#i could experience it. i want to try new things all the time. i want to feel normal and be included in everything

[miaoua3]

RIDING SEUNCHEOL'S FACE LIKE FULL-BLOWN SITTING AND GRINDING ON IT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHH

YUUUUUUUP PREACH IT GURLLL YOU COULDNT TELL ME CHEOL ISNT A CERTIFIED MUNCH OHMYLORD THE NASTINESS THAT IM ABOUT TO WRITE OOOF-

Sit On It

Pairing: bf! scoups x f!reader

Genre: the nastiest smut i will probably ever write (MDNI), face sitting, praise, power play (slight), cunnulingus

Description: you make cheol’s terrible day so so much better by finally fulfilling his biggest fantasy-you sitting on his face.

Note: hyperventilating just by thinking about sitting on his beautiful face, eyebrows furrowed, big arms wrapped around my thighs- UNHOLY THOUGHTS BEGONE XJAJAKANNSOQJAIA (also, not proofread, as per usual💔)

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here’s the thing-a lot of things that you and cheol did in the bedroom was relatively new to you, considering that your previous lovers (if you can even call them that by the lack of effort they put) were selfish and conceded. so when you two started dating, and eventually sleeping together, it was surprising to experience being with someone who was so…giving, almost catering to all of your needs.

that man, if he could, he would spend every waking moment of his between your legs, either lapping and licking and sucking on your sweet pussy, or pounding into it with the force that makes the whole bed move, never mind your body.

still, there was one thing you two still have yet to try. something he has expressed he would love to do-or, well, for you to do to him.

or rather to his face.

naturally, he respected your wishes and you saying ‘no’ to his proposal. but you could see how pouty he turns every time he tries to ask if maybe you have changed your mind yet, only for you to vigorously shake your head.

it’s not that you don’t want to, it’s just…

it’s one thing to have him lay between your legs, lapping on your juices and make you soak both his face and his sheets.

it’s an entirely different thing to have that control over him-over the situation- and just grind on his face, to make yourself cum all over it, when usually he’s the one to usually make you cream all over his face.

and you thought your answer wouldn’t change. not for a while at least.

…well. about that.

you just felt so bad. he came back from work visibly under stress, his thick eyebrows set in a frown so deep they were almost touching.

he barely said anything to you, a clear sign that one wrong word could set him off, hence why he’s avoiding any conversation that could leas up to that.

he immediately locked himself up in the shower for a while, before he came back and went directly to your room, laying flatly on his back. his naked chest rose up and down in shallow and stressed sighs, face hidden in the elbow of his arm that he threw over his gorgeous face.

he just looked so…tense, you felt like you had to do something.

and so, before you knew it, you let your shorts and panties hit the floor, your (actually, cheol’s) shirt following next.

he was just laying there, deep in thought, that he didn’t ever hear you walk across the room, didn’t even pay too much attention to the mattress dipping under your weight as you crawled towards him.

it was only when you forcefully removed his arm from his face that he was ready to say something, mean things to snap at you just on the tip of his tongue immediately dying the moment he registered your nakedness.

at first, he was ready to decline your offer, ready to say that he wouldn’t be too gentle on you right now if you two decided to have sex, that he would use you rather than love you. and that is something he wouldn’t allow to happen, not with you.

but then.

instead of straddling his hips, you went ahead and put your other leg.

on the other side of his shoulder.

cheol just stares up at you, at your gorgeous body, an angle making him both salivate and his lips completely dry, your sweet pussy that he loved more than almost anything in this world hovering over his chin, so close yet so far away.

cheol followed the trail that is your body-your wetness right in front of his eyes, followed by your soft tummy, the curves of your waist connecting right into your chest where your soft and bouncy tits stood proudly, and lastly your visibly shy and nervous face.

he could feel himself panting already, ready to actually suffocate under your weight if you would so kindly let him. but despite his urges and needs, he waited. waited for you to make the first move.

waited for you to take control.

gulping one last time, in low and raspy voice you asked him one final question.

“still want me to sit on it, baby?”

and so here you were, head thrown back as the moans flew freely out of your mouth. almost like an instinct, like an animal, you were unconsciously grinding all over his face, your juices smeared all over his mouth, cheeks, and even nose. and yet, cheol just continued to lap on your pussy like a good boy that he was.

he was so so loud as well, you can’t honestly remember if you have ever heard him be so vocal, maybe even more vocal than you. his groans were bordering on animalistic ones, vibrations coming from his mouth traveling through your pussy, through your quivering tummy and shaky chest, all the way to your ears.

his big and strong arms were strongly wrapped around your thighs, locking them in place, so even if you wanted to move, cheol wouldn’t allow you to.

your hands were so indecisive, going from strongly holding onto the headboard, to leaning back on one, hand pressed into his chest that was tight from the lack of the air, while the other was holding onto his hair, pulling on it as you were grinding all over his beautiful face.

you peaked over your tits to look at his face, only to see his eyes closed in pleasure, eyebrows now furrowed in pure ecstasy instead of anger. you notice his eyes trying to open for a second, only for them to roll back into his head the moment you circle your hips again.

and the noises-god, it was so loud and nasty, it was all the more turn on.

you were just moving your hips, sometimes back and forth, properly grinding on his hungry lips, sometimes just making circular motions, smearing your precum all over his face.

which he seems to like so much, as every time you did it, you could feel his hips buckle upwards into the air and his moans travel through your pussy.

his tongue was splitting your lips apart before dipping inside your hole, collecting your sweetness on his tongue before swallowing it, the tip of his tongue then lapping at your clit for a second before doing it all over again. you swore, it almost looked like he was passionately making out, except it was with your pussy and not with you.

you were worried that you might be too heavy, that you were suffocating him, but that seems to be exactly what he wanted, as any time you tried to raise your hips a bit and let him breathe, he would just harshly pull you back down, a sound somewhere between disapproval and warning leaving him before he goes back to being a moaning mess.

it actually came so naturally to you- being in control. you weren’t even aware just how much control you had over him right at this moment. you were the one that set the pace, the one that used your hold on his hair to move his face in the direction that you wanted him to, the one who was a babbling mess, words like “such a good boy for me” and “fuck, just like that, baby, you do it so good” involuntarily leaving your mouth.

and cheol, just like a good boy you claimed he was, took whatever you gave him.

he was so lost in the pleasure, that he didn’t even notice just how close he was to cumming untouched until your hips started buckling out of control as well, moans getting breathier the closer you were getting to creaming all over his face.

before you knew it, you harshly pulled on his hair to push his face further into your pussy as you threw your head back, a loud scream escaping you as you reached your orgasm and came all over his face, your cum smearing all over his lips and chin as he tried to clean it all up, to swallow it, to lose himself in the pleasure for just a bit longer.

after you became sensitive, you recoiled away from his touch, finally being able to lift your hips away from his face and let him breathe again.

upon you lifting yourself up, cheol uses his newfound to take one deep breath, shakily filling his lungs with fresh air. he wasn’t even aware of just how oxygen deprived he was until he tried looking up at you only for everything to become very very blurry for him.

you two just stayed like that for a minute or so, both looking at each other as your chests were heaving.

and as you were looking at each other, a clear agreement was concluded between you two as you two were trying to come back to your sanities.

fuck, we are going back from this.

[floodflameschosen]

"You're shaking." – "So are you." or "You're mine now. Say it." with Noah please? I can't decide which one so you choose🥹

CW: first time, unprotected sex (p in v), fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), lots of fluff and gentleness, best friends to lovers, open/happy ending.

🔞 nsfw, minors please dni.

You hadn’t meant to say anything.

It just slipped out one night while you curled up next to Noah on your couch, the battered old thing in the tiny apartment you’ve been sharing ever since you had to move away for college.

You still remember how terrified you were during your last year of high school, when the time to leave started closing in on you. You were terrified of what it would mean to step out into a new life, of what it would mean to leave Noah behind.

You didn’t know how to exist without him. You didn’t want to.

But just when you were trying to figure out how you were supposed to say goodbye, he looked at you with those steady, sure eyes and said: “What if I wanted to go with you? You know there’s nothing left for me in this deadbeat town, anyway. Not if you’re not here.”

You couldn’t believe it at first.

Couldn’t believe he would choose to follow you, to start over somewhere unfamiliar, just because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else if it wasn’t with you. And maybe it was selfish, but when he suggested you move in together—split rent, save money—you said yes so fast you barely remembered to breathe.

God, you were so excited.

Excited to finally move away from home, to meet new people and have all the privacy and independence you’ve always dreamed of. Excited by the prospect of living with your best friend, of not having to say goodbye when night came and it was time to go home for dinner—as childish as the thought could be, it was still true.

Now, six months into classes, the excitement had started to wear off a little—not the living with Noah part of it, but everything else. Being in a bigger city, surrounded by people who all seemed so grown up, so sure of themselves, you couldn’t help but feel like you were falling behind.

They talked about internships and life plans like it were all so simple. They talked about hookups and dating and sex—and you couldn’t even pretend to keep up. You didn’t even have the basic experiences they all seemed to take for granted.

You just felt a little… small. Inadequate.

And somehow, in the haze of tiredness and cheap beer and the warm, safe weight of Noah beside you, the words just slipped out.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, sounding almost pouty. “Maybe I’ll just… pick someone tomorrow at the party. Get this whole virginity crap over with, at least.”

You felt him freeze beside you. The air shifted, like the room itself was suddenly holding its breath.

When too many seconds passed and he still hadn't said anything, you turned to look at him, and the way Noah was looking at you—like you’d just given him the worst news in the world—made your heart stutter.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said quietly. His voice was low, tight, so heavy it almost cracked.

“Why not? You did.” You tried to argue, all of a sudden feeling uncomfortable talking about this with him. Still, you kept going. “You lost it to some random girl at that high school party when you were like, eighteen, remember? Why would it be different for me?”

Noah’s jaw clenched as he looked away, and the arm he had draped around you tightened, pulling you closer for just a second before his fingers curled into a fist in the soft material of your shirt, like he physically needed something to hold on to.

He didn’t answer at first, just stared at the TV, but when his gaze finally snapped back to yours, there was something raw and fierce and possessive flickering in his brown eyes.

“Because it is different.” He said, his tone almost angry. Like it was that simple, just because he said so.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he wasn’t done.

“I didn’t think it through, alright? I was drunk and just went with it because it was there.” He shook his head, a rough, humorless breath of a laugh scraping out of him—and it made something inside you feel heavy.  “I was going through some shit back then, so I just thought maybe if I fucked someone else, I’d stop feeling so fucking alone.”

You blinked at him.

“Wait. What?” You asked, pushing yourself up a little, trying to meet his eyes. “You never told me you were going through anything back then. What's that about?”

Noah faltered for a second, eyes darting away from yours again, and for a moment, you saw something almost panicked flicker across his face.

“It’s not important,” he said quickly, dismissively, his fingers tightening in the fabric of your shirt. “It was a long time ago, and that's not the point. What I’m trying to say here is that you’re not me, and it doesn't have to be like that for you. You have options.”

You swallowed hard, heart picking up speed inside your chest at the words, the mention of another option.

“It didn't mean anything to me, and I don't want you to have the same shitty experience.” Noah’s voice softened, but there was still an edge of something rough in it. “You deserve to have your first time with someone who actually cares—someone who’ll notice if you’re scared, who’ll be patient. Someone who’s gonna make sure it’s good for you.”

A lump formed in your throat, because—this was it, wasn’t it? You knew exactly where this conversation was headed, and it terrified you. This was the moment, the tipping point where everything could change.

The safe route would be to dismiss it entirely—just go to bed and pretend this talk never happened, try to protect that friendship you’d always had with Noah. But as you sat there, your stomach fluttered with a warmth that twisted something inside you.

With a rush of heat flooding your veins, you made your choice, and instead of shying away from this, you opened your mouth and went down the scary route, voice barely a whisper when you asked him:

“And who would that someone be, Noah?”

For a long moment, Noah didn’t say anything.

He just stared at you, his eyes holding you in place as if he were searching for something. His breathing was measured, controlled, like he was trying to hold himself together, but you could see it, just barely—that quiet breaking point inside of him.

You weren’t sure what to do, or if you even could do anything at all to make this easier. The silence between you two stretched long enough that it almost felt suffocating, but you didn’t dare look away. You needed to know.

His voice was barely audible when it finally came, hoarse and vulnerable.

“Me.”

The word hung there between you, fragile and burning.

You stared at him—at the boy who had been your best friend for years, who had held you through every heartbreak, who knew every single one of your fears and dreams—and suddenly everything made too much sense.

The way he touched you sometimes, lingering like he didn’t mean to. The way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he held you, like he never intended to let go if you didn't make him.

Your heart raced in your chest, thumping against your ribs like it wanted to break free. Your mouth felt dry as you stared into his eyes and realized the truth that had been there all along:

It was Noah.

It had always been Noah.

That feeling you hadn’t named yet, the things unsaid, were now slipping through the cracks.

“If you’ll let me,” he added quietly when you took too long to speak, scared, voice breaking at the edges. “I could be that person.”

You didn’t know what to do with that realization, but you didn’t need to figure it out right away. Not with him. Not at this moment. And for once, you didn’t overthink it. You didn’t run.

Noah was still staring at you, eyes wide and vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to reject him, to make everything easier to walk away from. Instead, you reached out and threaded your fingers through his, squeezed.

“Okay,” you whispered, the words trembling in your chest. “You, then.”

Noah froze for the second time that night.

His breath hitched, and for a moment, you thought he might’ve misheard you. But then his eyes darkened with something intense—relief, yes, but also something much stronger, something you haven't seen in him before.

He reached out for you, fingers brushing your cheek softly before cupping it, his touch a mix of reverence and disbelief.

“I trust you,” you said, stronger now, your voice steady, even if your heart felt anything but. “I want it to be you, if that's an option.”

His mouth opened, like he wanted to say more—anything, everything—but all that came out was a shaky, amazed chuckle. He closed his eyes for a split second, like he was gathering himself, before looking back at you with such intensity you almost couldn’t stand it.

“We’ll take it slow,” he promised, his voice barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of everything he was feeling. “As slow as you need.”

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand grounding you even as your mind raced. Turning your head slowly, you nuzzled against his palm, feeling the roughness of his skin against your cheek.

The tenderness of the moment overwhelmed you in the best of ways, the heat between you building, and with it, the longing you’d tried so hard to pretend wasn't there for all those years.

And then, barely above a whisper, you breathed out:

“I’m not so sure I want slow now.”

Noah’s whole body seemed to tighten at the words, as if he were holding back a storm. The groan that left his chest was low, almost helpless, and when he finally kissed you, it didn't feel like just a kiss—it was everything he’d been holding in, all the years of tension and want finally crashing over you both like a wave.

It started almost shaky—his lips molding over yours carefully, tasting, testing.

But when you sighed into him, when your fingers curled into the soft fabric of his hoodie and tugged him closer, it snapped something loose. Noah kissed you harder, one hand sliding around the back of your neck, the other spanning your waist, big and warm and there as he pulled you into him.

You shifted without a second thought, climbing into his lap, straddling him on the couch. Your bare thighs bracketed his hips, your t-shirt brushing against the skin of his arms where he’d shoved the sleeves of his hoodie up. He groaned softly into your mouth at the feeling of you settling over him like that—like you belonged there—and let his hands roam.

He caressed his way up your thighs, squeezing lightly, making you gasp. Over your hips, your waist, the small of your back—exploring, learning, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you.

You gasped louder against his mouth when the tip of his fingers slipped under your shirt, barely skimming over your heated skin, and he shuddered, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at you.

“Tell me if you want me to stop…” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, already breathing hard.

“I don’t. I won't.” You whispered, breathless, and kissed him again, deeper this time.

After that, it got heated fast—hands everywhere, breathing uneven, small needy sounds spilling from you without thought.

Noah’s hoodie was bunched up between you, and you tugged at it blindly, a frustrated noise crawling up your throat because you wanted it off, making him chuckle against your mouth before helping you pull it over his head and toss it aside.

You flattened your palms against his now bare chest—feeling the steady thud of his heart, the solid warmth of him—and he squeezed your hips like he was grounding himself, trying to keep control, to be careful.

But you didn’t want careful, so you pressed your body closer, hips rolling without even meaning to, grinding your center against the soft front of his basketball shorts. You could feel his already hard length pressing against you through the thin material, and when you hesitantly grazed your fingers over the fabric, that seemed to do the trick—Noah groaned, swiftly wrapping his arms around you and lifting you effortlessly off the couch along with him.

You squeaked in surprise, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms around his neck, but he just chuckled—a breathless, beautiful sound—as he carried you down the hallway. Catching your gaze, his lips curved into that crooked smile that always made your breath catch.

“Bedroom,” he muttered before ducking down and pressing his soft lips to your throat, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses there as he walked. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on a couch.”

Noah kicked the bedroom door open and crossed over to his bed in two quick strides, laying you down gently, like you were something breakable, something precious. And when he climbed over you, bracing his weight carefully so he wouldn't crush you, and looked down with those stormy eyes of his—so full of want, so full of need—you just knew.

You were never getting over this, never getting over him.

You didn’t want to.

Noah just stayed there, hovering over you for a breathless moment—his chest heaving, arms trembling slightly from how hard he was holding himself back. You reached up without hesitation, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging gently on the soft strands.

The reaction was immediate: he groaned, low, borderline broken, and leaned into your touch like he couldn’t help himself—like you were gravity and he had no choice but to fall.

His hand reached up and closed around your wrist, gentle but firm, and he pulled your hand from his hair to bring it to his mouth instead, pressing a slow, lingering kiss into your palm, his eyes locked on yours the entire time.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against your skin, voice rough and tender all at once.

“So are you,” you whispered, accompanied by a shaky little laugh, heart slamming against your ribs.

That made him smile—small, a little unsteady. Like he was just as nervous about this as you were. He turned his head and kissed your wrist next, lingering there for a moment longer before finally letting your hand go.

And then he was leaning back in, sealing his mouth to yours again—slower this time, deeper—like he wanted to taste every single breath you gave him. His hands started moving again, reverent and hungry, skimming down your sides, over your hips, down to squeeze the soft skin of your thighs.

When his mouth finally broke from yours, he didn’t go far. He just kept kissing a path across your jaw, down your neck, leaving a few more warm, open-mouthed kisses that made your whole body arch toward him, desperate for more.

“You feel so good, baby… so soft,” he murmured against your throat, his voice low and raspy, like the words were being dragged out of him.

You whimpered his name, and he pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

“Tell me if I do something you don't like, yeah?” He said softly but firmly. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, needing to touch. “At any point, you tell me if you don't like something, and I’ll stop. I mean it.”

Your heart cracked wide open for him.

“I trust you.” You whispered, eyes shining as you nodded and reached forward, pulling him back.

Something flickered across his face at that, and then he was moving again. His hands slipped under your t-shirt fully this time, fingertips ghosting up your ribcage, and you gasped at the feeling of his palms against your bare skin. Noah eased your shirt up, pausing with a questioning look, and all you could do was nod again, breathless, heart in your throat.

Carefully, he peeled it over your head and tossed it aside, leaving your upper body bare to his gaze—his eyes darkened instantly, raking over you with a reverence that made your skin prickle. For a long moment, he just stared, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he needed to burn the sight of you into memory.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, and then he ducked his head down, kissing along your collarbone, giving it his full attention before trailing lower.

You gasped when his mouth closed around your nipple—gentle, teasing—his tongue flicking slow, delicious circles over the sensitive skin. He gave it a soft, careful bite before soothing it with his tongue, pulling a broken little sound from you that made him groan against your chest. Moving to the other side, Noah gave it just as much attention, his big hands holding your ribs like he was scared you might slip away if he didn’t anchor you, if he didn't hold you down.

You arched up into him instinctively, needing more, needing everything, and Noah’s hands slid lower, gripping your waist, kneading the flesh there like he couldn’t get enough of you.

His fingers found the hem of your shorts at some point, toying with the waistband as he pressed his mouth lower, kissing a slow, hot path down your stomach, the scruff on his jaw dragging against your skin in a way that made you shiver. When he reached your lower belly, just above where your shorts sat, he nipped softly at the sensitive skin there, earning a whimper from you.

That’s when Noah stilled, mouth still pressed to your skin, and looked up at you through heavy, hooded eyes—his gaze burning. One of your hands threaded into his hair again, tugging lightly, and the way he closed his eyes at the feeling made your heart stumble. Wordlessly, you nodded once his eyes set back on you, giving him the permission he so clearly needed.

He kissed your stomach again, reverently, before hooking his fingers under the waistband and carefully, slowly, tugging your shorts down—inch by excruciating inch—exposing more of you to his hungry eyes. Once he pulled your shorts off and tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without taking his eyes off you, you were left trembling beneath him, stripped down to just your underwear, and Noah looked at you like you were a miracle he didn’t deserve.

You felt his gaze like a physical thing, heavy and hot, making your skin prickle and your breath catch in your throat over and over.

Slowly, he ran his hands up your legs—starting at your ankles, dragging his palms over your calves, your knees, your thighs, until he was cradling your hips, thumbs stroking circles into your skin.

“You’re killing me, you know that?” He rasped, voice shaking, raw with emotion. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

And the way he said it—not just like he wanted you, but like he worshipped you—made your whole body ache with need, the throbbing between your legs almost unbearable by now.

You couldn’t stop the way your body shifted restlessly, legs spreading just that much wider, silently begging for more, needing him. It made Noah chuckle softly—like he could feel the way you were unraveling for him—and then he was lowering himself again, dragging the tip of his tongue just above the waistband of your panties, from one hipbone to the other.

You whimpered, and your hands found his hair again, tugging him closer without thinking.

Noah groaned deep in his chest at your touch, and his hands slid higher, smoothing up your sides, tracing the curve of your waist, your ribs, until they found the swell of your breasts, squeezing gently. He paused, and looking up at you through his lashes, he grinned—slow, wicked—and moved lower to mouth over the damp fabric of your panties, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right against the heat of you.

You gasped, arching off the bed with a choked sound, and Noah groaned again, deeper this time, and kept going—kissing, licking, sucking, teasing through the thin barrier until you were clutching his hair in both hands, tugging hard, trembling.

“Fuck,” he moaned quietly against you, voice low and hungry. He nuzzled his face into you like it was the most natural thing, breathing you in, already addicted. “Oh, baby… you’re already soaking wet for me.”

Another slow, filthy kiss through the fabric, so warm it felt like burning. Another whimper ripped from your throat.

He lifted his gaze to meet yours again—eyes dark and glazed—and while one hand continued to tease your breasts, the other slid up your thigh, thumb stroking along the sensitive crease where your hip met your core, making you shiver.

“Been thinking about this for so long,” Noah rasped, kissing the damp cotton again, mouthing at it lazily. “Thinking about you like this. How fucking sweet you’d taste.”

You couldn’t stop the helpless little whimpers spilling from your lips, your hips rolling instinctively against Noah’s mouth as he kissed you through your underwear—slow, purposeful, almost torturous.

Your hands tightened in his hair yet again, needing something to ground yourself to, your heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

“Noah,” you gasped, the sound broken, desperate, and you felt him smile against you—the smug curve of his mouth pressed right where you needed him most.

“Patience, baby,” he murmured, breath hot against you. “Gonna take my time with you.”

You tried to bite back a moan, but the second he sucked gently at the damp fabric again, your thighs trembled around his head and the sound tore free from your throat. You felt dizzy, drunk on the feeling of him, every nerve in your body sparking to life under his touch.

“Noah, please,” you whimpered, not even sure what you were asking for anymore—just more, just him, just now.

He hummed, pleased, and the vibration sent a sharp bolt of pleasure shooting through you.

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” he said, and your face flushed so hot it nearly burned.

But you didn’t stop—you couldn’t. Not when he slipped two fingers under the soaked fabric, finally pushing it aside, and leaned in to taste you properly, giving you a long, slow lick—flat and firm, from your entrance to your clit—and so good it made your whole body jolt. 

You arched up into him, crying out his name again, tears pricking the corners of your eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All you could do was clutch his hair, hips rocking helplessly against his tongue as your voice broke again.

“Don’t stop, Noah, please—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause.

As he kept tasting, taking, he groaned against you like he was the one falling apart, sucking your clit gently into his mouth and teasing it with the tip of his tongue until your thighs shook around his head.

“Fuck,” he muttered between kisses and licks, voice hoarse, lips slick with you. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

His free hand still around your breast started squeezing again, teasing your nipple with his thumb while his mouth worked you over relentlessly, eating you out like he was starved. You whimpered something broken and incoherent, tugging at his hair hard enough to sting, nails scratching his scalp. Noah just hummed against your clit as he enjoyed it, sending another ripple of pleasure straight through you.

“That’s it, don’t hold back.” He encouraged, tongue teasing you mercilessly, “Let me hear you. Let me feel you.”

And you did—because with the way he was worshiping you, savoring you, there was no way you could stay quiet, no way you could survive this slow, devastating pleasure without falling apart in his mouth.

You were already spiraling toward the edge, your body tensing and shaking and aching for release—and the way he kept murmuring sweet, filthy things against your skin only dragged you closer, unraveling every last bit of you.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

It was perfect.

You were so close—so close—your whole body tightening, hips stuttering against Noah’s mouth, and then a sharp, involuntary clench ripped through you.

Noah felt it—you knew he did, because he groaned low in his chest—and then he pulled back.

You sobbed out a desperate sound, trembling beneath him, but before you could even form the words to beg, he was hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, finally dragging them down your legs and tossing them somewhere across the room.

“Shh, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as he soothed you. “I’ve got you.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, still shivering from the edge he’d left you dangling from—and then he was crawling up your body, covering you again with his weight, kissing you deep and slow. You whimpered against his mouth at the taste—your taste—on his tongue, and the filthy intimacy of it made your head spin.

He swallowed every broken sound you made, one of his hands cradling your jaw, the other braced beside your head, arm trembling slightly as he supported his weight, grinding his hips down against you.

You gasped into his mouth when you felt him—hard and so warm, even through the thin material of his shorts, pressing right against your core.

“Can you feel that?” Noah whispered against your lips, his voice low and hoarse. “Can you feel how hard you make me, baby?”

He rolled his hips again, harder this time, deliberately, and you whimpered helplessly.

“Do you get now just how fucking crazy you make me?”

Your hands scrambled at him, fingers digging into skin, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.

“Noah,” you breathed, a pleading note in your voice you didn’t even try to hide.

He kissed you again, devouring—and rocked against you one more time, dragging yet another choked little cry from your lips.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, trailing kisses down your jaw, your throat, retracing a path he’d already explored. “And you’re mine, aren't you? You’re mine.”

You nodded frantically, your body straining toward him. Noah chuckled softly at your eagerness and kissed down your chest again, lavishing attention on every inch of you until he reached the curve of your stomach.

He paused there, hands sliding down your trembling thighs, gently spreading you open wider for him.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he whispered, voice thick with need. “Gonna stretch you out on my fingers real nice now, get you ready for me.”

Your breath hitched loudly at his words, a rush of heat surging through you as you watched him settle between your legs again—this time with a kind of determined adoration that made your heart ache.

Noah pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, closer to where you needed him. And then he lowered his mouth to you again.

You gasped, hands flying to his hair like before, fingers curling tight when you felt the first slow swipe of his tongue over your aching core again, the wet muscle parting your slick folds.

You barely had time to process the overwhelming feeling of his warm tongue directly against you again before you felt one of his hands joining in, his fingers teasing lightly at your entrance, slick and desperate for him.

“Can I?” he asked against your clit, mouth still working you over in soft, devastating licks.

“Yes,” you gasped, tugging his hair, needing him, needing everything.

Noah moaned, and slowly pushed one thick finger inside you, the sensation making you whimper and arch into him.

“So tight, baby.” He muttered brokenly when you clenched around his digit, kissing the inside of your thigh like he needed to ground himself, too. “So fucking perfect.”

He moved slowly, working you open with careful, patient strokes of his finger, all while his mouth never stopped—licking, sucking, devouring you like he couldn’t get enough. When he thought you were ready, he slid in a second finger, stretching you wider, deeper, and you cried out for the millionth time, hips rolling down against him, chasing the friction you craved.

“That’s it,” Noah groaned. “Take it, princess. Gotta get you ready for me.”

You couldn’t even form words anymore, your whole world narrowing down to the feeling of him—his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, the heat of his breath, the filthy praises falling from his lips between long strokes of his tongue.

All the while, you could feel it—the slow, steady build of pleasure winding tighter and tighter inside you, ready to snap. You were so close again, completely at his mercy, and you didn’t want it any other way.

Noah felt it, too—of course, he felt it—the way your walls fluttered helplessly around his fingers as they fucked in and out of you, the way your thighs clamped around his head as if trying to keep him there forever.

“Go on, baby,” he rasped against you, voice thick and breathless, hand moving faster. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

Then he crooked his fingers, hitting something inside that almost made you scream, and that was all it took. You shattered completely, reduced to nothing more than a whimpering, broken mess as pleasure tore through you like a tidal wave.

Your whole back arched off the bed, your fingers fisting tight in Noah’s hair as he kept going, working you through every last pulse, every desperate little aftershock. You were vaguely aware of Noah moaning, too, while he licked all over your core, around his fingers still stretching you, like he was addicted to the way you tasted, the way you fell apart for him.

You barely registered when he finally pulled back, kissed his way up your shaking body, and hovered over you—his face flushed, his mouth and chin slick from you, his eyes dark with something wild.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered against your lips, kissing you slowly, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue again. You whimpered into his mouth, still shaking, still high from your climax.

Noah kissed you again and again as he cradled your face in his hands like you were something fragile and precious, patient as he waited for you to come back down from your high.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured when your breathing wasn't so loud anymore, resting his forehead against yours.

You nodded, still breathless but less so now, still blinking back the tears of overwhelming pleasure pooling behind your eyes.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Fuck, I’m more than okay.”

Noah smiled against your mouth—small, crooked, so full of love. He pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you—and brushed a stray strand of hair off your forehead, his thumb stroking your cheek in soothing, grounding circles.

“Do you wanna stop here for tonight?” He asked, voice low and careful, gentle with the kind of patience that always made your heart ache. “We can, if you need to. We don’t have to do everything all at once. I’m not going anywhere.”

You blinked up at him, still flushed, trembling, and felt panic bloom in your chest at the thought of stopping now, at the thought of not feeling him completely.

“No—no, please,” you rushed out, voice cracking, hands sliding desperately up his arms, his shoulders. “I want you, I want all of you, Noah. Please.”

Noah’s eyes softened, so full of emotion that it almost hurt to look at him.

“Hey, hey, it's okay,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours for a second before soothing you with a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “It’s okay, baby. I’ve got you. We’ll do it, okay? I want it too, princess. I want you so fucking bad.”

He said it like a confession before kissing you again, slow and lingering, like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn't achingly hard and craving relief himself. You could feel him, though—hot and hard through his basketball shorts, pressing against you—and a frustrated little sound broke from you because it wasn’t enough, the layers between you feeling unbearable.

Without second-guessing, you let your hands slide down his bare chest—hot and solid under your touch—until you were pulling impatiently at the waistband of his basketball shorts with clumsy little tugs.

Noah pulled back just enough to look at you, a soft smirk tugging at his mouth, his eyes dark with heat.

“You want them off me, princess?” He teased, voice rough and sweet all at once, amusement dancing in his dark eyes.

“Yes.” Your face burned, but you refused to look away—you nodded, all flushed and desperate, and whispered, “I—I want to see you.”

Something about that—the honesty of it, the way your voice trembled—made the teasing fall right off his face.

Noah sat back on his heels between your spread legs, kneeling there, before he pushed his shorts down slowly, the fabric sliding over his thighs until it bunched at his knees. He kicked them off the bed without ever standing up, leaving him in just his tight black underwear.

The sight of him made your whole body clench, heat flooding your core all over again.

His cock strained against the thin fabric, thick and heavy and leaking, leaving a dark wet spot at the tip, and your mouth parted at the sight, a needy little gasp slipping from your lips before you could even think to hold it back.

Noah’s smirk returned, lazy and devastating.

“See what you do to me, baby?” He rasped, palming himself through the thin material, deliberately showing off for you. He stroked himself lazily, the pressure making his hips jerk slightly, a low groan rumbling out of him.

Your entire body ached at the sight, heat flooding between your legs, making you shift restlessly on the bed. Noah watched you squirm, his hand still working himself through the cotton, and tilted his head slightly, voice rough with need, but still amused.

“Is this enough for you?” He murmured. “Or do you wanna see more?”

“More,” you whispered immediately, almost desperate.

He smiled again, much too pleased, and reached for the waistband of his underwear, fingers hooking into the sides. But before he could push it down, you shot forward, sitting up fast enough to make his eyes widen in surprise for a second.

Your hands closed around his wrists, stopping him.

“Let me,” you whispered, voice shaking with how badly you needed this, needed him, needed to touch, to see.

For a moment, Noah just stared at you, like you’d knocked the breath clean out of his lungs. Then he nodded, slowly, amazed, his hands falling away, surrendering himself completely to you.

“Go ahead,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m all yours, princess.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and hooked them into the waistband of his underwear. Noah stayed perfectly still—watching you with that reverent look you’ve seen so many times tonight, like you were something sacred—as you slowly peeled the last barrier down his hips, revealing him inch by agonizing inch.

You sucked in a shaky breath when his cock finally sprung free and you saw him fully—thick, flushed, perfect. Your mouth watered at the sight of him, and Noah groaned at the way your eyes visibly darkened, pupils blown, his cock twitching slightly under your hungry gaze.

"Jesus, baby," he rasped, voice unsteady. "You’re gonna kill me."

You didn’t even realize you were biting your lip while you stared at him until he reached out, brushing his thumb over your mouth, tugging it free with a soft, coaxing touch.

"You don’t have to be nervous," he murmured, so gentle, so patient. "We’ll go slow. I promise I'll take care of you."

"I know," you breathed, meeting his gaze. "I—I’m not nervous. I just..." Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t lie. Not now, not to him. "I want you so bad, Noah."

Something inside Noah snapped at the confession. His hands slid back to your body, pulling you against him as he kissed you hard—hungry—his cock pressing hot and heavy against your bare stomach.

He swallowed every whimper, every soft little moan you made, kissing you so deep it felt like you’d never be able to catch your breath again. His hands were everywhere—roaming your body, tracing every curve, every dip, like he couldn’t get enough of any part of you.

One of them slid down to your ass, gripping you firmly and pulling you tighter against him before Noah ground his cock against your stomach as he kissed down your neck. The weight of him there made your insides flip, heat pooling between your legs as your thighs tried to press together instinctively.

You couldn’t help it—you kept glancing down between your bodies, your face flushing deeper the longer you stared. You didn’t have much to go on—no frame of reference, not really. You’d never seen a dick in person before, let alone had one pressed against you like this, but Noah looked big.

Thick, too—perfectly thick. The kind of heavy weight that made your breath stutter in your throat, made you ache to feel him inside you even though you had no idea how you’d possibly take him.

Noah must’ve noticed where your gaze kept flickering, because he let out a soft, breathless chuckle against your neck.

“You’re gonna make me lose my mind if you keep looking at me like that, baby.” He teased, his voice a low rasp as he nipped at your skin. His hand squeezed your ass again, pulling you closer so you could feel every inch of him pressed right up against your belly, precum dampening the skin.

You swallowed hard, pulse pounding in your ears as you dragged your eyes back up to his, cheeks burning.

“I just—” Your voice cracked, and you bit your lip before forcing the words out, quiet and breathless. “I didn’t know it would be like that.”

“Like what?” He asked, tone soft but still dripping with amusement as he pressed a trail of kisses along your jaw again, following it up until his lips were lingering just below your ear.

Your breath stuttered, embarrassment and arousal tangling together when you whispered, “You’re just… really big. I guess.”

Noah cursed softly at that, his hips grinding against you harder, teeth grazing your skin as his grip on you tightened, the motion sending sparks of heat straight through your core.

You chuckled shyly at his reaction, cheeks burning hotter, but couldn’t stop yourself from looking down again—your curiosity overpowering the lingering nervousness fluttering in your chest.

You hesitated for half a second, and then, in the smallest, breathiest voice, you whispered, "Can I touch you?"

Noah’s whole body jerked—a rough sound breaking free from his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or moan or cry.

"Fuck," he hissed. "Yeah, baby. God, yes. Please."

He let himself fall back a little, settling more heavily on his heels as he knelt between your thighs, giving you the space, the invitation.

Your fingers still trembled a little as you reached out, but the moment you wrapped your hand around him—finally—a sharp, broken moan tore out of Noah’s throat, hips giving an involuntary little twitch at the first brush of your hand.

His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, the silky skin stretched tight over the thickness of him, pulsing faintly against your touch. You stroked him slowly, experimentally, mesmerized by the way the muscles in his stomach tensed, the way his breath hitched with every little movement.

He was—God, he was beautiful. Thick and long, with a perfect flushed tip that leaked precum, making your palm slippery as you slowly started to move your hand up and down a bit more confidently.

Noah’s head dropped back slightly, his mouth falling open in a choked-off groan. His hands fisted in the sheets beside your hips, like he was physically stopping himself from doing something reckless.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, wonderingly, tightening your fingers a little just to see his stomach twitch in response.

“Fuck, baby—” he gasped, his voice a wreck. He cracked his eyes open, looking at you through heavy lids, pupils blown wide. “Jesus, princess, you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You bit your lip again, utterly fascinated by the way his body responded to even the lightest touch from you—every little gasp, every shudder, every twitch of his hips.

Encouraged, you shifted closer, wrapping your other hand around the base of him too, stroking him with slow, careful movements, getting bolder as you watched him come undone. Noah growled low in his throat, his hips jerking helplessly into your hands, his entire body tensing.

“Fucking hell, baby, you keep doing that,” he panted, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw, “and I’m not gonna last long enough to be inside you.”

You tightened your fingers a little at the praise, dragging your hands up and down in slow, careful strokes, watching the way his cock twitched and leaked under your touch. Your mouth watered for a second time at the sight, a wave of arousal crashing through you so strong it made your lower abdomen ache.

You blinked up at him, heart stuttering—and then, reckless with the heady rush of control you had over him, you whispered, “Can't have that, can we? Need you to fuck me. Want to know what you feel like stretching me open.”

You could see the moment Noah snapped.

He surged forward, kissing you hard, swallowing the whimper that escaped your lips. His hands slid back down your body, urgent now, needy—one guiding your hips back down against the bed, the other gripping the back of your thigh, hitching it up around his waist as he settled over you.

“Tell me you’re ready,” he breathed against your mouth, voice hoarse and shaking, pleading. “Tell me you want this.”

“I’m ready,” you gasped, threading your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Please, Noah—I want you. I need you.”

He groaned like you’d just handed him the world—and then he was reaching between you, lining himself up, the thick, leaking head of his cock sliding through the slickness between your thighs, making you both shudder.

But just as he pressed a little harder, enough to make you gasp, Noah squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to stop. He let out a shuddering breath against your lips, almost in pain.

“Wait—wait a second, baby,” he rasped. His hand slipped away from you, fumbling blindly toward the nightstand. “I need to grab a condom.”

“No,” you gasped immediately, your hands flying to his chest, stopping him. “No, please—I don’t want one.”

He blinked down at you, stunned.

“Baby—fuck—I don’t wanna risk anything, and I don’t wanna—”

“I’m on the pill,” you rushed out, desperate. “Ever since we moved here I've been on the pill, I swear. I just—” You swallowed hard, flushing. “I want to feel you. All of you. Please, Noah. I want to feel it when you come inside me.”

Noah made a sound you could only describe as wrecked, his whole body shaking above you, hands trembling against your skin as he tried, tried, to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity.

“Jesus Christ, princess,” he groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You’re gonna fucking kill me.”

You kissed the side of his head, wrapping your arms around him, feeling the way he was already giving in. He always gave in to you.

“Please,” you whispered again, right against his ear. “I want all of you. I want you to make a mess of me.”

That was it.

Noah let out a harsh, broken sound, and then he was lining himself up again, nudging his hips forward, the thick head of his cock pressing in slowly—just a fraction before he froze, a strangled groan ripping from his chest.

The heat of you, the way you squeezed around just the tip of him, nearly ended him right then and there.

“Fucking hell,” he choked, voice broken. “You’re so tight.”

You whimpered, clawing at his hips instinctively as the thick stretch made you burn and sting, pleasure and pain knotting together deep in your belly. He felt huge inside you—too much and somehow not enough all at once.

Noah immediately stilled, chest heaving against yours, his hands finding your hips to anchor you—and himself—gently stroking over your skin in soothing, grounding motions.

“Shh, it’s okay,” he whispered against your forehead, lips pressed to the already damp skin. His voice trembled with restraint. “You’re doing so good for me, baby. The pain won't last, I promise. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You nodded, desperate tears prickling the corners of your eyes as you tried to relax, breathing hard against his chin as you angled your head up. You didn’t want him to stop—you just needed a second, needed to get used to it.

Noah kissed you then, deep and soft, while he held himself there—barely inside you—until he felt the iron tightness in your muscles start to ease, your body slowly learning to open for him.

“Good girl,” he murmured into your mouth, voice breaking. He brushed his thumb over your trembling hipbone, breathing you in like a prayer. “You feel so good—so perfect around me, baby.”

You whimpered again, nails digging into the small of his back, desperate for more even through the burn.

“More,” you breathed. “Please, Noah—more.”

He let out a shuddering groan, forehead pressing against yours—and then he pushed in deeper, just an inch more, stretching you open around the thick weight of him.

You gasped, a sharp, choked sound against his mouth as the sting sharpened—your walls fluttering desperately around him—and Noah immediately kissed you again, swallowing your sounds, his whole body shaking from the effort it took to stay gentle, to stay slow.

“I know, baby, I know,” he whispered raggedly against your lips. “You’re taking me so good, though. Just a little more, I promise. Here, let me—”

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with careful fingers, and he started circling it in slow, featherlight strokes—barely there at first, coaxing, soothing, trying to pull you back into pleasure.

You gasped again, but this time the sound was softer, needier. The burn didn’t vanish completely, but it dulled, blurred, eclipsed by the sweet rush of pleasure blooming low in your belly as Noah worked you open with his cock, his hands, his words—every part of him devoted to making it good for you.

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice shaking. His forehead rested against yours as he rocked his hips ever so slightly, still shallow, still slow. “That’s my good girl.”

You moaned, clenching helplessly around him again, and Noah nearly lost it—gritting his teeth, fighting to keep control as he felt your body start to yield to him, start to welcome him inside.

He slid deeper again, hips rocking before giving you time to adjust, to breathe through it, to feel every inch of him. And when he finally bottomed out, when his hips met the insides of your thighs and he was fully buried inside you, both of you just clung to each other—panting, trembling, overwhelmed.

You whimpered after a while, hips shifting instinctively beneath him, desperate for more, for him to move, to do something.

“You can move,” you breathed, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging, scratching his scalp. “Please, Noah. I need you to—”

But he shook his head, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shuddering like he was hanging on by a thread.

“I—fuck, I need a second,” he rasped, voice breaking apart. “You feel so good, baby. Too good. If I move right now, I’ll lose it.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, running your hands through his hair now just to soothe him.

“How long’s it been for you?” You whispered curiously, smiling against his mouth.

Noah pulled back a little—just enough to look you in the eye—and what you saw there made your smile falter.

The rawness. The fear. The love.

It was too much for him to hide.

“Since I was eighteen,” he said hoarsely.

You blinked, stunned, your heart stumbling.

“What?” You breathed, sounding as surprised as you felt. “But—”

“My first time was my only time,” he murmured, brushing his nose against yours like he needed the contact, like he needed you close enough to survive this.

You stared at him, struggling to make the dots connect through the haze in your mind.

Eighteen.

He was twenty-two now.

Only once, and nothing since.

Because—?

You barely dared to ask. Your voice cracked when you whispered:

“Why?”

He exhaled a broken little sound, closing his eyes for a second like he didn’t even know how to explain it. Then he opened them again, and you nearly drowned in the weight of his gaze.

“Because it wasn’t you,” he said simply, helplessly. “I tried, okay? I thought it would help drown out the way I felt about you.” His thumb brushed your cheek, reverent. “But it didn’t. It just made it worse. It made me realize I didn’t want anyone else. Couldn’t want anyone else.”

Your throat closed up, your eyes stinging with sudden, overwhelming tears. The full force of it crashed into you all at once—

All these years. All this time.

And he’d always loved you. Even when you hadn’t known. Even when you hadn’t seen it. Even when you pretended not to.

A shaky sob bubbled up in your chest, but you didn't want to cry, not now, not like this—so you kissed him, kissed him like you were trying to pour all the shattered pieces of yourself into him, your hands frantic against his bare skin, grabbing, gripping, squeezing.

“Noah,” you whispered, a broken plea, barely able to speak, to breathe. “Please, I—I’m yours, I’ve always been yours, and I need—”

He didn’t answer, because he didn’t have to. He knew exactly what you meant, and he gave you what you needed, like he's always done.

Only this time was so much better, because there was nothing else between you now. Nothing else in the world.

Noah drew back, just enough to pull his hips away—and then he pushed forward, sinking into you again with slow, reverent force, filling you until your back arched and a sharp gasp punched from your lungs.

You clung to him, your nails digging into his back, and he groaned against your mouth—deep, guttural, broken—as he moved in you, moved with you, careful, patient, trying so desperately to give you time, to give you everything.

He rocked his hips once, twice, three times, and you whimpered, wrapping your legs tighter around him like you couldn’t bear even an inch of distance.

“More,” you gasped. “Noah, please—more.”

He kissed you again, messy and breathless, and you could feel how badly he wanted to give it to you, how hard he was holding himself back just for you.

And then, when you tilted your hips to meet him, when you whispered one more desperate, wrecked, “Please” against his lips—he finally gave in.

Noah’s rhythm deepened, the slow roll of his hips picking up force, each thrust dragging another helpless sound from your throat. The ache, the stretch, the sweet friction—it was overwhelming, it was everything. It set every nerve ending alight, made your fingers scrabble at his shoulders, made your body arch into his with reckless need.

“You feel—” he choked out against your ear, losing the words as his pace quickened, as your walls fluttered around him and your moans filled the space between your bodies. “Jesus, baby—you feel so good. So fucking good.”

You couldn’t even answer—you could only hold onto him, feeling him drive into you harder, deeper, until every thought dissolved. The feeling of him inside you was almost too much, too good, driving you higher with every deep, perfect thrust.

And there was only him, only this, only forever.

Noah’s hand slid between you, finding your clit again, rubbing tight, desperate circles that made you cry out, made your body clamp down around him without warning.

“Fuck,” Noah choked out, voice breaking against your mouth. “You’re mine. You’re fucking mine.”

You were—you always had been—and the way you clung to him, the way your body responded, said it louder than any words ever could.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that,” he groaned, hips stuttering as you tightened again, your body greedy for him, for all of him, the pleasure spiraling fast and out of control.

You whimpered, threading your fingers through his hair, dragging him closer, needing him deeper, needing everything.

He shifted his weight slightly, pulling one of your legs up higher around his waist, and the new angle made you keen—made him press against that devastating spot inside you with every roll of his hips.

“Right there?” he murmured, smiling against the skin of your cheek when you writhed beneath him.

“Yes, yes—oh my god, please—” You gasped, voice wrecked and high and desperate. “I’m—I’m so close, I can’t—”

“Me too,” Noah groaned, picking up his pace now, hips slapping into yours harder, faster. “You feel so good, baby—fucking made for me.”

He shifted his hips, grinding against you in a way that made the pleasure snap like a live wire through your entire body—and then you broke.

Your orgasm ripped through you so hard it nearly blinded you, your whole body locking up tight around him, shuddering, trembling, sobbing his name.

“Fuck, that's it, that's it, pretty girl,” he rasped, forehead pressing against yours, the muscles of his back flexing under your palms as he fucked you through it, driving into you faster, chasing his own high. “Fucking come for me, baby. Make a mess on my cock.”

Noah cursed low and broken against your skin, thrusting deep one last time before he lost it too—burying himself to the hilt as he came, hot and overwhelming, the sound of your name on his lips like a prayer as he spilled inside you.

You clung to each other through it all, panting, shaking, completely wrecked—completely his.

When you were both done, neither of you moved for a while.

Noah stayed buried deep inside you, pressed as close as he could get, breathing hard, holding you like he never wanted to let go. His hands were everywhere again—petting your hair, tracing your spine, rubbing slow, soothing circles over your hips.

“You okay?” He finally whispered, voice hoarse, broken with tenderness.

You nodded against his shoulder, still trembling, still trying to breathe him back into your lungs.

“I’m perfect,” you whispered back. “Because of you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the way he did it—like you were everything, nothing but unfiltered adoration in his eyes—made you feel like you were simultaneously suffocating and coming up for air.

Slowly, carefully, he eased out of you, murmuring soft apologies at the sting, and you whimpered at the sudden emptiness. But before you could even miss him, Noah was gathering you into his arms, cradling you against his chest, covering every inch of your bare skin he could reach with adoring, lingering kisses.

You both stayed like that, tangled up in each other, sweaty and shaky and wrecked, until your heartbeats finally slowed, until the only sound was your quiet breathing and the soft brush of Noah’s lips against your hair.

“I love you,” he whispered against your temple, so soft you almost thought you imagined it.

But you heard it—you heard it, and you knew, without any fear or doubt or hesitation, that you loved him too. And when you whispered it back, he pulled you impossibly closer, as if he was stitching you into his soul.

You fell asleep like that—wrapped up in Noah, wrapped up in love—knowing deep down that nothing would ever be the same again.

You couldn't have been more okay with that.

hiii, v! 🤗 i chose the "you're shaking" – "so are you" dialogue prompt for this one 'cause nobody's asked for that one yet and i wanted to try it hehe. also, i'm sorry it took me this long to post your request, but i got so carried away with this one and it turned out way bigger than i planned, so it took me a moment there to finish lol. i hope the 9.3k words of pure fluff and smut made up for the delay here. hope you enjoyed this, friend! x

[dreamersparacosm]

Girl we need a smut blurb for them , im talking wild sex . I’ll take anything I know they’re both freaked out

well, well, well. you put two overachievers in a bed and what’s going to happen? magic, that’s what. or maybe he’ll just use your vibrator as part of your scheduled stress relief. whatever.

the price of desire — epilogue blurb 3!

prompt ; in which stress relief takes on a whole new definition.

warnings ; sex toy usage, fingering, jungkook cums in his pants

There are worse problems to have, you tell yourself.

Ever since you and Jungkook officially started dating, things have gotten a little… out of hand (and by “out of hand,” you mean fucking each other senseless across multiple continents.)

Obviously it started in New York and Seoul. Then it was Paris. You two dabbled in exhibitionism during a trip to Bali. Now it’s whatever remote, paparazzi-proof destinations your travel agent nervously books for you at 2 in the morning.

Hotels, apartments, rental cars, bathrooms you’re pretty sure were not designed to withstand the kind of behavior you’re inflicting on them. At this point, it’s becoming a global crisis. International security agencies may want to get involved.

It’s getting so frequent, so mind-numbingly good, that you’re starting to worry about yourself a little. Like, is it normal to see god every weekday?

Unclear.

But it is nice, really nice, to relieve that stress that weighs on you after a workday. (And god knows you have plenty of that to go around.)

Jungkook is, if nothing else, very committed to the cause. He takes care of you painfully well, as if it’s his full-time job and the only acceptable performance review is your legs shaking too hard to stand.

Case in point: you’re currently spread out across your bed in New York, lips swollen from a makeout, hair damp from the bath he ran for you, and he’s kneeling between your legs, big palms dragging slow strokes up and down your thighs.

It's a perfect Wednesday night, all safe and soft and steady until he drops his suggestion into the quiet.

“Let me use the vibrator on you, baby.”

Your brain, already half-melted from the hour-long slow burn he’s been subjecting you to, scrambles for purchase.

You are not equipped for this on a Wednesday night. Especially not after a 14 hour workday, 2 back-to-back global strategy calls, and a last minute crisis involving a Calvin Klein store opening in Shanghai.

You open your mouth to respond, yet nothing makes its way out.

Jungkook smiles at you with amusement and reaches over to the nightstand like it’s the most casual thing in the world. As if he didn’t casually drop a bomb into the atmosphere of your previously scheduled stress-relief session.

With bulging eyes, you observe as he pulls open the drawer, rummages around for a second, and then holds up your light purple vibrator in his hands.

The device is small and sleek, manages to look mockingly innocent resting in his palm.

You stare at it, then at him, mouth working like a fish suddenly introduced to the concept of air.

"I—" You stutter eloquently.

He responds with that signature grin, the one that makes you want to throw a pillow at his face and climb him like a tree. "Come on, baby," he coaxes, "You said you were stressed. Think of this as... advanced relaxation techniques."

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. "This wasn't exactly what I meant by 'stress relief.'"

"What's the worst that could happen?" he asks innocently, setting the vibrator down beside you before leaning close to press a kiss against your inner knee. "You enjoy yourself too much?"

"The audacity," You roll your eyes, trying and failing to suppress the shiver his touch sends up your spine.

"It’s like.. a scientific experiment," he continues, trailing featherlight kisses up your thigh. "Testing the effects of a vibrator on stress."

"Did you just turn my vibrator into a science fair project?"

His laugh rumbles against your skin. "I'm innovative like that. Always thinking about my subject’s satisfaction."

"You’re not selling it," You sigh but there's no heat behind it.

"I'm persistent," he corrects, looking up at you with darkened eyes. "And also extremely dedicated to your wellbeing. Just say yes."

You can’t look at him. With his mess of black hair falling over his forehead, with his eyes displaying a glint of mischief and the stupid Calvin Klein white t-shirt that drives you crazy. He’s so fucking hot, and it brings you to the brink of temporary insanity. That’s how you got in this mess in the first place.

What you need to be doing is saying no. Set some kind of a boundary. Be a strong, independent woman who does not immediately fold at the suggestion of midweek sex toy experimentation.

You do none of those things. Rather, you sigh and flop back against the pillows, one arm flung dramatically over your eyes.

“Fine,” you mutter like he’s inconveniencing you. “Whatever. Just don’t break my toy.”

You hear him laugh, a rich velvety rumble that vibrates through you while the mattress dips beneath his weight as he repositions himself closer to your core.

Before you even take your next breath, he’s kissing up your thighs, hands stroking the backs of your knees, your calves, your hips.

The vibrator hums to life; it’s soft at first, a low sound and your stomach flips violently.

Curiosity compels you to emerge from behind your self-imposed blindfold just in time to witness his gaze fixed upon you. He is a hungry man, you’ll give him that much.

Which leads you to your next thought: you’re not even sure why you bothered putting on underwear after the bath. A small, defeated part of you wants to blame some lingering sense of dignity, some naive attempt at not being completely easy just because your boyfriend washed your hair like a Disney prince and kissed your shoulder after.

Whatever weak attempt at decency you made is long gone the second Jungkook hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and starts dragging them down. Thumbs brushing over the dip of your hips like he’s memorizing every line, every secret part of you he already owns.

The cotton peels away from your thighs, and the cool air hits your core, makes you shiver. He works them down over your knees, then your ankles, tossing them somewhere behind him without a second thought.

You’re already squirming a little, hips shifting against the mattress, thighs clenching reflexively, but he just chuckles under his breath before reaching for the hem of your oversized T-shirt. (Technically his T-shirt. Technically yours now. He stopped fighting that battle months ago.)

Slowly, he pushes it up, bunching it around your waist, exposing the soft skin of your belly, the slick glistening between your legs that you’re trying very hard not to feel embarrassed about.

A single finger gets dragged between your folds, dipping into the mess he’s barely even touched you to create, and you can’t help the broken little gasp that escapes your mouth. “Oh—“

Jungkook lifts his hand and holds it up between you. Your slick clings to his finger. Shining in the soft light your lamp provides.

The bastard. How dare he provide proof of your demise.

He raises a brow smugly. “Already this wet, baby?” He teases.

You glare at him, or at least try, but it’s hard to summon the proper outrage when your body is practically vibrating with need.

“Shut the fuck up,” You grumble.

He laughs and settles himself back between your thighs. The toy hums softly beside you, still on the lowest setting and when he picks it up again, your stomach nearly exits your body.

He strokes the inside of your thigh with his free hand, “Ready?” He asks. Jungkook’s always been sure to consent; you do know he’s genuinely asking for permission.

You nod, frantic, willing to sell your soul if he would just please, please touch you already.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

For the love of everything holy.

You jolt forward violently the second the vibrator touches your clit. Even on the lowest setting it’s too much, white-hot pleasure snapping up your spine and exploding behind your eyes.

“Fuck—” You gasp, whole body twitching, hands scrambling for something to hold onto.

A string of curse words falls out of your mouth before you can stop them, completely and deliriously out of your control.

Jungkook smiles, presses his palm flat against your thigh to pin you down. “You’re so sensitive tonight,” He notes, somewhat amused.

You might cry. God damn him for being so perfect to you that he’s holding a vibrator to you and not making comments about how “he could do it better.”

You settle for grabbing a fistful of the bedsheets and moaning helplessly when he adjusts the angle slightly, nudging the vibrator a little higher until your hips are jerking against the mattress.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing slow circles into your thigh. “Let me take care of you.”

Alright, you’re not afraid to admit — maybe you didn’t care much for his definition of stress relief before.

But now? Now you need it more than anything.

You’re a mess; panting, moaning, hips twitching up and it’s still on the lowest setting.

You risk a glance down your body, and the sight nearly undoes you. Jungkook is watching you intensely, brows drawn, lip ring caught between his teeth, arms flexing where he’s bracing you open.

The look on his face alone could make you finish.

“Please,” you gasp. “M-More.”

He nods once, like he’s been waiting for you to ask. “Yeah, baby?” he’s clearly out of breath, thumb brushing over your thigh in grounding circles. “I got you.”

Jungkook clicks the vibrator up to the medium setting, and the second the stronger vibration hits your clit, your back arches clean off the bed, a cry ripping from your throat. There’s a hum that comes from low in his throat while he presses a kiss to your inner thigh.

“You’re so good for me,” He says against your skin. “So desperate already. Bet you could cum just like this, couldn’t you? Just from how good it feels?”

His tattooed fingers squeeze your flesh harder, holding you open, keeping you steady, and the way he’s looking at you makes you want to sob, truthfully.

Jungkook drags the vibrator in slow circles over your clit, keeping you teetering right on the edge before mercifully setting it down beside you. You barely have time to breathe before he’s spitting into his hand and sliding two fingers between your thighs.

The second he pushes them inside your entrance, you buck violently, a whine tearing out of your mouth. “F-fuck—”

You feel impossibly full already, walls clenching around the stretch, the slick sounds embarrassingly loud in the otherwise silent room.

Jungkook groans mostly to himself, head dropping forward to watch where he’s sinking into you.

“God, baby,” he exhales, curling his fingers in that way that makes your toes curl too. “You’re so fucking wet.“

You moan helplessly. Obviously, the man must be trying to kill you. A death wish of sorts. He works his fingers inside you, dragging them along that sweet spot that has you keening into the mattress before reaching over with his free hand to flick the vibratot back on.

He sets it to the highest setting — and holy mother — you nearly catapult off the bed. The intense, overwhelming buzz against your clit paired with the slow pump of his fingers inside you is absolutely lethal.

You choke on some form of a gasp, thighs jerking. All thoughts of work, stress, the world outside this room — gone. Obliterated.

Jungkook, flushed and sweaty, arm veins flexing with every stroke of his fingers, can’t take his eyes off the mess you’re making on your sheets beneath you.

Your thighs are trembling violently now, little spasms you can’t control. You try — god, you want it noted you do try — to keep your hips still, to hold off a little longer.

But the man is evidently on a mission. Fingers fucking into you deep and steady, the vibrator merciless against your clit, voice rougher than normal: “Cum for me, baby. I wanna see it. Wanna feel you cum all over my fingers. Please.”

You’re way past the point of rational thought. Spinning out. Every nerve ending burning hot under your skin.

“Fuck—” you sob. “Kook— I’m gonna— oh fuck, fuckfuck—”

Neither of you get to find out what you’re “gonna” before the orgasm tears through you viscerally, a full-body convulsion that has you crying out and grabbing onto his wrist.

Your toes curl involuntarily against the sheets while your thighs close around his head, stomach muscles clenching before your whole body lets itself fall into the pleasure.

For one disorienting moment, your vision actually blurs at the edges — a genuine blackout that some doctor could probably explain but you're certainly in no condition to contemplate — while somewhere in the distance you hear yourself gasping his name in a way that makes you grateful these walls are soundproof.

You’re panting when it finally ebbs, chest heaving, pussy clenching desperately around his fingers. Jungkook presses a kiss to your thigh again, slowly eases his fingers out and shuts off the vibrator that's become both your nemesis and savior in the span of minutes.

There’s a quiet that feels almost startling compared to your thundering heartbeat.

You’re floating somewhere, the bed seeming to perform a gentle carousel spin around you when he grabs your face gently with both hands and kisses you. You kiss him back automatically, pulling him closer by the front of his shirt.

Through the haze, you murmur against his mouth, “Take your sweatpants off. Wanna fuck you.”

He responds with a groan, pressing his forehead against yours. Insistently, you tug at the waistband, whining a little when he resists.

“Come on,” you mumble, still half-drunk off your orgasm. “I need you.”

He makes a choked sound and pulls back to look you in the eye. His body moves to lean against your headboard, and you scooch over to kiss down his neck while he tries to come up with whatever excuse he can.

And then comes the confession, tripping awkwardly from his lips. “I… uh…”

Your eyes narrow into spiteful little slits, pulling away from him.

He winces, a full-body cringe that would be adorable under other circumstances but currently only amplifies your confusion.

“I… I came already,” He confesses, so low you almost don’t catch it.

Jeon Jungkook? The Jeon Jungkook… came in his boxers like a teenage virgin.. from using your vibrator against you?

You blink repeatedly, brain attempting to process this unexpected plot twist.

“What?” You say dumbfounded.

He covers his face with one large hand in the universal gesture of mortification, ears betraying him by flushing a deep crimson even in the room's low light.

“You— you… came? Just from—?”

Your boyfriend groans, clearly exploring the possibility of spontaneous human combustion as a merciful escape route.

“You looked so good,” he murmurs into his palm. “I couldn’t— fuck, I tried to hold it—”

You stare at him for another second. Then, completely against your will, you burst out laughing. It spills out in waves that are equal parts exhaustion, affection, and perhaps a whisper of mockery, but your attempts to suppress it prove to be futile.

Jungkook glares at you weakly through his fingers.

“You’re an idiot,” you giggle, “My idiot.”

He grumbles something unintelligible while pulling you firmly against his chest, a transparent attempt to muffle your laughter and hide his reddening face but your giggles persist. At some point, you do take the opportunity he presents to nestle your face into the warm crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne, a chuckle exiting once every few minutes.

All things considered?

Not a bad way to spend a Wednesday night. Not bad at all.

masterlist + ask

[merakiui]

This may be just me but just imagine after a few weeks of rough in tumble with the twins you unsurprisingly fall pregnant much to Georgina’s delight. Now I’m just thinking about her doting on you and practically hovering over you more than her own sons, constantly touching your belly, and gently nagging you about taking it easy and letting the boys do the heavy lifting. Especially since she’s a merfolk I think she’d be especially fascinated with human pregnancy since her experience was entirely different. Human females really are vulnerable in this state aren’t they? Good thing you have your new family around to look after you ❤️ I also just have the most vivid image of a heavily pregnant darling chilling in the ocean shallows with her mother in law curled protectively around her while the men are off hunting. Georgina has the softest look in her eyes while she taps her claws against darlings belly to try and get the baby to kick. And then her going absolutely feral if darling is trifled with. Just glaring eyes and low growling hissing noises through gritted teeth. Similar to the twins fight in book 7. God save the poor unfortunate fucker who dares to try! Rest in pieces!

(〃´𓎟`〃) aaaa these are such lovely thoughts!!! Georgina being so fascinated by your pregnancy. <3 always around you, fawning over every change that pregnancy brings. When your thighs fill out and your belly grows rounder and rounder with child, every inch of you softening for the baby's sake, it leaves her so charmed. She's amazed by everything and is the first to shove her boys away and press her ear to your bump in hopes of hearing the baby tumbling around inside. She looks at you with stars in her eyes. You're just so precious, always waddling around, truly like a berried shrimp hehe.

Floyd openly complains about how clingy his Mama is. >:/ you're his Shrimpy, not hers!! Can't she back off a bit? He's feeling strangely territorial,,, even Jade is a bit on edge, his smile strained. They adore their mother to pieces, but her doting is so excessive, especially when it takes you away from them... ;;;; they just want some time with you, yet Georgina can't help wanting to be around you so often. You're just so warm and soft!!!!! She loves to cuddle up to you, reminding you to eat plenty. Here, she's brought plenty of snacks for you and the little one. Eat up. :D

And curling around you in her mer form, idly drumming her claws along your bump omg!!! A protective embrace!! Anyone who dares mess with you will be quickly dragged off, at risk of drowning under mysterious circumstances in shallow waters. :) that is, if anything will be left to find of them. The boys can handle the clean-up! She's the best mother-in-law ever, acting as a girl bestie to you. If you have any troubles, she's the first one you can go to. Don't ever worry about being a burden; you could never! Her and Papa Leech are here for you. And if her boys act up, please don't hesitate to inform her, she'll say, all with a pleasant smile. She'll make sure they behave.

I genuinely think she'd want to help deliver the baby. It works in a kidnapped situation where you're kept inside the Leech estate hehe. Platonic yan Mama Leech, who loves her family and the newest addition: you! <3

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

is it possible for someone to just not enjoy sexual “pleasure”? for whatever reason i never really masturbated (lack of interest i guess?) and now that i’ve started having sex with a partner i can identify that when their hands, mouth or penis are touching my clit there’s an intense sensation but because it’s so unfamiliar i find it more overwhelming than pleasurable. it’s the same when i try touching it with my own hands. possibly the issue is that neither of us really has experience trying to please someone with a vagina and clit (since i’m the first person they’ve had sex with and they don’t have those genitals themself) but i’m definitely capable of feeling something very intense i’m just kind of freaked out by it. is it possible that i’m just set up in a way where sex of any kind won’t ever feel good? i know i don’t have to do or enjoy anything i don’t want to but i really would like to be able to enjoy sex. is it possible to like train oneself into liking the way it feels or am i just gonna stay like this?

hi anon,

virtually anything is possible, including not enjoying things. there are very few things that are universally enjoyed, owing to how everyone has their own tastes.

I couldn't possibly say whether or not you're incapable of feeling sexual pleasure. what you're describing sounds like you're inexperienced on that front, which can make it less than awesome. after all, everything has a learning curve, and sex is no exception. the meals I could prepare five years ago when I first started learning how to cook were substantially shittier than the meals I can make now after a lot of time and practice, and the same is true of sex. if it's something you want in your life then the great news is that the best way to learn what you like sexually is through play and practice both alone and with others. if something doesn't feel good, stop and trying something else! there are infinite possibilities and you don't have to devote time to any of the ones that don't work for you.

and if you ultimately never find anything that feels great - that's okay, too! you don't have to like sex! there are lots of other things to like!

[mesetacadre]

Hi, I'm someone relatively new to communism and I wondered if you could help me with a question: what is it that the communist party can *do* to actually be a reliable ally of workers? I've heard many people say this is how workers will support the party -once they see both the bourgeois institutions and unions fail them, but I'm not entirely sure what, say, a modern party in Europe can actually do besides agitation. What are the practical steps, or one example of them? (I understand this might be highly dependable on context and therefore not have an easy answer, but I think even one example might be useful, because what I'm struggling to wrap my head around is how a party actually starts showing they're an ally of the workers BEFORE having the political power to change the workers' material conditions -other than by doing agitation)

It's organizing, but this is a relatively vague word if you've no experience with it. I'll first go through a hypothetical example and then get into the more theoretical weeds.

Say there's a new metro extension being built under a town, the government didn't pay attention to surveys and they built the tunnel through a section of ground which doesn't drain water that well, the tunnel begins to flood a few weeks after opening and this is seriously affecting the structural integrity of residential buildings' foundations. Massive cracks are spawning in these homes, and the government decides to evacuate all the affected streets to demolish the buildings, 600+ families, without providing adequate or even sufficient compensation and reaccomodation.

You'd first need to make contact with the affected, through whoever brought the situation to your party's attention. Maybe a militant is one of the affected, perhaps some of the affected contacted you directly, maybe they contacted a worker's union or a neighborhood association and made its way to you through the interpersonal networks that always exist between people involved in various social movements and platforms. You should see and ask what they need, inform yourself of the legislative process surrounding it, when evictions are happening, etc. And then put what the party can give towards supporting them; setting up supply drives and money collections, giving them strength if they want to resist the evictions and offer legal support, before and after, help them legalize protests in front of the responsible legislature and providing logistical support for what's needed (megaphones, materials and knowhow for banners, a cheap sticker printer, etc), in general, agitate about this and make the situation known. Work in earnest with them, you don't need to be self interested to put in mind and body to oppose such a negligent act.

I've glossed over a lot, and of course these things are always easier said than done. But this is in essence what organizing is, getting actually involved to put forward your political program, it's managing resources and people in such a way that you can continuously put in effort without burning people out. Notice how agitation was a small part of the example I gave, this is because for agitation to be worth it you must be agitating for something, and I know that sounds like I'm making a big deal out of something a 12 year old could tell you, but it really is easy to fall into the cycle of agitating for agitating's sake, becoming a sort of acronym spirit who never actually does anything but has a consistent presence in the form of impersonal agitation (social media, posters, banners, stickers, leaflets in some cases, etc). What gives agitation a purpose and what makes it effective is what it agitates, the organizing itself, what you're informing about, what you're trying to move people towards.

Most of the times a party that's in a context such as western Europe can't change the material conditions of worker's lives, that's what not having power is, but sometimes it can do it, through organizing. Sometimes you do get a win, and you can help stop a law before it passes, or you can generate enough pressure to stop the firing of a union delegate, or you can get the workers on the negotiating table for better conditions after a 1 week strike. But the failures don't necessarily mean that those workers will stop trusting you, because if you've actually accompanied them, and helped them in the struggle for a goal, those failures are also theirs, just as much as yours. So unless you flagrantlly vacillated in their support, or acted like an opportunist, etc, it's the course of these struggles themselves, and less their result, which build the confidence and referentiality a party needs. Of course, if you manage to get a win that's even better, but workers aren't stupid, and like I said, a failure after actual organizing is as much yours as it is theirs. But what actually matters, for the purposes of building that referent and trustworthy Party that we want, is the fight itself.

[ackl3z]

DEAN W. - kink alphabet

pairing: dean winchester x reader

content: thigh fucking, size kink, face sitting, rough sex, masturbation, handcuffing, teasing, edging, public sex, car sex, mention of somnophilia/cnc, overstimulation, face slapping, head (both recieving), vibrators, bdsm, tying up, choking, porn without plot, established relationship, no use of y/n, fem!reader, not proof read

word count: 1.9k

A = aftercare

although dean can be a bit of a womanizer at times, that doesn't change the fact that he's literally heavenly at aftercare. first of all, he would take you into a long, steamy shower with him, washing your hair for you and drying you off, putting you in one of his metallica shirts, which practically drowned you. he'd carry you into bed, placing your head on his chest while he kisses your forehead, plays with your hair and whispers to you about how beautiful you are and how well you done for him.

B = body part

dean loves every inch of you, like literally every single little detail of your body he adores, but if one part was to stand out it would be your thighs. deans not really the guy to prefer tits or ass, he loves them both equally, but most of all he adores your thighs. he loves laying on them, he loves holding them as you sit on his face, he loves always having a hand on them in public, and he loves fucking them.

C = cum

dean is the biggest fan of messy, sloppy sex, so of course he loves cum. it takes him a while to finally bust, but when he does there's alot of it, and he would put it all over you, his favorite spaces being your face, your tits and your thighs (of course).

D = dick size

obviously im biased, but in my opinion i'd say dean is massive.!for length i'd say 8, maybe 8.5 if you've got him extra turned on, and hes thick aswell. conclusion; id say 8 in length and really girthy aswell.

E = experience

oh this man is experienced. before he met you, he basically had a new hook-up every second night, but obviously not anymore, he could never even imagine cheating on you. it doesn't bother you at all, all that it means for you is that he's unreal at practically everything sex-wise, but every so often you two find something different to try.

F = favorite position

dean has a few favorites, he would love just basic missionary, him on top of you, he loved staring at your pretty face while he pounded you like crazyyy. he would also love doing it up against things, against a wall, in the shower, on a kitchen counter, he didn't really care, he just loved pinning you up against a surface.

G = goofy (how serious they are in the moment, do they laugh, etc.)

if you know dean, you know damn well he couldn't stay serious if his life depended on it (like, literally) and that includes sex. you two would share alot of giggles during it, even if one of you messed up it would never be embarrassing, you would easily be able to laugh about it together.

H = hair

dean's rugged, he's authentic, and there's no way in hell that he'd be perfectly shaven. i feel like he would never let it get ridiculously long either tho, it would usually just be trimmed down. as for you, he would never care how much or less hair was there, he would eat it either way, although i'd say he would prefer it to be smooth or atleast trimmed down.

I = intimacy (how romantic he is in the moment and stuff.)

dean can be romantic when he wants to be, to me the answer is that it would really depend on his mood. some nights, after a long, hard day he would prefer to come home and just kiss you slowly, take his time with you and make it as romantic as possible. on the other hand, if he was angry, maybe fresh out of an argument with you or his dad, he would simply just rip your clothes off and pounding you as hard as he can, but he would always make sure to give you the best affection afterwards.

J = jack off

he would absolutely jack off, and it would always be to the thought of you. dean would 10x prefer to be with you, obviously, but if he was away on a hunt, or vice versa, he would definitely send you videos of him jacking off, moaning your name softly as he imagined you as his hand, maybe he'd even steal your panties for that purpose alone.

K = kink

that man is a freak, but there are a few that stand out to him, like having you handcuffed to the bed as he teases you to the point your begging for it, or having you blow him when he was driving the impala. overall, dean is down for pretty much everything but he loves having you tied up, or edging you, or having to cover your mouth because your moaning to loudly in a public place.

L = location

dean would basically bang you anytime if he was in the mood for it, no matter if it's a public bathroom, under a table, in the motel room with sammy asleep in the next bed, but his favorite place was definitely the back of his car. dean adored having his three favorite things combined into the same situation, sex, the impala, and you. he would do it in the back seats while he had sent sam off to do something, or having you under the steering wheel while he drove down emptier roads, or having you use your hands on him, forcing him to keep his control

M = motivation (what turns him on)

dean loves a challenge, so when you're prancing around the motel room in the tiniest top and shorts you could possibly find, teasing him for his stares, even being slightly cocky it would get him rock hard straight away. it would just make dean want to fuck the attitude right out of you, and that was a promise.

N = no (something he would never do)

a big no for dean would be any form of cnc or somnophilia, he hated the idea of making you uncomfortable or hurting you in anyway, even if you did previously consent to you it would always be a big no. at first, he was slightly hesitant on the idea of overstimulating you, and slapping you gently during sex when you don't do as your told, but after you confirmed to him that you were into it he had no issues with it anymore.

O = oral

although he absolutely loves it when you give him head, he would much prefer to be the one eating you out, he loved hearing you moan his name, arch your back as his tongue works its magic. he always thought that you came first being pleasured, he wanted it to be enjoyable for you more than anything.

P = pace

again, i feel like it would depend on the night, but whatever it was he would always match the mood perfectly. if you were having a more soft, passionate night he would take it slow, hitting all the spots perfectly while also taking his time with you. on the other hand, if it was a truly sexual, steamy night he would want nothing but to pound you fast, and equally as hard. either way, he knew he could make you scream if he wanted to.

Q = quickies

dean was never especially big on quickies, not with you atleast. he wanted to kiss you first, to kiss your full body and get you all hot and bothered for him before actually giving you what you both wanted. he liked getting you in the mood first, but if it really came to it, he would absolutely have a quickie with you in the back of his car.

R = risk

this man loves the risk, and one of his biggest kinks is having public sex. everytime you would complain about the fact you could get caught, that would just turn him on more. its not exactly the location that he loves, but he loves the risk of getting caught, the times when you two have to be extra quiet incase someone catches you.

S = stamina

dean would be amazing at pacing himself perfectly, he would be able to go all night long if he wanted to, and sometimes you actually did. it's not that he could hold his cum for that long, but he would keep going, even if you both did cum, he loved sex, so of course he'd love doing it for as long as possible.

T = toys

i don't think dean would be particularly big on toys, maybe if he was away and it was your only option, but he wouldn't like the idea of using an object on you, he would just much prefer to hear your moans for him and not your moans for a vibrator, he wanted to make you feel good himself.

U = unfair

we all know dean is a massive tease, but he wouldn't tease you to the point it's unfair. i mean yeah, he would make sure that he lets his hand travel just a little too far in public, maybe whisper dirty things to you infront of your friends but when it actually came to getting you in bed he would take his time with you, but not leave you hanging for hours on end.

V = volume

i feel like at first dean would be too ashamed to be loud with you, but after you two had dated for a while he would let himself go and be suprisingly noisy. it would never be like full on whimpering, but he would definitely be groaning and moaning your name, loudly.

W = wild card (random kinky headcanon)

excluding the pain, dean would love the idea of bdsm because what is there not to love? he gets to tie you up, discipline you when you don't do as your told, and as long as he knew that you were okay with it, choking you a lil during missionary? dean would love every second of it, even if he wasn't exactly the proudest to bring it up.

X = x-ray

as i said, i think he has an 8 incher, and an extremely girthy cock, but god did it look good. his length was a pale pink color, with noticeable veins running down the sides of it, and his tip was alot pinker than the rest of his cock, and always leaking precum. it bended softly to the left, but you only knew that because of the amount of times he had it inside you, it wasn't very noticeable until you felt how perfectly he hit your g-spot every. single. time.

Y = yearning (how high is his sex drive?)

anytime. anywhere. whenever you wanted it best believe you would get it. dean would never turn down sex, most of the time it was actually him asking for it initially.

Z = zzz (how quickly he sleeps after)

dean is always sleepy, even more so after a long day at work topped off with a long fucking session. he would hold you in his arms, cuddling you until you fell asleep so he could finally let himself fall asleep after you. he would always want to make sure you were comfortable before allowing himself to relax, but it wouldn't be long before you two were both sound asleep in eachothers arms after sex.

@sl4tforchris @fanofgunsnroses

[hermuseros]

You wanna try it out? Caleb X You

Chapter Three

Tumblr: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 AO3: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3

Synopsis: Caleb is determined to be your first everything, and lucky for him you're not that hard to convince.

AN: Caleb being manipulative, only a little. First times, smut. I'll link the next chapters on each post as I upload them.

There’s only 15 mins until you arrive a Skyhaven Aviation Academy and you’ve been wondering for the last ten you’d survive the jump from the bullet train. It was amazing how this had felt like both the longest and shorted journey of your life.

It would be the first time you and Caleb had spent much time together since last summer. Every time your memories wandered back to those moments in your bedroom, his fingers… you’d pull out your phone and start scrolling frantically.

You open and close the text thread with Caleb for the 20th time. The messages are so normal? Why wouldn’t they be? Every time you heard his custom message tone your voice would tighten.

He was just helping you with a problem so why were you so bothered? Your plan had certainly worked, and your sex drive had never been healthier, not that you ever had the time or the charm to snag a boyfriend. The last two times a guy had asked you out something had come up and you’d had to cancel. When you tried to think of your limited experiences it made your brain go numb.

You drop your purse as the shock of the cold air hits you when you step onto the metro platform. Perhaps it was because you were up so high that the air felt so fresh and cold it made your nose burn. It cuts right through your jumper which had felt cosy on the train, so you pull your scarf out of your bag. You could feel your heartbeat pick up pace as scanned the crowd for Caleb, nervous that he’ll have seen you fumbling around like a kid. Instead, what catches your eye is a cardboard sign that read PIPSQUEAK in his unmistakable handwriting.

The stranger holding it gives you a sheepish wave, so you gather your things and walk over to him.

“Ah,” he says loudly, “The lady of the hour! It’s amazing to finally see you in person.”

He’s almost as tall as Caleb and his biceps flex as he tucks the sign under his arms, scooping up your bags before you can protest.

 “Sorry about the sign, some sort of in joke I assume?”

You grimace, feeling your face go pink, and that earns you a good-natured laugh.

“You’re Calebs girlfriend, yeah? I’m Johnson!”

You feel your stomach drop.

Not again, not now!

This stupid game of his, always hiding behind your skirts when a new girl arrived on the scene. You’d done your sisterly duty as his fake girlfriend when you were kids, but he couldn’t pull this shit now. Not after… everything.

“Ah! Nice to meet you!” you manage, climbing into his car.

“I better hurry and get you back, he talks about you so much I think the whole base is invested in the reunion.”

You were going to murder Caleb.

Johnson’s car is a sleek looking machine, nothing like the cars in Linkon City. There was a cold, military line to all the buildings and machines here, as if the Fleet had input in everything. Everything exuded an aura of high-tech modernity, from the cars to the bus stops.

Johnson is the perfect host, pointing out landmarks and making polite conversation. He couldn’t believe, he adds, that Calebs mysterious girlfriend was real. Apparently, it had been widely suspected that you were a lie to keep the many girls at bay.

 “We were all impressed that Caleb is such a loyal guy, he says, but I think we can see why now.” Johnson says with a wink. “Lots of guys will be losing bets when you show up.”

You try to smile politely and fish your phone out of your purse.

P: Girlfriend!? Again?

C: Sorry to spring it on you! Are you on your way? Just got off duty now.

P: A warning would have been nice!

C: You should be good at it by now. Besides, you want me to go well in my studies, don’t you?

P: You owe me so bad. One hundred treats! No, one million!

C: Think about it, nobody in Skyhaven knows how we grew up. We don’t need to worry about that here.

Your fingers hover over the reply button. You really weren’t brother and sister here you didn’t even look alike. There was nothing to hide, no secret to keep.

What secret? You two didn’t have secrets, so why won’t your heart stop racing?

“You texting Caleb?” says Johnson and he has a cheeky smile on his face like he caught you being cute. A tingling sweeps up the back of your neck and across your face.  

A chain linked fence lines the perimeter of the military base, their tops adorned with spools of barbed wire. Keen eyes of security cameras peek out like animals in brush. It smells like asphalt and exhaust fumes and an army of fleet flags stand to attention on every available surface, whipping noisily in the high winds.

The planes are huge, much bigger than you anticipated. They perch on their landing strips like huge animals of prey. The idea of Caleb controlling one of those makes your mouth feel dry They’re too big, too dangerous. You wonder what they feel like.  

When you step out of the car there’s some hooting and hollering, and you look over to see Caleb surrounded by a group of men who are clearly soldiers as well.

“She’s real! I can’t believe it!”

“Finally!”

“Wow, not bad Caleb!”

You grip your purse closer and fight the urge to cover your face with your scarf.

Caleb is all beaming smiles, and he strides forward to scoop you into his arms.

“There’s my little Pipsqueak.” he says, and the nickname brings you back to the reality of the situation. This is your Caleb here, not some other guy. Not some boyfriend.

“Kiss!” one of the guy’s shouts, and Caleb lets his eyes slide to yours, his hands still on your waist. You try to push him off playfully, but he grips you a little tighter.

“Cmon! Kiss!”

Your cold fingers grip his shirt, your chest heavy with the dawning realisation that you’re not going to be able to get out of this. Caleb is still holding your waist, eyes bright, waiting.

You lean forward and kiss him chastely on the corner of the mouth, but he turns his head to capture your lips with his. You hear distantly the sounds of hooting and clapping, and it makes you feel lightheaded. It’s too forward, too presumptuous. This was not how pretend girlfriend usually went.

Caleb breaks the kiss, laughing and smiling over at his friends and he looks just like he did when he was showing off as a boy. The early morning sunlight is bright in his hair. You feel breathless.

“It’s so good to finally have you here, let me introduce you!”

It goes by in a whirlwind, names, jokes, handshakes, hugs. They’re a towering wall of muscle and testosterone around you and you’re the shining star of their morning. You’re regaled with stories of Calebs military exploits, the trouble they’ve all gotten up to, and even a few stories of yourself.

It seems that over the years Caleb has spoken about you a lot, a mix of truth and lies, a more romantic version of events than you remember.

“Okay fellas, enough excitement.” Says Caleb, looping his arm around your shoulders. “We’ve got the rest of the day off, remember? When should we meet, 8?”

“If you can manage to leave your quarters in time!”

Theres a bawdy laugh at that, and you can’t help but cover your face with your scarf.

“We’ll be there” says Caleb, jovially, slipping his hand down and into yours.

The base contains far more than you realised. Corner shops, doctors offices, even a little arcade line the small street on the way to his quarters. He seems to know everyone you pass, so you let him hold your hand until you’re inside.

“So, what the fuck was that?” you say calmly.

He brings his hands up defensively “Pips… look.”

You throw your handbag at him

“You don’t get to just kiss me whenever you want, Caleb!”

He turns, but lets the bag hit him, “Ah! Wait!”

“Pretending is one thing but… you don’t need to go that far!”

“Hey! Let me explain!” he says, and you’re frustrated to see that he’s still smiling, his eyes bright.

“I’m sorry, alright? I got a little caught up in the energy. I owe you big time, you’ve been my excuse to keep out of the dating scene for the past three years.”

He bends down and picks up the spilled content of your purse, putting them back inside.

“You wouldn’t believe the kind of girls that go after military men. They’re apex predators.”

He stands, letting out a little huff as he puts his hands on his hips. It’s such a familiar, relaxed gestures that you realise without his friends around Caleb isn’t playing soldiers anymore, he’s just your Caleb again

You missed him so much.

“You’re an asshole, Caleb.” You say.

“I know.” He replies.

You dump the rest of your bags on the couch where you assume you’ll be sleeping. His quarters are small, more like a hotel room than an apartment. It’s cramped but he’s kept it very neat, tidy. It doesn’t look like he spends a lot of time here. Theres not much decoration, only a photo of the two of you at his bedside, one of gran on the fridge.

He flops down on his bed, keeping comfortable distance between where you’re sitting on his couch.

“So, how’s Hunters College?”

You both try texting as often as you can but you’re both so busy its relief to just talk. There’s so much to catch up on it’s dark outside before you know it.

“Oh, shit,” he says, sitting up abruptly and looking at his watch. “You wanna shower before we go out? The bathroom is small but I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Oh yeah I was going to ask! Is it almost 8 already? Where are we going?”

He smiles. “Theres a bar not far from here, the guys all want to have a drink with you.”

Your stomach flutters.

“They don’t want to meet me, they want to meet your girlfriend, Caleb,”

His eyes watch you carefully.

“Yeah, they do.”

“Caleb… we can’t just…”

He stands up from where he was sitting his bed, his jaw set.

“We can do whatever we want. There’s nobody on base who we knew from Linkon.”

“It’s not like that… between us. You’re my brother.”

He stands silently for a moment, arms crossed.

“Not here I’m not.”

The feeling of his hands on your skin ghosts the edge of your memories. The air in the room feels suddenly heavy, claustrophobic.

“I’ll have to start getting ready now.” You say, voice tight, and scramble for your make up bag.

Before you shower your hands hover over the lock on the bathroom door before shaking your head. It’s not like that with Caleb. You’re not sure what it’s like with Caleb, but it’s not that.

When you come out of the bathroom you see he’s dressed and ready. When he turns and sees you with your hair and makeup done, dress on, he lets out an appreciative sigh.

“All the guys are going to lose it, yknow? You’re the hottest thing they’ve seen in years.”

“Stop it.” You say.

“No.” he says, eyes bright and glossy.

There’s an unspoken invitation written all over him, and your throat feels tight.

“We’re going to be late.”

“That’s okay, they all assume we’re busy anyway.”

The high winds pick up again, rattling the windows.

“Let’s go already Caleb.”

He doesn’t try to hold your hand again, and for some reason you can’t help but feel the space between you as you walk.

The club is blissfully warm, and the walls are chock full of kitschy models and diagrams of planes. Bottle of colourful booze line a mirrored wall behind the extremely crowded bar. It’s louder than most clubs full of the brash whistling, hollering and swearing of military men blowing off steam.

The familiar group of men usher you both over to their both, and Caleb snakes an arm around your waist. Your dress is so tight and thin you can feel the heat from his palms. A tingling of nerves sweeps its way up across the back of your neck.

Theres a beer tower sitting at the table already, perched among empty glasses and there’s a warm flush in everyone’s cheeks. When Caleb gets you both a drink there’s a bubble of commotion.

“Woah, even Caleb is having a drink!”

“You both must need it! Hah!”

It’s a totally different atmosphere from drinking with the other Hunters. Hunting is not nearly as male dominated as the fleet it seems, and the feeling of always being on standby means that letting loose is somewhat frowned upon. These men have the night to themselves and are taking full advantage.

“Oh, shit the girls from Navigation are here.” Slurs one of Calebs friends. His veneer of chivalry gone only three drinks in.

“Shirley too?” asks Caleb cautiously.

He elbows Caleb. “You can finally prove to her your girlfriends real! My guess is she won’t be all over you tonight as usual.”

Caleb laughs, “Oh thank God,” he says, pulling you closer to his side.

You glance up at him and his eyes are bright, his cheeks pink. He leans in close to whisper something into your ear, but before he can speak you look up in shock.

“Brian!?”

He’s standing at the end of your booth, smiling and waving to you. Things didn’t really progress between the two of you, but you settled into an amicable familiarity. You feel both relieved and ashamed to see someone from Linkon, and you flinch back from Calebs embrace, but Calebs hand grips yours, pressing it to his thigh under the table. You brush it off and squeeze out of the booth to talk to Brian.  

“Brian! What are you doing here?”

“Oh! I’m in the military band! Ha! None of these guys would know me, the band usually keeps to itself. Why are you here?”

“Oh! I’m visiting Caleb!”

You both move to a quieter part of the club, chatting a little, but the whole time you can feel Calebs eyes burning into you.

It’s a quick chat, but it’s nice. Brian was always a nice guy, just not your type. He shakes your hand before disappearing into the noise of the club to rejoin his friends.

When you squeeze back into the booth next to Caleb, his cheeks look a little flushed, eyes hazy. The booth is almost empty, it looks like all but two have gotten up to dance. When you go to sit, Caleb scoots over so you end up sitting on his lap.

“Caleb!” You say in shock, but then he turns your head to kiss you. The table whoops, and you go stiff in his arms.

“Now where did you go?” he says hotly.

You try to escape his lap, but he pins you there.

“Hah! Time for us to leave I guess!” say the remaining two men, and they leave.

“They’re gone Caleb, you can let me go now…”

He keeps you pinned on his lap, turning your face to forcefully kiss you. He tastes like beer, and his hands grip your waist. The passion of it blinds you, it’s not like the kiss you two shared so many years ago. It’s not like any kiss you’ve had. The beer and the hot club air press in on you and Caleb is kissing you. He parts his mouth, and you deliriously let him. You hear him make a noise at that, and it’s enough to pull you back to your senses, same as so many years ago.

You push him back, sliding off his lap.

You wipe your mouth.

“Caleb! What are you doing?”

His eyes are hard and narrow.  “Should I ask what were you doing?”

“I…”

You were kissing him back, is what you were doing.

“With Brian, I mean.” He says.

Oh. You thought he meant…

“Oh, I was just saying hello?

“Didn’t you used to date him?” he says, his eyes still hard.

You realise suddenly he’s jealous.

“Caleb, I’m not actually your girlfriend.”

“You are in Skyhaven.” he says and moves to kiss you again.

You push his chest back, and you can feel he’s a little surprised at the new strength in your arms. You gaze at him for a moment, brows furrowed, and it’s like he suddenly comes back to his senses.

“I… fuck.” He says, leaning back.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean….” He fiddles with his glass, brows furrowed in concentration. He drains his glass, and by the time he puts it down he has that warm tight smile on again.

“Sorry pips, too much beer, got a little caught up in the energy.”

Your heart is still racing from that kiss, the passion of it. Theres no doubt in your mind now that whatever has happened between you has affected your brother deeply. He might even be in love with you. The thought makes you weak.

You’re totally lost for words, and it seems like he is too. An uncomfortable silence permeates the booth. Your body language seemed to be enough of an invitation for a woman to slide into the seat next to you.

“Caleb! I can’t believe you’re finally joining everyone for a drink.”

You feel him tense minutely.

“Oh, hi Joan.” He says noncommittally.

“Heard about your last flight into the Deepspace Tunnel, some heavy shit.” She says.

With her tight club dress you can see her muscles, the strong lines of her body.

“Everyone’s impressed.” She says, and her tone is direct.

“Joan, this is my girlfriend.” Says Caleb, gesturing.

“Is that so?” she says, almost like she can’t believe it.

You know how you both look, distance between you, not making eye contact. This is the reason he was using you as a fake girlfriend. It seems like a terrible idea to help him now. Now that you’re so sure his feelings for you have evolved into something complicated and painful.

What about your feelings for him? You don’t want to think about it too much, but you know you want to protect him. To help him.

“Nice to meet you Joan,” you say with a kind smile, “He’s a really impressive guy, huh?”

The look in Calebs is one of pure relief, so you lean to kiss him on the cheek. His eyes flutter closed. Joan smiles, eyes thin.

“He is,” she says, “There were a lot of women on this base hoping you weren’t real.”

Caleb snorts, and you smile guiltily.

“You don’t look the sharing type either.”

“She’s not.” Caleb says flatly.

She stays to finish her drink, chatting amicably now that the matter of Caleb is settled. When she leaves you keep your hands in Calebs. You’ve both had another drink and he’s looking at you with tenderness.

“Thanks, Pips.” He says.

“I’m used to it by now.” You say.

The moment stretches between you.

“Would it be so bad?” he says, staring down at his empty glass, his voice quiet in the noise of the club.

“What?” you say.

“Being my girlfriend?”

You feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach.

“Shut up, Caleb.” You say forcefully.

It’s one thing for it to be an unspoken thing between you. If he were to say it out loud it would ruin everything. It would destroy the rest of what was between you, your tenuous sibling connection. You lost your family long ago, you won’t lose it again.

“This is just play pretend.” You say bluntly, “Just for Skyhaven.”

He looks crushed, his eyes tender and glistening.

“Then let me pretend.” He says, and he leans forward, slow and gentle.

He is kissing you again, but its sweet this time. Your stomach is a whirl of emotion, but perhaps if you let him get it out of his system…. Let you both get it out of your system… your relationship has a chance when you get back in town.

You let him kiss you, really kiss you. Unhurried and gentle. When he realises, you’re not pushing him off he pulls you closer, pressing you into the booth seat behind you. You’re closed off from the rest of the club here so nobody can see you, and Caleb is kissing you.

He slides his tongue into your mouth, and you let him. His hand pushes up into the base of your hair, and he tilts your head so he can kiss you deeper. Perhaps you can blame the beer later.

His saliva tastes so sweet to you, like water, like you could kiss him like this all night. You kiss back, taking the lead and he lets you. You run your fingers up to his neck like you’ve always wanted to. You touch the nape of his neck like you’ve always wanted to, his chest, his arms.

You’re suddenly on fire with everything you’ve wanted but dare not speak, with the smell of him, the taste of him. You bite his lower lip, and he gasps, you untuck the front of his shirt to feel his stomach, to touch the line of hair beneath his navel. You always wondered how the dip in his back would feel and by the way he squirms under your fingers it seems like he’s ticklish there.

His hand has wandered up your skirt, and his fingers are on the edge of your panties. You remember what they felt like inside you, you’ve been remembering what they felt like since you left home that summer. You want to feel them again.

“Hey lovebirds, we’re going to another club! Wanna come?”

It’s one of Calebs friends, he pries himself off you to turn to him and the guy laughs, full throated.

“Jesus Christ man! Go home, the two of you! Never need to see you look like that again, I’m scarred for life!”

Before either of you can respond, he’s gone.

The spell between you seems broken and you wipe at your mouth, fumbling to get your purse.

“Hey, can we go home now?” you say, and your surprised to hear your voice is trembling.

“Are you okay, pipsqueak?” he says, sounding equally overwhelmed.

“Yeah just, it’s too loud. I need to sleep, I’m still tired from the trip.”

“Yeah, let me get you home. I’ll make us dinner.”

You walk home in silence and the distance between you is back. It starting to sprinkle and the rain is ice cold. You slip of your heels so you can both move faster, and he laughs at that. You purposefully jump into a puddle to wet his jeans, and he swears. For one moment you’re just with your brother, playing like always.

You get back to the apartment and the mood is immediately tense. You feel addled, like you’re drowning, and you don’t know which way is up. You can’t deny what just transpired between you, that Caleb almost definitely had feelings for you, but you can cling to the hope that perhaps this is just a phase. You can’t lose your family again.

You quickly make your way back to the bathroom, jumping in the shower to wash off the makeup and sweat from the club, and put on your unsexist pyjamas. Ones you’ve worn for years, that Caleb is most certainly familiar with.

Perhaps the pretend girlfriend ruse just went to his head, like he said.

When you come out, he’s rummaging through his tiny fridge. Theres a small single burner in his cramped kitchen.

“I might have to go out for groceries.” He says, standing to face you.

He’s still wearing his club clothes, hair messed up. His eyes are flat, curtains drawn closed.

“Oh, I’m starving.” You say.

He gives you that calm smile. “Great,” he says, “I’ve missed cooking for you.”

When he leaves you unpack the rest of your things and make the couch up with some spare sheets you find. His bed looks hard, so you sit on it to test. Its more comfortable than it looks, and it smells like Caleb.

You sigh deeply, laying back to flip through your phone. A few of your friends from back home have messaged you and you reply to them, hoping that their holidays are going well too.

After some time has passed you wonder when Caleb will be back, you sit up to look around his apartment. The sheets are rough on your legs, military issue, and the small room is spare in a way that makes it very Caleb.

There’s not much on his study desk, a half-finished model and a framed picture of you both. The only object you’re not familiar with is a small, lacquered box. Perhaps that’s why it had caught your eye, so you’d flipped it open.

It contains only three foil squares with the obscene text LARGE printed on each.

“You wanna try it out?”

You snap the box shut, his sudden return has startled you. He’s standing in the open doorway holding groceries and smelling of rain.

When two people are as intimate as you and Caleb, they can develop a language all of their own. A series of in jokes, references and gestures that are understood only by a native speaker.

His eyes are molten, and you both know you’ll say yes.

“Who…” you say.

He closes the door behind him, calmly.

“Who are they for?” he asks.

You nod, mutely. He moves into the kitchen.

“Who do you want them to be for?”

You hold the small box, hands sweaty. The rain is coming down in sheets outside now, you can hear it pounding in your ears.

Your stomach is turning in on itself. That last kiss at the club has awoken a hungry voice inside you that will not easily be silenced. Its like every forbidden thought you’ve ever had of Caleb is running rampant inside you. Where you want to touch him, how you want to touch him, how you want him to touch *you*.

“Your girlfriend.” You reply.

His eyes go wide, and he unceremoniously dumps the groceries on the kitchen floor. He slowly approaches where you sit perched on the bed.

“My Skyhaven girlfriend?” he says.

You nod mutely, eyes locked on his.

You can see his chest rise and fall from his laboured breathing, and he’s standing close enough to you that your knees are touching. You see with a shock how visibly aroused he is.

“Are you sure?” he says, voice husky and dark. “Don’t say unless you’re sure. Because I won’t be able to hold myself back.”

Theres a lurking threat to those words, a warning. It feels like this was inevitable the moment you accepted his invitation to come here, the moment you first let him kiss you back when you were 18.

There never was anyone else.

“Alright.” You say.

You’re tense, anticipating him to strike you like a coiled snake, but he gently pushes your shoulder until your laying back flat on his bed. He leans over you, both hands on either side of your head. His eyes are glassy, the lights in them shifting with the rain outside.

He leans down slowly and starts kissing your neck. Its purposeful, erotic, and it sends a shiver up your spine.

“W…wait…” you say, suddenly overwhelmed. He pulls back to observe you again.

“Just…” you stammer as your hands grip at the front of his shirt, you don’t know what to say. You pull him down onto your mouth.

He kisses you, slow and purposeful. It’s too slow and it’s letting your mind race. You pull him closer, and he lets himself down to lay on top of you. He’s big, much heavier than he looks, and the pressure of it calms you a little. You can’t give yourself room to think.

You deepen the kiss, frantic, suddenly hungry. His breath hitches as you cling to him, hands wrapped around his shoulders. He pushes down harder, seeking contact, and his kisses turn frantic.

He sits up and you claw for him, but he pulls of his shirt in one easy motion and he’s back down kissing you. You wrap your legs around his waist, and the sight of your dorky pyjamas make you wince.

He seems totally lost in the sensation now and his hands are working their way up your shirt. You cringe remembering swapping out your cute bra for your classic comfy bedtime one but then you realise its Caleb, he wont care.

He loves you.

No, stop thinking, you tell your brain, stop it, and you sit up abruptly, pulling off your oversized shirt, then quickly unhook your bra, fling it off the side of the bed and pull him against you.

Stop thinking, just touch, more.

He gives a broken moan at that and presses himself down on you, he’s pushed you both fully up onto the bed and his hips rock up into yours. He is still wearing jeans, and the fabric is stiff and course against your soft pyjamas, but you can feel the length of him press against you. He feels huge, surely not…

He slides a hand up between you to cup your breast, and you make an awful, strangled sound as his fingers brush over your nipple. “Oh,” he says, breathing hard, and so he does it again with intention this time.

You go to cover your mouth, but he grabs your wrist in his other hand, sitting up to straddle your hips as his hands rove over your chest.

“Wanna hear you.” He says, low and husky.

You try to keep the keening out of your voice, letting yourself breathe, when he rolls your nipple between his fingers gently you can’t help but moan.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, “stunning.”

The tenderness in his voice makes you inexplicably want to cry, you shouldn’t be doing this to him. He is in love with you, you should be stronger than this.

He leans down now and licks gentle across your other nipple and you keen then, loud and shameless. The sound of it shocks you. Encouraged, he takes it into his mouth and sucks. It feels so good you arch up into his mouth.

You feel his other hand leave your breast to move down between you and hear his belt being unfastened. A thrill of anticipation goes through you and the strength of it stuns you. How long have you wanted Caleb like this, how long have you pretended you didn’t.

He leans back to pull his pants down, and you use the moment to pull your pyjamas down. Your mind is all animal need, you want to see him, to feel the length of him. It seems he feels the same way because he’s back on top of you with his jeans around his thighs.

He presses the full length of himself, hard through his boxers, up against your clothed entrance. You’ve never been so close to a man like this before but you’re sure they’re not all this size. He’s always been a relatively large guy, and you suppose its proportional. You don’t even know if it’ll fit.

“D’you… can I…” he breathes out questions through his frantic kisses, his hips are rocking into you with force now, like he’s tipped past the point of no return. You nod and lift your hips against him. He fumbles for the lacquered box, spilling its contents on the bed, and rolls off you to hold you from the side.

His confident hands slide down your belly then under your panties. He lets out a breathy moan at the same time you do, you can’t believe how wet you are. His fingers slide in easily.

“God, you’re so wet for me.” He says tightly, “Can you feel it, Pipsqueak?”

The nickname makes something stir in you, but it feels like every emotion is just translating into pleasure in your heightened state. He slides another finger in, not trying to be gentle, and you realise he’s intent on preparing you so he can fuck you. The realisation shoots a wave of arousal through you.  

He pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine, and he licks at his wet fingers. You don’t care anymore how you sound, especially since every noise seems to make him more aroused. His eyes are dark and focused in a way you’ve never seen before, and he pushes his boxers down to expose the length of him.

He is huge, you think, the tip of his cock glistening wet in the low light of his room. You think, madly, that you should have done this before. That you’ve been wasting time.

He starts touching himself, and you want to touch him too. You reach down gingerly to wrap your hand around his, and he shudders.

“Touch me, please.” He says, jagged.

You’ve never actually touched a man before and you have no idea where to start, so you slide your fingers experimentally up the base. You’ve read dirty books and advice columns, but you don’t feel anywhere near prepared for the real thing. He’s so wet, precum coating your fingers as you tenderly work the length of him. He’s shuddering, squirming under your hands, bucking his hips up in earnest. You thumb experimentally under the head of his cock, and he shudders.

His eyes are squeezed shut letting you watch his face intently, you’re so familiar with all Calebs many expressions but you’ve never seen him look like this before. It feels like pulling back a deeper mask, exposing him in a way you’ve craved for a long time. He presses his head back into the pillow, exposing the length of his throat, and you lean in to press your teeth into the side of his neck while he slowly rocks his hips up into your grip.

You want to see more, see what he looks like totally undone. You wipe your hand off on the bedsheets and he turns to kiss you, seeking contact. You pull back, grabbing one of the condoms. You peel the packet open with your teeth and he looks like he might die from arousal at the sight of it. You want to remember this moment like a photograph, you want to keep him like this forever.

You try to remember what they taught you in sex ed, and you take care rolling it down the length of him. He’s trying to lay still and can see the muscles of his stomach trembling as he fights to control himself. You’ve never felt so powerful.

“Is it… on good?” you say. He nods wordlessly, then moves to roll on top of you.

You press his shoulder back into the bed. When he realises what you mean to do his eyes go round. To be truthful you’re nervous, you’ve never… you don’t know if you should tell him that or not. You try to put it out of your mind. You want to be in control for the first time.

“Let me.” you say, straddling him, pressing your wet entrance against the length of him.

He nods and lays still under you as if he’s scared to move, but you let yourself focus on your own pleasure for now.  

You’re wetter than you’ve ever felt yourself, and the smooth latex glides easily over your swollen clit. He’s so hot and hard for you that it makes you feel heady, greedy. You need to force yourself to take this slow.

You grip the base of him, angling him to your entrance, and slowly start sliding him inside.

He’s making all sorts of noises, his fingers gripping your thighs so hard its starting to hurt, but you’re focused completely on the strange sensation of him slowly filling you up. It feels incredible, sating a hunger that’s been building for years. He’s so big, by far the largest thing that’s ever been inside you, but you’re so wet and aroused that the slight throb from your entrance feels incredibly pleasurable. You feel him inching into you, and when you feel totally full you realise with a thrill there’s still more of him.

You take a deep breath, then sit flush against his stomach. His cock is pressed up inside you in a way that makes you feel dizzy, like your brain is losing control of your body. You force yourself to sit for a moment, adjusting to the size of him.

“Y…you okay?” he says, voice trembling. His words bring you back into the room with him, and you looked down to see his face tense, sweat beading on his forehead. This look of him struggling to keep control, it’s beautiful.

“You’re so thick, Caleb.” You say, and your voice sounds husky, mature. “I feel totally full.”

“Fuck.” He says eloquently, “Fuck!”

You snort, “Alright.”

You let your body choose how it wants to move, and you start rocking gently above him. The simple motion feels so good, the friction a slow aching wave of pleasure blooming up your spine. You grab one of his hands, run it up your body to touch your breasts while you gently ride him.

He thumbs at your nipples and then gently starts moving his hips in time with yours. The sensation changes, and it’s a harder pleasure. Theres so much of him, even his gentle movements feel exaggerated. You let yourself moan, and he moves a little harder up into you.

The head of his cock is dragging against your g spot and the feeling of it is bringing you undone. You feel confident that you’re well adjusted now, so you lean forward to give him move room to fuck up into you. He takes the invitation.

“Pips, I can’t…” he says, and you lean down to kiss him. He kisses up hungrily, biting your lip. Without warning he rolls you both over so he’s on top, and then he really starts fucking you.

You can’t stop yourself from moaning now, constant and loud. Theres so much of him.

“Mine,” he says, husky and dark, “You’re mine.”

You come, and the sensation of you pulsing while he rides you makes you throw your head back. He doesn’t slow down, doesn’t relent, but fucks you through your whole orgasm.

He kisses you again, wet and open, letting you keen into his mouth. He looks overwhelmed with the pleasure of it, losing himself in the sensation. It’s good you’re so wet, you think, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to take him like this. He’s fucking into you so relentless, so much, and you can feel his desire in every thrust.

“You want me to come, pips?” he says, and you already feel another orgasm building as your walls clench around him. He feels bigger than before, a gentle ache starting.

You’re pinned under the full weight of him as he’s fucking you into the mattress now, and you can’t do anything but hold on to his shoulders and moan.

“Say it, say you want me to come.” He says, dark and intense.

“Say it.” He says again, grabbing your chin to force you to look at him.

“Please,” you manage, “I want it.”

“Say my name,” he says, “please.”

Your vision feels hazy, “Please, Caleb, come for me.”

“Oh,” he says, a shuddering sigh, “Oh my god.”

His hips snap up into you, and you can feel him twitching inside you, the sensation pushing you over the edge again as you feel yourself grip down on him. He’s coming, you think distantly, so good. It feels so good. You find his mouth with yours, and he’s breathing, keening, his shoulders breaking into a sweat.

He collapses on top of you, the rest of his weight crushing you breathless. You’re both trying to catch your breath, and you tap him on the shoulder a few times.

“Caleb, I can’t breathe.”

He snorts affectionately, kissing your cheek as he pulls himself up carefully, gripping the base of the condom as he pulls out slowly. He ties it off, throwing it into his desk bin before collapsing back down next to you.

You’re both still breathing hard and you roll over to face him. His eyes are shining, and you reach out to touch his face. He catches it with his hands to press a kiss into your palm.

You stay like that until your breathing returns to normal.  He’s still holding your hand, rubbing slow circles onto your wrist, gazing at the ceiling.

“That was my first,” he says, still staring at the ceiling.

You’re surprised, but alarmingly you feel… elated?

“Same.” You say simply, and he turns to face you in shock.

You don’t feel like you have enough of your senses back to process what that means, and so you sit up a little, wincing.

“You okay?” he asks.

“A little tender.” You say, and you can feel your cheeks burning.

He smiles broadly.

“Need me to carry you to the shower?”

You could only manage to take three days off for your visit, but by the time you’re on the light rail back to town, the lacquered box is empty.

He drives you back to the station himself, despite both of you knowing he’ll be late for work.

“Commander can make me run laps, I don’t care.”

He grips your hand the entire time, driving one handed, before finally pulling up next to the light rail. He sits there after he’s parked, his knee bouncing.

“Pips.” He says, staring out the window at the platform, “What does this mean?”

You had been playing house the last few days, Skyhold girlfriend, but there was no point pretending that you hadn’t been getting each other off for three days straight.

“I don’t know Caleb,” you say, gut clenching, “But I can’t lose you.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to kiss you.

“Never.” He says, “I’ll never leave you.”

You spend the ride home with a strange fluttering in your chest. Maybe, somehow, things could change. Maybe you would be good together as something more. Maybe your friends would understand… Gran…

You believed him when he said he wouldn’t leave you, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t lose him.

[parsleysagerosemarytimemachine]

Rereading The Goblin Emperor (because it's a comfort-read) and it's so good to come back to this again. Two interesting new thoughts as I get started:

The first is that while I don't remember when I last read it, I know that at least the first time, my father was still alive. This time, as he goes to the funeral for everyone else who died in the airship crash and thinks about how he doesn't know how to talk about the death of his (distant, tyrannical) father and that it wouldn't help anyone if he could. I remember being at my father's funeral, and wearing the mask of being silent and supportive, because that way people could read their own grief into it if they wanted, and wouldn't ask me to perform it for them; whatever grief I might have had, I was done with years ago, and this was not the place or the company to talk about my actual feelings. Really feeling it with Maia here.

The second is (prompted by some other discussion I'd seen here recently) that as much as this is a book about recovering from abuse, an aspect I hadn't seen as clearly in previous reads is how much it is about the experience of becoming an adult after an abusive childhood - about being ill-used and ill-prepared, and then realizing that things have changed, that you will never be that child again... You can be safe in ways you never thought possible, and also this new world has threats and dangers you can only hope to discover before they hurt you, because people will hate you for being hurt, for not knowing things that were kept from you. And all you can do is try to find a few people you can trust, to risk being vulnerable until you can find new ways of moving through the world; to learn what power you do have, in a situation that is still confusingly conscribed. And you _can_ do it; it might not look like what you imagined, you will have to build a different world for yourself, but you can be happy because you made it.

I don't know, this book is just so good. If you like political fantasy, if you want a story about abuse and power and recovery, about discovering who you are when the world opens up, go read it!

The Goblin Emperor

(Also if you like conlangs, and imperial bureaucracy, and characters with lots of names, and worldbuilding by way of all of these...)

[lover-of-mine]

Hi, I'm new in your blog and I wanted to ask you about Eddie and Shannon's relationship, Eddie's sexuality, and how it's seen by the fandom. Aside from the fact that I'm a buddie shipper, seeing various discussions about Eddie's sexuality and how it affects his relationship with Shannon makes me wonder if his character is bisexual like Buck or gay like Michell. We know that the show is capable of handling a plot about a seemingly heterosexual character who later accepts his sexuality. Michell is proof of this. Although his sexuality is presented to us from the first episode, it's what breaks his relationship with Athena. In addition, in a way, although we understand that Michell loved Athena as a wife and mother of his children and still loves her, this feeling isn't romantic, and it's something he knew about himself but refused to accept. He said, "I thought you could fix me", this suggests that even though he repressed his sexuality, he was always aware of it. With Eddie and Shannon this is different, there are analyses that talk about Eddie loving her but not being in love with her, and Eddie's plot sometimes feels contradictory to his own experience with Shannon, marriage due to pressure from the church, parents, pregnancy. In itself, their marriage didn't fail because Eddie didn't love her but because they were two young people with the pressures of a child with a disability, they were two people who possibly loved each other but Eddie was not a stable partner in the first years (understandable from both points of view), what we know about the Diaz grandparents, among other things, is proof that perhaps in another context they could have loved each other. But then you have Shannon asking for a divorce after she found out she wasn't pregnant (again both almost repeat the same story, the ending is uncertain because the variables changed), even so this is like a slap in the face for Eddie because at the end of the day Christopher and this supposed new baby was what would lead them to unite their lives again, not really a romantic feeling as a couple. Kim's arc is where I'm most confused about Eddie and his relationship with Shannon. He tries to recreate certain moments of him and Shannon together with Kim, his words when Kim dresses up as Shannon, and the deleted scene of Eddie and Chris talking about how he met Shannon. I know there's analysis of that scene focusing on Buddie and how it parallels their relationship, but I don't want to make it all about Buck, I'm not even sure that even deleted scene means that, since ultimately it would only reinforce Eddie's romantic feelings for Shannon. These conjectures are what make me question whether Eddie is bisexual, demisexual, or gay. I feel like in this case, Eddie being gay blurs Shannon's role as if she never existed and makes it all about Buddie. At the same time, I feel like Eddie could have the same storyline as Michell. I'd like to know your opinion on this topic or if you have any posts about it.

Hi, darling, welcome to the madness. I don't like discussing this but I have thoughts, so...

First of all, I don't think Eddie is strictly gay, never did. Second of all, I don't think Eddie is equivalent to Michael. Third of all, in the end, I genuinely don't care as long as Eddie is out and with Buck.

Let's discuss Michael first since it's the first half of your argument and he is the thing that people bring up the most and it's easier to evolve into what I want to say. When I say they are not equivalent, I mean the way that the show never tried to make us to believe Michael was straight, we are introduced to him as he comes out as a gay man who wanted a family and was with Athena because she was his best friend and could give him that. At no point, do we have the concept of him being in love with her or attracted to her. So you don't need nuance there. Michael was always gay to us. That's why that works.

When you try to apply that to Eddie, you need way more nuance than the show is willing to give him. I think the fandom decided that Eddie didn't love Shannon because they don't like Shannon and they keep pretending that him loving her doesn't make sense. You can dislike Shannon, she was written as irredeemable and that creates many problems, but Eddie loved her. That's an established fact of Eddie's character whether people like it or not. Their relationship didn't fail because of a lack of love, or even a lack of sexual chemistry considering Christopher didn't magically come to be and they were fucking a lot when she came back. We can sit here and discuss the nuances between love and in love and how a gay man can deeply love a woman who changed his life and still be gay and how he didn't really enjoy sex with her, he just didn't know anything else until the end of times, but the reality is that Eddie believes he was in love with Shannon. And like it or not he was presented to us as enjoying sex with her in a way that was explicitly opposite to Michael and Athena because sex was a problem in their relationship, as exemplified by Michael saying Athena complained he "doesn't lay her like other men" or their therapy sessions and the celibacy of their relationship. Eddie and Shannon were ending up in bed all the time. "Oh, we suck at this." "Really? 'Cause I feel pretty good about how that went down." People can tell me they only had sex once and she got pregnant and that the s2 sex was performative and Eddie didn't want to do it or like it all they want, but that is a lie. The thing with them is actually about how love is not enough and they can't force it to be for the sake of "being a family" in a way that Shannon understood and asked for a divorce over it, but Eddie never managed to get there because she died before he could move on.

Eddie will never be able to look at their relationship objectively. Shannon is dead and Eddie was forced into a space where he has to romanticize her because he needs Christopher to have someone in his life that gives his mother grace. The thing with Kim is about the fact that Eddie misses her. He will always miss her. She was half his life. She's the mother of his child. They were married for years and as much people like to pretend he was deployed for their whole marriage, that's just not true. And she died in front of him. Shannon is a core part of what makes Eddie Eddie. And while the same is true for Athena and Michael, they were able to work through the separation to the point where they could see the way they were best friends and co-parents and nothing more. Eddie is never gonna get that chance. Eddie never got closure and he will never get it the way he needs it. Everyone in his family hates Shannon to a degree that forces him to put her on a pedestal to counter that, so that he can give Christopher pieces of the woman he loved, not the woman who left them because Chris deserves to grow up not hating his mother. So he has no one who knew them both that can help him untangle his feelings. So he will never be in a situation where he questions if he was in love with her or not. He can question whether she was the love of his life or not, and he can question the fantasy he created where they work things out, but I don't think the show cares enough to allow Eddie to question the very nature of their relationship to that degree.

Which is why I don't think they can pull off making Eddie strictly gay. They would have to put in question everything Shannon meant for Eddie's character and frankly, given how careless they are with Eddie's story, I don't want them to try and question that. It would be bad. Plain and simple. Eddie is not the bi stereotype like Buck was, and confirming Shannon as Eddie's high school best friend and making him demi would be cool even if expecting the show to deal with micro labels is a crazy dream, but for me the ideal scenario is Eddie unlabeled. Put him in an "I loved Shannon then, I love Buck now, I don't care what that makes me" and make him unlabeled. He's not gay, he's just not straight. Because anything else is putting into question the core of Eddie's character construction. Eddie was always written as the widower (his archetype is widower single father and it has been since he was introduced) and to make him gay would make the audience assume he never loved Shannon, because let's face it, the ga does not have enough interest to understand that sexuality is fluid and a gay man can love a woman and still be gay, and that would make his whole character fall apart.

Buck hasn't been labeled in universe, let's just not label Eddie.

[highprincessofthenightcourt]

Okay, so I was thinking about SJM’s writing and how some parts of it are surprisingly heavy and realistic. That got me spiraling into thoughts about her tendency to self-insert into her characters—something that shows up often in her books.

A while back, I fell down a rabbit hole researching her life and career, and that’s where I learned a lot of what I’m about to talk about. So, SJM was adopted—her exact age at the time isn’t totally clear, but it seems to have been sometime before or during her teenage years. She was adopted by a lawyer and a judge who lived in Manhattan. They gave her a high quality education and introduced her to the arts by taking her to museums, ballets, and operas.

In one interview, Sarah mentioned that although she already loved literature, it was after witnessing a tragic event in New York that she really leaned into fantasy as a form of escapism—a way to cope. During her freshman year of college, she met her now husband (he was an RA in her dorm), and two years after graduating, they got married and started their family.

Now, tying this into ACOTAR: I think aspects of her personal journey show up in Feyre’s story. Imagine the emotional adjustment of going from being in the adoption system to suddenly living in a wealthy home in a city as vibrant as Manhattan—that shift must’ve been intense. And I see echoes of that in Feyre’s transformation: from neglect and isolation (maybe even including things like not being taught to read early on or living in poor conditions), to a life full of love, magic, and purpose. Velaris could easily be a fantasy coded Manhattan—it’s where Feyre finds herself, her family, and her true love.

Then there’s the Archeron sisters, and what parts of SJM they might represent. We know that when the first book was in the works, Nesta and Elain weren’t meant to be much more than “evil stepsisters.” But later on, Sarah decided to give them more depth, and to do that, she had to dig deeper into herself and her own experiences. I imagine that was hard—Feyre was her ideal self, and her arc was so solid: full of growth, realism, and beauty. So when it came time to flesh out the other sisters, it must’ve been difficult to know what pieces of herself to put into them.

To me, it almost feels like the sisters ended up embodying two extremes of her personality—one representing her worst traits, the other her best. And while that’s interesting, it becomes a little problematic because Feyre feels like a full, real person—flaws and all—while the sisters can feel confined to certain “roles.” That limitation kind of hurt their development.

We saw some of this in the last spin-off. The arc didn’t fully land for me—it felt like Sarah kept needing to remind us that the character was “bad,” and it got in the way of any real growth. Maybe she worried that if she let her grow too much, she’d start feeling too much like Feyre? I just hope this pattern doesn’t repeat in Elain’s book. I want her to be her own person—not boxed into a trope, but allowed to be messy and real, with good and bad and everything in between.

And honestly… I haven’t fully figured this part out, but sometimes it feels like through her storytelling, SJM is processing different eras of her life. Feyre might represent the full scope of her journey—her whole life, so to speak. Meanwhile, one sister feels like adolescence: all rebellion, insecurity, aggression. The other feels like childhood: blissful ignorance, wide-eyed hope, and gentleness.

Idk. I’ve written a whole damn essay and I’m still not sure what I’m trying to say. But yeah—just something that’s been rattling around in my head.

[wake-me-up-inside-imagines]

If it’s a topic you’re comfortable writing about, could you do something about yan Charlie with a mentally ill reader? Like anything from delusions & paranoia to anxiety, whatever you prefer! :)

I can do that for sure! I'll try to keep it more vague in terms of the illness, but this'll probably revolve around more anxious themes then anything else. I also don't suffer from delusions, so if anything alluding to that is inaccurate, I apologize.

Yandere! Mafia Boss With A Mentally ill Reader

Gn! reader

Warnings: Anxiety, depression, Stockholm syndrome, kidnapping, technically forced drugging? Charlie makes you take meds for whatever illness you have, mentions of delusions and hallucinations, non specific mental illness, panic attacks, Charlie's wording and thoughts on mental illness can be seen as rude or insensitive but he's trying

Divider credit goes to @enchanthings-a

-Yandere! Charlie has very little real experience with mental illness. He's no psychologist, not even close, and his job is nowhere near understanding of such things. In his world, any sort of mental state short of unwavering in strength and consistency is viewed as a weakness to exploit, or in the worst case, a determent to the organization. There's no room for such people in Charlie's organization, not if he wants the most efficient of men at as his disposal.

-Having said that, you're different. A whole other world. You're not meant to be some powerhouse of mental fortitude Charlie expects from his employees. In fact, he adores your differences. It makes you feel more human. More like a person, rather then a pawn in his ever growing drug empire.

-He doesn't really notice anything's abnormal about you, at least at first. Sure, you're wary of him, scared even, but he gets it. he is a criminal after all, someone an ordinary citizen like you would naturally be afraid of. It doesn't help that he's kidnapped you either, forcing you into a new environment against your will. He can be delusional, but he isn't stupid. It's a shock he doesn't expect you to immediately shake off. Even as weeks pass and your behavior doesn't change, he still doesn't think much of your unfamiliar behavior.

-It isn't until you begin falling into Stockholm syndrome that he begins to get concerned. You've become much more accustomed to him, even displaying a slowly progressing level of affection toward him on a daily basis. And yet...you're still anxious around him. Skittish. Paranoid. He'd go far as to say you're sometimes more inconsistent with your behavior, mostly when you seem to be upset. It's not the reactions he's used to. There's something different there.

-He gets more concerned with each passing week, watching your odd habits. He's not well trained in human behavior, but he knows that this isn't right. Something's off, but he doesn't know what. But how can he ask you about it? he doesn't want to make you feel insecure, but at the same time, he's frustrated. How can he fix this? How can he help you when he doesn't know what's going on?

-He avoids questioning you for a while, but he keeps a careful eye on you. Still, it isn't until he catches you mid panic attack in your room that he decides he can't put off this conversation any longer. He's never seen a panic attack before, not in this context. Some of his rivals have had similar reactions under torture or when their loved ones are taken hostage, but not like this. Not without noticeable cause. Not when they and their loved ones were safe and sound, like you are.

-His first reaction is one of fearful anger, which didn't really help the situation much, but he can't help it. He doesn't know how to comfort people, especially when they're in such a state of panic. What's wrong? Why are you upset? Did he do something? He doesn't understand, why can't you answer him? What's the matter with you?

-It takes a while for Charlie to actually calm you down once he realizes how insensitive he must be to you. He awkwardly manages to ease you from your panic with gentle touches and hushed words of reassurances, and it's then that you're finally able to explain what's going on.

-He doesn't really get it, but he can see whatever mental turmoil your going through is serious. His first thought is that it's stupid to be so anxious over such insignificant things, but he reminds himself that you can't control your fears. You're not like him, devoid of any sort of fear or care. Something's going on in your brain, and even if he doesn't understand it, he knows he needs to help. He hates to see you suffer like you are. He wants to make it better.

-First and foremost, Charlie asks you what you need from him. He's not sure how to help, so what better way to start then asking you? He'll do whatever you need from him. He took you away from the world to show you love, but he also took you away to keep you safe. What kind of husband would he be if he couldn't help you fight the dangers of your own mind?

-Charlie spends the first little bit of time spending every waking moment he isn't working with you, desperate to keep you from freaking out again. Despite you explaining it to him, he still feels like he'd be a failure if he left you on your own while you were struggling. You need him to be there with you, to protect you from your mind. He'll use the time to converse with you more about your issues so he can understand, but he'll also do some research, just so he can get a better feel on how to help you.

-One thing he learns is that medication can do wonders for some people, so he finds and threatens hires a psychiatrist to prescribe you some medication. He's steal some for you, but he'd rather have a professional involved in figuring out what's right for you rather then rely on just the internet. Rest assured, You don't really have a choice in the matter as Charlie feels medication might be the best way to fix whatever's going on, but he'll be sure to monitor you, just to make sure it's working, and you can always switch meds if whatever you get put on doesn't work well.

-Charlie also makes sure to remove any possible stressors in your life. He can't really do anything about his job so that stays the same, and he's not gonna return you to your home, but he will do whatever he can to make your environment as friendly and calming as possible. He'll get a sound machine, candles, soft or comfortingly textured items, whatever might help you quell your anxiety, he'll get.

-On that same note, he does his best to learn effective methods of helping you as time passes too. He'll probably threaten hire a therapist to work with you virtually as they have more knowledge then him, but he'll still do his part in learning newer, more basic coping skills other than the "tough it out" method. He's actually quite soothing once he gets the hang of everything, doing a relatively good job at keeping his cool while holding you tightly to his chest.

-Speaking of, there's nothing Charlie wants to do more then hold you tightly in his arms. When you're panicking, or just having a rough day mentally, he wraps you up in his embrace, promising he'll protect you from the terrors of your mind and the world. He'd dead serious about it too, he doesn't play when it comes to your mental wellbeing.

-Unfortunately, Charlie isn't the best at dealing with hallucinations and delusions, if that's what you suffer from. His gut tells him to brush them off and remind you how stupid/unreal they are, but he also doesn't want to make things worse by being blunt in his beliefs. He truly has no idea which route to take, so oftentimes he'll end up doing very little that's actually helpful to you. He'll continue to do research on the matter and he'll listen to any advice you or your therapist have so he can help you, but it'll take a long time for him to get used to it.

-The only time Charlie ever intentionally uses the "tough it out" method on you is if you're depressed. But not in a insensitive, "it's not a big deal" kind of way. He knows how bad depression can be, but he also firmly believes the best way to help you overcome it (besides medication and therapy) is through powering through enough to take care of yourself. He'll force you to meet your basic needs, he'll take you on short, non-exhausting walks, he'll engage in your hobbies alongside you, anything to keep you from rotting in your bed all day. He wants to help you find that spark of life again, he'll be damned if he lets you slip into a comatose-resembling state. Rest assured, he'll stay with you through it all, and he'll do his best to not make you feel bad about your lack of spark.

-Overall, despite his rough edges, Charlie's actually relatively decent at helping you manage mental illness. It doesn't matter the type or severity, he loves you all the same and hates to see you suffer. You're his spouse, what husband leaves their spouse to struggle on their own?

-Charlie will take care of you. He'll make sure you feel better, living the best life you possibly can. That's his ultimate dream, after all.

And he will make it reality.

I hope you enjoyed!

[jammatown919]

Where Love Rests

The Nublar Six visit Italy again two years later. Yaz decides it's the perfect place to propose to her girlfriend.

Two quick notes:

1. I still kind of want to name these chapters but haven't been able to come up with names I like and didn't want that to hold me back from posting, so I may come back and edit in chapter titles later.

2. I can't really decide what I think Brooklynn's romantic situation will look like by the end of the series, so I'm leaving it up to reader interpretation whether she's with Darius, Kenji, or single.

Chapter One

It was nice to be back in Italy under better circumstances. 

For one thing, the Camp Fam was here by choice this time. Rather than crashlanding into the freezing environment on the heels of a devastating revelation, they'd been planning this trip for months, just for fun. Just to see Gia and Nonna, as none of them save for Ben had in two years, and do something exciting as a group.  

They'd all been making the effort to do that more these past couple years. See each other more often, share more positive experiences rather than just near-death ones. Though it had taken some time to fully stabilize the rocked foundations of their group after the Brooklynn/Broker/Biosyn incident, they were all finally back in a good place, and none of them were keen on starting to drift again. 

They took their weekly check-ins more seriously than they ever had. Looked for meet-up opportunities whenever they could. Had annual New Years parties at Darius's cabin and summer barbecues at Sammy and Yaz's ranch. Planned group events as frequently as finances and schedules would allow, whether it was meeting up for someone's birthday or a genuine vacation such as this. 

It struck Yaz long before arrival that none of them had really gotten to enjoy Italy the first time. Brooklynn hadn't even been there, and the rest of the group had been dealing with the fallout of exactly that. This time, the circumstances were much more conducive to having a good time. 

The plane ride went smoothly enough that Yaz could spend most of it dozing on Sammy's shoulder. Upon landing, they were greeted by a beautiful, mild summer day and Gia waiting to ambush them all with tight hugs before driving them back to her house. 

There, they were given approximately sixty seconds to set their things down, at which point Nonna immediately began trying to feed them. She'd made enough risotto for a small army, and it became quickly apparent that no one was getting away from the table without having thirds. 

After lunch, they were able to settle down in the living room for a while, sleepy and somewhat jet lagged. They chatted quietly amongst themselves and with Gia, who was far more animated, for about an hour before Kenji fished a deck of Uno cards out of his bag. Amidst all the arguing about which house rules improved the game and which were unbearably annoying, they managed to play twice in two hours. 

By then, they were all finally awake enough to move their bags out of the living room and into the places they would be sleeping for next week and a half. Ben, Darius, and Kenji would occupy the guest room/office as they had the first time; no hassle there. For easier distribution of space, Gia had decided to share Nonna's room for the duration of the visit so that the other girls could stay in hers. 

They would set up a sleeping pad for Brooklynn later, but presently, the three of them only ducked inside momentarily to drop their things near the bed Yaz and Sammy would be sharing. Yaz lingered near it a bit longer than the other two, hyperaware that the last time she'd been in this room, sitting on this bed, she and Sammy had been having the most consequential fight of their entire relationship. 

Things had worked out quickly enough, but she couldn't help remembering how she'd been standing a mere two feet away from where she was now when she'd called Sammy a coward. Even now, she recalled their exact positions when Sammy had called things off between them, however briefly. For a few seconds, it completely soured Yaz's mood, and she began to weigh the pros and cons of asking to sleep on the couch instead. 

"Yaz?" Then, Sammy called out to her from the doorway. Brooklynn had already left the room, and she was just waiting on Yaz to do the same. "You okay, hon?"

The heaviness that had tried to settle over her began to fade. However awful it had been to experience, that ordeal was long over. They'd patched things up years ago, and Sammy once again looked at Yaz with all the tenderness and affection in the world. 

"Yeah," Yaz replied, walking over so that Sammy's outstretched arm could wrap around her back. 

"Still tired?" Sammy guessed with a little smile. "I can leave you be if you want to take a nap."

"I'm good." Yaz pressed herself gently into Sammy's side. For the sake of honesty, she added, "just got in my head about something for a second. Nothing serious."

Sammy's brow furrowed slightly. "You'll tell me if it keeps bothering you?"

"Of course." That was their rule now. Neither of them ever had to talk, but there was a mutual expectation that they should if a troublesome thought kept coming back. This, among other things, had been extremely helpful in their efforts to strengthen their relationship. 

Yaz grinned as Sammy kissed her lightly on the forehead, and the two of them headed back out to the living room with the others. 

For the rest of the evening, things were pretty relaxed. The fun vacation experiences would begin tomorrow, but for now, everyone was too tired to do much more than show Gia all the photos of grown-up Smoothie they'd accumulated and eat what they could of the frankly obscene batch of pasta Nonna gave them for dinner. 

They didn't manage to stay up very late after that. Before long, Yaz was tucked under Sammy's arm in a bed that was just slightly too small for there to be any space between them, with Brooklynn snoring softly on the floor a few feet away. Sammy and Brooklynn had both conked out quickly, but Yaz, now alone with her thoughts, was still awake. 

It wasn't quite as bad as the first time, but she still couldn't help thinking about it. Everything she regretted from their previous visit, as well as the year before. Every mistake she'd made that had almost cost her the most important thing in her life. 

Though, in a way, she supposed that terrible night had ultimately helped them fix things. Unearthed buried feelings, revealed festering wounds, showed them in no uncertain terms what was at risk if they didn't start communicating honestly. As much as it hurt, it had allowed them to come back together with a new perspective. A realization that hiding their feelings to spare the other's only bred resentment, and that if they wanted to be on the same page, they had to be willing to listen rather than just trying to push and convince. 

Their brief time apart, spent mulling over their missteps, had helped prepare them to approach things differently after their unexpected reunion in Biosyn Valley. Yaz had gone to Sammy, realizing how her lack of initiative had hurt them, but let her do most of the talking. Fully heard her out before explaining her side, not expecting to change how Sammy felt, but wanting them to thoroughly understand each other. 

It had been enough, in the moment. Reaffirmed that for all their faults, they loved each other enough to try. They went through their ordeal at Biosyn as partners; a team determined to work. 

When the time finally came to go home, they knew they still had work to do, and they had committed themselves to doing it properly. Yaz moved back home to Texas. Sammy agreed to attend therapy together. Though it had been a process, with setbacks and bad days like any other, they'd learned. After a few months, it was like they'd never been apart at all. 

And now, things were more or less perfect between them. Their occasional arguments were minor. They were much better at airing grievances before things got worse than they needed to be. And perhaps most importantly, the distance between them had closed. 

They woke up beside each other every morning and fell asleep in each other's arms every night. Talking was easy, and silence was comfortable. They were back to quiet mornings and date nights and horseback riding. Dancing around the kitchen while Sammy hummed a love song and their dinner burned behind them. Touching tenderly and amorously. 

When things got heavy, they were there to lighten each other's burdens. When things were good, they each knew they had the perfect companion for whatever the day would bring. 

Their connection was stronger than ever before, and frankly, Yaz had no idea what she would do without it. Being with Sammy was... everything. It was all she wanted, all the time. She couldn't imagine any future in which this wasn't her life. Sammy was her best constant. The one thing, above all else, that she knew she wanted to keep forever. 

Forever. For the rest of their lives. 

Yaz stared up at the ceiling, listening to Sammy's slow, soft breaths by her ear. They were so close she could feel Sammy's heartbeat. 

It came to her very suddenly. A thought she'd had in passing a few times before but always put aside for later because she had known they weren't ready. Now, with things as good as they were, it seemed a perfect time to start thinking about it again. 

She wanted to get married. Grow old together. Maybe have a kid or two at some point. 

She took a breath, realizing she was starting to get ahead of herself. But... yeah. She wanted to get married. 

Turning over to the degree that she could without disturbing Sammy, Yaz silently observed the sleeping face of her partner. For all the time it had been a fleeting thought, she couldn't get it out of her head now. This woman; her wife. Their future secured and celebrated. 

Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to make it happen. 

------

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or buying the writer a coffee!

[manfuckthisimout]

Personal Trainer! Claggor x F!Reader Pt. 1

Warnings: none! (Yet 😈)

Genre: smut, fluff, friends to lovers

Word count: 767 words

Hey guys! I’m trying out something new with an actual character and not just yoongi lol! I wanna write for more ppl when I open my asks back up and this is the experiment fic! This is meant for a black reader but anyone can read it if they wish! This is also a modern AU Claggor. Also happy 50 followers omg!! I’ll open my asks soon for a bash!

Hope you all enjoy!

In spirit of “getting your summer body,” you decided to find a personal trainer. Good gyms are hard to come by in the undercity, most of them being filled with obnoxious gym bros or creeps who stare at you in the mirror. You knew working out at home wasn’t an option either, due to a busy schedule and procrastination. So personal training was the only way to go for you, tripling as protection from creeps, someone to hold you accountable to your routine, and a way for you to actually work out.

That’s how you found Claggor, a quick search of “personal trainers Undercity” on instagram, and after sorting through three creepy accounts, you stumbled upon his. Legit bio, no creepy vibes, and god was he ripped. You scroll down, coming across a video of him shirtless, deadlifting. His arms were like canons—chords of muscle rippling under his skin whenever he lifted the bar over his collarbones. You could see the strain of his thick neck and even thicker torso, the faint outline of an eight pack becoming present whenever he breathed in heavily.

Now that’s not the only reason why you chose him—he had a good website, great reviews, and great work ethic…but his physique did a little more persuasion for you than anything else.

You signed up on his website, filling out a form of what areas you wanted to target, your former experience, and what days/times you were available. Within the next week, you had a message from him letting you know that he got your form and wanted to meet at the Last Drop Cafe, which happened to be right below his gym.

You go to meet him next day, and to your delight, he’s legit. He meets you at the door, black compression shirt and gray sweatpants that make a little drool escape from your lips.

“Y/N, right? It’s nice to meet you, I’m Claggor.” He offers his hand to shake, a bright, gentle smile spread across his face reaching all the way to the crinkle of his eyes. You take his hand in yours, shaking earnestly and matching his smile. “Hi! It’s nice to meet you!”

"Why don't we head inside? I've got a table waiting for the both of us." He motions behind him and inside the cafe. When you look inside, you can see a cozy table near the entrance, a laptop and notepad ready beside a steaming mug of liquid. "Sounds good to me, let’s go!" You grin.

He leads you inside--takes out a chair for you to sit across from him-- and when you do, his pushes it in. He's so close when he pushes in your chair--you can smell whatever woody cologne he's picked for the day. It makes you throb with need.

"Did you want anything to drink or eat before we get started?" He asks, reaching for a pair of glasses sitting next to the notepad. He puts them on, the frames sitting on the tip of his nose so he can look at you over them. "Umm, no, I think I'm okay. Thank you for asking though!" You decline politely. "Alright then, let's get started." He looks down to his computer, clicking an ink pen and then looking back up to you.

You've decided that he is in fact very hot with those damn glasses on.

"I see in your form that you have Monday, Wednesday and Thursdays from 11AM-2PM. Are those still good times for you?" "Yes, they are!" "Okay great," He starts to type on the laptop, taking some brief time to also write down whatever he typed. “Did you have any specific areas you wanted to target?” “Oh, I’m just looking to tone everything, find my workout rhythm, things like that.” “I see, well we can definitely do that,” He gives you a once over, seemingly puzzled at your answer. He quickly shakes it off though, meeting your eyes again with a quick smile. “Let me finish up my notes and I’ll see you Monday!”

After he’s all finished with all his management stuff, he’s kind enough to walk you out of the cafe—even all the way to your car door!

“Alright, call me if you have any questions or need to add anything else to what I already have. See ya Monday!”

You wave him off, but after that, your mind was cloudy with him the whole drive home.

His scent, the nearness of him, the little glint in his eye whenever he looked up at you.

It did something to you. But you didn’t know what. Not yet.

Taglist:

@doiliedaze

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[forged-in-paper]

I am no longer working on 5e content, BUT!

So, an amount of time has passed and a number of things have occurred which, skipping past the gory details, has led me to no longer working on content for 5th edition D&D. This sounds like a travesty, but it has given me time to direct that passion elsewhere, an elsewhere which may or may not be relevant to you, so if you would join me for a moment, allow me to take you on a trip back in time for some context.

A few years back, I was fresh off a long-running campaign with some friends and looking for something new to do. I had been running games in vallonde for years and, as much as I love the setting, I needed a vacation from my son, so to speak.

I was in the process of streaming a playthrough of Ogre Battle 64 and thought "Hey, I really love these games and the setting, why not put some effort into making a little setting guide and running an Ogre Battle campaign?" Sounds great, right? Lots of politics, nuanced heroes, villains both relatable and cartoonish...I really could go on about OB forever but I'm going to refrain because that's not what this is about. What it IS about is boring historical events concerning this specific nobody, and in this specific case I spent maybe 2(ish?) weeks combing the internet for everything I could find related to Ogre Battle: Characters, nations, cities, classes, calendars, timelines, and so on, until I had a pretty extensive catalog of content I could start turning into plots and adventures. This was all going really well, and had a lot of promise, until random happenstance caused me to lose it all.

Now I had to make a decision. Did I want to go back to square 1 and start all over again, or did I want to just give up? Apparently the answer was neither because in that moment I had a thought: Why was I putting so much work into collecting all this information and twisting the 5e mechanics into some crazy shape they were never meant to be in when I could just make my own game? At first it was mostly just an itch in the back of my mind but eventually I say down to see if I could reasonably pull of what I wanted, which was essentially a tabletop game built specifically for Ogre Battle games, which utilized the mechanics found throughout the games, as well as things like classes and monsters. After working over some basic designs, I finished the rules for the combat system and knew there was a game hidden inside this idea.

Let's go ahead and bring it back to the present day. I never actually stopped working on content, I've just put all of that time into developing a game of my own design. In that time, I've gone through multiple iterations of a game that has grown far beyond its original aspirations as well as its design as an Ogre Battle TTRPG into something I'm excited to call my own. The project now goes by the name Celestial Solstice and is, more-or-less, done. It's really hard for me to describe the game's focus, but let me try to lay out what makes it special:

A truly balanced pillar trio: The game is built to make every theoretical playstyle a viable path toward advancement. Battle, exploration, and social content all hold the capacity for meaningful advancement.

A game of procedures: Taking a note from the mechanical procedures of older TTRPGs and select board games, Celestial Solstice uses closed, ordered feedback loops to organize the gameplay experience. All three gameplay pillars get their own unique style of play which is supported with character options.

No character limits: There are a massive amount of character options for people who love building characters. A three-tier job system with a total of 6 tier 1 jobs, 12 tier 2 jobs, and 12 tier 3 jobs means you can mix and match to create your own unique class. There are no character levels, and players instead buy character upgrades using EXP they earn for overcoming challenges. These EXP can be used to upgrade attributes, buy new features, and acquire and improve skills.

Gathering & Crafting: A large amount of focus on gone into incorporating gathering of raw materials and the crafting of those raw materials into usable items into the game. Forestry pairs with woodworking, herbalism with alchemy, mining with blacksmithing, and skinning with leatherworking to give players a wide assortment of options whether they want to do some crafting on the side or dedicate their entire character to the concept. There's also a system for enchanting items with magical effects which KINDA counts as crafting, right?

Control an army: The game is designed from the ground up for the recruitment of NPCs as well as the hiring of retainers, mercenaries, and employees. Recruit up to 50 characters which can participate in the game just like PCs do, going on adventures, gaining EXP, and improving over time. There's also a whole player-owned base mechanic which acts as the home for your ever-growing army.

A unique, fast-paced battle system: The battle system is modeled after the unit grid based system found in Ogre Battle 64. Emphasis is placed on battles that resolve quickly to prevent burnout yet allow players to roll lots of dice and make strategic decisions that matter. In this system, strategic unit placement is just as important as good dice rolls.

It's a point crawl system!

Random generation tables EVERYWHERE!

And honestly much more!

This are no plans for this to be a commercial project, at least not any time soon, but with that said it is technically a playable, complete game that is being iterated and improved upon over time. At the end of the day, I'm writing this post as a stupidly long-winded way to ask: Would anyone here be interested in seeing this blog turn into something dedicated to my personal TTRPG system? It's never going to be a 5e blog again, but I'd hate to let it wither away to nothing after such a long history. If so I'll start making posts describing the mechanics of my system and giving behind the scenes looks at how and why some of the design decisions were made, but I understand if people aren't interested in following a project they can't incorporate into the own games. Lemme know, cause I like you guys and would love to share this project that has become so close to me, but I get it, it is what it is lol.

Thanks for reading, and good gaming regardless!

- Forge

[mariacallous]

A couple of years ago, my wife bought my then four-year-old son a supercool set of wooden ramps, which could be combined with our furniture to create courses through which little balls could run. Building the first course was easy, but, as our ambitions grew, the difficulty level rose. Could we make the balls turn corners? What about generating enough momentum for them to go briefly uphill? Would the ottoman support a ramp? What about the piano bench? The variations seemed endless. Two or three times a month for the next two years, we tweaked our techniques or incorporated new elements into complicated routes. By the time my son got bored with the whole exercise, earlier this year, we’d become ramp experts, capable of seeing untapped ramp potential in almost any random object—an old stuffed animal, a dustpan, a strangely shaped cardboard box.

I hadn’t expected to enjoy the ramps so much. But they turned out to be a portal into a special kind of experience, one that involved an exploratory loop of trying, failing, revising, and trying again. This is a special kind of effortful repetition. In many parts of our lives, we repeat ourselves in order to optimize or perfect a task: once, at a corporate-bonding event, I raced a go-kart around a track for fifty laps, gradually refining my racing line so that my times decreased; a couple of mornings a week, my son makes his baby sister a cheese omelette, and each time he strives to produce a more perfect cylinder. That’s repetition as the dogged pursuit of an ideal.

There’s another kind of repetitive activity, though—one that combines loops of repetition with variation to allow for exploration and discovery. It invites us to change our approach in an open-ended way that, over time, deepens our inner resources. If you cook a stew each week, you don’t have to follow a set recipe each time; you can endlessly adjust your ingredients, developing your intuition as a cook and adding pages to your mental recipe book. When you practice a piece of music over and over, you can vary your performance as you go, conjuring new shades of composition and feeling. When you paint a landscape and then repaint it, you can observe how changes in the light reveal new aesthetic opportunities and aspects of nature. In all these cases, repetition doesn’t lead to a single, Platonic end point. Instead, it contributes to an expanding set of possibilities, which reflect your growing consciousness.

There are practical reasons to engage in activities like these. Some of those stews, performances, and landscapes might be transcendent, perhaps in ways you wouldn’t have envisioned. It’s also illuminating to learn, one repetition at a time, that there are various paths to success. After making a lot of tasty vegetarian stews over the years, you become ready to turn whatever’s in your kitchen—beans, tomatoes, that weird vegetable your wife got at the farmers’ market—into a delicious meal for your vegetarian friends. You’ll have mapped what engineers call the “design space”—the set of winning possibilities inherent in your endeavor. This is, broadly speaking, an evolutionary way of working. In evolution by natural selection, each new generation of creature is almost exactly the same as the previous one, but with subtle variations which can turn out to be valuable when the environment shifts. Because the environment is always shifting, no species can ever achieve perfection; instead, it’s variation that insures survival.

Something similar can be true in our individual lives. We’re drawn to activities that invite us to grow, by trying and trying again, because we want to evolve as people. Life is mostly repetitive—wake, eat, work, sleep, repeat—and each day can feel like an unsatisfying circle. But repetition with variation broadens us. It makes our circular days into spiralling journeys. “The spiral is a spiritualized circle,” Vladimir Nabokov wrote, in “Speak, Memory.” “In the spiral form, the circle, uncoiled, has ceased to be vicious; it has been set free.” This way of being, for which we don’t even have a name, is part of what makes us feel that we’re really living our lives instead of just going through the motions.

We’re so used to trying things for ourselves that it seems bizarre to imagine us ever stopping. And yet, more and more, it’s becoming clear that artificial intelligence can relieve us of the burden of trying and trying again. A.I. systems make it trivially easy to take an existing thing and ask for a new iteration. The technology is still developing, and yet already an A.I. can give you a custom recipe based on a photo of what’s in your fridge. Songwriting A.I.s can generate version after version of a new tune; image-creating A.I.s can tweak an image endlessly. Is the automated exploration of alternatives a good substitute for the organic equivalent? Is this kind of variation-creation the same thing as human creativity? These are important questions to ask because, as A.I. grows more powerful, we will be tempted more and more to give up in advance and let it figure things out for us.

People are adopting A.I. at different rates, and so far only some of us have experienced this temptation. Trust me: it creeps up on you. Not long ago, in her weekly newsletter, the owner of my local bookstore wrote about some trees in front of her shop, which the town had cut down; it had promised to plant new ones but hadn’t yet done so. She suggested that we write to our town supervisor to complain. My wife took the relevant bits of the newsletter, pasted them into Claude—the A.I. system offered by the firm Anthropic—and asked it to redraft them as an e-mail to the county. When the result seemed overwrought, she had it rework the e-mail, and then sent it. She got a prompt and courteous reply from the town, promising that the project would soon resume, which it did. A significant amount of mental effort—of writing, and perhaps rewriting—had been rendered unnecessary, to useful effect.

A couple of weeks later, the day before we were supposed to go on vacation, our son got sick. I suspected that he had norovirus, which is like the stomach flu squared. I postponed our flights and asked ChatGPT to tell me about the likely course of the illness, which is highly contagious, as it marauded through our family. OpenAI’s newest model, o3—which some observers have judged as exhibiting artificial general intelligence, or A.G.I., a humanlike level of cognition—explained what was in store with what I can only describe as verve. (Our toddler daughter probably wouldn’t warn us about her own nausea, it warned: “She might be happily toddling along and then suddenly—bam.”) All this was familiar enough—I already knew that A.I. was good at knowledge retrieval. But then the system offered to plan the crisis for me. “If you want, I can help with a survival checklist for handling both kids if she gets sick too—like which cleaning products actually work, or which surfaces are sneakily germy (hello, doorknobs and light switches),” it wrote. “Or a tongue-in-cheek ‘Parent Plague Protocol.’ You need backup, Josh, and I am here for it.” Needless to say, I’ve navigated many family illnesses without the help of A.I. Those experiences have made me a more capable and confident parent. Still, I wondered whether my approach should change.

Thinking takes effort. In a 2024 paper titled “The Unpleasantness of Thinking: A Meta-Analytic Review of the Association Between Mental Effort and Negative Affect,” three psychologists reviewed a hundred and seventy studies conducted in twenty-nine countries and concluded that, for almost everyone everywhere, “mental effort is inherently aversive”—that is, no fun. We might add that redoing one’s mental effort is even less fun. Once you’ve written an e-mail, or coded an app, the last thing you want to do is rewrite or recode it. An A.I., by contrast, can’t feel cognitive discomfort (or anything else); if you ask it to redo its work differently, it will oblige not just instantly and repeatedly but without tiring. Commanding an A.I. to do something only once could even be considered a waste. If you do that, you’re like a Victorian traveller who’s impressed by how effectively a locomotive can carry passengers and hand luggage; you’re missing the fact that it can also ferry many tons of coal and steel. An A.I. can haul a vast cognitive load—instead of asking for simply one recipe, you should ask for ten. The whole painful cycle of trying, failing, revising, judging, and redoing can be replaced with something simpler: plucking the most suitable result out of a pile.

In the physical realm, we’re familiar with the costs of laziness. If you drive everywhere and never walk, if you binge-watch TV shows instead of playing sports, if you get lost in video games instead of going on hikes, then you grow lethargic, unfit, and inflexible. You become less willing to stride to the top of the hill, and more likely to lose your grip on the handrail when you trip on the stairs. We know all this, but we’re lazy anyway, because the technologies that encourage physical inactivity offer so many practical benefits. In the cognitive realm, artificial intelligence is similarly double-edged. The same technology that allows us to skip the unpleasant work of thinking for ourselves can also help us automate the writing of repetitive e-mails and the discovery of new drugs. Tasks that once took hours can be accomplished in minutes; problems can be instantly analyzed; befuddling subjects can be made welcoming through conversation. It may be hard to take advantage of these opportunities without losing the inclination to climb mental hills under our own power.

The gym offers one model for mental effort in the age of A.I. Perhaps we’ll come to see thinking for ourselves as an optional and semi-recreational form of self-improvement, something we choose to do because we want to make our minds stronger. But gym-going has turned out to have advantages and disadvantages. For some people—the super-committed—it can open the door to extreme fitness. But it also produces weekend warriors—muscle-bound bros who can bench their own weight but tweak their backs while collecting toys on the lawn. Intellectual gym-going risks leaving certain mental muscles untrained. Perhaps there are especially unpleasant mental tasks (for example, learning how to adjust and readjust your family’s travel plans when illness strikes) that offer benefits we too readily overlook: the cultivation of patience, the taming of frustration, attention to detail, the calibration of optimism and pessimism.

One of the paradoxes created by physical automation is that people can be physically effective and physically weak at the same time. Even if you’re in bad shape, you can easily transport hundreds of pounds of luggage in your car. Similarly, if A.I. turns out to be as effective as many researchers think it will be, then people who use it well may be able to produce effective intellectual products—reports, experiments, business strategies, and the like—without themselves doing intellectual work. In such a future, how will we gauge our own mental vitality? People who are serious about fitness have all sorts of ways to keep track of their performance: they wear heart-rate monitors, or try to lower their marathon times, or take on new challenges meant to reveal their weak points. We’re not used to scrutinizing our levels of mental engagement that way. We may have to start.

There is, meanwhile, an inner dimension to performing mental tasks for yourself, or deciding not to. Just as physical effort reshapes our bodies, mental effort reshapes our minds and, therefore, our identities and our selves. Consider two cooks. One proceeds in the traditional way, learning how to cook through years of experimentation, ascending from the mastery of individual recipes to a broader and more intuitive feel for how ingredients and techniques go together. The other relies on an A.I. to generate recipes one by one, often based on whatever happens to be on sale or in the fridge. An A.I. can do this successfully because, just like the first human cook, it’s been exposed to countless recipes and used them to develop intuitions about cooking. It, too, has ascended, through a training process, from particulars to generalities. In contrast, the second human cook never has to develop those intuitions; he stays at the level of individual recipes. Of the three chefs—the first cook, the second cook, and the A.I.—he is actually the least well trained.

Does this mean that the second cook is different, as a person, from the first cook? Certainly, his mind, his capabilities, and his story are different. The way in which he makes choices is different—it’s one thing when a masterly cook makes you a meal based on a recipe that he treasures after a lifetime of cooking, and another when someone uses a recipe an A.I. has chosen. And we might say that, to some degree, his character is different. The second cook might make a good dinner, but he’s not someone who has tried to learn to cook, failed, and eventually succeeded. He hasn’t really lived life as a cook; he’s just going through the motions.

Suppose the differences between these two cooks were repeated in many domains of intellectual labor. Imagine, as an extreme case, two individuals, one of whom attempts to solve problems by herself, and the other of whom often enlists the help of an A.I. when mental labor is required. They would be quite different people. One would be a thinker, the other a consumer. One would have a mind shaped by learning; the other, a mind shaped by preferences. One would have a wide range of evolved, adaptable, internalized competencies; the other, a sense of what to ask for. In real life, of course, these won’t be two separate people: they’ll be two potentialities within each of us. In how much of our thinking lives will we be passengers, rather than pilots?

In theory, there’s a third possibility. Observers of A.I. have long noted the existence of “centaurs”—human experts who push their efforts further with the help of computers. Maybe, for example, the first, well-trained cook could use an A.I. to come up with even more inventive recipes. But this optimistic scenario presupposes the continued existence of well-trained cooks. It’s reasonable to ask whether, as A.I. proliferates, many people won’t begin to question the value of training their own minds when computers are already so well trained. And it’s also unclear how intellectual passivity in some domains might affect our performance in others. In my life, I’ve given two best-man speeches; at the time I gave them, I was nervous (who wouldn’t be?). If A.I. had existed then, I might have at least considered asking for its help. Let’s say I resisted the temptation—but let’s also imagine that I had already employed A.I. extensively on other kinds of writing, using it to compose my e-mails and craft my presentations. Would I still have been able to write the speeches that I ended up writing? Or would my over-all capability as a writer have stagnated or declined?

It feels strange to imagine that, someday soon, we might need to start reminding ourselves to think. But that’s what artificial intelligence does—it thinks—and, in many contexts, promises to do the thinking for us. In a world saturated with technology, we already have to remind ourselves to put down our phones; to go outside; to see friends in person; to go places instead of staring at them on our screens; to have non-technological experiences, such as boredom. If we’re not careful, then our minds will do less as computers do more, and we will be diminished as a result.