#i'm aware that that's a problem and a half
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Oh, to be trapped with Dante
Pairing: Dante x fem!reader
Word Count: 1,3k
Synopsis: What's worse than getting trapped with Dante? Getting trapped with a stripping Dante.
Warnings: this is hilarious and fluffy at the same time, I'm still begging for Dante requests so get in my inbox if you have one, hope you like it @veijdana
You’re not sure what sets it off.
Maybe it’s the faulty lock. Maybe the door was always a little off its axes. Maybe the universe just has a sick sense of humour when it comes to you and that guy.
What you do know for sure is this: the door slams shut, there’s a sharp click, and no amount of jiggling the handle is getting you out of this storage room-slash-death trap. No windows, no signal, and the only light is from a flickering overhead bulb that looks like it could give up at any moment.
Perfect.
So much to being the greatest demon hunters of them all.
You turn slowly to Dante, who’s lounging against a metal shelf stacked with boxes labeled “Supplies” like this is nothing. Like he didn’t just help trap you both in a glorified closet with a single bottle of water and a half-eaten protein bar. Like he did something except for watching you struggle with that heavy ass door.
He raises an eyebrow.
“Problem?”
“The door’s locked.”
“I noticed,” he replies, utterly unbothered.
“Dante.”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
You cross your arms in front of your chest, barely able to hold it together any longer.
“Please don’t call me that right now.”
“Noted,” he declares, in a tone that means absolutely not noted.
He strolls over, casually tests the door for himself, then shrugs.
“Yeah. We’re stuck.”
“No kidding.”
“I guess we’ll just have to wait until someone finds us.”
“Which could be hours. Or days.”
He grins, shameless.
“Even better.”
You sit down hard the cold ground. It creaks threateningly, but you’re too irritated to care. He paces once, twice, then flops down across from you like this is a vacation, arms behind his head, one leg draped over the other ready to sunbathe.
Except this isn’t Miami beach but a mouse trap.
“Are you always this calm when you’re locked in small spaces with people you annoy for fun?” you question innocently.
“Only when it’s you.”
You narrow your eyes, gaze spitting thick venom at him.
“Do you actually enjoy pushing my buttons this much, or is it just some kind of defense mechanism?”
“Little column A, little column B,” he thinks out loud, flashing you a lazy smile.
“But if we’re being honest… you're kind of cute when you’re mad.”
You throw a balled-up wrapper at him. He ducks it easily, still smirking.
The minutes stretch. Then an hour. The silence tries to creep in, but Dante won’t let it. He talks. About nonsense. Old missions, weird dreams, things he overheard once that he probably wasn’t supposed to. You try not to laugh. You really try.
Eventually, you’re sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, legs stretched out, head tilted toward him without meaning to. He’s closer now, somehow. At some point. The distance between you shrunk while you weren’t paying attention.
“I think you like being trapped with me,” he mutters, voice quieter now.
Less teasing, if that’s somehow possible.
“You haven’t told me to shut up in, like, ten whole minutes.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.
“That’s because I’ve accepted my fate. Resistance is clearly useless. And somehow I get the feeling it turns you on even more.”
“Exactly. Might as well enjoy yourself.”
He bumps your knee with his. You don’t move away. No, somehow, this faint touch has a comfort to it, a warmth you haven’t felt for quite some time by now.
The silence now is different. Thicker. Weighted. Like you’re both suddenly aware of how still everything is. How alone. It’s just you and him. You and the walking sex symbol itself Dante.
Your voice comes out softer than you mean it to.
“This is the part where you make some dumb joke about body heat, isn’t it?”
He chuckles, low.
“Tempting. But no. Not yet.”
You glance at him.
“Yet?”
He shrugs.
“I’m giving you a few more hours before I wear down your defenses. I’m not a complete monster.”
You shake your head, lips twitching despite yourself.
Another stretch of silence. Then:
“You ever think about it?” he asks suddenly.
You blink, caught off guard by that strange and unexpected question.
“About what?”
“Us. Like - if this whole ridiculous situation wasn’t so ridiculous. If it was… different.”
Your stomach does something complicated. You turn your head to look at him, your palms starting to get sweaty. Why do you always feel like this when he’s around?
He’s watching you, eyes dark and serious for once. No smirk. No teasing.
“Yeah. Sometimes,” you admit quietly.
A beat.
“I like the idea,” he confesses.
You nod.
“Me too.”
He shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours now, solid and warm and real. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
“Still not sharing my blanket, though.”
You snort.
“I’m not cold.”
“Yet.”
You laugh. And this time, you let your head rest against his shoulder. Just a little.
Just enough.
Bonus:
You're curled on one side of the room, using your jacket as a pillow. Dante's a few feet away, stretched out like he owns the floor, arms folded behind his head. The silence has gone companionable, easy. You almost forget where you are.
Until he moves.
You hear the rustle of fabric first. Then the unmistakable sound of a zipper.
You lift your head, every single alarm going off inside your head. No, he isn’t about to strip…Is he?
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready to sleep,” he remarks like it’s obvious.
Which it isn’t.
At all.
Because his shirt is coming off, and now he’s unbuttoning his pants in the dim light of the room, clearly visible to your accustomed to dark gaze.
“Dante-”
“What?” he interrupts, glancing at you over his shoulder.
“I always sleep naked.”
You sit up straighter, just the thought of seeing him naked, let alone shirtless...
“You are not - you can’t just strip.”
He shrugs, already stepping out of his jeans like this is just another Tuesday with a pizza waiting on his desk for him.
“It helps with thermoregulation. Look it up.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, turning away.
“You’re the worst.”
“You say that, but you’re not telling me to stop.”
You don’t. You don’t want to. Which is the worst part.
He stretches out again, now under the thin blanket you both agreed to not share (but he’s already claimed half of), bare chest barely hidden in the dark, a picture of shameless comfort.
You try not to look. You try.
He catches you anyway.
“See something you like?”
“See something I want to throw a box at.”
He laughs - low, satisfied, like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.
“Relax. It’s not like I’m gonna pounce on you.”
“You better not.”
“Unless you ask nicely.”
You grab your jacket and hurl it at his face. He catches it one-handed, grinning like he’s thriving on your outrage.
“Goodnight, Dante.”
“Sweet dreams, sweetheart.”
You lie back, trying to will your pulse to settle. But you can still hear him breathing across the room, steady and slow, and you swear you feel the heat from him bleeding across the short distance between you.
The night settles heavy. And you're very aware you’re trapped with a half-naked Dante, no door, no escape, and a dangerous lack of personal space.
Sleep is going to be impossible.
And you think he knows it.
“I still feel you staring-“
“Shut the hell up, Dante.”

#devil may cry#dmc#dante#dante dmc#dante x reader#dmc x reader#dmc fanfic#dante fanfic#dante x you#reader insert#self insert#banter#slow burn (but like emotionally)#dante is a menace#soft dante if you squint#dmc5#dmc5 dante#fanfiction#dante fluff#dante thirst#dante sparda#dante devil may cry#dmc netflix#dmc dante#sparda#devil may cry netflix#dante lcb
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AU where none of the JL know about the batkids for a while. But they recently have found out that Bruce Wayne is the batman. So honestly... none of them are that surpised when they realise just how many batkids there are because ... Bruce Wayne gets around yk? Might have been cruel of him to force all his kids to be vigilantes with him but it's the Batman what are u going to do?
The batkids realise that the JL thinks they are all Bruce Wayne's bastard (/polite) children. And all of them (except Damien) are so happy to play along with it
Dick: *casually walking into a JL meeting with a sword impaled into him* Bruce, Damien is trying to kill me for the inheritance!
Bruce: ... medbay. Now.
Jason answering some of the question the JL had about them: yeah so he just hides us until he gets annoyed enough with the current Robin. Then he kicks them out and starts over with the younger sibling. *everyone turns to look at Batman in horror*
Bruce: That's not -
Jason: and he only acknowledges you as his child again after you do something impressive enough. ... it took me becoming a crime lord for him to un-disinherit me.. :(
Bruce: No-
Jason: Why else do u think i have a grave at Wayne Manor? He said I was dead to him until I buck up.. :'(
Bruce: *walking away. Cannot handle this.*
Steph: Oh why do we all look so different? Did you really think Brucie would limit himself to a single type??
JL: ... checks out. Yeah
JL: *getting very concerned now* Hey kid, so.. Where's ur mom *surely she will be the safer choice*
Tim: Dead. *walks away no explanation*
JL: *are all their mothers? Does Batman? ... are we ok with teaming up with a mom murderer just because he's smarter than us?*
JL: *still not fully convinced. walking up to Oracle doing cool Oracle tingz (also slightly illegal tingz, so she's slightly worried they're here to tell her to stop)* ... so Batman's not ur dad right?
Barbara: *fully aware of where this is going and finds it hilarious so just for the jokes says:* yes he is.
JL: but we thought-
Barbara: *who was the one to teach Dick to be the absolute Drama Queen he is, has tears welling up in her eyes at will, sniffling* why would you say he isn't? You think just because I was never a Robin he doesn't want me as much-
JL: No no *oh god they made Batman's kid cry* But ur last name is Gordon?! As in Commissioner Gordon??
Barbara: .. yeah? He's also my dad? You got a problem with that? ... I'm gonna tell Bruce. Rainbow Batman is gonna kick ur ass. *switches on comms with Batman who is fighting an alien rn* Bruce, you've got to hear what ur friends are saying
Cass: ... *wants to be a part of the joke but the JL is still too afraid of her to approach her*
JL: ...
Cass: *walks up to them* Batman is not dad.
JL: oh?
Cass: He's mom. *walks away. High fives Tim*
JL: *Trying their luck again because one of these kids has to have a mom right?* Hey kid, so is ur mom still u know..
Duke:...
JL: is she still alive?
Duke: yeah of course she's alive
JL: *collective sigh of relief* oh so where is she?
Duke: in a mental asylum. *walks away*
...
Finally, they have to come clean when someone in the JL sees DickxBabs or StephxCass PDA (well it probably wasn't meant to be public) and freaks out because that's your half-sibling!?!
...
JL: So Robin, what happened to ur parents to make Bruce adopt u?Damien: he didn't have to. *kind of smug* I am his blood son
JL: oh cmon kid, they already told us about the joke ok? U don't have keep it up
Damien: Wha- No, I'm not lying!! They were but I'm not! I am a Wayne!JL: .. sure kid sure..
Also yes in this hc it's all of the JL just going as group from one kid to the next trying to figure this shit out
#batman#bruce wayne#batfam#dc comics#jason todd#red hood#batdad#nightwing#dick grayson#tim drake#red robin#stephanie brown#spoiler dc#oracle dc#barbara gordon#cassandra cain#orphan dc#damien wayne#dc robin#messing with the justice league is a batfamily hobby#getting to mess with the justice league and annoy bruce at the same time is a dream come true
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Ciel: Tonight's date was... *Blushing* Adequate... I wasn't aware you had such talents.
Jaune: *smiling* Hey, don't sweat it. *Scratch the back of his head* I'm just glad you liked what i made, even if it wasn't the fanciest food ever.
Penny: *sigh dejectedly* I could almost TASTE the food with how good it was looking... Damn this robotic body of mine!
Jaune: *wince* Sorry about that, next time we'll do something we can all enjoy. *Look at Ciel* Right?
Ciel: *pensive* Perhaps a movie?
Jaune: *nod* That sounds good to me! *slap his knee* Welp, i 'spose i should be going now. *Chuckle* Can't be late for training now, can i?
Penny: *smiling, locking the door* I'm sorry Jaune, i'm afraid i can't let you do that.
Jaune: *frown* What's the problem?
Penny: *walking towards him, still smiling innocently* I think you know what the problem is just as well as we do...
Jaune: *confused* What are you talking about, Penny?
Penny: *sitting next to him on the couch, leaning against him while Ciel does the same* We can't let you go without a token of our appreciation, Jaune.
Jaune: *still confused* Token of appreciation? I don't know what you are talking about, but-
Ciel: *turning Jaune's head towards her, kissing him*
Jaune: ?!?
Penny: *does the same*
Jaune: ?!?!
Ciel: *whisper sensually in his ear* Don't worry about your team, i already warned them of your absence.
Penny: *slowly sliding her hand from his chest towards his lower half* And there's no school tomorrow~
Jaune: *gulp* Isn't this a bit fast? This was only our second rendezvous! *Looking at Ciel* Didn't you wished to wait until the third?
Ciel: *chuckle* I think i can overlook protocol, *wink* but just this once~
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comforting him
helping him feel better when life gets hard
(there's so many lovely ideas of how the guys make MC/us feel better when things are hard or when we're not feeling well, but what about them?)
soundtrack ref: not alone and a little bit of leave a light on
Zayne | Caleb | Rafayel | Xavier | Sylus
🩵☃️ ZAYNE ☃️🩵
He'd been on his feet for so, very long. At least two days, maybe more. Taking little cat naps in his office, ready to jump up whenever his pager would go off. A surgery here, scheduled appointments there, emergency ICU visits in between; patients of all ages and demographics. Being the skilled doctor that he was, he was usually prepared for whatever patients came his way. Yet, even doctors have their breaking point.
He was beginning to feel the exhaustion catch up to him, and it had felt like age since he'd seen his dearest fiancé; he was missing her terribly when he was called to look in on a patient that had been brought in earlier. It was a young woman who couldn't have been much older than her. She had a history of seizures and so many other health problems that had gone unattended. Lack of insurance and other resources was the reason why she hadn't gotten the help she needed. It all just cost too much. She couldn't even afford the daily medication she needed.
It all happened so fast. He was assisting in watching over her when suddenly a seizure wracked her body. Everybody moved to action, back up was called, and the needed equipment was rushed in, but it was too little too late. The monitor by her bed gave off one long beep, indicating that her heart had given out. Zayne tried his utmost to resuscitate her, but not even his skilled hands could bring her back. She was gone.
"We did everything we could," he heard one of the other doctors say quietly as the staff proceeded with the steps required in handling a patient who had ceased to breathe. The words may have seemed cold and unfeeling, but it was a well-known fact that if they were to blame themselves for every death that occurred, it would be too hard to continue in this field. Zayne knew this as well. Everyone was devoted to their work and did the utmost every day to help care for and protect the patients at Akso Hospital.
Taking a deep breath, he tried his best to continue on with the rest of his day. He returned to his office, but didn't take a break. He worked on his charting. Then he got up to do some routine rounding. Anything to keep his mind working and not dwell on the life he couldn't save.
It was late at night when Zayne finally took a moment to take a breather. Most of the daytime staff was gone at this point; the night shifts beginning. There were no patients in critical condition that needed monitoring that night. It was almost half past midnight, and Zayne was finally free to go home.
Greyson found him in his office leaning against his desk with a can of milk tea in hand. Adjusting his glasses slightly, he quietly approached his associate.
"It's getting late. You heading home soon?"
"Yes." After a moment, he spoke again. "Do you... Are you aware of the arrangements that were made for the patient in room C5?"
Greyson took a deep breath. "As far as I know, the local funeral home has been contacted. They're sending the death certificate to be signed off by the PCP."
"I see." Zayne let out a deep breath of his own. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, a common sign of exhaustion. He was beginning to feel a headache coming on.
A comforting hand was placed on his shoulder. Greyson squeezed it gently. The two of them stayed like that for a moment before Greyson let out a sigh.
"All right, I'm heading out. Take care going home, Doctor Zayne," were his kind words.
"Thank you, Doctor Greyson. I'll see you tomorrow."
Greyson smiled and made his way out of the hospital. As he pulled out his keys he let out another deep sigh. Getting into his car, he sat there for a moment, staring at nothing, just feeling so tired and a little overwhelmed. No matter how long one worked in this field, a patient death could still be hard. He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, shoulders sagging.
A sudden knock on his window startled him out of his stupor. He blinked at the sight of nurse Yvonne peering at him from outside. Greyson quickly opened the door to step out and face her.
"Yvonne? What's wrong?"
"Nothing! I was just on my way home and saw you sitting here." She hesitated and studied him for a moment.
He sheepishly smiled. "Yeah, I'm just going home myself."
"You know," Yvonne quickly spoke up, "I wasn't really able to each much today. Was thinking of stopping by the late night noodle place for a quick snack."
Greyson couldn't help but smile. "Need a ride?"
She smiled back, looking relieved. "Yes, I do. And maybe a drinking buddy too."
His spirits feeling a tad bit lighter, the young doctor laughed softly. "That can be arranged," he said as he opened the passenger door for her.
While the two of them went to go vent their emotions out over some ramen, gyoza and some beer, Zayne quietly made his way home, driving carefully in the dark night. He had texted his fiancé earlier to let her know he was finally coming home and wondered if she would still be awake at this hour. Maybe she'd already be asleep. He hoped so. He always felt a twinge of guilt when she stayed up late for him, thought it also made him secretly happy.
The house was quiet, with most of the lights turned off, save for a lamp in the living room. Zayne removed his coat and decided to get a glass of water from the kitchen. Usually, he would head to bed right away when coming home this late, especially after a long day, but tonight he was almost hesitant to go to bed. He felt restless, his mind still a flurry of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He couldn't get that poor woman out of his mind.
He sat on the couch and considered grabbing his laptop from the study to do some more work. Anything to keep his mind busy.
"Zayne?"
His eyes widened and he turned his head to see her, his lovely fiancé, standing nearby. The light from the bedroom lamp shone on her from behind, illuminating her hair in what looked like a halo. After going two days without seeing her, to Zayne, it was like he was being blessed with the presence of an angel.
A tired, but happy smile came over his face. "Hello, my love. Why are you still up?"
She smiled back. "I wanted to stay up until you got home, so I've been reading in bed. We haven't been able to see each other lately."
He stared at her for a moment and then looked away. All of a sudden, a surge of emotions came over him. It wasn't normal for him to have such a strong reaction, but he was so tired. He'd been on his feet for so long, so many hours and he had a headache. He'd seen and spoken to so many people and still had the death of the young woman fresh on his mind. He swallowed thickly and heaved a shuddering sigh.
"Zayne?" Her voice was filled with concern, and she quickly approached him. Sitting down on the couch beside him, she placed a hand on his shoulder.
Shame came over him. Here he was, getting emotional and making her worry after not seeing him for days.
"Forgive me, I don't know why I..." He took another shaking breath and passed a hand over his weary eyes.
She immediately nestled closer to him, rubbing his back and taking hold of his hand, squeezing it gently.
"No, no, sweetie. You don't need to be sorry. You did nothing wrong," she said in a hushed voice.
He turned to her and leaned closer, which immediately made her guide his head to rest on her shoulder.
"What's wrong? You can tell me anything, you know that. Did something happen?"
"I don't know... I suppose I'm just exhausted. I'm a physician; a cardiac surgeon. It's not uncommon to have patients pass away in the hospital, but..."
He hesitated. She could tell he was afraid to tell her what was on his mind. She stroked his hair and kissed his cheek.
"But what? You can tell me."
He was quiet for a moment more before wrapping his arms around her.
"One of the patients... was a young woman about your age... She had a history of health problems and lacked the resources for proper medical care. We did what we could but ultimately..."
He had to stop talking for a minute. His hold on her tightened.
"I couldn't save her. And I can't help but wonder, where did I go wrong? Could I have done more? I don't know why these thoughts keep coming. I've dealt with this before. I just... I don't..."
"Oh, Zayne." He heard his beloved's soft voice surround him as she hugged him tighter.
"Even if you're a doctor who's worked years and years, who's treated hundreds of people, I'm sure that's a perfectly natural reaction. You have such a big heart for people. You care so much. If you didn't, you wouldn't be as good of a doctor as you are."
He listened to her words quietly. Then he spoke in a whisper,
"I think part of it was due to my wondering, what if it had been you? What if you fall sick one day and I can't save you? There are times when that thought comes to me, and it terrifies me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she gently lifted his head so he was looking at her. His hazel eyes were glassy, as if holding back tears.
"I don't know what the future holds, my love. All we can do is live in the moment and pray for a long, happy life together. What matters most is that right here, right now, I am with you. And I love you."
That caused him to smile ever-so-slightly. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly. It looked like he was starting to calm down. Then he leaned in to kiss her softly.
"Thank you, darling. I love you too."
#lads#love and deepspace#lnds#writings#lads zayne#lnds Zayne#love and deepspace Zayne#zayne x mc#lads Mc#lnds mc#love and deepspace Mc
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lineup fer an AU I've been slowly rotating in my head for a month or so.... sniles....
[BETTER LINEUP & FULL AU EXPLANATION HERE !!!!]
#SNILES EVILLY. I will post more about this au. I promise. Maybe moreso on my main. Maybe I should just make a HL sideblog.#Whatever. YÆY#Benry Forzen & Sunkist are all ghosts. I'm not sure about. Gman? I cannae decide whether I want him 2 be a ghost or smth else.#I still can't believe I made a lineup for an AU before an actual hlvrai lineup. What's my fucking problem#hlvrai#hlvrai au#gordon#tommy coolatta#dr coomer#Dr bubby#Darnold#Benry#Benrey#Forzen#Sunkist#Fucking hell#the science team#tommy hlvrai#gordon hlvrai#dr coomer hlvrai#Bubby hlvrai#benrey hlvrai#benry hlvrai#darnold hlvrai#forzen hlvrai#half life vr but the ai is self aware#half life vr ai#Ghostbusters#Ghostbusters au#sunkist hlvrai
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#talking#every time i'm like yay i'm up to date on replying to comments#i remember that. no i am not#because there are. several hundred? from 2020ish#that i read all the time and treasure so much and also didn't respond to#because i got overwhelmed#this is a very privileged problem to have i am aware#so when i started posting for persona i decided to just respond to those comments and start fresh#but now that i'm posting bnha again...do i respond to only comments on the new fics? (weird)#respond only to new comments on any fic (less weird but i hate that big gap. feels rude to all the people i left out)#catch up and jumpscare people by thanking them almost half a fucking decade later (so weird)#respond to nothing and go live in the woods (tempting)#anyway i wrote 6.5k today and now my brain is soup
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the middle school principal wants to hire me in a full-time position so bad.
and who can blame him? i'm that substitute 💅
#he outright asked me today if i'd be interested in being a para and i told him i'm taking in-person classes right now for school#on tuesdays and thursdays so i can't do that#it's certainly something i have in my mind as a possibility#and frankly. i LIKE school like i like taking classes but in a very real sense. i prefer working#i'm a lot more comfortable working as a sub now than i was a year/year and a half ago#even on days where i get tossed around a lot like today it's like yeah whatever. i can adapt#especially if it's at the middle school as opposed to the high school#the high school... it sucks. in some ways. i don't hate going there but the admin is.... eeeugh#actually the whole district admin has some problems but the middle school admin is very bearable#tales from diana#i do turn 26 this year though and i'm gonna need health insurance. i've been very aware of that too in the time i've been subbing#yeah i like taking classes it's just hard to explain why i'm not like in the swing of things#ive never worked this many hours while taking in-person classes before at the same time#and the days i sub i have to get up earlier which is a bitch but it's so. like. yeah whatever i can do that#the largesse of a college campus is so strange to me after having taken a 2-year pause in my education#not to mention the commute which is long on both sides of the day#i dont actually wake up THAT much earlier to go to my class it's only like 90 minutes extra sleep anyway#when i sub i'm almost immediately *doing something* in my day. college is a lot of wandering and waiting around#the lack of business that i feel compared to being in a public middle or high school makes the day somehow no less weary for me#i hope i get more used to it i guess#i'm still not used to my new 5-day schedule of babysitting/class/subbing/class/subbing#every friday no longer feels like a friday and it's super odd to me#like it's delightful to be reminded that it's friday but i don't feel at all like it's even been 1 week#idk. yeah. everything's different now
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have you watched star trek tng
No :')
And it's not because i don't want to or I think I won't like it or anything, it's just so long. 7 seasons (178 episodes, ≈130 hours). The longest series I've watched was star trek tos (79 episodes, ≈66 hours).
I'm just not made for long series. I tend to want to watch everything as quickly as possible because I'll lose interest if I can't interact with the fandom. And interacting with the fandom = spoilers.
#that's literally a me problem I'm aware but what can I do#I really struggled with Merlin too (65 episodes)#the only reason I managed my tos full rewatch was because I've seen half of the episodes before and I didn't have to pay that much attentio#to the ones I've seen#Hopefully one day in the future I'll have enough free time to actually watch tng#did you know I usually spend more that 2 hours drawing everyday if I can help it? usually at night. after midnight. it's more quiet#ask#anonymous#star trek#star trek tng#star trek the next generation#not art#text#also unfortunately I can't just sit through more than one episodes without having a break#so yeah#time flies#I've actually only ever watched tos and tas (and the tos +aos movies minus the last tos movie...)#also let's keep in mind these episodes are long too. almost an hour long. that's all
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#so that dotd rewrite is out and i have some thoughts on it but i wouldn't know where to put them.. maybe in here bc i don't actually feel -#- like making a whole ass text post. this is coming from me as criticism and not hate.. just some crit from one fan to another if you get m#SPOILERS AHEAD >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>#first off props to the team because this was obv a labor of love - 4 and a half years to make a feature long fan movie is hard work#and the animated stuff was a really nice touch and very commendable - you don't see them too often in big fanworks#in terms of the story well.. there are some things i like and some things that i don't (personally) again no hate#i'm aware this is a rewrite and boy howdy it IS a rewrite - though i am a bit sad that percy doesn't end up being the protagonist and it's#- thomas that has to play hero again.. like i kinda get it but what made the original dotd stand out was that percy was given the spotlight#so i spent an ungodly amount of time wondering when percy was gonna take charge or step into the main story to resolve the problem.. sigh#i liked that they tried to give norman more of a character bc a lot of characters do often get neglected in the series but it was kind of -#- hard to sell that for me? the twist in this rewrite was very creative and i do appreciate it but i guess it just ain't for me#“different” is ok and this is just one of many fan rewrites for this particular story#if there was something i enjoyed.. i guess the beginning was still kind of exciting because the set up was honestly like hype a bit#i liked that diesel and d10 actually got to interact face to face and there are clearer dynamics established for the diesels#and also. silverband's performances as d10 will always be fun he does a fantastic job voicing him (how d10 stole xmas will still be my fav)#my criticisms for this movie also derive from the pacing and the voice acting - i found it hard to try and understand tones sometimes -#- because the delivery felt so off.. like don't get me wrong not everyone in the fandom is a voice actor but if we're using static faces -#- for these fan works the delivery has to be a little more clear or else it'll sound like you're reading from a script.. sorry yall :"|#for the pacing i found it a bit hard to parse when some things were going on and how fast things were progressing#as well as the crashes.. that's also another thing bc i couldn't tell bc of the sfx and audio balancing - it could be better..#i wanna say. muffled voices do not substitute for a “far away”/off-screen voice bc i still can't hear it :“|#there were a lot of throwbacks and references to older thomas media/movies but some of them felt a little.. much?#if this is a dotd rewrite why are we getting some parallels with tatmr.. but i digress. at least they made diesel beef with duck a bit#there's a lot more i could say but i'm keeping those to myself. at the end of the day this fan movie was hard work for everyone involved#and you can tell some of the folks were having fun in there - props to them! i'm always glad to see more fan works in the community#we've come so far we're making feature length fan stories and rewrites that's crazy! i hope to see more in the future#fauxtrainpost.txt
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look all i'm saying is there are advantages to being the person who has to google "php check if string contains substring" almost every time (while vaguely remembering that the answer is stupid but not what that stupid answer IS)
& one of those advantages is that sometimes it leads to you discovering that php8 actually invented a "str_contains" function when you weren't looking, which is SO MUCH LESS STUPID than using strpos was!
& see if i'd just REMEMBERED about strpos i would not have looked it up & learned about the new better way!
so tl;dr my being a worse programmer actually makes me a better programmer shut up losers i win.
#data structures for assholes#still wishing there was such thing as Code Boot Camp For People Who Learned Shit On The Fly And Kinda Skipped The Basics#or as i tend to describe myself “i write very bad code at a very high level”#one of these 2 current Big Projects is a plugin that when i started it i realized it was legit too complicated to do without OOP#i've been skating by on procedural php not writing any classes whatsoever for like. eight years.#(always on some level aware that This Would Eventually Be a Problem For Me)#AND LO THE DAY OF RECKONING HAS ARRIVED#PROBABLY I HAVE BEEN DOING IT WRONG & WILL SOMEDAY CRINGE AT HALF THE CHOICES I'M MAKING HERE#BUT IT IS DOING THE THINGS
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So, having given up on the book that was vexing me a couple days ago I'm now reading Unmask Alice and it's killing meeeee
Things I knew: Go Ask Alice is not a real diary; subsequent anonymous diaries were also super fake; it's not even an especially good fake if you are not a suburban parent in the 70s who has never encountered The Drugs; there was some deeply hinky stuff going on with the author's subsequent fake diaries
Things I didn't know: Beatrice Sparks was Mormon. She grew up in Logan. She lived in Provo at the time she wrote the diaries
This book literally opens with "I know we're all used to being able to look up what we're doing to find out where it's going but I think you'll have a better time if you don't."
I have not obeyed this directive. I know this guy doesn't have the information I need. He isn't going to bother to tell me the name of the restaurant in Logan she worked at as a teen. He isn't going to tell me where in Provo her house was. He won't bother with whether her and her husband were eventually sealed in the temple in their lifetime, or if they were just kinda passively next to the church but not doing much about it
I went on familysearch trying to find this information. I went DEEP. I also FAILED. but. all attempts to search HER got me a 404 error. Searching her mother and getting to her page via the family tab DID work. which is all very suspicious to me...
#books#ink post#church#also there's a hysterical footnote about official names common shortenings etc#ft. the church doesn't want to use mormon but there's too much lsd in this book to go with lds sorry if that's offensive#and like. oh buddy. we ALSO don't care that mormon is attempting to be inexplicably phased out#he also refers to provo/utah county as the fraud capital of the us#and i'm not clear on where the numbers he uses came from. gonna have to see if theres a bibliography#and i'm not saying he's wrong. i'm well aware that mlms and affinity fraud are a HUGE problem in utah more generally#like my mom has friends with a dad who went to federal prison for it#but having it laid out like that is half incredibly funny and half like ooohhhh noooooo bc the actual hard numbers don't get brought up#even if you're talking about it. so that's also an Experience
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My ankle journey
I am sharing this with all you good people on the dash because I am so fucking mad it took so long for me to learn it and if I can spare one (1) person the agony it will be worth it.
So for like...oh, 8 or 9 months, I've been struggling with pain/inflammation/tendinitis in my left Achilles tendon. I don't know what caused it. It just started up (welcome to middle age, this shit happens). It wasn't severe enough to be debilitating, but it was annoying and limiting. It was also intermittent, in that some days it would be very painful and other days hardly at all. The kind of shoe I was wearing affected it a lot.
Now, I have bone spurs on both heels (it's just a thing that happens as you get older sometimes). I'm also aware that heel pain is usually the result of tight calf muscles that pull and irritate the tendon. I tried stretching that calf muscle. You know the stretch, this bitch right here:
I did it all the time. I also iced the ankle after walking for awhile, hoping to avoid inflammation. Results were...unsatisfying.
I went to:
A chiropractor
A podiatrist
A physical therapist
A bodywork coach
They all gave me some variation on the "strengthen your calf muscle, stretch your calf muscle" advice. I continued doing this without results.
I was getting frustrated, and a little afraid that this was just my life now. Finally, I thought...maybe some targeted massage might help. I asked for rec on a local FB site and was pointed to a woman who specializes in therapeutic massage including cupping, etc.
I went to her a week ago.
She spent over half our first session working on my left lower leg. Within about 10 minutes of making my eyes water, she uttered the sentence I did not know I had been waiting to hear:
"Oh, it's your soleus."
Excuse me, what?
"It's your soleus that's the culprit. It's all tied up and stiff." She started digging into it and I felt literal sparks run up my leg as she released adhesions and got the muscle moving a little. When she finally put the leg down, it felt like it was on fire with all the blood rushing into it.
She said, "You'll need to stretch your soleus. It'll clear up, but it'll take a bit of time - tendons take ages to heal."
But I HAVE been stretching.
"No, you haven't. The usual straight-leg calf stretch only stretches the gastrocnemius, that's the big belly muscle in your calf. That's not your problem. That stretch doesn't stretch the soleus. Don't worry, I'll show you how to stretch it."
My mind is spinning.
So here are the muscles in question:
The gastroc (as the pros call it) just attaches down the back but the soleus runs underneath it from the knee around the side to the heel. The lower part above the ankle is where it typically gets tight and forms adhesions.
To stretch it, you do the same calf thing where you put your foot back and press your heel to the ground, but you have to do it with your KNEE BENT:
The bent knee keeps the gastroc from engaging. It's one of those selfish muscles (like traps) - if you give it an inch, it'll just take over and prevent other muscles from working or stretching. There are other ways to stretch the soleus but this is the easiest and you can literally do it anywhere. I've been doing it while standing and waiting for things (the elevator to come, the toast to toast). You just put the heel back and bend the knee. It's kind of like curtseying.
The minute I did this stretch, I could FEEL where it was pulling on my tendon. I knew that THIS had been the problem.
The massage therapist also told me to stop icing my heel. She said icing is for an acute injury, but a more chronic aggravation needs heat, to increase blood flow for healing. She recommended elevation with heat every day (I've been doing it in bed during "phone before bed" time).
I have been doing the soleus stretch at least half a dozen times a day for almost a week, and the ankle is at least 70% better. It is still a little tight and tender, but the improvement is significant. I think a few more weeks will have it feeling normal.
I am...blown away by this. This massage therapist was able to pinpoint an issue in only a few minutes that eluded all the other professionals I saw. I can't wait to go back to her and have her solve all my other problems, tbh.
#massage therapy#soleus muscle#achilles tendon#bodywork#i am so mad i didn't go to her last winter#why did nobody else tell me this#physical therapy
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miss "people are so nice here" has aggressively refused to clean up after herself or anyone for years, doesn't say thank you at being helped whatsoever and has sworn at my parents at the slightest instance, appears to have the worst victim complex known to man and claimed she is being constantly guilt tripped to do anything; sis, it's supposed to be a goddamn fucking two way street here
#where be the self awareness sis#what about YOU#vent#rant#personal#man i was just trying to help her#and i get this shit in return???#the level of sympathy i extended to her#and the instance i try and be my authentic self#she behaves as if anything i ever did meant nothing to help her#and am i supposed to be fucking grateful here??#listen to her smear an entire fucking community as a cishet white girl???#i mean that's the impression i've got from her#even if she somehow changes everything#and cleans up her messes both figuratively and literally#and actually figures out she's the problem about people not wanting to associate with her#trying to contact her and reach out to her#will be a monumentus effort#it's been 2 and a half years#and i STILL cannot convince myself to just send a small text#she only talks to our mother#i'm losing my sister i can't lose her#she's been taken in by the worst people in a time of trauma#i'm so fucking angry and upset#why can't she just understand and get help???
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Feeling absolutely terrible, I think I could feel better if I cried, but I can't even do that. That's great 👍
#there's something deeply off about the chemical balance in my brain#I think if I actually did things I would feel better but almost everything feels pretty much pointless and meaningless#I can feel the momentarily joy of things or a minimum sense of peace as the things happen but it's such a minimal amount of time#it's almost despairing#even more depressing is that at the same time I'm perfectly lucid which means I am aware of what I could be focusing on#and that like. if I don't focus/put in effort things are going to slip by and later down the road I'll be half-regretful for this#it wouldn't even be that big of a problem if this state happened from time to time#the thing that bothers me the most is the constant up-down up-down state of my mood#idk might also be related to lack of socialization/feeling a bit out of society and whatnot but still#my post#I need something to consume me ://#I was supposed to be studying two subjects this semester but I'm very tempted to just hope focusing on one will be far more interesting#(thus falling into a 'one thing a time' model)#(probably the current environment I'm in doesn't help since everyone seems a bit. off)#idk man. having said that. I hope you guys are having a nice day :)
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GOJO SATORU: IT'S GONNA FEEL SO GOOD, I PROMISE!
.ೃ࿐ he's dreamt about fucking you for months, and now that you're finally in his sheets, he has no intent of letting you go—especially when he finds out that he's your first time. NSFW
contents: fem!reader. virgin!reader. kinda sorta subtle coercion, corruption kink, slight dubcon, fingering, p –> v, lots of praise!!, mentions of prior dirty dreams (about you).
author's note: had this stuck in my drafts for a while so uhhhh. yea enjoy. tagging @mymegumi bc i love selene ꨄ︎
"please, baby, it'll feel so good," satoru cooes, threading his fingers through your hair and pulling your face closer to his. "i promise i'll be gentle."
you shrug, scrunching up your nose at satoru hesitantly. "i don't know..."
your boyfriend presses his lips to yours briefly and smiles tenderly. satoru's soft eyes are fixed on you, only you as he widens them pleadingly. "i wanna teach you how to fuck. please, sweetheart, we can stop anytime. jus' wanna make you feel good, i promise!"
it's only partially a lie—yes, satoru certainly wants to teach you to fuck, but he's not entirely certain that he could just stop anytime. especially because he's well aware that fucking a virgin is such an addicting experience—satoru knows you're gonna be so tight that you'll just suck him in, and he isn't that confident that he'll be able to stop once he's started.
but whatever, that's a problem for later—for now, he's focused on persuading you to spread those legs for him and show him your pretty pussy.
you pause, considering his proposal. after a couple seconds, you nod hesitantly. "you promise you'll be gentle?" you ask meekly, averting your eyes.
satoru nods, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. "of course—now c'mon, let's get those clothes off of you, baby." and a couple agonizing minutes later, you're half naked underneath a shirtless satoru, and his fingers trace the inside of your thigh.
"so first, i'm gonna make you cum on my fingers, 'kay?" satoru informs you. "needa loosen you up so you can take my dick."
"o-okay," you whisper, swallowing nervously. "i'm a little scared," you admit, fiddling with the waistband of your lacy underwear. "will it hurt?"
after a moment, satoru nods in response. "at first it will. but then you're gonna feel so good, i promise."
"you promise?"
"i do."
satoru tugs down your panties and grins at the sight of your pussy, untouched and reserved just for him. he's dying to just fuck you then and there, rough and no prep, but he made a promise. and satoru has no intention of breaking it.
"ready?" he breathes, positioning his fingers just outside of your entrance. when you nod, he shakes his head. "i'm gonna need to hear it from you, baby. use your words."
"i'm r-ready," you confirm, inching your thighs farther apart for him.
"good girl."
then satoru slips his fingers inside, and you can't suppress the sudden moan that slips out of your lips. to you, it's embarrassing, but to satoru, it's music to his ears. he steadily pushes his fingers farther and farther into your tight cunt, and satoru can't help but marvel at the way you just suck him in.
"you're so fuckin' tight," satoru mumbles, eyes fixed on your pussy. "and so wet, too. i've barely even touched you, fuck."
it's agonizing, really—the sensation of having someone else's fingers inside of you is so new and so strange that you can almost ignore the pain (which is present but not as throbbing as you had feared). satoru makes sure to be as gentle as he can, which unfortunately isn't quite as gentle as you'd like—but it's not too rough for you to handle.
satoru starts widening his fingers in a scissor-like motion, stretching you farther apart to make room for his already rock-hard dick. you squirm around him and whine about how deep his fingers are, but satoru dismisses your complaints with a laugh. "c'mon, this is barely the beginning. if ya can't take this, how're you gonna take my dick?"
a couple minutes later, when satoru finally deems you loose enough, he pulls out his now-drenched fingers. looking you in the eye with a smug smile, he slips his fingers into his mouth and licks your slick off of them. "mm, you taste so good, pretty. lemme see if you feel as good as you taste, yeah?"
and that's how he convinces you to keep your thighs nice and spread wide open for him as he positions the head of his dick at your entrance, practically trembling from the effort it takes to not just pound into you. you're so compliant and perfect for satoru, and it takes every ounce of his willpower to resist the urge to push you up against the headboard and fuck you until you pass out.
but somehow, he manages to control himself. "alright, baby, this is gonna hurt," satoru warns, touching his reddening tip to your soaked pussy. "you ready?"
"y-yeah," you breathe, distantly noticing the way your hands start to tremble. satoru exhales softly and shakes his hair out of his eyes before gently pushing himself inside of you, and the first thought that enters your head is that he's ridiculously big—it feels like you're getting torn apart every second he goes in farther.
"satoruuu," you whine, starting to paw at his chest when he goes in farther, and it's too much, too fast, but he only grins down at you in response. "it hurts, ow... y're too—"
"uh uh, just shut your pretty mouth n' take it," satoru groans, shifting the angle of his hips and going in a little deeper. you cry out in pain, face scrunching up in an effort to numb the stinging sensation around your waist. satoru dips his head and kisses your forehead, murmuring praises on how well you're doing.
"it'll feel so good soon, i promise, baby," he insists, pressing his lips to the spot in between your eyes. "you're takin' me so good, fuck— agh, you're so damn tight, this one's gonna hurt like hell, but you can take it, yeah? my pretty princess, you'll do anythin' i say, won't ya..."
satoru doesn't give you a chance to respond before he says something about this being the last stretch, but his words don't really sink in until he's two more inches deep into you. his last thrust is so sudden and jarring that it makes you cry out his name, over and over and over until the pain evident on your face starts to turn into something that looks a lot like... pleasure?
a self-assured smile grows on satoru's flushed face when he sees the chance, and a thousand more words of praise fall from his lips. your vision's a little fuzzy in the corners, and your mind is all but gone—it's hard to focus on anything but the slowly fading pain.
satoru starts to move his hips back and forth, easing your loosening cunt into him and nodding at the way you slowly start to show signs of wanting more. your eyes brighten up a little and you seem more alert the longer satoru opens you up.
"startin' to feel good now?" he asks, smiling smugly when you nod your head. "yeah, told you so." the prominent blush on his face starts to creep down his neck, and when you reach up and tentatively touch his cheek, that's when he loses it.
it takes every drop of self-restraint in his body to not flip you over, face-down and ass-up and fuck your tight cunt the way he's dreamed about for months. satoru's imagined it for so long that it's practically a reality for him—the way you would whimper his name and claw at the sheets, the way you would cum all over him too many times to count, all of it. he's seen it a thousand times in his head, but having his fantasy so close and yet so far drives him insane.
but as you smile up at him, the almost unnoticeable tremble in your bottom lip assures him that this probably isn't the time. after all, you're not leaving him anytime soon, so he might as well train you first before even attempting any of that on your perfect, untouched body.
"what do i do now?" you ask, and the simplicity of the question is almost childish. especially when satoru almost laughs in response, soft blue eyes glinting with amusement.
"jus' lie there and stay pretty f'me. and keep your legs spread wiiide open," satoru cooes, shaking his hair out of his eyes only for it to fall right back in.
"yeah, you're doin' so good that i don't even buy that you were a virgin—or are you just naturally made for me, huh? maybe that's it, 'cause i swear on my life that i've never fucked a cunt this fuckin' pretty, heh."
#osaemu#gojo smut#jjk smut#satoru gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#gojo x reader#jjk x reader#satoru gojo x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo x you#jjk x you#satoru gojo x you#gojo satoru x you#jujutsu kaisen x reader#jujutsu kaisen x you#gojo x y/n#jjk x y/n#jujutsu kaisen x y/n#satoru gojo x y/n#gojo satoru x y/n#gojo drabbles#jjk drabbles
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PYTHON ft. Danielle
danielle x male reader smut
17k words
“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.
Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”
“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”
“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”
You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”
“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.
Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.
Accidents—yeah right.
Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it.
“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.
She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.
“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”
—
(Okay, okay, okay.
You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.
But maybe consider the following points:
1) You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;
2) Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and
3) If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.
Counterpoint:
She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)
—
Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her.
You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.
The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.
“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”
No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.
Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.
“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.
To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”
“Of course you did.”
“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.
“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.
At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.
Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.
Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—
Fuck.
Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—
Again. Fuck.
“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.
“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.
“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”
That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.
It’s eerily intimate.
Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.
(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)
There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.
And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.
But it tries it’s best. You do too.
You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.
“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”
You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”
Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”
No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.
Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.
You hardly trust yourself at the moment.
“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”
Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.
Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.
(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)
—
(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”
“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.
“Dani.”
“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”
There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”
And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.
So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.
That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.
All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)
—
“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.
Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.
Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.
She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”
You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”
Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”
“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.
“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”
“She said what?”
She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”
“M-M-A. I do MMA.”
“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”
“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”
“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”
“I’m very straight.”
Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”
She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.
All perfectly normal.
Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.
Erase that thought.
“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.
You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?
It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.
The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.
“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”
It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.
She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”
“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.
“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.
Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.
Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—
“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”
Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”
“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”
You sigh, “Something like that.”
“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”
Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.
Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.
That’s all.
She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?
Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.
“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”
You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.
Correction—your room.
But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.
Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.
—
(You really should’ve seen this coming.
Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.
Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.
You read them, pretend to ignore them.
You choose not to reply.
She chooses to start sending photos.)
—
It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.
She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?
You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.
Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.
It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.
The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.
She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.
“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”
“What?” —the fuck.
“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”
“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—
You shake your head, clearing the fog.
"Not going there."
Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"
“Anywhere. With you.”
“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"
“Danielle—”
“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”
Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.
But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”
And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”
“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”
“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”
Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.
Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.
The towel holds on for dear life.
—
It all goes to shit in a matter of days.
Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.
Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.
(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)
Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.
She wants you, badly.
You want her too.
It’s all you think about.
So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.
You know he’s right.
And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.
You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.
You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.
No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.
A moan from down the hall.
Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.
You push open your door.
Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.
Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.
Crying out your name.
It’s game over.
Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.
Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.
“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.
Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.
You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.
You shouldn’t look.
You should turn around.
You should do anything but stay.
But you don’t.
You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.
Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”
She keeps going.
One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.
The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.
But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.
Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.
And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.
Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same.
“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.
She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.
“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.
“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.
“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”
You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.
Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”
And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”
Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”
You repeat. “Stop.”
She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”
“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.
Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.
“Stop and let me.”
Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”
You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.
Nothing like this.
Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.
Make her come apart in your fucking hands.
The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”
You start small.
A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.
She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.
You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.
“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”
A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.
“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.
But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.
Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.
Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.
She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.
Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.
“Right—yes—fuck!”
Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.
Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.
All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”
“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.
It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.
And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.
“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”
“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”
“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”
And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.
You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.
Fuck that.
Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”
The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.
“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.
“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”
“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.
“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”
You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.
“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."
“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”
A barely there—“Me?”
“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”
“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”
“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.
But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.
“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.
You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.
“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.
Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.
You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.
Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—
She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.
“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.
And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.
“This is—this is too much—"
Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.
“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"
You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.
You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.
And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.
“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”
For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.
Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.
Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—
“Daddy!”
There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.
The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.
It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.
“You’re fucking—yes!”
You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.
A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.
Danielle exhales.
Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.
You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.
Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.
“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.
“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.
Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”
And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.
But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.
Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.
You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.
Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.
But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.
“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.
She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.
“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.
Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.
She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”
—
(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.
A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?
The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.
She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.
Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.
It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.
You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.
Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.
Fuck it.
It’s as good a time to drink as any.)
—
You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.
Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.
Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.
The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.
Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.
It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.
And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.
And you hate that you miss her.
Hate that you’re calling her.
She answers.
“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.
You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”
“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.
“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”
Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”
There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."
"You're drunk too?"
"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."
“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.
Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”
You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.
You still remember how they felt against your lips.
“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”
“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—
There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.
No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.
“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”
Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”
“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”
“I always look good.”
“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”
“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”
“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”
“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”
It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”
Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”
“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”
Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.
Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:
“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.
You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”
“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.
Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.
It’s what she wants.
“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”
“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”
Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.
“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”
It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.
And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”
“Show me.”
There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.
Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.
It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.
Fuck.
Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”
A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.
It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”
And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—
“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.
But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.
“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”
“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”
“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”
“Sweet cunt.”
“You would know.”
You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”
“Dani, please.”
“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”
Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”
“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”
Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”
“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”
You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.
There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.
Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.
Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated, and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”
“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”
Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”
A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”
The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”
This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.
“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”
“Was never much a secret.”
“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”
“Hard.”
One word and she fucking loves it.
“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”
“God!”
“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”
Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.
“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”
“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”
It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”
“You’d pull my hair too, right?”
“You wouldn’t have a choice.”
Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.
But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.
With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.
She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.
How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.
She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.
She’s just dying for release. For your permission.
“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”
“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.
She follows without question.
Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.
Fucking God, she cums hard.
You do too.
You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.
Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—
It’s a fucking masterpiece.
“Cum for me please, Daddy!”
Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.
A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.
And then it’s over.
You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.
Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.
The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.
Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.
“Fuck.”
“Tell me about it.”
She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”
“When?”
“As soon as I fucking can.”
—
(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.
The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.
It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.
And then the escalation.
Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?
Reciprocate.
Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.
And fuck, you do look.
And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.
One word.
Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.
Tomorrow.)
—
It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.
Danielle's here again.
She’s fucking back.
And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.
But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.
Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.
There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.
“You’re late.”
You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”
And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”
She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.
“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”
She’s too real now.
In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.
You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.
And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.
You do.
A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.
You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”
She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”
You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”
“Then show me.”
So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.
A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.
Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.
“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”
“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.
Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”
You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.
Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.
“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”
You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.
“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.
And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.
“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”
You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”
To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”
You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”
“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”
But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.
Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.
But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.
And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.
It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”
“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.”
Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”
That’s an unfair callback.
Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.
You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.
"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”
Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”
“And pull your hair.”
“Then go ahead and do it.”
But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.
Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”
She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.
All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.
She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.
“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.
Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.
“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”
A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.
Her moan.
You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.
So fucking nice.
“God—fuck—finally—”
Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.
Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.
It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.
She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.
It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”
A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.
“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”
You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”
“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.
“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”
Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.
Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”
And then just—
“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”
But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.
Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.
It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.
Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”
A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.
“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.
So you give her another.
A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.
Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.
And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.
Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.
“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"
You smack her again.
And again.
And again.
Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.
It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.
Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.
There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.
“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.
You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.
You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”
And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.
“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”
It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.
But she’s wrong.
You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.
“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.
Locked in place, cumming.
Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.
And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.
She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.
But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.
You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.
“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.
Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.
“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.
There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.
Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.
“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.
Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”
She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.
So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.
Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.
“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.
“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”
She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.
“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”
Yeah.
Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.
Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.
You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.
And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”
“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.
Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.
It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.
Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.
She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”
Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.
Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.
“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”
Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.
“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”
“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.
It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.
Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.
And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.
You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.
Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.
“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”
You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.
“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”
Christ, this is going to become a problem.
You can never go back.
Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.
To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.
“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”
“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”
Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.
She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.
You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.
But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.
You do hear your name.
“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”
She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.
Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"
Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.
Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.
And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.
Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.
Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.
Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.
And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.
But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.
You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.
“Told you we’d be perfect together.”
“You told me a lot of things.”
Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”
"I said that."
"And yet here I am, voice still intact."
You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.
Anything to keep her here.
Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.
You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”
Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”
—
Again, there’s the kiss.
Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.
And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.
You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.
She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."
"Really?"
Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."
And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.
Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.
"Of course, I'll remember that."
"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."
Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"
Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."
"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."
"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."
"Even more than you already are?"
Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"
And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.
To the winner, goes the spoils.
Everything she wants, everything she needs.
With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.
She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.
“At least let a girl earn it first.”
And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.
Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.
“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”
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