbow, and cranes his neck a bit, and smushes his face right at the apex of Santi’s thighs. 

“The fuck, Fish?”

Frankie inhales a big breath and hums it out before responding. 

“‘M restless.” 

His voice is muffled by Santi’s bulge, twitching now as the hot air from Frankie’s breath engulfs it. 

“Shit, yeah?”

“Mmmhm.”

Frankie hears a book page turn, and then Santi’s hand is back on his head once more. His nails scrape his scalp before his fingers really tangle and twist. 

“Wanna keep it warm for me, papi?” 

Frankie’s prick pulses where it’s trapped between his stomach and the couch. He nods, which only grinds his face against Santi’s package. 

It feels good, the softness of his underwear gently scraping the soft skin of his nose and cheeks. There’s and impossible heat radiating off of him, and Frankie seeks more of it, nuzzling around, rearranging his dick and balls as his face rubs against them. 

Santi hums and tilts his hips, nearly crushing Frankie’s nose as he seeks more friction, but even that sting is good, great. 

“Take it out.”

The nonchalant, commanding tone makes Frankie shiver. He whimpers a little, gives Santi’s package one more good smush before the fingers in his hair tug in warning. 

Frankie gets his fingers around the waistband, and Santi lifts his hips to help. Frankie licks his lips at the sight of his balls resting over the elastic, all warm and loose. 

He nudges Santi’s half-hard cock out of the way to nose at the base and lick the pronounced seam of his sac, to take a deep breath and inhale his intoxicating scent that’s even stronger now. He groans and grinds his own cock into the cushion under him for the smallest amount of relief. 

“Put it in your mouth, Fish.”

And he can’t protest, not with the way he has to swallow all the drool that’s pooled just from rubbing his face all over him. 

He tastes familiar. It settles him more than he’ll ever admit to anyone. The stretch of his jaw, the weight of Santi’s cock on his tongue, the tickle in the back of his throat. The novelty has never worn off, it just eggs him on. 

He starts to bob his head. Santi’s grip on his hair tightens. 

“Stop. Just keep it there.”

And even though he’s still a bossy prick, Santi’s murmur is softer and sweeter and less domineering than normal. 

Even so, Frankie obeys. 

He settles his head back down on his thick, fuzzy thigh and rests there. 

He suckles, still. More reflex than anything else. His tongue lies heavy on Santi’s frenulum as he swallows now and then.

The noisy static in his brain fizzles out as Santi’s dick fully inflates. His jaw stretches slowly in a welcome ache, and the scent of him is so heady and overwhelming as he shuts his eyes, and Santi’s hand in his hair pets and smooths and everything is quiet. 

Santi can’t wait until the next time Frankie’s restless.

[bookie-bookdust]

Sebastian Sallow Headcanons

Shitty attempt at headcanons for my morally gray, stubborn Sebby boy in Sebastian Sallow Fucking Sucks. It's long for literally no reason besides I don't know how to shut up.

My Seb has gone through it. He suffers - but he also deserves it for that whole "ignorant" outburst days after what happened in the Restricted Section on the night of the Yule Ball. So yeah, he's begging for forgiveness by the end when he realizes how torn he and MC's relationship has become - not without stubbornly trying to get under her skin first.

This idiot constantly wears tight clothes - not because he knows it drives MC insane, though if he noticed, it would get much much worse for her lol- but it's because he's so damn messy he grabs the first clean thing he can find in the morning (slutty little vests, tight sweaters, button downs with stressing buttons - RIP MC).

Reading glasses - enough said.

He's an extremely adept magic wielder. Not only can he cast multiple Unforgivables with shorter cooldowns, but his spells are obscenely strong. MC has not been able to beat him in a duel since that very first time.

That being said, he can't cast a patronus because he's a sad emo boy.

Fav spell: Confringo. Secret fav spell: Imperio.

It's not with the times, but he would definitely listen to metal music. You can't convince me otherwise.

The morally gray/dark wizard line is sooooo veryyyyyy thinnnnnnnn and will get worse.

He doesn't trust aurors and would NEVER BECOME ONE!!!!!!!! Why do ya’ll want him to be a cop so bad??? (Unless he's a dirty cop lol)

Career-wise, he'd be a curse breaker, healer, or a dark wizard 😌

Irrevocably dedicated to the ones he loves, and if he feels its dire enough, he will hurt them to protect them. Trust me on this - for no reason in particular😇

Not opposed to getting on his knees and begging hehehehe...

A skilled healer due to countless hours in the library studying up on a cure for Anne.

Has burned his fingerprints off with too many fire spells. And speaking of his fingers, it's common to spot him with ink staining his skin from all his note taking.

While he's charming and cocky, he sees himself as lesser, dispensable, and directly blames himself for all of his life tragedies.

Anger issues - duh.

Not sure if I'll even get into this in SSFS, but my Seb comes from a family of the Dark Arts - whether he's aware of it or not. We already know Solomon used them. I'd like to think his parents did as well, which is what led to their deaths. The Sallow line is cursed as fuck. Will be exploring this more in a future Dark Seb project where he has to break this curse.

Will make dick jokes. No one is safe.

While he'd make a great beater in Quidditch, his life just doesn't have space for trivial things. He's too busy with murder.

Speaking of body count LOL, he's charmed quite a few witches, but no one has shorted his brain quite like MC. He's intently studied some interesting books in the Restricted Section fantasizing testing out some things.

Idk when his birthday is lol. I'm just agreeing with everyone else.

Seb's relationship with Ominis is interesting....I'll be perfectly honest, I'm not sure if their friendship is going to survive in my world. Seb crosses too many lines. Obliviating your best friend really drives a wedge between you.

THE manipulator. We don't get to see too much of this in SSFS because we're in MC's pov. Particularly because he uses his wiles differently on her. But one of my favorite examples is even as he's mocking her for her poor attempt at lying in the broom closet, he's actively making her anxious (and hot and bothered lol) with that little thread on her sweater. And eventually she slips up. He's such a mother fucker lol.

Okay this post is way too long. I'm gonna leave now lol. BYEEEEE.

[tamaruaart]

Keep in mind this isn't me hating on Kirke, I love that fucked up goddess she's such a fun character. But goddamn I hate her fans.

It's all just people trying to push feminism where it wasn't 🙃 Yes, it's true ancient Greece was kinda shitty towards women. But goddamn that was 3000 years ago. We can enjoy these stories but it's important to not push modern perspectives and view points on these stories while also not condoning these actions. Not to mention we may very well experience this kind of thing with future generations that will come after us so it's important to simply stay humble. Civilizations and humans are constantly evolving and viewpoints are constantly changing so it's not exactly fair to history nor ourselves to take these ancient ideologies to heart. Grow up.

Anyways Circe/Kirke is not your hot little witch cutie 🥰 She's a goddess and the daughter of the Sun Titan. She's done terrible things and that's what makes her iconic. Istg if she wasn't so infamous no one would even know about her. She's morally gray and that's what makes her so neat >:D Now, is it unforgivable to paint jer in a good light? No, but I think if you remove ALL of her questionable morality she losses her charms. She isn't the same Kirke anymore. (Looking at you MM, your writing is good but holy shit.)

It's not unforgivable, but it's simply incorrect. If anyone wants to learn more about Kirke's original/actual character, I don't really recommend most modern interpretations- (MM's novel, Hades 2, DC, Odyssey Movies, my bbg Epic the Musical etc...) I'd say just read the Odyssey, reasurch some older mythos and read the Argonautica.

Can you still like these interpretations of Kirke? Yes. Of course. I love Epic's Kirke even though she is pretty inaccurate. You just have to acknowledge they aren't the real thing! :D That happeneds with most characters ngl, no adaptation nor interpretation is going to be 100% accurate to the original, but with Kirke it's always so... Apparent? So visible. They never make her at LEAST 50% accurate. Which 🤬

She was not a victim, she wasn't incredibly horny, she wasn't a girlboss, she wasn't love sick for Odysseus (it's hinted she only found him to be an 'interesting mortal' of sorts) she wasn't 100% cartoon villain of the week either. She's MORALLY GRAY 🗣️🗣️🗣️🗣️

She holds Odysseus' men hostage, she turns Scylla into a monster out of jealousy, she turns a man into a woodpecker because he didn't want to sleep with her. But she ALSO helps out Medea and Jason (even though it's because Medea was her neice but STILL) and she gives Odysseus instructions on how to head home.

She does BAD things that shouldn't be forgiven and aren't at all justified, but she also does GOOD things that should be acknowledged. She's a goddess. She's a character. She's morally gray. WHAT THE FUCK IS NOT CLICKING???? 😀

I just don't like modern interpretations of Kirke and I'm a meanie so I made this ¯⁠\⁠_⁠(⁠ツ⁠)⁠_⁠/⁠¯

That's why I stick to my 3000 year old books instead of these puny ones that were written in my century 💪💪💪

Do not apply feministic messages or themes on Kirke. Nor any Greek mythology figure for that matter. This was 3000 years ago 😀 if you want to focus on feminism FOCUS ON WOMEN WHO ACTUALLY HAD TO STRUGGLE ABOUT THESE THINGS AND THAT EXISTED IN THE 19-21 CENTURY 😀😀😀😀 WHEN PEOPLE KNEW OR WELL WERE SUPPOSED TO KNOW FUCKING BETTER. OR JUST FOCUS ON MODERN FEMALE STRUGGLES THAT ARE RELATABLE??

Also, if I haven't already made it clear. LIKING A CHARACTER ≠ CONDONING THEIR ACTIONS. I'm just talking about all the people who either call her a girlboss, hate on other figures for being morally questionable but turn a blind eye when it comes to Kirke, and people who make fun of Odysseus and call him a man whore for sleeping with Circe and Calypso. (Despite the fact he's a literal victim)

And for the last time:

👏 THIS 👏 IS 👏 NOT👏 A 👏KIRKE 👏 THE GODDESS 👏 HATE 👏 POST. 👏 THIS 👏 IS 👏 ME 👏 SLANDERING 👏 SOME 👏 OF 👏 HER👏 FANS 👏 AND👏 MOST 👏MODERN 👏INTERPETATIONS👏 OF 👏THAT 👏TWISTED 👏MORALLY 👏GRAY👏 BITCH.

Also I made a typo in the meme. God damn it dyslexia. (It's should be 'transforming' not 'transformed')

[nightmare-foundation-2]

Hot take: Ozpin isn't even morally gray. I guess he is if you count past lives (slaughtering potentially thousands of ppl to end a war), but otherwise?? I really don't think he is.

Imo, Qrow is more morally gray, Ironwood pre-villain arc was morally gray, etc. I really don't think any of Oz's actions could count as 'morally gray', even when considering that he kept important information to keep his circle and by extension RWBY and Co hopeful, regardless of if you think it's manipulative or not (technically yes, but there was good intentions behind it so imo it's fundamentally different).

Oz really isn't the bad guy the entire fndm tries making him out to be. If he was I think the show would show him in that light, which it doesn't. It TRIED showing him as morally gray, but generally his actions aren't that bad. The FNDM loves saying Oz is an awful manipulative compulsive liar who's intentions are weird and muddy. But honestly I think if he was like that, he wouldn't be portrayed as good. Most of Salems own opinions on Oz is her projecting and being a hypocrite. I don't think the characters narration is reliable when it comes to Oz. The show itself tried making him seem like that in v6, but ultimately failed.

An example people use to say he's morally gray is pointing out that he made the Academies. Which, I won't lie, is a pretty stupid take. The Academies train older teenagers (17-21, possibly older if they allow older ppl to join) who have already been learning how to fight presumably since they were young. Ruby had presumably already had Crescent Rose for a few years by the time she was 15, and there's several combat schools to teach kids how to fight. Remnantians count as a warrior race! They HAVE to fight to survive. Even if you haven't been to an academy, it's normal to know how to fight to defend against Grimm. Controlled by Salem or not, Grimm are a constant that you NEED to fight against. The Academies just give widespread access to tools and education to learn in a safe environment filled with other hunters. They just so happen to fight off Salems Grimm forces, and unknowingly defend the Relics inside. It's a win-win-win on everyone's side. Yes, people are going to die. But they'd be MORE likely to die if a) they can't defend themselves properly b) don't have proper tools to do so or c) don't know how to fight at ALL. Thanks to the Academies, militaries don't need to be used (except Atlas). The possibility of war goes WAY down, and it's harder for the kingdoms to be actively corrupt (not impossible just less easier to be enforced). Objectively? The Academies are a GOOD thing.

Another example is people saying Oz brought RWBY and Co unwillingly into the shadow war. Which... is objectively incorrect. Qrow was the one who told Ruby about the information Cinder and Co were going to attack Haven, and Yang eventually went after her after she left. Ruby brought RNJR with her, because they all experienced trauma and reasonably wanted justice, thinking it was just Cinder behind everything. Then Qrow was the one who told RNJR roughly the truth. He didn't particularly want to, bit he relented anyways, and even then he held back information like Oz being immortal. He didn't even tell them about Salem, just that some nasty people wanted the Relics and Maiden powers and that one of them was named Salem. I guess you could count Ruby being brought into Beacon early, but even then that was the SAFEST option. If Cinder or Roman noticed her silver eyes in ep 1 and that got back to Salem, Ruby would be FUCKED. She was already involved in fighting Roman at that point, and thus would likely get targeted again, silver eyes or not. So Oz brought her in, citing her skill as the reason, while the others likely knew the truth. Qrow OR tai wouldn't have been fine with it if Oz only brought her in to put her into the circle. They would've torn him a new one. Not only that, but obviously he DIDN'T KNOW about the upcoming fall of Beacon. He genuinely thought Ruby and her team was going to be fine for the next 4 years, and when he was starting to suspect something was up, he STILL had no idea the Academy was going to be attacked during the festival. Why would he?? A direct attack isn't typical of Salem, iirc he or someone else said it themselves, especially since it had been 80 or so years since the Great War, which is implied that Salem started. Even IF he wanted to bring her in, he would've waited until after she graduated, which is what happened with STRQ and was going to happen with CVFY. Oz places an emphasis on letting them be kids for as long as possible. He only had to involve them when Qrow already told them everything. And even then, Oz repeatedly gave RWBY and JNR an out. He DID NOT WANT them involved, not yet at least. And with Pyrrha, he didn't exactly have a choice. He gave her time they didn't have, and required her to wait n think, and then needed her verbal consent WHILE BEACON WAS BEING ATTACKED. Yes telling her stressed her out, but I think if she knew the same thing could be offered to anyone else, she'd prefer to take on that burden. It wasn't fair, but it visibly pained Oz to have to give her the choice. He didn't want to, but war is never fair. He would've had to go to SOMEONE regardless.

As for Oz keeping the truth that Salem can't be killed a secret, imo, that is a very VERY hard call for anyone to make. For him it was the option of: tell them immediately and not have any allies (something he values heavily) or have them join Salem out of fear, wait first and tell them later and have them possibly freak out like Ironwood/betray him/lose hope and thus not have any allies, or never tell them so he has important allies and they possibly don't betray him or lose hope. Obviously, he chose the last option, and it's entirely possible he wanted to, eventually, tell them the truth, but we just don't know that. Of course I agree that Oz should've told his circle anyways, but for someone as traumatized and paranoid as Oz who's had to make this decision countless times, you can't exactly fault him for keeping the truth hidden. He's likely told the entire truth before and it bit him in the ass several times before he finally decided to keep it hidden. He said it himself, Leo was NOT the first nor was the last to betray him. As for not telling RWBY and Co? They're CHILDREN he's barely known for, what, a year?? And all of that he was their teacher/Headmaster who didn't often interact with them, or their mentor. He barely knew them and as far as we know, didn't get the chance to actually know and get close to them. They already knew just how dangerous Salem was from the fall of Beacon and battle of haven, plus the fact that she controls Grimm. They could've easily assumed Salem was hard to kill at LEAST since she's immortal and been around for countless thousands of years, and there's no way they thought no one tried to kill her. Oz barely knew them and they almost proved him right by nearly giving up. Plus, he was FRESHLY betrayed at that point. I'm sure yall noticed he was immediately pretty closed off due to the revelation of Leo's betrayal. He genuinely considered Leo a friend, so Oz's trauma response is to hold everyone else at arms length.

Another thing is the fact that he hid the truth from Salem as well early on in their relationship. Thing is, Jinn (a presumably reliable narrator) stated that they BOTH hid things from the other. Salem likely didn't tell him that she lied and manipulated kingdoms into turning against the gods, just that she wanted him back and the gods didn't like that bc that ABSOLUTELY would've upset Oz. Oz, knowing Salem didn't like the gods from her story, likely decided right then to keep the full truth from her, worried she wouldn't react well to it, something anyone would do. Not only that, but right after, Salem convinced, possibly manipulated, Oz into acting as a god-king with her, something he clearly didn't want to do. Jinn herself said "the hearts of men are easily swayed" as Salem convinced him to become a God-king with her. So yes, it's very possible that Salem manipulated him into doing that. "But Salem was fine with the truth later when he told her!" Yes, she was, but Oz couldn't have known that. And the whole reason he tried to leave her was because Salem was turning into a dictator tyrant, something Oz didn't want and something Salem was set on. He did overreact a little bit by bringing the kids instead of communicating with her, but it wasn't his fault that Salem immediately attacked him instead of trying to talk to him, or at least waiting until the kids were in a safe place before attacking him. Most of this wasn't Oz's fault, if any of it. Salem overreacted heavily by attacking him with the kids being react there. Had Oz and the kids lived and escaped her, they would've been TERRIFIED of Salem afterwards, traumatized by the ordeal. And it's never shown that Salem actually cared that they died, just that they "could've had freedom", blaming Oz instead. Meanwhile Oz, afterwards, spent whole LIVES drowning his sorrow and regret and trauma in alcohol, and he's clearly STILL affected by it if Salem using the silhouettes of their children is any indication, since she was likely taunting him (but also reminiscing, regardless of her feelings on the matter) and never brought up their children in any matter.

Overall I really don't think Oz is as bad as the fandom says he is. People like to think he and Salem are the same (something i might make a post on later), when they're very, very different. Oz really isn't bad, he's just traumatized and is basing current events off of past experiences. He's far from manipulative, uncaring, or really any negative adjective I've seen people describe him as. I've probably missed some things, but my point has been made I think. The fndm really likes to misinterpret Oz's character, saying he's exactly like Dumbledore, but in reality he's a subversion of characters like Dumbledore. He's a seriously good guy, and I think people miss that.

[prismaticpichu]

Do you think that if Sephiroth's wing had appeared while he was still Miniroth, he would have had a white wing?

Oooh, that’s a good question!!!

(This is gonna be a bit of a hot take LOL), but I personally envision Sephiroth’s wing as always being black—regardless of his moral status. I love the juxtaposition between him having a pitch-black wing, a symbol of darkness and despair and doom (like a crow or raven, for instance), and then having a good heart in his chest in spite of it. I think it adds some neat layers to the symbolism, too, like with Angeal (kinda a morally gray character) sprouting a pure white wing in spite of some of his misgivings, and Genesis not sprouting a perfectly pitch-black one either (despite being the game’s central antagonist). Goes to show that not everyone’s motivations and moral compasses are so, well… black and white 🤣 💕 (Even tho there’s a solid chance that Square was just going for the “white wing = pure” and “black wing = evil” shtick LMAO…)

So, ye!! I like to picture that Miniroth would have a black wing, even though his heart’s still in the right place ❤️ Very fun ask!! 💕

(Tho, YES… Miniroth is surrounded by white feathers in some EC shots 🤣 So the argument of his white wing getting “tainted” is definitely valid too!!)