#like fuck it the day is going to start over might as well make out with my crush 🤷🏻‍♀️

[cathnospam]

It was 3:47am, you were away to the States for a business trip and to visit family when you got a call from your boyfriend.

Who might I add, put a special ringtone for him alone;

I MOVE IN NOW MOVE OUT

TELL ME WHAT YOU’RE GANNA DO NOW

KEEP ROLLIN’ ROLLIN’ ROLL—-

“Hello.” Trying your hardest to mask the annoyance of sheer shock when your phone screamed in your ear.

“Guess who’s at number 5 on the Hero charts.”

“…Me.” You only said that because you wanted to fuck with him.

“NO, YOU DUMBASS YOU’RE NUMBER 6. It’s ME!”

He laughed the same way he did back in high school with his fake All Might laugh screaming in your ears, as mad as you wanted to be seeing him get all happy after being down at number 15 for almost a whole year, you couldn’t help but be happy for him.

“I’m so proud of you, papa i knew you could. Now you’re a few steps closer to number one like you deserve.” You sat up to praise him some more, seeing his face turn pink as he drove around in his car which looks to be nearly the afternoon made you smile, you knew from when he first seen his place go down how devastated he was even if he masked it with getting mad, and training more.

And Bakugo knew too, you were one of his main supporters and motivators to climb back up on the charts, and he couldn’t appreciate it more.

“Why’d you have to be in stupid ass America while I have one of my best achievements, woman.”

“Well excusseeee me princess-“

“Don’t call me princess…princess.”

“I will be home in 2 days and when I get back we can celebrate. I’ll spoil you just enough.”

He furrowed his brows in confusion, causing him to pick up his phone and prop it on his stand in the car, “The hell you mean just enough?”

“Well…For each rank you go up I wanted to give you a present of your choice. And since you went up 10 spots I guess I’ll have to do 10 things of whatever you want.”

“….Anything?”

“Mmhm.”

Katsuki was a shameless man, but an easily embarrassed one nonetheless, the thoughts were flooding his mind, he looked away to try to focus on the road, that you can clearly see he was driving over the speed limit to then clear his throat, “Okay start now; say ‘My boyfriend Katsuki Bakugo is the greatest hero of all time.’”

“My boyfriend Katsuki Alexander Bakugo—-“

“Oh my fucking gosh you I didn’t say say my middle name—“

“Is the greatest hero of all time….and I’m extremely proud and blessed to have a strong, intelligent, amazing man all to myself.”

You sure knew how to make a man blush because each time you praised him he got redder by the ears, “Alright I didn’t say say all that….dumbass.”

“Mmhm…”

It was a comfortable silence, still drowsy you let out a small yawn and as Bakugo parks his car he looks at you, “Oh yeah it’s late there….you should be sleep.”

“Yeah but this was more important.”

“Mm..” You wipe your eyes a little, not knowing your breast were spilling out of your bra after shifting so much in your sleep he notices, “I have another favor. Pop a tit or two out for the number 5 hero before I head to this interview.”

Pausing what you were doing you scoff rolling your eyes and quickly pull down your bra, your breast bounce around, showing the pretty silver piercing in your nipple making him fight the urge to burst out into a smile.

“Now you have 8 favors left.”

“Like 8 and a half … you only showed one tit.”

[myownwholewildworld]

Hey! Congrats, you just won the "best horny nasty orgasm-inducing peepaw Joel miller ficwriter"! Thank you for your service, comrade. You're one of our greatest leaders in this fandom 🥲

That being said, I'd like to take this opportunity to request some more Joel Miller filth with the depraved thought I just had: horse riding with Joel on patrol and reaching around his body to jerk him off while he tries to keep his shit together while you kiss his neck and whisper the dirtiest things to him. He can't resist his girl and her dirty mouth and ends up cumming all over her hands and his jeans (think these stains will be funny to explain to Tommy when he meets the two of you when you're just arriving back in Jackson, huh?)

well, being bestowed with such a title is the GREATEST HONOUR OF MY LIFE !!! 🥹 no, nonnie, thank you for your horny thots because HOLY FUCKING SHITTTTT… he would be hesitant at first cause he wants to do a good job when he's out on patrol, but when you start teasing him... he just can't resist you, your sinful hands wrapping around him... what if you eat his cum? what if you feed it to him too? 🫣

i felt demonic things down there asdfghjklñ please accept this gift, hope u enjoy it omfg <3

old man!joel miller collection masterlist

more old man!joel miller dirty fucking filth under the cut 👇

The day had been exhaustingly long—your butt hurt from so much riding, but regrettably not from cock riding, your favourite activity in this decrepit world. Only Joel knew how to keep your worries at bay, and many a times it implied you gushing all over him. You had spent the last five hours atop of Joel’s horse, sitting behind him and hugging his waist, your chin resting on his shoulder. Your back hurt like hell, muscles painfully taut and pulled. And the best way to unwind? Well, you had something in mind.

When you were out on patrol, Joel took his job very seriously, focused on the reconnaissance mission with exasperating diligence. Your advances on him had gone unnoticed by your old man, but you couldn’t blame him for wanting to do a proper job. It was part of his appeal.

However, now on your way back to Jackson, surely he wouldn’t mind. This thought had been nagging at the back of your mind for a while, your laced hands tentatively pressing against his lower tummy. Joel felt so tense under your touch, you knew the best remedy to get him to relax.

Chewing your bottom lip to hide a mischievous grin, you buried your face in the crook of his neck, leaving love bites while your hands slithered under his coat, your cold palms stroking his hairy trail. His skin was hot to the touch, so much you let go of a satisfied sigh.

“Your hands are so damn cold. I told you to wear gloves, darlin’” he tutted at you, eyes watching the path ahead.

“But I don’t like wearing gloves, babe. They get in the way,” you whispered, your mouth caressing the shell of his ear.

“In the way of what?” your poor old man asked innocently.

“Well…” you giggled. Why tell him when you could show him?

You shoved one hand down his worn jeans. Joel wasn’t wearing any boxers, making his cock easily accessible. The steamy warmth his bulge seeped was very much welcomed, your fingers curling around his limp dick.

“If I was wearing gloves, I wouldn’t be able to jerk you off right now, would I?” you teased him, your hand still around him, waiting.

Joel’s back stiffened, his breathing becoming shallower. If you had had one hand over his chest, you would have felt his heart racing at the prospect of your promise. Joel cleared his throat, mouth pressed into a thin line and squirmed a little on the saddle.

“Right now? While riding back home?” he questioned, and if you didn’t know him better, you might have though he sounded perplexed. “Can’t you wait twenty minutes? We’re so close.”

“Oh, you are about to be closer, gorgeous,” you pledged, peppering kisses on the sensitive skin of his neck. “I want to do this now, please.”

Joel huffed and puffed, but didn’t stop you when you gently squeezed his soft dick on your palm. He felt so velvety, warm and like putty under your touch. You enjoyed working him hard, see if you could get him to naturally get it up without the need for blue pills. Sometimes it worked, others didn’t—and you loved doing it either way. There was something powerful about holding him so intimately out in the open, your way to claim your territory. To tell others to back off, because he was yours—yours to love, to fuck.

“And I know you want this too. You like it when I take advantage of an old man like you, huh?” you whispered in his ear, nibbling at his earlobe and pulling it between your teeth.

Joel’s exasperation evolved into a gritted moan when you tugged at his hardening shaft, his jaw clenched in concentration, a palpitating tick near his chin. Considering how you always melted under his attention, seeing the roles reversed for once had you reeling for more.

Movement was restricted, so with your left hand you pulled down the pull tab of his jeans, giving you room to manoeuvre. Your free fingers stalked the zipper before diving in and scooping his heavy, loaded balls. Now his sacks and cock were spilling over the zipper, exposed to the elements and to your undivided attention.

You carefully massaged his balls, taking the weight off him while your right hand clutched around his gifted girth with adoration. Joel’s chocolate eyes fluttered shut, unconsciously leaning back against your chest, relaxing in your welcoming embrace.

“You’re tired, aren’tcha?” you crooned, tracing the bulging vein on his neck with the tip of your nose. “Your bones hurt, don’t they? You’re too old for long patrols now, baby. They leave you exhausted, tense. Should do something more attuned to your age.”

Joel didn’t speak, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

You smiled to yourself, licking the salt of his neck, and squeezed his balls harder. Soon your magic worked—a firing pulse went up his length, his cock now throbbing on your hand as it began to stiffen.

Success.

Feeling his erection grow thicker and harder, your lips returned to his ear.

“They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But you? The way to yours is through your balls. You love when I hold them, massage them for you, just to get your muscles to slacken. You love it when I kiss them and put them in my mouth, don’t you, baby?”

“Fuck yeah,” Joel growled, voice raspy with need.

“Just imagine me with my mouth so full of your balls, how I’d look up at you all innocent and drooling all over your lap, so ready to take your cock,” you purred again, your cunt dampening just with the thought of eating his balls, of giving him head. “And you know my pussy would be so wet, I’d be soaking my panties just for you. Just like I am now.”

Joel’s breathing accelerated, his chest raising in quick succession as you jerked him off with an extra tight grip, your other hand playing with his balls. Completely surrendered to you, to your handling. He was fully erect now, his cock throbbing with a beautiful melody—you could feel his heart pumping blood to his shaft.

You lapped at his neck again, sinking your teeth before soothing the skin with a kiss, then sucked to leave a hickey. Picking up the pace, you squeezed him harsher, your fingers wrapped around his ball sacks, tracing the ridge in the middle with your thumb.

Looking down, you saw his cockhead flushed, angrily red and weeping for you. A shiny pearl of precum topped his tip, and before it slid down his length, you buttered it on his sensitive skin with your thumb.

“I don’t know what you’re doing to me, sweetheart. Fuck,” Joel mumbled. You could feel him getting close to release. “Are you wet? Bet your pussy is crying to be stuffed full, ain’t her?”

You laughed, soft and tempting, as you licked behind his ear.

“So, so wet,” you whispered, feeling the warm slick pooling in your slit, leaking and drenching your panties. “If I didn’t have my hands full right now, I would be fucking myself. But no one does it like you do. You make me come so easily, it’s actually embarrassing.”

“It’s ‘cause your sweet pussy is so damn sensitive, darlin’.”

Joel caught you off guard, reaching behind himself to shove a hand down the front of your trousers, rough palm pressing against your mound as his ring finger found the dampness your cunt harboured for him. He flicked your pulsing clit, and you mewled like a kitten in heat.

“You ain’t lying, fuck,” Joel growled, his cock beating faster on your palm.

Letting go of his balls, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist and forced him to take his hand out of your underwear. You tsked at him in reproach. “No touching, baby. We are focusing on you right now. Behave for me, please, or I’ll stop.”

Joel grunted but didn’t try again. Instead, he raised his hand to his mouth and licked your slick off his wet ring finger. He moaned, as if he had just tasted the gates of heaven, and just the sight alone of him doing such a thing had you leaking everywhere.

Your free hand returned to his testicles, masturbating him harder, faster now. Peeling his skin back, just to sheathe him again, your thumb stroking the weeping slit. Joel’s chest rumbled with a low baritone, his balls tensing into the base of his cock, and when he was about to spill, you stopped.

“Fuck, I’m behaving!” He gritted, frustrated.

“I know you are, I’m just making sure you got the message,” you giggled, kissing the nape of his neck. “Plus, I like edging you.”

You did that again two more times—increasing the rhythm of your hand, building up his orgasm as his balls grew heavier, full of his white seed, just to suddenly stop. And every time, Joel became more restless, sweat gathering on his prominent brows, ruggedly breathing and jaw so tightly shut you feared he might break a tooth.

“Please,” he begged huskily, walking the edge of his climax again.

You finally took pity on him. Keeping your fingers firmly curled around his thick girth and your palm squeezing his loaded balls, you jerked him off fast until the first white ropes flew everywhere. Joel groaned audibly, his knuckles white around the reins, as his seed landed on your hands, his jeans, the saddle.

And for a minute, he was the gift that kept on giving. You’d edged him so much, he had three rounds of cum ready to shoot. His lap was a complete mess, your knuckles covered in his seed, and you couldn’t resist the urge to raise your hand to your mouth and kitten-lick his cum off your skin until you were all clean.

“You’ve made such a mess, old man,” you tittered again, hand dropping to his lap to sweep the spent off his jeans and the saddle with your fingers before you shoved them down your mouth again. “Mhmm… So fucking delicious, but it tastes better when you feed it to me directly off your cock. Fresh from the source.”

“You love running your mouth, don’tcha?” Joel husked when he finally found his voice, regulating his breathing. “Filthy girl.”

“I learnt from the best.”

When you finished cleaning your hands, his jeans and the saddle, you noticed he had some drops of cum on the back of his right hand. You gathered it all on your index finger, you offered it to him with a naughty smile, to feed it to him yourself.

“Help me clean up,” you whispered, bringing his cum closer to his lips. “Don’t wanna do all the work myself, s’not fair.”

Joel hesitated for a second, but when his mouth hung open, you put your finger between his lips. His tongue swirled around your finger, eating his own cum.

Once he licked your digit clean and nipped teasingly at your fingertip, your hand dropped to his chest, feeling his racing heart even over his winter coat. Your pussy fluttered needily—something about Joel tasting his own spent had you hornier than ever.

You sighed heavily, feeling your heartbeat on your clit now, while you delicately pushed his half-hard cock and balls back into his jeans and zipped him up.

“You better pay me well after this,” you warned him, rocking your hips on the saddle so you could get some friction on your crying cunt. “I need to get fucked real bad right now.”

“Wait till we get home, young lady. I’mma rearrange your fucking guts, and that’s a promise I intend to keep,” there was no trace of joke nor doubt in his deep voice.

His oath had you gnawing at his shoulder. And luckily, five minutes later you were in the stables in Jackson, handing Joel’s horse to a boy and girl nearby to take care of it.

Tommy walked in, a tired expression and a dirty rug twisting on his hands.

“Any trouble out there?”

“No, none. It was actually quite peaceful and uneventful, right, Joel?” you ventured a soft smile in your old man’s direction.

Joel gave a stern nod, eyeing you like a predator, as if you were a little innocent lamb ready to be devoured by a hungry, wild wolf.

“What happened to your jeans?” Tommy asked, one eyebrow cocked.

“I spilled my water bottle when I opened it to drink, that’s all,” Joel quickly replied.

Tommy’s head tilted, then shrugged before he disappeared. You could bet he hadn’t bought Joel’s poor excuse.

“When I fucking catch ya,” Joel closed the distance between you two, his thumb pushing your chin up for a kiss.

“First you’ll have to catch me,” you went on your tiptoes to give him a quick peck, then turned around and ran home with Joel on your heels.

You were about to be punished for your daring, and you couldn’t wait for it to happen.

[hcneymooners]

⋆ the only difference between a kiss and a bite is how deep the teeth go.

warlord!ambessa x bene gesserit!reader. men & minors dni.

you do not have to have read or watched dune to understand this.

synopsis: primed to be one of ambessa's hand-picked elite, you have wanted nothing but to be ambessa's top commander. but then she discarded you, chose the kiramman girl instead. she might have thrown you out, but someone else took you in.

cw: bene gesserit!reader, age difference, older woman/young woman, power dynamics, power imbalance, pining, sexually explicit content, cunnilingus, vaginal fingering, oral sex, face riding, impact play, pain play, light sadism, light masochism, dom/sub, switch!reader, switch!ambessa, service top!ambessa,strength kink, face-sitting, face fucking, implications of grooming, slight dub-con (bc of the voice though it is not used sexually), angst, angst with a happy? ending, ambiguous ending, sexual tension, hate sex, misandrist!reader, beefing with your age gap object of affection's daughter because that should've been your daughter.

wc: 8.06k

notes: we're back and more evil than ever. it's me and my lana del rey-length titles against the world. thank you for being patient with me. i'm glad i could return to you with this.

it’s incredible how people tend to misremember the occurrence of an event when they are the ones in the wrong. 

you have never misremembered. 

since childhood, your memory has been a diamond trap with steel teeth at the center. whatever falls within will never be free. your voice is the same. you have no interest in sounding as honeyed as your sisters. you need the command to be felt and heeded. you understand, however, that if you let your emotions completely consume you, you will be disposed of. the sisterhood does not need weakness, nor does it require a fractured image. so, you stay silent and beautiful. therefore, you are in control and tolerated. 

(you are more than tolerated. you are loved. you have not seen this yet.)

the day starts as any other. you wake earlier than the others, sliding out from around the curled body of one of your sisters. her hair is bone white, made that way from trauma from what you understand. she has a young face, one with no tired lines and an open horizon. she sees differently than you do, often has nightmares, and climbs into your bed. you hope her vision never fades. it is good to have a soft heart.

the two of you were called lambs when you arrived. the reverend mothers would hide a smile behind their hands as they called after one of you, asking, “where is the other lamb?” 

the sentiment echoes across the empty floor of your mind as you gently stand, adjusting the blankets behind you so your sister is not as cold as you are now. she is one lamb, but you are not the other. you used to be, but that has been stripped from you underneath harder hands. and you weren’t even chosen for the slaughter in the end. 

your face twitches, and you try to refocus, sitting on the floor in front of the long mirror in your bedchamber. carefully, you weave your hair into a plait but find that your hands only remember what she taught you when you were still her lamb.

your hair is dragged tightly into a tight war braid, your scalp screaming for mercy. you never listen. fear is the mind killer, and pain is the strengthener.

from there, you rise, sliding into your well-loved woven navy robe. you had bathed late last evening, and now it was so early that the morning could still be confused with the bite of the night. somewhere outside, an animal is howling, or maybe weeping. you cannot tell the difference.

maybe it is you making the sound. 

you slide on your headdress, the metal webbing across your face like a second skin. it is fine as chainmail, but heavy with wealth. each link is adorned with a gem the color of a bruise: deep sapphires, violet amethysts, the muted red of garnets too dark to gleam. a lattice of silver threads drapes over your crown and temples, with tiny golden hooks pulled at the skin just behind your ears to keep the veil in place.

it is beautiful. it is painful. the weight reminds you.

the metal burns against your lips, and you think of how you wish to always be shielded. 

you walk the halls. it is cool here in the shadows of the tall, cool, black stone. you are sheltered from light as you wisp silently across the floors, feet bare and hot with a phantom heat from a ground that is far too cold, that it almost burns. the stone dispels into feathery grass, the blades kissing your calloused skin as you continue to hike further and further out into the landscape. 

you are glad you are here, that you are one of them. you are glad to have sisters. outside of here, back home, no one seems to understand that you are angry. here, they understand, and they still call you the other lamb. in a way, you suppose you are. sometimes, you graze.

you walk and walk, trespass over borders until the ground begins to change. the terrain buckles, the grass falling away to reveal rich dark soil, then veined stone, marbled like muscle. this place is old, untouched even by the sisters who pride themselves on touching all. you do not come here to pray. you come to see.

nestled in the earth is your mirror.

not glass. it is too breakable, highly mortal. what rests here is a polished slab of clearstone: thick as a sword’s width and just as sharp, its surface tempered in volcanic heat and alchemized by bene gesserit archivists. beneath its sheen, a hundred visions have burned away and returned.

the clearstone is set in obsidian, carved into the rock like a wound that never closes. it is an echo of you. around it: salt lines, laid by your own hand. a single strand of your hair. a ring of pressed primrose and dried bloodroot. you learned this watching one of the older sisters in a trance. 

you learned this the way you learn everything: precisely, completely, without permission.

you kneel, sliding the veil of your headdress back so your breath might warm the surface. you place your hands on either side of the scrying stone, fingertips just brushing the edge. it’s cold. it always is. it demands something before it gives anything back.

so you feed it.

a memory. the scent of iron and smoke. the last time she looked at you, the feel of your heart splitting cleanly into six pieces. you breathe in. you begin.

your voice does not rise. it drops, low and guttural, like an incantation slid through gritted teeth.

"reveal her. bring her to me."

the mirror clouds, then clarifies.

and then, she is there. ambessa medarda. warlord. mother. deceiver. betrayer. the only woman your soul has ever known.

she’s crouched low, speaking with someone. blue hair, rigid posture—caitlyn. you do not taste jealousy. you taste rot. this is your fruit left too long on the branch. you taste all the years wasted carving yourself sharp while she looked elsewhere. you do not speak. your cheek bleeds; you have bitten down.

you wait. you watch.

eventually, she is alone. she leans forward over her knees, rolling her shoulder, her back to the mirror. her muscles glisten in the waning light. the moment stretches like a taut wire.

then, she stills.

the voice is not needed now. she knows.

you keep the window open, watch her face tense and shift as she registers being observed. she looks up from where she is hunched over those open knees, her muscles rippling under that dark, regal skin. you keep waiting because she is intelligent, highly so, and you know that she will find you.

she does. 

ambessa medarda straightens herself and turns, looking over her shoulder with those cruel, bright eyes, and stares into the looking glass across from her. you do not flinch. you do not fear. fear is the mind killer. it is stronger than her, and now you are stronger than both of them.

you let her watch. she turns to better see you. you preen just slightly underneath the attention, but the sweetness soon sours. you make ambessa medarda stare at your reflection. you are the weapon and the girl she forged. 

you are the woman she discarded.

your veil begins to retract. not by your hand, but by design. it was always made to reveal, never to shroud forever. layer by layer, the silk and metal webbing slides away from your face until the sharp planes of you are shown. you are not what she remembers. you are something else now.

you hope she is seeing the edge of you: gleaming, bitter, and perfect.

the connection balks. you hold. the veil closes.

you hope she knows you will once more make her choose. or you will kill her.

time will decide.

𓃖

the bene gesserit do not accept contracts; they orchestrate them. you do not request. they summon. but time decides so, they have agreed to one. 

ambessa medarda is no fool. her empire swells, but her bloodline thins. there are threats the blade cannot cut, ones that fester in secret folds. so she sends word. the sisterhood replies.

you know who will be chosen before the reverend mother superior dictates her law over the land. when your name falls from behind her teeth, you expect it. you expect the way the other name falls, too. you feel the sister settle beside you as you bend in deference and accept the assignment. you are comforted by the way she watches you with a lack of interest.

so, they send their two: you, and the sister with whom you’ve always walked in parallel. you share no friendship, but your silences are aligned. you trust her. enough.

you arrive at night. it is not meant as secrecy, but it is loaded with intention. 

the soldiers of the medarda camp are already at their posts when the air shifts. low fog unfurls across the stone, rising like breath from an unseen lung. the horses smell it first, and then the men. the silence tastes different. charged. ionic.

two figures begin to descend the path carved into the cliffside, ceremonial hoods low but posture unbent. they do not speak. they do not need to.

the first is robed in burnt saffron and oxblood. pansa. broad-shouldered, flanked by iron cuffs, the oldest girl-child of a desert house long swallowed by sand. her presence carries weight similar to the feeling of seeding conflict, and her silence is an elegy. there is power in the pacing of her movements. 

beside her: you. [name], though they are probably unaware.

the more in the dark you were, the more ambessa could provide you with “light.”

your indigo robes ripple like stormwater, sheer in places where flesh must feel the air, the cold, the world. this is your house’s doctrine: truth borne by skin, suffering made visible.

chains run down your sleeves like adornment, but the glint of each link speaks of restraint, not vanity. at your throat, a collar forged of black steel, inset with bruised stones: garnet, tanzanite, onyx. each is a sigil of mastery, a tale of blood. the veil over your face is gauze-thin and luminous. it doesn’t hide you. it is slightly uncomfortable to be so revealed.

you move as one, you and pansa, like a hymnal in a dead tongue.

the camp watches. no one dares to speak. but she knows you’ve come. you know this.

ambessa emerges from her command tent the way storms break: abruptly and unrepentant. she's dressed as always for conquest: dark leathers, sleeves rolled, arms dusted in the pale film of exertion. her hair is coiled high, braids tight at the sides, a crown of discipline. your scalp aches in understanding. she halts when she sees you.

she does not kneel. you do not offer her the comfort of a name.

the air is dry and perfumed with spice. 

she does not speak to you first, but you feel the throb of her recognition in your spine. from behind her emerges caitlyn with her hair thick around her face and her face flushed pink as if she has been eaten by another mouth. you think of what pansa said as you traveled here, how the girl was primed for betrayal. how ambessa would be blindsided by it as long as she remained unaware. you’d laughed at that. 

now, a smile twists at your mouth before guttering out. for a moment, the fire crackles loudly.

a sound like an organ crushed rings out, though no one else reacts. the melody may just be playing for you. it is not the first time.

you stand just beyond torchlight, veil drawn. still, silence.

“come to finish the job?” she finally asks. 

the question irritates both you and pansa. it is her request that secured this audience, but even now, she plays for power despite not fully having it.

“that depends,” you answer, smooth and unhurried. “have you decided who you are today?”

pansa continues, “yes. which are you? warlord or mother?”

ambessa’s jaw tightens. you think you hear it crack. her eyes narrow, alight with annoyance. there’s something close to a smile on her mouth, though it does not reach her. she speaks louder, addressing the air.

“so they sent the one who hates me.”

pansa’s voice comes low, deliberate, and polished.

“no,” she says. “we brought the one who understands you. best there be no surprises. ”

a beat. ambessa looks between you both.

“and you?” she asks pansa.

“i do not hate you,” pansa replies, steady. she does not give any more.

a rustle passes through the soldiers behind her, but ambessa holds up a hand. no need. she knows what this is.

you watch her then. watch her watching you. she cannot help herself. she was always a student of strength, of shape and bearing. you wear your body like it is both a weapon and an altar. she built the first half of you. now, she must contend with the rest.

you bow your head, barely, and only to the ritual. you do not kneel. pansa, without question, remains standing. her head never dips.

and ambessa, once your ruin, now your ally by necessity, tilts her head and laughs under her breath.

“then let’s begin.”

𓃖

the decision comes at dawn. 

ambessa gives the order to break camp, her voice slicing clean through the cool morning air. no one argues. no one ever does.

you and pansa are offered horses. you refuse. when your hand presses into the small of pansa’s back, she accepts. the path is remembered by your body. 

it will carry you.

ambessa rides ahead, all ceremony and command, but you keep your pace slow. it is not surrender, only familiarity. you’ve made this pilgrimage before. when you pass the red rock outcrop that juts like a broken tooth from the earth’s skull, you remember the blood it once drank. yours.

the palace rises in the distance like a mirage made of bone. you feel your own ring with memory. neither of you is beautiful in this place. you are exact.

inside, you remove your veil. you are not a guest here. you are a returned variable. a ghost that knows the way the light’s path runs alongside the architecture. you know every inch. you are mapped the same way.

you are led to chambers that had once been yours. nothing has changed. this is intentional. you leave your robes folded like memory and dress in metal instead. you drape yourself in what you survived. you are practical now; the ceremonial is no longer necessary. 

when the door opens hours later, it is not ambessa.

it is the girl.

she does not knock. she walks in as if it were her right, and perhaps, here, it is. she carries the signature ease of someone born into hierarchies like these.. her boots barely make a sound.

“you must be [name]. i am mel,” she says. “my mother asked me to attend the meeting. i came early.”

you turn only slightly. 

“to see me?”

she looks at you. you’ve redone your hair with brutal precision: braided back, coiled tight, a single sphere of amethyst nested in the center of your plait. it glints like an eye in the candlelight. you look, now, like one of ambessa’s elite. one of her many trainees. but the set of your jaw is not hers. the clear grief, the loose fit of this fighter’s skin? that is yours.

mel continues to watch you, eyes tracking the way you stand in a simple black high necked gown, cinch a belt and gaping open like a slit belly in the back. you say nothing and only adjust the vambrace over your left wrist. she notices you’ve stripped yourself of any further ornamentation save for the onyx collar at your throat over the fabric and the house-mark inked into your back. coordinates. 

she doesn’t comment on either.

you are militant, clearly, but dressed like a religious devotee. 

“i see now,” she says after a pause, “why they said you were hard to read. i see they just lacked the language.”

you meet her eyes. still no warmth, but no dismissal either. just a sort of studied apathy. briefly, mel realizes you scare her.

“i don’t need their filthy mouths to define me,” you reply.

mel tilts her head in interest. you mimic the action in the opposing direction, so that she can see the dog that she is. she corrects herself, embarrassed. good. she cannot be so open with her enemies when she reads them.

you wonder how much of her is her mother’s and how much is something still forming. if whatever is being birthed will reveal itself to be something softer, still steel, but in a different shape.

“strategy room is this way,” she says finally, gesturing.

you don’t thank her. 

you don’t have to.

the chamber is circular, high-ceilinged, and domed with shadow and the illumination of high-rising flame. the table is long and set with terrain markers, silk maps, and crystal pieces shaped like predators. medarda excess masquerading as military efficiency.

caitlyn is already seated, her posture composed but frayed at the edges. she looks…unwell. waxy, as if someone has drained her of life and ordered her to keep living. she stands when you and pansa enter, as if uncertain of what this demands.

pansa nods once. you only look away from her.

ambessa stands at the head of the table. she is not dressed for battle now but for rule. deep crimson and gold fabrics wrapped sharp to her body, armor only in metaphor. her hair is bound with golden wire and restraint. the grey takes nothing away from her beauty. you feel the weight of her gaze before it finds your face.

you hate the way your stomach flushes with warmth. she used to never look at you. 

mel takes her place beside her mother, heir-apparent and new to its gravity. she observes more than she speaks. you and pansa move in tandem, flanking the table. you do not sit. you rest your hands lightly on the wood. palms down. no invitation to softness.

ambessa doesn’t speak immediately. she’s watching. no, reading. you can feel her taking inventory: the way your sleeves continue to hide your arms, the way your shoulders square instead of slouch, the house-stone in your hair, the absence of veil, and the bareness of your back as you twist to catalogue the meeting’s attendants.

she looks like she wants to say something just to see how you’ll respond. if she speaks, you might strip her of skin.

mel notices it first: the standoff framed in silence. caitlyn shifts in her seat. you look at her again, think of how red her blood would be against the navy of her ponytail. she tenses, and you smile. it’s a quick, white slash of teeth. there is a sapphire inset upon each of your canines.

pansa, unimpressed by drama, begins: 

“the sisterhood sends us for information, not flattery. shall we get to work?”

ambessa’s mouth plateaus. she leans forward, bracing both hands on the table. she still doesn’t look at pansa.

“of course,” she murmurs, but her eyes never leave you. “if you’re ready.”

mel tracks everything: caitlyn’s nerves, your coiled silence, the flicker in her mother’s voice that is not annoyance nor command, but something else. she doesn't dare to name it. she just watches.

the first question comes from an officer. some minor strategist, brittle with pride.his face sags with the crueler marks of age, and you feel a twist of disgust. men are like animals to you. most of the time, you ached to put them down.

“why them?” he asks, gesturing at you and your sister with a flick that should cost him fingers. “why not a neutral envoy?”

before ambessa can speak, before pansa can scold, you answer.

“because we are not neutral,” you say evenly, almost pleasantly, “and we’ve never pretended to be. it is almost always personal, officer.”

the officer falters at your impeccable use of noxian to address his station. you continue.

“i was trained in piltover. groomed, they’d call it. measured for dresses i wasn’t allowed to pick, instructed in the politics of voice modulation and eye contact, given tests of how well i could wield a weapon whilst walking alongside an empress.”

you tilt your head toward caitlyn, toward the other lamb.

“i was meant to be you, commander.”

a ripple cuts through the room. caitlyn’s jaw clenches. you keep going.

“i passed every exam. i aced every simulation. i made the right friends, attended all the right parties. and then, when the moment came to choose who would be elevated, who would be adored, i was told it would be her. to this day, i don’t know if it was a result of house influence or if i was always meant to be humiliated. if that was my ritual.”

there’s no venom in your voice. that’s what makes it worse.

“i was escorted out of the kiramman estate with grace. that’s where they held the decision night,” you clarify. you can feel ambessa’s attention. it is a relentless, gravity-inducing pressure. “they gave me a coat for the cold. i was seventeen.”

you like eyes with mel. she’s very still. she is the same age you were then.

you tilt your chin, and your voice softens, but only in pitch.

“that night, cassandra kiramman came to me. said she felt sorry for the way it had ended. said i should be proud to have helped in training someone so luminous, to have trained beside her precious light of a daughter. that some of us were made to support the light, not stand in it.”

your emotions are beginning to rise. you sip your wine despite seeing the reflective sheen atop it. poison does nothing to you. the mere attempt makes your voice begin to rise. men were such putrid, leeching, pathetic creatures. so insipidly stupid and devoid of any worth.

it burns going down. your expression doesn’t change. but your voice curdles into something slow, sticky, vile.

“she told me i had a future still. that the world needed girls just. like. me.” every word is its own person. “quiet, composed, and eager to serve.”

you take a step forward.

“and then she tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. the way a mother would. the way she knew my mother never did. it was meant to be reassuring.”

you close your eyes for one brief second. a single, crystalline snowflake falling behind your lashes.

“that was when it rose. the voice. not the one they trained. mine.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

a hush settles over the room like ice over a lake.

“i screamed. and then i spoke. she bled from her nose. her eyes. her mouth.”

mel inhales sharply.

“i saw her skull shudder beneath her skin. a crack formed across her cheekbone. her teeth fell out one by one. i hadn’t touched her.”

caitlyn’s chair scrapes. she remembers her mother in perfect image: cold, an incredible force, and mutilated unexpectedly on her left side. she rises, fury blooming in her throat. “you—”

you don’t even turn your head. your lips part and your throat expands, a word expelling.

“sit.”

your voice doesn’t echo. it reverberates.

caitlyn’s body stiffens, jerks, then slams back down into her seat with enough force to rattle the iced fruit in her water. the silence now is unnatural. even ambessa’s protective guard glance at one another, uncertain. mel is rigid, with lips dry and cracked. you slide her the unpoisoned chalice.

you go on, soft again, as if nothing happened.

“i let cassandra live, though i marred her. i thought mercy was strength.”

you look at everyone and no one.

“then, she died. three weeks later. murdered, if i remember correctly.” you have never forgotten. “her face was unrecognizable. her mouth was open.”

you meet the strategist’s eyes.

“i know how to make hard decisions.”

then you look at caitlyn, who cannot move.

you slide your tongue, pink and wide, across the plump plane of your lower lip. you suck off the sticky film of the toxin. you look away from her to the strategist, then to the right of him, where another man has been watching you drink all this time. you speak again. 

“pick up the blade.”

with shaking hands, he slides his hand forward without choice and picks up the letter opener sitting neatly before him. you take another sip of wine. again, you speak.

“drive it into your throat.”

his eyes widen in terror, but the command has been given. he must obey. like the animal—no. you love nature’s creatures, the mother’s children. like the parasite he is, you rephrase, he infests himself with the pointed tip of the blade. it pops through with a wet squelch and does not stop until it comes out from the back.

around him, his colleagues either retch or begin to pray.

you step forward, lean down, and let the wine dribble from your mouth. it erodes through his skin. 

there is silence now. pansa looks immeasurably smile. the mutual respect deepens.

“i know how to execute,” you say into the silence. “and i know how to live with it.”

you step back, then, and clasp your hands across your stomach. 

“any further questions?” 

there are none.

you look at ambessa. you recognize the look on her face. you would never misread desire, not when your own threatened to strangle you every night. 

“good.” you nod to yourself. “shall we have a break?”

you don’t wait for an answer. you turn and leave the room. you decide there is a break.

you never return, even when it’s over.

𓃖

the palace at night feels like a mouth that’s swallowed its own tongue. silent, damp, vast. 

the corridor outside your chambers has long gone quiet. no footsteps. no guards. no pansa in her rustling, soft silks. they’re giving you space. after what you did, they would be fools not to.

you should be asleep. you aren’t.

you sit at the edge of the bed, spine straight, shoulders loose, your hair still damp from the bath you drew yourself. the nightgown clings to you like mist: sheer, pale, and translucent as moonlight poured thin. beneath it, nothing. just skin and breath and heat. you sleep better when nothing cups you from below.

your belly aches. not with pain, but with pressure. with wanting. 

desire has found you once again, heavy in the belly with the water threatening to break. 

found you is a wishful phrase. it has never lost you.

you told yourself it was residual power, the lingering echo of your voice having snaked to life when you revisited cassandra’s cruelty. you told yourself it was the adrenaline. the blood on his hands, his body collapsed like a snapped bowstring after having stabbed himself, and ambessa’s men frozen in place by what you had ordered.

but that was hours ago.

now the ache is something else.

you hear her before you see her. the door opens slowly, deliberately. no knock. no hesitation. just a push and a presence. you understand her best after all. you, therefore, will best understand her intentions.

ambessa steps into the room as if it were her bedroom and never yours. she’s softened herself with her luxurious oils and long, silk robe, but the leather smell still clings to her like duty, like instinct. she’s done her hair in a row of four neat cornrows. you always liked it best that way.

her eyes sweep over you. it feels like a trial by fire.

your bare feet press against the cool floor, your toes twisting as she appreciates how the candlelight ghosts over the curves of your breasts through the nightgown and your open hands.

she closes the door behind her.

you don’t speak.

she does. “you’re not afraid of the implications of what you did.”

“no,” you answer. your voice is quiet, but still steeled. “he tried to kill me. i defended myself and my sister, albeit rather dramatically. a point had to be made. if anything, be grateful that pansa and i have not decided to contact the reverend mother superior.”

“i agree.” ambessa takes a few steps closer. “you’ve grown stronger, little one. the way you did it was so final. so fast. my advisors have been silent ever since.”

“good.” you tilt your chin up, meeting her gaze like a blade to a whetstone. “let them speak to each other, if they’re so desperate for noise.”

your brow furrows. you say something more.

“do not call me that.” the voice rocks through her imperceptibly. "i am not little.”

she halts a pace from you, the flame pulling the sharp lines of her face into something less severe, maybe even tired. “that,” she says, “is a horrible feeling.”

“it’s not meant to be pleasant,” you tell her.

she nods. “you didn’t flinch. earlier.”

you look at her. not away. at her. “would you have, if it were mel’s chalice?”

ambessa tenses at the mention of her daughter. you smile as you glance down, cold and mean.

“is that her full name?”

ambessa makes a scoffing sound somewhere in the back of her throat. your smile widens.

“she’s a good girl. weak at the moment, but good. most likely will be formidable. and your son…” the silence is thick. “kino, right? the one with the silver tongue. i take it he is the weakness you wish to iron out?”

you glance over your shoulder then and find her with her mouth pursed in barely concealed fury. family was always a bruise on the skin for her. you didn’t have the same attachments coming from your house. 

“well, we’ll begin properly tomorrow. i trust pansa did nothing but lead the room in circles without me there. she is cunning. she will never plan without another sister there to reinforce her, which is smart. that’s why she was chosen, if you were wondering.”

ambessa doesn’t answer. she just looks at you. really looks.

“you’re not wearing anything beneath that,” she says at last, low, rough.

your lips curl, just barely. “you shouldn’t. it’s bad for circulation. and your cunt needs to breathe.”

that earns you the smallest flicker of her smile. the one that still cuts you with its honesty. once, her happiness was all that you could ever imagine.

“i never imagined the bene gesserit would teach such wisdom.”

“it wasn’t the bene gesserit,” you say. “it was cassandra.”

her eyes sharpen, just a little. you rarely speak of the woman in a benevolent light. but tonight, the air is already split open. you smile wryly.

“she always knew i wasn't a true contender. she pitied me. i was the one with my foot in the snake’s mouth with no knowledge of its venom.”

ambessa’s eyes flick. a blink, maybe. or a tremor. but you’ve studied her too long not to notice the way her jaw ticks, just once, at the name. cassandra kiramman was as strong a ghost as she was when she possessed vitality. that woman’s memory would always cut like wire through wet flesh. it would destroy her daughter in the end. 

but ambessa does not bleed. when she speaks, it is in that too-light voice she uses when she's balancing the edge of a blade on her tongue.

“how thorough of her,” she says, her voice low and teetering on the edge of venom. “tell me. do you teach people how to touch you properly, using the voice?”

your spine straightens, your chin lifts, but you do not answer. it is so wildly inappropriate, so surgically meant to harm, you almost laugh. instead, you sit with the taste of it in your mouth. 

you recognize the wound she’s trying to carve: jealousy, intended to maim. she can’t stand the idea of you being honed by anyone but her. after everything, she still thinks she can lay claim. your mouth twists. you give her nothing. 

just the cold flint of your gaze. only ambessa doesn’t need your permission. 

she steps forward, closing the space like she has never lost her entitlement to it.

"you think you’re free,” she murmurs, a thread of smoke in her voice. “but i made you. you came back for me. every inch of who you are, every whisper in that sharp little tongue of yours. i shaped it. i sculpted it.”

her fingers ghost down the front of your nightgown.

“you’ve never not been mine, sister. you are another repeat of the pattern. commander kiramman left, too, then limped back like a little child.” oh, you think, so the deceit has begun, then. you’ll be sure to tell pansa. “it never leaves you. i never left you.”

you inhale slowly, jaw clenched tight enough to shatter. her hand fists the fabric at your chest.

“and this,” she says, almost disappointed as she tears the delicate cloth from your body in one clean rip, “this is thin work. i expected better from a sister of your rank. given your mission. given me.”

the fabric pools like spilled milk at your feet. you don’t flinch.

you look her in the eye and say, “the real one is.”

that stops her, for just a beat. her mouth twitches. then your voice cuts through the space again, low, intimate, deliberate:

“but i know how you are.”

like a wolf who’s caught the scent of blood, her expression shifts into possession, ravenous and half-crazed with hunger. you’ve baited the beast, and you can see her deciding whether to bare her teeth or bury them in you. her hand lands on your jaw. it’s gentle, almost. but the heat beneath it burns with old fury.

she will devour you, if only to prove she still can.

you strike her hard. she falls against the side of the bed. it feels good to move her. you bend. your breasts hover, full and glossy with your perfumes.

“i came back for me. i found my voice. you are like the rest, so arrogant and all too eager to take credit for things you don’t fully understand.” your breath smells sweet as it runs haggardly across her face, like strawberries singed with blackened sugar. “twisting those girls into weapons? yes, ambessa, that was you. but what i am? that is in my blood. you fight because you cannot speak.”

ambessa’s eyes glitter. that jagged, serrated shine that threatens a lineage torn in two. she exhales through her nose, slow, calculating. then, she laughs.

a single, humorless sound.

then grabs you by the throat. just to hold. to show you her hand still fits there. you are young again.

“you say i can’t speak,” she murmurs, voice close to reverent. “but i’ve always known your dialect best. i know what makes you beg.”

your blood thrums like war drums. you let her drag you backwards until the backs of your knees meet the bed. you fall onto it, neither helpless nor defeated. you are not as young as you once were.

she climbs over you with the patience of a beast about to feast. she doesn’t kiss you, not yet. she hovers, her mouth close enough to graze, but never give.

you breathe her in, let her essence sit behind your ribs like a calcification.

“the first step of harnessing the voice,” you say, voice deliciously devoid of feeling, “is learning how to use your mouth.”

and then you roll her. she doesn’t expect it. how could she? you’re twenty-something-summers young, and she’s upward of fifty and built like a living weapon. but you take her with a grunt, your thighs pressing into hers, your fingers biting into that thick, corded shoulder. you move like you’ve been waiting years to do this.

you shift, knees dragging up along the mountainous hills of her ribs, until your cunt hovers above her mouth, eclipsing her face entirely. her eyes flare with something primal as you seat yourself over her mouth. this is not an offering. this is a usage. as far as you're concerned, this is what you’re owed.

she moans against you as she licks into the pink of you, mouth hot as tar as she sucks. she sighs like she's grateful, but you don’t look at her. you only lean backward, sweat beading along your back, one hand braced on one of her large thighs.

you rock back and forth, eyes closed and brow furrowed. her tongue is thick as it fills you, the sounds of her feasting upon your cunt obscene. you grow steadier, more precise. the tempo quickens. you’re truly riding now, tits bouncing in tandem with your impatience.

ambessa trails a hand up until she reaches your cunt, playing with the lips as she spreads it further to provide her with more acces. she lifts you easily, holding you suspended with one hand and dragging a finger from the other up and down. her mouth runs a mile a minute, a stream of filth.

“you’re so tight,” she murmurs against your thigh, the words hot against her veins. "perfect and so eager for me. so fucking eager despite your resistance, aren’t you? you need me, don't you?”

you try to answer, fury rising, but then ambessa slips a finger in and fucks into you. you lose all ability to create a sound. one of her hands moves to rise and twist into your hair, yanking a mass of it as you chase every push. you groan gutturally, the pain so familiar and so fucking good.

but, as always, you regain yourself and your strength. you push her wrist down and out, and sit to once again smother her. she allows it, squeezing your ass as you begin to curl over her.

you grind in tight circles, chasing the peak, your hips drawing runes of impatience onto her mouth.

once.

twice.

your hands shake with pleasure and power. you come with a snarl and tears on your cheeks. it’s messy and furious and decidedly not romantic, despite this being one of the things in life you had wanted most. you grind down until your thighs are soaked and her mouth is slick with you.

you lift off, breath ragged, but she laughs. the sound rings deep in her chest. 

“done already? i thought i trained you to be able to withstand, to have more stamina.”

she flips you like you weigh nothing, like you are nothing. in a matter of minutes, she has you belly-down, hips high, your knees braced. a parabola of flesh and fury across the bedspread. her hands spread you open with greedy precision.

she watches both of your holes clench, one slightly loosened and the other tight and puckered. she spits, letting you feel it slide down the crack of your ass into the hot, wet, sticky cavern of your cunt. she demeans you, over and over, only to then:

crack.

the strike lands hot across your thighs. you flinch. 

she does it again.

and again.

the pain flays you open from the inside. you cry into the sheets, face sticky with tears, but your spine doesn’t break. your body shakes, but you don’t beg. you refuse. and she’s rutting into you with her tongue, carving you out like she can burn her memory back into your skin. but she still hasn’t given you what you came for.

you wrench upward, spit still shining on your thighs, and when she reaches for something to fill you. fingers, weapon, something blunt—

“stop,” you say.

she stills. you speak again.

“get up.”

she rises as though she can’t help it. she cannot. her knees betray her. her body conducts itself according to your code.

you slide on a shirt, something old and scent-worn from one of your chests, and begin to walk. you are barefoot through the dark halls. bare soles kiss the cold marble of your pilgrimage. each step echoes, lonely as a bell. you are a shadow gliding down a corridor built to swallow noise. 

ambessa’s breath is still hot on your skin. you don’t have to look back to see if she follows.

it is not difficult to navigate these halls, to find your way to commander kiramman’s room. you spent so many hours doing the same steps while deciding whether or not to kill her. to mutilate her just like her cunt of a mother.

the doors, when you find them, rise before you, gold and inlaid with the kiramman crest. your heart twitches with violence at the sight.

the doors creak open with a sound like a death rattle. wood gives. dust lifts.

the room is dimly lit, velvet-draped, and humid with something that smells like sweat and something softer. a traitor’s comfort. you step in, barefoot and borderline blissful at the dense presence of subconscious fear that floods your mind. even the air folds around your voice like it’s afraid. you’re trembling with the anticipation of it.

ambessa is still following, caught in your undertow and half-naked, though covered enough and glistening with your need.

the bed is absurd in its grandeur, wide enough to bury three bodies and posts like cathedral spires.

caitlyn, ambessa’s beloved right-hand-in-training, is curled into another woman’s side. their limbs are tangled like there is a grave and they are preparing to both lie in it. her throat is blotched red, pale collarbone smeared with kisses. neither breaks from the other at first, but then you purposefully shuffle over the floorboards. 

caitlyn hears you first and then bucks against the fleshy prison of her lover’s arms when she sees you. the other one—short, stocky build, and a shock of pink hair—lets her go after a moment’s confusion, limbs scrambling upright as she follows suit in taking you in. 

you step forward lazily, every muscle in your body drawn taut like skin stretched back over a corpse’s bleached bones, sinew humming with ancestral effort. with you comes ambessa, eyes glazed over with a horrifying detachment. your mouth opens, and what comes out is more vibration than sound. it is something warped, raw, and cruel in its precision.

“and to think your mother died for this.”

caitlyn flinches and shifts, her foot slipping off the bed and touching the floor. her mouth parts. her shoulders drop a fraction, and in that fraction is submission.

“stay on the bed.”

she gasps, small and sharp, and rocks in place. her eyes lock on your face, wide with a personal terror. she knows you will never care if she lives or dies. the pink-haired woman, violet, remains in her place. good, she’s more than just sloppy drinking and bloody fists.

caitlyn is unable to look away from you. you with your shirt too big and riding high on your hips, inner thighs slick with want, and your most personal war. those glacial eyes flicker behind you, to where she sees ambessa just behind you, sweat-beaded and dazed, her lips parted like she’s forgotten how to close them.

she swallows. she has never seen mental control up close like this. it is always so disturbing the first time. 

at least it was for others.

your gaze pins her like a blade tip to the breastbone.

“do you really think i care about strengthening a bloodline that is not my own?” you ask her, voice low, guttural, awful.

neither of them answers.

you step closer.

caitlyn curls instinctively toward vi, who twitches like she might fight. her breath even hitches like she might cry out, but for whom? you? but it’s already clear: you are the most dangerous thing in the room. even with no earthly weapon. even with your thighs still trembling from the last time ambessa buried her mouth in you. still, you warn her,

“don’t be stupid, violet. the wealth she inherits does nothing to obscure her perception of your inferiority. the indoctrination takes years to bleed out. ideally, you would like to live long enough to see if i’m telling you the truth.”

the only sound is the drip of something unseen. candle wax, or blood. your voice has stilled the room. your voice has ruled in silence before the verdict. you take one step forward, and caitlyn tries to recoil. her stupidity bites at you.  her hand clenches the sheets like she might find safety in fabric.

that makes you laugh.

it is as you said in the strategy room. you are never a neutral creature. there will always be a side you lean towards. tonight, you are evil. there is no grey. there is just the black against the “white.”

ambessa hasn’t spoken since you ordered her up. her silence is leaden. the command has worn off. you made your utterance weak on purpose. she stands right behind you now. her chest is rigid, and her throat bulges with the constant swallow of her rage. she is silent, imperial with wide eyes and the shine of your wetness still glistening on her lips like sacrament.

she should look terrifying. she does. but she also looks small. 

they all do.

you speak then, softly.

“i hope she was worth it, ambessa. your toy soldier. your little court pet. you gave her what was mine, and you did it knowingly. my title. my power. my place at your side.” it is so still that one could hear the fall of dust in a corner. “pattern this and pattern that. you thought i would never come back. you understood i was warped. a deviant.”

you tilt your head, as if curious. as if this is academic.

“and this is what you built your empire on? a woman who cowers at the sound of me?”

you laugh. all this joy is intoxicating.

vi places herself between you and caitlyn, squared like a wall of flesh and instinct. that almost makes you smile again.

like putting an ox before a landslide.

you lay down your law.

“three lives. one decision.”

you step back, a slow pivot on your heel until you're one end of a triangle, the other ends crowned by the lives arrayed before you. the geometry seals shut: you are the point of origin, they are your consequence.

“one death. or three.”

you don’t need to say any names. everyone understands their place.

you look to ambessa. from your sleeve, you draw what you hid before leaving your rooms: a hand-held sickle, curved like a stolen smile. you place it in the center, between you all.

her mouth parts. yours opens.

your face changes. it contorts: godlike and grotesque. a twisting mask of recollection made monstrous. this is your grief made primal. grief too wild, too large for the bone.

no one has ever understood just how angry you are.

your cheeks flush hot, then frost. your eyes glisten, salt-hot with unshed joy. you sway under the weight of what’s to come.

they see it. they see the end.

you will not leave empty-handed. you are hideous with your hunger for vindication.

caitlyn begins to cry, body jerking awkwardly under the command, you spit upon her. she is right to weep. ambessa, the empress who has had your thighs over her shoulder like spoils, who’s felt your voice pour into her spine like acid, does nothing. that is the medarda way

loyalty is expected. never returned.

besides, she couldn’t have saved anyone if she tried.

your voice doesn’t rise, but it erupts. it shatters the bedposts. curls the fireplace flame. peels the paint. your body bears it all: sore and aching. raw, desecrated, and divine. your lungs expand with relief as you let it go. 

it is final.

it is lacerating.

it tunnels into ambessa’s mind, snaps her bones, and robs them of marrow.

it drags itself out of you, twisting the skin at your jaw. your veins stand high. your eyes rattle in their sockets as it scrapes through every last one of you.

“choose.” 

© hcneymooners.

[homemadesterekpie]

Stiles getting in big trouble at school because a video starts circulating around of him in a compromising position with a certain young man who’s been under suspicion of murder not too long ago…

it starts with people whispering to eachother whenever he passes them by. but Stiles is kind of used to that by now. ever since fucked up shit started happening in town with him almost always having something to do with it one way or another people tended to talk. but then at lunch, Boyd practically runs to him and grabs him by the arm to drag him out of the cafeteria, Erica and Isaac following behind looking pissed as all hell.

and that makes Stiles pause a second because Boyd never runs unless shit is going down so he just lets himself be dragged to an empty classroom.

Boyd just pulls out his phone pressing play on a video and turns it to show it to Stiles with a vague look of embarrassment on his face.

Stiles looks down at it and yep that’s Stiles alright. Stiles getting his shit rocked by their one and only Alpha.

at first glance it’s not overly explicit, all you see is Derek’s upper body facing away from the camera moving suggestively and Stiles’ face over a tanned shoulder and arms around his neck.

it’s the sounds that truly makes it look as bad is it is. Derek’s grunting is loud on the speakers and Stiles’ little moans sound wrecked and Stiles remembers he did feel absolutely wrecked that time. it had been the first time Derek had fucked him on the counter in the kitchen and Stiles had propped his phone up to catch it all because he may be a little freak but it was only ever meant for his own eyes. But it’s the sounds of their bodies moving together that really and truly puts the last nail in Stiles’ coffin. It’s beyond obscene, the slapping of skin on skin along with the wet sounds…

Stiles tells Boyd to turn it off, red in the face, completely embarrassed. he asks where the fuck did he get it. and Boyd doesn’t beat around the bush and almost kills Stiles on the spot when he says everyone fucking received it on their school email.

Stiles sits down hard on a chair and hides his face in his hands. this is it he’s going to die. his dad is going to fucking kill him and then Derek would kill him too.

Erica asks how could it have been sent to everyone like that. Stiles just shrugs, he can’t think right now. Isaac suggests that maybe someone could have stolen his phone during practice one afternoon?

Stiles’ head snaps up at that and he’s sure that’s it. but who could it be, no one knows the combination of his locker? well Scott knows it but why would he… Stiles stops his line of thoughts because yeah Scott definitely would.

Boyd who’s been watching him closely the entire time asks him what? what is it?

Stiles looks at him, mortified and mumbles that he’s pretty sure Scott might have done it.

Stiles had tried to avoid the whole thing going on with Scott. all they did these days was fight so Stiles just stopped talking to him. they were on a friendship break if you will.

he should have known it would blow up in his face and boy did it blow up.

Erica curses and says she’s going to kill the little shit while Isaac agrees. Boyd rolls his eyes but there’s definitely a murderous glint in them.

Stiles is about to tell them to stand down that he would deal with Scott himself but he’s suddenly called to the principal’s office on the PA system.

Stiles sighs and makes his way to the office like he’s on his death march. the betas follow him and there’s people in the halls who point and laugh at him and Stiles is so humiliated and embarrassed he can’t even manage to roll his eyes at them but the betas must threaten them somehow because they shut up quick and practically run the other way.

his dad is there waiting for him when he walks up to the office and Stiles feels like being one with the floor. he’s talking with the principal who looks serious and disapproving.

he doesn’t look at his dad in the eyes when he approaches, he can’t. the principle tells the betas to go back to the cafeteria but Boyd says they’ll stay right here. Stiles has to give them a look and mouth the words it’s okay for them to back down and walk away.

what he’s not prepared for though is for Derek to show up. they’re about to enter the principal’s office when he enters the double doors of the school like a bat flying out of hell. he looks beyond pissed and Stiles’ stomach drops with dread. but when he spots Stiles, his face softens just a tiny bit and Stiles lets out a small sigh of relief.

his legs move without him noticing and he shuffles towards Derek who strides towards him with purpose and next thing he knows he’s in Derek’s arms, face into his neck and he’s apologizing over and over while Derek shushes him softly.

the principal clears his throat and says this situation is private between the school, Stiles and his father. Derek lets Stiles disentangle himself but doesn’t let him go entirely. Derek stares the principal down for a moment before saying he’s in the video too and as far as he knows that involves him too.

Stiles steals a look at his dad and his face is unreadable and Stiles blanches. because he knows that look. that’s his on duty sheriff face.

in the end they let Derek sit in to which Stiles is grateful. he stands behind Stiles’ seat the entire time, Stiles feeling the heat of him at his back comfortingly.

they try to blame Derek for everything of course but Stiles is adamant that he was the one to take the video and that the video got circulated without his knowledge or consent.

his dad’s unreadable expression cracks at that and he asks Stiles who did it. Stiles stutters when he says he doesn’t know yet. he feels Derek shift on his feet behind him and he knows Derek heard his lie and hell, Boyd probably already texted him their suspicions of Scott being behind it.

his dad doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t press it, instead he talks with the principal as if Stiles isn’t there.

the principal assures that the emails has been taken down but that they can’t guarantee the students haven’t downloaded the video on their own.

as for punishment Stiles is expelled for a week to which Stiles’ jaw drops because that’s beyond harsh. its not like he beat someone up. and its not like he’s the one who circulated the video. all he did was spread his legs and film it, dammit.

his dad not so subtly imply that he might press charges on Derek for statutory rape and Stiles whips his head to him, face hard. he says with a voice thats just as hard as his face, no, you will not.

his dad turns to him and looks at him like he doesn’t know who’s sitting right there beside him. Stiles repeats that no, he won’t and that Stiles won’t let him. his dad’s chest puffs up in anger, a dangerous warning in his eyes but Stiles doesn’t back down.

the sheriff doesn’t back down either but he goes back to talking with the principal, Stiles tuning them out. Stiles is angry now, his embarrassment completely forgotten.

it’s obvious the main reason why his dad and the principal are being hard on him is because he got caught having sex. and thats humiliating for them and for the school.

suddenly, he feels Derek’s fingers at the back of his neck, just a brush of knuckles and just that small touch is enough for his shoulders to relax.

He doesn’t speak to his dad when finally they’re done and out of the office. the betas are back and waiting for him and Derek. Derek talks with Boyd for a bit while Stiles tells the other two what happened in there. Derek leaves but not before kissing Stiles on the forehead with a hand gripping the back of his neck, comfortingly.

his dad approaches him and looks at the betas awkwardly before telling Stiles lets go we’re leaving but Stiles says he has things to get from his locker and that he’ll be home later. again, it’s the both of them not backing down but eventually the sheriff just walks away and out of the school.

Stiles gets the things he needs from his locker, the betas his shadows and the four of them pile into the jeep and leave. as he drives, Boyd tells him Scott didn’t come to school today but that he’s home though. Stiles makes a turn, taking him away from his usual way home and instead towards Scott’s place.

Scott is on the porch when he turns in the driveway. Stiles tells the betas to stay in the car but they don’t listen to him but they do stay close to the car.

Stiles walks up to the porch and just looks at the guy who was supposed to be his best friend. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to say to him. Scott knows what he did and by the smug look of his face he certainly doesn’t regret it either.

Stiles sighs, exasperated and defeated. this is so stupid. Stiles calls Scott a moron and that whatever his reasons were for doing what he did, all it ended up doing was making Stiles mad and that he doesn’t want to talk to him again and if Scott were to ever show his face to him outside of school, he would let the betas get at him.

with that said, he turns around and walks back to his jeep while Scott sputters a little before starting shouting vile shit at Stiles. the words whore and bitch are thrown in there and Stiles would lie if he said it didn’t hurt to hear those but he refuses to give Scott the pleasure of a reaction. he just gets back into his jeep with the betas and drive away.

he had planned to go home after but he’s more upset than he anticipated so he drives to the woods where he knows Derek will be waiting for them.

as he drives up, Derek is already jogging down towards the jeep and he’s just put it into park when Derek opens his door and pulls him out of the seat to hug him.

he murmurs words in Stiles’ ear. like why did he go see Scott that he would have dealt with him, Stiles didn’t have to go through that. he also apologizes to Stiles that he shouldn’t have let Stiles film them but he can’t say no to him and that he doesn’t want Stiles to fight with his dad, etc, etc. Stiles just holds onto his Alpha tighter, nodding his head into his warm chest.

Stiles knows all of this. Derek would stop the earth from turning if Stiles asked him to and that’s why nothing else matters. he’ll deal with his dad. he’ll deal with the school. he could deal with anything if it meant that at the end of the day he would be back here just like this, in Derek’s arms, right where he belongs.

[severedfromthesource]

Androids and Electric Sheep

Ren is experiencing an unusual bug. Features F resus, M rescuer, CPR, stething, mouth to mouth, internal defibs, sex leading to cardiac arrest, sex acts both with consent and a person who cannot consent. I got too invested in the preamble so I highlighted the moment resus actually starts if you want to skip it.

No matter how advanced technology gets, it’ll only ever be used to fulfill man’s most base desires. Case in point- RN-34678. Or Ren, when the barcodes make my eyes glaze over and I get sick of calling them the number slurry X Tech names absolutely everything. Ren is as sophisticated as they come. Actual artificial intelligence. She makes the predictive text and ‘can’t even draw fingers’ image generating 21st century jokes people passed off as AI look like even more of a waste of time than they had been in those days. They might as well have been Speak n Spells. The collective power of every single basement dwelling crypto whizz kid with miles of wires and burnt up processors and bricked up video cards dedicated to their etherium farms pale in comparison to the computing power it takes to run Ren’s brain for an hour. She understands nearly 6,000 languages. She learns and retains information, consuming nearly 160 TB of memory every 8 hours. The bio-organic lace that makes up the net of her brain is a miracle, with the possibility of infinite memory. She is perfect in every sense of the word.

She is a glorified fuck toy.

The second the first android became commercially available, one of the first markets they hit was sex work. If nothing about late stage capitalism drove you crazy, that would have. Fuck curing cancer, or making androids for the dangerous, back breaking work people wreck their bodies to do, X Tech decided people needed a sex doll with a 100k price tag. The world’s most expensive cum sock. And yeah, alright, maybe I’m just bitter, partially because there’s no way in hell I could ever afford one, even as an android technician. But what a waste. She sits on my examination table, dutifully unzipping her black leather catsuit. Her managers always manage to stick her in something stupid looking, so overblown and sexualized they stop even being sexy at a certain point.

She looks up at me with lilac eyes. Last time they’d been blue. I like this shade better, I think, though I could do without the electric blue bob they have her wearing today. ”Your crash reports say you’ve been throwing error codes whenever a stream donation comes in over 2k,” I say. Which, for a bot like Ren, is quite a lot of her donations. “It’s probably just a bug in payment processing.” I look again over her diagnostics, floating on the screen at my desk. “Any complaints I wouldn’t find in the debug menu?”

”My heart has been feeling strange,” she says. I pause and look at her over the top of my glasses. “Well, firstly, it’s not your heart. An aether pump does not a heart make. Secondly, it shouldn’t feel like anything. You’re supposed to ignore the inner workings, it’s all background programs, runs without you thinking about it.” She shrugs. Her shoulders are pale as she rolls down the catsuit and pulls her arms from the sleeves, bunching up the tight leather around her midriff. Her breasts are small and round, standing upright as pretty as a Botticelli painting. I’d noticed the small bumps on either side of her nipples (Christ, did the things ever go soft? Or were they just always cutting glass?) but didn’t register until I saw them now that her managers had pierced them sometime since our last checkup. Little silver bars were stuck through the pink nubs, with winking silver balls on either end. Alright, cool, chill.

I clear my throat and pull up my rolling stool. “Well, let’s just take a look then.” I shift once I’m seated to alleviate the pressure of my stiffening cock. Listen, I’m not a technophile, honest to God. I go out of my way to filter out androids when I’m scrolling through porn sites because, despite the leaps and bounds we’ve made in technology, the uncanny valley is still a thing. It feels weird getting off to bots. But then there’s Ren. And fuck me if she isn’t the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. I put a hand on the back of her neck, my thumb resting at the diagnostic mode button hidden just under the edge of her jaw. I feel the soft bump that sinks in when I press. Her lilac eyes flash black with snatches of white text, then roll back to lilac. Damn, she smells like a new car.

I glance back at the monitor, and as I suspected, nothing comes up about the aether pump. It seems in perfect working order. Still, I dig around my box of scrap wires and spare tubing until I find my mostly neglected stethoscope. I don’t often have to use it, but I feel a trill of excitement go up from my stomach to think I get to use it on Ren. I plug up my ears and put a hand on her shoulder, taking the bell of the steth in my other hand. Her breasts rise and fall with the rhythm of her breathing, set to mimic human intervals. The real purpose is to cool down her insides and keep her from overheating, but just like the aether pump and its auditory cues, its designed to mimic humans as closely as possible. After a guy fucks something like Ren, he gets the added benefit of being able to lay next to her and listen to her breathing. Feel her heart beat. Doesn’t matter what the purpose of the design is for, it matters so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking a 100k fleshlight with arms and legs. I press the steth to a spot above her breast and it sinks into her pillowy soft skin like it was real. Cool it, Christ, you can’t get so hot and bothered over everything. Heel, boy.

But my thumb makes a slight imprint against her tit, and it’s hard to think of anything else. Same thing happens when I press the steth against a space under her breast, and it lays warmly against the back of my hand. The pump, like the fake lungs, is designed to look and act and even sound like a heart, pumping coolant through her body. I tell her it’s not a heart out of some petty, pedantic need to distance myself and my unique humanity, but truth is, the thing is a heart. She could die if something went really wrong with it, and a lot of bots have. Sudden cardiac arrest was one of the main bugs in the 2.3 rollout. It got so bad, tons of models in the service industry had to be recalled, because mechanical line cooks and servers were dropping if the ovens got too hot. My hand still on her neck, I pull her forward and press the bell to her back. Her forehead brushes against my shoulder, her gaudy blue wig draping against the side of my neck and jaw. I tilt my head just enough my nose brushes her hair. Fuck, she really does smell good.

“Well, I don’t hear any irregularities,” I tell her, because I don’t. The thing is pumping liquid aether around her body at around 70 bpm, like it should. She draws up from my shoulder, glancing at me sideways. “It only seems to happen with clients,” she says, drying out my throat in an instant. “Clients?” “Mhm. Whenever one of them climaxes. If they do it inside me, my heart starts going very fast. I get foggy and I can’t think afterwards.” I swallow. “Right,” I say, “I mean… I can’t exactly test that, Ren.” She touches my wrist. “It’s rather frightening, Doc. I worry…” She pauses, and I try very hard not to say out loud what I’m thinking. You shouldn’t be frightened of anything, Ren. You’re not supposed to feel any of this. She sits back, bringing her hand up, her fingers curling against where her pump lies in her chest, half covering her nudity.

She doesn’t want to get recalled. I wince in spite of myself. If she has the same defect others in her rollout had, she’s going right back to X Tech. I push the steth around my neck, scooping back hair from my face. “It’s a pretty fatal system flaw. It… I could… Well, I-“ I can’t look at her. Fuck, I really can’t look at her. My face feels hot. This is the plot of like, 90% of bot R34 on the internet. I might as well be a pizza delivery guy and she a lonely housewife who’s a few bucks short on a large sausage. She ‘breathes’. Her chest goes up and down, the lights winking off her pierced nipples. She’s so goddamn gorgeous.

“Doc?” “Thinking,” I huff. I spare a glance around the other cubicles bordering mine. Big glass offices, designed for this exact stupid fucking thing I’m about to do. The first guy who got caught with his dick in a bot ruined it for everyone, so now my coworkers and I are subjected to rat lab cubicles where we can look in on each other at any given moment. People around us testing reflexes, repairing cosmetic damage, quashing bugs. What I was about to do was also technically debugging, but there was no way in hell my boss was gonna see it that way if he saw my flat ass pumping in and out of a bot worth more than I make in a year on the other side of plexiglass. Alright, cool, chill. I scoop up my backpack with my work laptop and sling it over my shoulder. “Bathroom,” I whisper.

Cut to Ren and I, locked in the women’s bathroom. We have three women in the office, and their cubes are on the other side of the building, closer to another bathroom. This one is usually empty. Cut to her, awkwardly standing in front of a toilet. Me, on the verge of being the Most Fired Man Who Ever Lived. For extra security, I’d stuffed us both into a stall, locking it behind me too. It's cramped, which adds to the feeling this is absolutely not what I'm supposed to be doing. But hey, it's my job, isn't it?

I awkwardly maneuver around her and sit on the toilet lid, hastily undoing my pants. God, this is shameful. And weirdly hot? I can't tell if it's just Ren or the dozen or so corporate regulations and general laws I'm breaking doing this, but I can feel the pulse in my cock, pressing up against the inseam of my jeans. Those lavender eyes flick from my face to the swollen, flushed skin, and the outer rim of her pupils flash with color. I help her roll down the leather catsuit and then, holy shit, Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I’m inside her. She feels real. My hands on her back, my face buried in her tits, her thighs on mine, she feels realer than any woman I had ever known. My breath warms her artificial skin, and the barbell through her nipple is cold, the contrast making me shiver whenever the hot skin of my cheek touches the metal. My fingers slide up her stomach, her hips bucking and pumping me in and out of her. She’s tight. Really fuckin tight. I can feel her aether pump, the artificial heart, throbbing in her inner walls, harder than any real heart I’d ever felt. It adds to every stroke, a thumping sensation that’s nearly making me come after a couple thrusts. Christ, I might as well be sticking my dick right against the chambers of her fake heart.

The job. Right, I’m doing a job. Fuck, I’ve never loved my job so much. “Lemme- ngh, God, fuck- lemme see i-ins-side your ch-est, R-Ren.” She’s straddling my lap, panting like a porn star, her bob swinging back and forth, and she nods. The synthetic skin goes translucent, a dull blue glow that starts at her collarbone and down to the bottom of her ribcage. I spare only a brief chuckle, Man, we never could get rid of those stupid gamer lights, before I try to focus my attention on her inner workings. The aether heart is basically a simplified human one, drawing hot fluid in one side and squeezing out coolant through the other in an eternal ebb and flow. And right now, it’s going insane. The valves are snapping open and closed rapidly, the thing shuddering instead of really beating. There’s a little display window pinned under her collarbone, and it’s clocking her at 150 bpm, the green spikes of her heartbeat saw toothing across the round display port. Not totally dangerous, but as I pump inside of her and she bounces on my thighs to match my quickening pace, it keeps climbing.

Alright. As much as I want to be stuck in here forever, with a beautiful woman bouncing on my dick in a way I’ve only ever dreamed of, I have to figure out what’s wrong. I wrap my arms around her body, pulling her flush against my chest. “Hold onto me, ‘kay?” I breathe against her ear. Her arms slid around me, nails brushing briefly against my shoulder blades. I take in her scent. Focus on the sensations of her body, the sharp cold of her piercings, breasts pressed against my chest, her warm, throbbing cunt. It doesn’t take long. I start to lose the rhythm as my breath shortens, my strokes shortening too, until finally I can take it no more. I come, hot seed filling her up, bathing my cock, spilling out from between our sexes. Her back arches, a cry ripping from her throat of the most exquisite ecstasy.

Then she dies.

No, seriously, the bot quits all at once. I’m there, still trying to enjoy the feeling of my load making her even tighter and full, when she goes completely limp. Her arms slide down from my back, and the artificial pulse I feel in her cunt just stops all at once. She’s dead weight on top of me. “Fuck,” I spit, trying to readjust her, but she’s goddamn heavy. “Ren? Hey, Ren- man, what the fuck-”

I look up at her sternum to see the aether pump has stopped. The little internal monitor is reading a flatline. I fumble to unlatch the bathroom door, my other hand cradling her back, as I awkwardly shift to try and swing it open. Both of us end up in a heap on the floor when I try to pick her up. I'm apologizing to her slack and lifeless face as I disentangle myself and hastily zip up, then lay her flat on her back. Her perfect round breasts sit in the open air, her still heart glowing between them. I set my laptop beside her and hook up a USB into the command port hidden behind her ear.

There was no tip off in her crash reports, but looking now, I can see the absolute mess of code in the last few lines she ran before arresting. I clean up some of the irregularities, get rid of the redundancies, and hit reboot. Two small circular nodes glow within her chest, then snap against the chambers of her heart. Basically built in defib units. Her body jerks, hand twitching in against her cheek, her back arching slightly. Her naked shoulder blades slap against the tile floor as she falls back, limp again. But she doesn't move. Her pump is still. I glance at the monitor and see FATAL SYSTEM ERROR flash across the screen. Fuck, am I going to have to do this manually?

Growling in frustration, I throw my hands against her sternum. It's easy to get the right position when I can see her heart lying beneath a few layers of synthetic skin. Squaring my shoulders, I push down hard. Unlike with real CPR on a real person, depth doesn't matter, nor the risk of breaking ribs. She's basically Wolverine. A hydraulic crusher couldn't break her ribs. They yield though, and bow in against her spine as I rhythmically pump her heart. The force ripples through her whole body. Her stomach pops up, her shoulders shrug in, her head rolls back and forth. I look from her face down to her tits. I can't help it, they're swaying with each compression, the light catching her piercings. I can feel the cool metal rest against my fingers. The position my hands are in leaves my fingertip pressing against her nipple, still standing upright from our exercise. A shiver runs through me. Am I seriously getting hard again? It's hard not to. My eyes drink in her still body, the remnants of our session dribbling down her thigh, her breasts bouncing like they had when she was riding me.

I can almost see the corner of the screen light up with “Kink Unlocked: Reviving Dead Girls”. I glance at the monitor and see the reboot option has lit up again. When I take my hands away from her chest, I see her aether pump jerking as if trying to start again. Once more I charge the internal defibrillators. While they hum to life, I partake in a ritual that isn't strictly necessary. The hero always gets to indulge in mouth to mouth with the downed heroine. She doesn't actually need air, but her lips are slack, full and inviting. I press mine over hers, breathing air she doesn't need into her mouth. I can feel her cheeks puff, and I'm surprised but excited to see her chest rises too. I give her a few quick bursts of oxygen. Her chest jerks up and I only allow it to fall part way before I give her another, making her chest rise and fall in short hyperventilations. My hand finds itself running up her stomach to feel the motion of my breaths, up over her breast again. It fills my palm as I breathe a long, slow draft into her throat, and I roll her nipple between my fingers. She sighs out recycled air against my face when I break the seal of our lips.

Man, how do EMTs not cum when they resuscitate hot girls? The whole tableau is so erotic, I can feel my pulse once more jerk in my cock. The defibs once more slap the chambers of her artificial heart and she thrashes under the current. Her breasts sway and she again falls limp to the tiles.

“Come on, Ren,” I say under my breath, watching her aether pump swelling at uneven intervals. The chambers aren't beating right still, snapping open and closed out of sync with one another. I again check her code on my laptop, using one hand to tap through my options. The other I lay against her sternum. It occurs to me I really don't know what the fuck I'm doing. Whatever feels like it helps, I guess. Or whatever feels good. I grind my heel in against her heart in slow, rhythmic compressions with one hand. “Come on, work with me here. Breathe for me. Do something, at least let me know you're not completely bricked.” The idea that she might be makes me swallow hard. I like Ren. I don't want to ship her off to the junkyard as much as she doesn't want to be shipped.

When her heart goes still again I lace my fingers together and start pumping her chest anew. I forget my laptop entirely- this isn't a software issue, it's the hardware in her chest acting up. If I can just get the damn thing to reset. Swinging my leg over her supple thighs, I straddle her so I can use my whole body. Like this, I can feel the motion my work creates in her otherwise still body. Each powerful thrust against her pump rolls the kinetic force through her whole body. Her feet swing back and forth. The force rolls from her chest, down her stomach, even rippling her thighs. Each compression makes her stomach roll out, only now I can feel it between my legs.

Fuck it, I'm already fired. These life saving efforts have got me hard all over again, something I would have thought impossible. I unzip and thrust into her almost in one motion. It's next to impossible to actually pump into her while I'm working her heart, so I mostly settle for letting her body rock into me while I do CPR. Only when the prompt for the defibrillator pops up again do I allow myself to roll my hips into her while it charges. The thing whines quietly as I brace my hand against her chest, driving my cock deep inside her. It slaps her heart again and she arches her back, filling my hand against her sternum. Her inner walls clench with the electricity and I groan as I roll in and out of her. That's when she draws in a breath and moans all at once. Her eyes flutter open and she instinctively begins to grind her hips in rhythm with me. Before long I'm filling her up all over again and I collapse on top of her. She's back. The thought strikes me as I look down and see her aether pump snapping out a normal, if elevated rhythm. I roll off onto the welcome chill of the tile floors, my arm still slung around her.

“You okay?” I pant, my eyes half lidded as I look at her. Ren nods, smiling weakly in return. Then she’s wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in my shoulder. I hesitate, the shame of what I had done to her when she was basically dead starting to creep up now that the high is waning. But eventually I slide my arms around her in return, drawing her close to my body. “Thank you, doc,” she whispers.

“Don't mention it.” Seriously, don't mention any of this.

[kyoodledoodle]

I am kinda obsessed with a what if scenario where Kalina decided play "cool aunt" or "imaginary friend" with Riz.

Like jeez Kalina, you dunce. You could have been manipulating that goblin from day 1. Wasted opportunity.

Like oh my god I'm obsessed with this idea. If she took the time to 1. Drive a wedge between Sklonda and Riz and 2. Be a friend who could teach him how to do cool shit and praise him a lil bit he could have been such a fucking asset.

It would have been EASY like Kalina pushing the envelope. "Why doesn't she ever talk about your dad? Well if she can't and won't I don't mind sharing a couple of stories since we worked together for a few years." Probably embellishes the stories a lil bit and Riz absolutely eats that shit up. His dad was cool and blah blah.

Riz is very good at the rogue shit and he's so eager to be of service. He probably wouldn't question Kalina because she's built up this idea she cares for the kid and would make some bullshit up about "Woah buddy that's some super secret stuff I can't go spilling my guts. Stop digging. " And he'd be like okay okay I'm sorry.

In freshman year Kalina would just be a ghost. I truly don't think she didn't need to do anything but let the dragon do as he wants. All he had to do was spread the coins around so he did that and took care of that 'one' problem a couple years back. ( She's not gonna tell Riz she's indirectly responsible for his daddy's death. That would just ruin all the time and energy she's spent on nurturing this relationship. ) plus other people's were responsible for collecting the crown of the nightmare king so she just sits tight.

I also like to think there could be a moment where Riz starts to get a lil too close to figuring her shit out and starts with the questions. Kalina does not want her efforts wasted so she spins a tail and shows him his dad is in hell. Maybe he liked the hunt a little too much. Maybe he was a whore. Maybe he was just a bad person who continued to do bad things because it was fun. And kalina spins the narrative ensuring Riz he doesn't turn out like his parents.

Wait parents? What's his mom doing? Well according to Kalina she might be a crooked cop. Who knows..he won't until he can't get a chance to talk to her

Anyway I just god, the potential here I feel like is limitless and I'm just this gremlin that feeds off dramatic angst.

I also love the idea of Riz just choosing blind faith and trusting some entirely only for it to be the wrong fucking person and he finds out waaaaay too late. And I also like to believe that he would struggle so hard when being made to confront his friends. He would try so hard to be diplomatic about getting them to just stop chasing after Kalina. They can take the F and try again it's not that important. Just a grade.

Adaine ask Riz why Kalina is working with her parents then. They are probably doing something evil. It's called the CROWN OF THE NIGHTMARE KING!

And poor riz is just like "sometimes you have to work with shitty people's to get results. I know your parents suck! I'm SORRY I DIDNT GET TO PICK THE TEAM! If it helps I thought about pushing your dad off a cliff."

"I appreciate the sentiment, really. But I wish could see that you are being manipulated and lied to."

"No I'm really not. I won't ask you to join your shitty parents on a lackluster adventure but c'mon can't you leave the forest? At least until we fix shit?"

"Ughhhhshshhs your being SO ridiculous! I can ot believe you of all people are believing the plague, THE DISEASE, over your real friends. She's been giving us nightmares! Horrible ones. Why would she need to give us nightmares to save the world? Why does she even want the crown. The nightmare king is BAD news!"

"We have to bring the nightmare king back so we can kill it! Otherwise it will just be a forever thing in some capacity! It can't die unless it's killed in one clip. It's- ITS A WHOLE THING OKAY? YOU WANNA HELP OR NOT?"

"Oh my fucking god." Adine facepalms so hard. "you are so much better than this man..what the fuck did she even- ugh. Are we fighting?"

"technically.... This has been a very unsuccessful fight on both our ends."

"You know that's not what I mean. I don't really want to fight you. None of us do."

"please don't fight Kalina. She's capable of scary shit."

"NO FUCKING SHIT!"

--- I just really love the thought of this.

Curious what you think of the general idea, if that's cool

IM ONLY GETTING TO THIS NOW BUT OOH???

OOOOOOOOOH!!!??!!!!?!?!

HOLY

SHIT

I DONT NNOW WHAT TO SAY THIS IS INCREDIBLEEEEEEE

THE POTENTIALLLL

and junior year when Kalina comes back “good” everyone’s super sus but Riz is just completely gung ho about having her on their side

and just imagining his mom listen to her son believe all these things about his dad, and Pok SEEING HIS SON BEING MANIPULATED BUT NOT BEING ABLE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT JT

[couldawouldashoulda50]

Happy birthday to our sweet Willy! 💙💛 Playoffs and Game 6? What a day to be alive! 😍

You’re probably getting a few of these today, but I can’t help myself — how do you think William and Loren would celebrate his birthday? Not necessarily on a game 6 day, but just in general… what would their celebration look like? 😘

I have to start by saying a big mwah to you - you are such a trooper...running marathons and trying to catch glimpses of the playoff games when you're 6 hours ahead. Today is a pretty crucial day (just the way I feel) so I'm wishing William (and the team) lots of rest, meditation, and positive vibes for this game day. They can do this.

But yes, May 1....William Nylander day in our minds since we fell for him years ago.

For Loren, she is going to be in full worship mode. Not in a subservient way—unless he asks and she’s in the mood. Afterall, it’s his birthday. Nothing’s off the table today 😉 Her mindset is more about wanting to create some peace and stillness in his world for a few hours - to let him really decompress and then fill him up so to speak.

In terms of pleasure, Loren has discovered two truths...the way to his heart is through his stomach and his zipper equally....not necessarily in that order.

She starts his day with the greatest hits of the most relaxed and playful sex...she reads him well and knows what makes his toe curl and melt at the same time. A quick cleanup - then they tend to the dogs together...a nice walk along a nearby park with ravines and mature trees.

He's had his micronutrients already before the walk, so the macronutrients come in the form of a huge breakfast. Everything from eggs to smoked salmon to avocado toast - he and Alex fucking love their food and they smash back all of it.

William can buy whatever he wants, so Loren tries to hone in on experience gifts rather than material ones. After breakfast, William and Alex sink into the couch for a video game bloodbath — no hockey highlights allowed. Just something gory and ridiculous to make them yell and chirp and unwind. Just after noon, she's arranged for an inhouse Swedish Massage for the three of them. Loren always makes space for Alex (and the massage was something she could afford to do for all of them) - he's just become part of the rhythm of their relationship in most aspects - just not the bedroom. Alex and Loren have grown very fond of each other over the past season (although she silently disagrees with him...A LOT...which William finds pretty fucking amusing)

Post massage - nap time is absolutely imperative. Loren gives Alex her best doe-eyes to have him take the dogs out for a quick walk while William crawls in bed with her following shortly after. 3+ hours later....every part of him is awake and he's ravishing Loren. Let's just say he's showing her how great of a day she's given him so far. But there's more. Loren has arranged for the chef that appeared on the Three Courses episode to come to the condo and cook a massive spread of all the Swedish favourites for him and his close circle of friends and teammates. After everyone has left, the condo's clean, the dogs have been walked...William feels exactly what Loren had hoped he would. Happy. Relaxed. Full.

But there's one last thing she has for him. She tells him he doesn't have to wear them but whenever she sees Emerald (his birthstone) in jewelry, she wants to get him something but fears it might not be his taste. But in her travels, she saw these small diamond crusted hoop earrings with a tiny emerald that she thought he might like. He didn't though. He loved them, almost as much as he loved her.

I'm so sorry for the sappy ending lol!!!!!! Got a little carried away.

Thank you my sweet for the ask. Here’s hoping Game 6 goes down like Loren did this morning… skillfully, confidently, and with an outcome that makes you want to celebrate.

Happy William's Birthday day to all who celebrate this man. Here's small wall of gifs and photos of him for your viewing pleasure.

GLG 💙🤍

[vaguely-concerned]

powerful mental image of lucanis expounding passionately about any given one of his limited but extremely deep areas of interest (the wyvern/knives/coffee/cooking/murder continuum of lucanis dellamorte special interests if you will) while rye lounges around and Beholds him with palpable twink boutta pounce energy

[bmpmp3]

post ankle-twisting clarity

[lunar-wandering]

head hurty

[risingsunresistance]

twitter is entering their "rts > likes" phase now that likes are private after they spent years calling us ungrateful for being demotivated by ratios lmao

[shirogane-oushirou]

[cw vent: chronic illness, general world politics mention w no detail)

"man. i'm so tired. i feel like i can't do anything selfship related. is it because my energy's been sapped from family visiting and everyone wanting to do ~summer activities~ nonstop? am i so in my head about "getting ren's story right without stepping over any lines" that i've backed myself into a perfectionist corner? is the world just going to shit so hard that i can't have one (1) minute of escape on this blog before going back to working through the political hellscape we're in? god even trying to make this plushie pattern is killing me even though i want to hold my guy So Badly AUGH."

/finishes the plushie pattern after trying multiple body bases and literally buying a japanese ebook about plushie face and hair design/

"actually what if i lived forever and spent all of that time making an army of these fuckers to swim in? what then?"

[helielune]

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaauauuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhgggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

[daughterofsarenrae]

fajsdlkfjslkfjsdlkfj my dad is upset with my bc he just discovered kill la kill and i told him i watched it in like high school and apparently i should've recommended it to him back then

[madigoround]

Can’t tell if listening to episode 14 on the way to my therapist appointment is a great decision or a questionable one in hindsight considering it did make me quite sad

[luvcaleb]

YOU'RE MINE.

nsfw (18+). includes aphrodisiacs, dry humping, rubbing cock over panties, possessive!caleb, caleb is gentle at first until you piss him off, this is basically ‘testing caleb's patience: the fic’, unprotected sex, creampie, i have to mention that caleb is possessive twice because caleb says some freaky stuff, sappy confession during sex, happy (horny) ending <3 likes and reblogs will be very helpful !!

Caleb doesn't accept love letters and chocolates whenever Valentine's Day comes along. However, girls directly stuff them into his bag without his knowledge sometimes, and you take it upon yourself to eat the sweets because Caleb would just throw it straight to the trash otherwise.

“It's a waste,” you'd always say. “You might not like them back, but they still made the effort to make chocolate for you.”

And then Caleb would shake his head, frowning, “Though most of them mean well, sometimes they put weird stuff in the food. So if I were you, I'd spit out that cupcake, pipsqueak.”

You usually don't heed his warnings—Caleb's always been kind of an overthinker. Now, though, you regret not listening to him as an unfamiliar heat spreads across your body, your core throbbing as you feel yourself dripping in your panties.

...The panties that's rubbing against Caleb's crotch right now, soaking the fabric of his pants while you grind down on him. Caleb's expression looks like a mix of confusion, worry, and arousal, his hands hovering above your waist as if unsure where to touch you. “Nn— hey, what's gotten into you? Do you even know what you're doing right now?”

You see his Adam's apple bob up and down as he nervously swallows, and you start feeling something poking you at your clothed core. Caleb sits up on the sofa where you pushed him down a while ago, grabbing your hands on his shoulders. “C'mon, tell me. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong.”

You whimper, your body collapsing on top of his. He quickly scoops you up, one hand holding the back of your head, the other resting on your lower back, ensuring you're properly seated on his thighs.

“I... I feel weird,” you pant, clutching the front of his shirt. “I'm dizzy, and my body is hot all over. My...” you swallow down your embarrassment, “my pussy feels empty... Caleb, can't you help me? Please?”

Almost imperceptibly, his grip on you tightens by a fraction. He sighs, angling your head to make you look at him in the eye. Perhaps it's the trick of the light, but Caleb's face is a flustered pink. “I can't do that. You're going to regret it when you turn back to normal and get all weird about it.” He glances at the chocolates you ate on the table, brows furrowed. “Aphrodisiac chocolate... I should've known. Then you wouldn't have become like this...”

Your mind is in a daze. Your body feels unusually heavy, but your head feels like it's floating. Most of what he said is lost on you, and at this moment, the only thing you can focus on is that Caleb is looking at something else. You grab both of his cheeks, forcibly turning his attention to you. “Please help me, Caleb...” Clumsily, you lift up your hips, pressing your cunt against the tent in his pants. It glistens with your wetness, and Caleb can't help but groan when you rub the tip with your thumb. “It hurts... I need this inside me...”

Caleb has always adhered to your whims, but even he has his limits. He pinches your cheek, “I can't put it inside, idiot, I don't have a condom. I just have to make you cum, right?” He gestures for you to pick up the hem of your skirt, sucking in a breath when he sees how soaked you are. “Fuck....”

The entire crotch area is damp, and if he looks carefully, he can even see the faint shape of your clit. Curiously, he draws circles on it, breathing heavily when a fresh glob of slick stains your underwear. “That's hot...”

He pulls down his zipper, releasing his cock from his boxers. You gasp softly at the sight. He's long and thick, arching to a beautiful curve, colored almost red from the strain of holding back. He gives himself a few experimental pumps, moans coming from his mouth as he masturbates at the sight of you, holding up your own skirt to give him a perfect view of your wet panties, an innocent, frilly pair he can't wait to ruin.

He positions his cock to your folds, aiming at the spot your hole should be if not covered by your underwear. You both groan at the first slide, his pre-cum further soaking the fabric of your ruined panties. He wraps himself in his fist, teasing your clit as he pumps into his hand. More pearls of white spurt out of his tip. “Ah, fuck, that's good... so good...”

“Ah, ah, Caleb!”

You move your hips, moaning while he rubs himself against your cunt. The warmth of his cock is driving you crazy, and the added friction of Caleb rubbing your nipple through your clothes makes you even wetter than you already are. He's biting his lip, dazed eyes staring at your body appreciatively. “I'm taking this off, baby.”

He impatiently runs his hand through the buttons of your clothes, some of them popping off to clatter on the floor. “H-hey, I liked this shirt— haa...!”

“I'll buy you a new one,” he grunts, mouthing at one of your tits, sucking as if anything would come out. He unclasps your bra one-handed, throwing it over your shoulder. “These things are fucking annoying...”

Finally, he gets tired of rubbing you over your clothes. He lifts the side of your panties, sliding his cock inside to directly grind against your pussy. “Shit, that's more like it,” he moans loudly, your wetness gliding down his balls. “You feel so good.”

“Caleb, put it inside already,” you whine, scrunching up the fabric of your skirt in your fists. “This isn't enough for you either, hnn, right...? Give me your cock, please...”

Caleb grits his teeth, holding your hips to stop you from dropping on his dick. “Didn't I tell you I don't have a condom?”

“I don't care!” you struggle in his hold. “Fuck me, c'mon... it hurts...! If you don't...”

You pant against his ear, knowing exactly what you're getting into, drugged or not, “...I'll ask Zayne to fuck me instead.”

The effect is instantaneous. He pulls out, replacing his cock with two fingers plunging inside you at once, hitting deep all the way inside. You choke, gasping out for breath as his hand doesn't stop, slick jetting out of your cunt with every push of his fingers. His clothes are getting soaked, but Caleb doesn't care about them at all, coldly glaring at your face twisted in pleasure.

“So you're telling me you'd be fine with just anyone?” He's chuckling, but he doesn't sound like he's happy. “Fuck. I should've just done this from the start, then.”

He grabs two of the chocolates, popping one in his mouth. When he finishes swallowing, he places the other one in his mouth again, but then he suddenly grabs your jaw. “Open your mouth, slut.”

He pulls you in for a kiss, mouths locking together. The chocolate melts from the heat, his tongue licking at yours as he's forcing you to swallow. He doesn't let you go until he's sure you've eaten all of it, drool dripping from the corner of your lips.

“We're not stopping until you learn I'm the only one who gets to see you like this,” he grunts, taking out his fingers and slathering your slick on his cock to make it wet. “I'm the only one who gets to call you mine.”

“Haa... haa...”

Clothes are strewn messily on Caleb's bedroom floor, the mattress squeaking with each thrust of his hips. You're on your back, one leg hooked over Caleb's shoulder, staring into space as you're fucked absolutely stupid.

“Fuck, I can't stop my hips....” Caleb's still fucking into you, hasn't stopped for the past hour. The effects of the aphrodisiac have probably passed after the first two rounds, but his cock shows no signs of softening after release. He cums another load into you, overflowing from your pussy to spread into his sheets. “Ah, hng, shit... Hey, I told you not to waste it.”

He pulls out, pressing his fingers inside your loose hole to fuck his cum back in. You make a sound of protest, already feeling full.

“Are you starting to regret what you said now?” He grabs the back of your thighs, pressing your legs next to your ears. “Too late for that, though.”

Caleb groans, sloshing his cum inside your cunt with his dick. You helplessly grab at the sheets, moaning brokenly. His pelvis rubs against your engorged clit on every snap of his hips, driving you to squirt on his abs again, his torso glistening with your mess.

“You're squirting again? How many times have you cum?” Caleb laughs meanly, sucking another possessive mark among the smattering of hickeys he's already left along your collarbones. “Nasty girl...”

He leans back, getting a better view of your body. There are traces of him everywhere, from the hickeys on your neck, his cum on your chest because you couldn't swallow everything he poured in your mouth, and the faint bite marks on your inner thighs when he paid the favor and ate you out.

He presses a kiss on your chest, staring at you with dark eyes. “If you didn't say that, I would've been patient with you. Fingered you loose before putting my cock inside, making sure you're comfortable... I would've helped you ride out the effects of the aphrodisiac and never speak of it again. After all, to you, I'm just family.” He nuzzles against your cheek, his voice taking on a darker tone. “But you just had to call out another guy's name, didn't you... Would've fucked him if it was him here, not me...”

Caleb thrusts back inside you roughly, fucking your cervix. “You can't do that, you know? You've always belonged to me. Every part of you is mine, so no one else can touch you.” He cups your cheek, devouring your cries of pleasure with his mouth. “Just me... it's only me, right? I'm the person most important to you, right? You said so... So why are you bringing up another guy?”

He's asking questions, but he doesn't let you answer any of them, kissing you so much you almost can't breathe.

“Even though I'm in front of you...” Kiss. “Even when I'm the only one who loves you this much...” Kiss, kiss. “You're still thinking of another person...” Kiss, kiss, kiss. “That's hardly fair when you're all I think about everyday.” Another sloppy kiss.

You weakly push his chest, breaking away from the kiss. “Wait, Caleb—”

He pins your wrist to the bed. “I'm not stopping.”

“I'm not telling you to stop, I'm telling you to liste— ahh, haa, hnn!” The cock still ramming up your walls makes it much more difficult to speak, hammering against the sweet spot that makes your toes curl. “Fuck, ah— Caleb, listen to me!”

He hums as he sucks another hickey on your skin. “I am.”

You don't have it in you to argue even when he clearly isn't, trembling at the pleasure. The hand holding your wrist travels upwards to intertwine your fingers together, grounding you back to reality.

“Caleb, I was just— I didn't mean what I said...” you stammer, trying your best to speak without getting distracted. “I, mmh....! W-wouldn't do this with anyone else... haa... I just said that so you'd fuck me— ah, ah!”

He scoffs, slowing his pace when he sees you being overwhelmed. “You're just making excuses to get me to stop.”

“I'm not, you dummy! I...” your brows pinch together, embarrassed to say it but you continue anyway, “Caleb, you're the one I think of when I touch myself... nn... And I know it's wrong, and you only think of me as someone you should take care of, but, I, haah, I like it when you kiss me, or when you hug me, and I— gh! I like it when you fuck me hard, too, just like this...”

You move your hand to cup Caleb's jaw, admiring his awestruck expression. He looks at you like he's seeing you for the first time.

“I'm not telling you to stop,” you repeat yourself firmly. “I just wanted to say I didn't mean that thing I said earlier, and if it's you, you can do whatever you want to me. Because I love you just like how you love me, Caleb.”

His hips come to a complete stop. “Say that again.”

“I love you, Caleb.”

“Again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

“Okay, you're really pushing it, it's embarrassing to sa— aah!”

He grabs your hip, pulling you back to his cock. He fucks you frantically, harsh groans leaving his lips, your name like a prayer. “Fuck... you love me? You love... me?” The words seem unfamiliar on his tongue, heartbreakingly quiet. You squeeze your connected hands.

“I love you, Caleb. I really, really love you, I've loved you a long time ago...” you tilt his chin, making him meet your gaze. “Now say it back.”

“I love you,” he says with certainty, as if it's a fact of the universe. “I love you so much.” He buries his head into your neck, sucking new marks. “I love you... fuck... I love you so badly, it hurts...”

His cock drives deeper, the wet slaps of skin deafening in the room. Cum dribbles out of your hole with his thrusts, and he swipes it up to smear it on your engorged clit. Rub, rub. Rub, rub.

“Shit, Caleb!” You wail, rutting to his finger. “Everything feels so good, ah, ah!”

“You feel so good, too, aw, fuuuck...” he's melting inside you, your warm walls clenching around him so tight, sucking him back in every time he pulls out. “Your pussy keeps sucking me back in...!” 

“Ah, hnahh, ngh, yes, like that, ah! I'm cumming, cumming!”

His balls draw tight, his cock about to burst. “Fuck, shit!” he fucks in, in, in, until he's filled every space in your cunt, thumb frantically rubbing at your clit. Clear liquid soaks his cock, wetting his pelvis, and he follows you in your release, shooting ropes of milky cum deep inside your pussy. “Fuck, ah, take my cock, take my fucking cum all the way in, ohh— take it deep in your womb—”

He keeps cumming, and cumming, and cumming. “It won't stop,” he moans against your ear, watching your hole overflowing with his semen. “Your pussy feels too good, it's sucking me dry...”

“Caleb, shit, how are you still— ohh, fuuck...” you whine as the last spurts of semen hit your torso, Caleb having pulled out and pumping his dick to cover you in his cum.

Finally emptied, Caleb collapses on the spot beside you, running a hand through his hair. “I need a shower,” he mutters, feeling the stickiness on his body.

“We need a shower,” you correct him. “I probably won't be able to walk for the next few days, all thanks to you, so you better take responsibility and carry me everywhere.”

Caleb laughs, light and airy, nothing like the dark tone he's been speaking in earlier. He pulls you to his chest, pressing chaste kisses all over your face. “Anything for the girl I love.”