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osamucide · 4 months ago

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⊹ I AIN'T NOTHIN' BUT A NASTY DOG!

. . . BSD MEN AS OVERUSED PORN PLOTS!

wc: 5.3k

cw: MINORS DNI—explicit sexual content, gn!+afab!reader, a lot of anonymous sex, dirty talk, BIG DICK MEN, probably a good amount of ooc, some questionable dynamics/dubcon that can be read through the lens of roleplay and/or prior consent. character-specific warnings—chuuya: public sex, penetration; dazai: penetration, riding, creampie; kunikida: professor/student, oral (m!receiving); fukuzawa: secretary/boss, office sex, oral (m!receiving), facefucking; atsushi: HEAVY DUBCON WARNING, stuck, perv atsushi, penetration; akutagawa: blackmailing if you squint, degradation, choking, penetration; oda: penetration; ango: public sex, penetration, riding; nikolai: dubcon, home intruder f!masturbation, penetration; sigma: a tiny bit of perv sigma, oral (f!receiving); fyodor: priest!fyodor, religion/blasphemy kink, christianity-specific, oral (m!receiving)

reid: putting my dual major in journalism to work by subtitling these like bad porn videos. little not so thought out drabbles many with no definitive ending just silly whore thoughts. some are more stupid than sexy but either way i hope you enjoy because this was a blast to write HAHAHAHA

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

⊹ CHUUYA NAKAHARA—HOT GYM BUDDIES CAN’T WAIT UNTIL AFTER THEIR WORKOUT TO FUCK!

“Yeah, that’s a lot better. Look at you, you got it,” the pretty redhead mutters, his hands still firmly on your hips as he spots your squat. “Give me one more, I know you can.”

The praise prompts you to draw in a deep breath that has nothing to do with your next squat; anyway, this gorgeous man, kind enough to help you with your form, believes in you. So you bend once more, squatting down, down, and pushing back up—until on your way back up, you feel your legs begin to buckle.

“Woah, woah.” It’s sweet how concerned he sounds as his hands fly up to the bar and his feet nudge you forward to help you replace the weight on the rack, but his hips end up pressed to yours, and you’re gasping. “You okay?”

You’re fine, caged between him and the bar as he leans over your shoulder to glimpse your face that’s flushed from exertion. Only exertion, surely, even though your ass is pressed firmly to his pelvis. He doesn’t seem hard, but you can still feel it, and it feels big.

“Yeah,” you breathe, moving to duck under the bar, but it’s low and you’re feeling a little dizzy, so you teeter backwards into him, and as his hands find your waist again. “Yeah, I’m about to be done anyway.”

“You should really stretch after maxing out like that,” he suggests, turning you around. “Don’t wanna be hurting, do you?”

But you can only look into his intense eyes and shake your head lightly before he’s easing you to the ground on your back, settling each of his knees over one of your thighs, and slotting his shoulder beneath your hamstring. He pushes forward, gently, slowly, looking to you for anything wrong; and there isn’t.

There’s nothing wrong, except for the fact that you can feel his huge dick against your pussy through both of your shorts.

It’s all you need to start moving blindly, reaching down for his waistband, pawing at his neck, mashing his lips to yours, and he doesn’t hesitate to do it back—he lets up on your leg only to slip your shorts off before your ankle is back over his shoulder and he’s grinding the head of his cock into your wetness.

“You gonna let me in, baby?” he pants hotly, looking down at you squirming beneath him. “Yeah, I know you will—you’re strong, you can take it.”

His tip catches on your clit, and you gasp before he’s plunging into you, setting a brutal pace. “Oh, fuck!”

“Oh, fuck, yeah,” he groans. “So fuckin’ tight.”

He hits the inside of you perfectly, his soft ginger hair falling loose from its low pony—you wish you knew his name so you could scream it, but you settle for moaning, panting, cussing, as he throws your other leg over his shoulder and drills into you on the gym mat. ⊹

⊹ OSAMU DAZAI—MY OLDER BROTHER ALMOST CAUGHT ME FUCKING HIS BEST FRIEND!

“Shit—I’ll be back, gonna go shower this off. Asshole.”

That was what your older brother, Chuuya, grumbled at Dazai before scurrying off to the bathroom. The three of you had just gotten back from getting ice cream, and Dazai had the brilliant idea of snatching Chuuya’s cone from him and sticking it in his hair. Cursing ensued the entire walk home.

And Dazai popped the tail end of his cone in his mouth and grabbed for your wrists as soon as your brother was out of sight, which leads you to now—in the living room, on the couch, bouncing furiously on his cock as he grunts.

“Osamu—be quiet!” you plead with him, but you’re moaning, too.

His lips fall into a grin. “Don’t worry, cutie, I can still hear the shower—fuck! Just keep—keep doing that, you feel so fucking good.”

So you reinforce your grip on his shoulders and slam your hips down to meet his, over and over, drawing sinful sounds from both of your bodies as you’re separated by a single thin wall from your brother—Dazai’s best friend, who would probably murder both of you if he found out you were fucking.

And then the water turns off. You muffle the choked cry you let out into Dazai’s shoulder, so damn frustrated that you won’t get there, not before Chuuya comes back—but Dazai’s flipping you onto your back, grabbing you by your hips, pulling you into him with such fervor that you almost shout.

“Need it, baby, I need to cum in this pussy—”

“Osamu!”

But even you can’t tell if you’re egging him on or warning him to stop—with no sound buffer and Chuuya undoubtedly coming back any minute, your body decides for you that you need it, too, you need to cum and you will, no matter how much your mind protests; your eyes flick nervously up to the hallway when they’re not rolling back from how Dazai’s rearranging your guts.

“He’s gonna come back—unh—and you’re gonna sit here with my cum in you, and he won’t even fuckin’ know.”

He’s digging his nails into your hips and ass, making you twitch, reaching down to rub your clit hard, and when you cum, clenching around him, he shoves his palm over your mouth and spills into you with a last few wet smacks.

Dazai’s scrambling back into his pants as footsteps pad down the hall; he all but throws himself at the other end of the couch as you curl up, dressed but fucked silly, focused on not letting the evidence of what just happened gush out of you and leak onto the couch.

“Fuck was that noise?” Chuuya mumbles, sauntering out as he’s tying his wet hair up.

“Hm? I don’t know, I didn’t hear anything.”

When Chuuya turns toward the kitchen, Dazai tosses you a wink. Your face burns as you feel yourself leaking. ⊹

⊹ DOPPO KUNIKIDA—COLLEGE HOTTIE SUCKS DICK FOR EXTRA CREDIT!

"You do realize I'm going to have to fail you," your professor informs you, looking into your eyes with a little regret. Truthfully, you've always been personable in class and shown promise as a student, and he's disappointed. Not in you, just in your poor academic performance during your final semester.

"There has to be something I can do to make up for it," you nearly plead, hands clasped together on the edge of his desk as you look to him with hope. You know you've been slacking, but you need this class to graduate.

"I don't know—" He sighs your name, clearly confliced. Your attendance record is less than impressive these days, and Kunikida's enforced a strict class participation policy throughout his years of teaching—as well as no extra credit—something he makes clear to all of his students in all of his classes, and you especially should know better after taking his classes for four years. "I don't know. Like what?" Maybe you can do a few credits in the summer and still walk at graduation, or pick up an internship. But he wants you to take the initiative and accountability.

He doesn't really know how to protest when you're slipping out of your seat and sinking to your knees as a spark starts to gleam in your eyes. You rattle off a few academic ideas for posterity, but ultimately find your hands sliding up his thighs and fiddling with his belt.

Fuck it, you think, you'll be out of here soon enough. Plus, Kunikida's always been kind, compassionate, understanding, and sexy—too invested in his field to even notice that handfuls of students on campus would throw themselves at him given the chance. Maybe he'll finally understand, you muse to yourself, as you work his hardening cock out of his dress pants.

He chokes out your name when you take his length in both of your hands; he's all the way gone when you're swirling your tongue over his tip, giving in to your little idea for extra credit sooner than he'd ever admit to himself.

"Oh, fuck—" He's staring up at the ceiling of his office in pure bliss because his student is working hot, sloppy kisses down the underside of his cock. His hands twist into your hair, and you gaze up at him, doe-eyed, as his head falls forward and he looks at you through his glasses. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

He's trying not to thrust into your mouth when you fondle his balls; his pretty blond bangs are dampening with sweat, and you can't take your eyes off him as you bob your head faster, hollowing your cheeks around him and moaning at the taste of your professor's cock heavy in your mouth. He twitches and jumps at your attention to detail—your fingers raking tracks down his thighs, your frantic tongue, your fluttering lashes and sugary moans, gags, and slurps that are music to him.

You know, as he falls apart more and more by the second, you won't have to worry about this class anymore.

"Unh—uh, yes, oh, fuck, we'll work something out, yeah, gorgeous? Just don't stop—d—don't stop, don't fucking stop, I'm gonna cum down that pretty throat, yeah, and we'll get it all figured out." ⊹

⊹ YUKICHI FUKUZAWA—NAUGHTY SECRETARY SEDUCES HOT BOSS!

You're perched on his desk when he returns from the meeting—Yukichi, your boss, who, lately, you can't stop thinking about climbling like a tree. You're sure your coworkers see it, too, but you're his personal assistant; no one gets to be as close to him as you, and he trusts you.

Which is why you'll put the moves on him today.

He runs a hand through his silver hair—obviously stressed—sighing as he pulls his office door shut and turns to you. He speaks your name, holds a few papers in your direction, begins instructing you on what he needs from you next.

But you know better what he needs. The papers that make their way into your hands are quickly forgotten about on his desk as you uncross your legs and hop down, sauntering up to place on hand on his arm, the other on his chest.

"Sir, you look so tense. Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do?"

He makes his way to sit down in his office chair, disregarding your touch in a way that has you following after him like a puppy in need of attention.

He doesn't answer, but he also doesn't protest when you settle between his knees beneath his desk and push his yukata and haori up to pool around his hips. His dick is thick and veiny, even soft; when you spit in your hand and begin to work him up and down his mouth falls open with a sigh, and he grows at least two inches as he hardens beneath your grip.

You didn't think you'd be able to fit his absolute monster cock in your mouth, but you find yourself, throat open, with your nose pressed to his happy trail as you swirl your tongue and breathe through your nose frantically; he holds your face down, speaking very little but making up for it with the way he grunts hotly in that deep, rough voice as he bucks into the back of your throat.

"Unh—ugh..."

You breathe through your nose as his hips fall into a brutal pace; his hands on either side of your head keep you pinned in place as he uses you, takes his stress out on you. Your fingers massage his balls, and you can't help the way you hum around him when he twitches in your mouth.

Yukichi pulls out of your jaw and you gasp for air, wiping the spit that drips down your chin with the back of your hand, but he's not done. When he does speak, it's demanding, low, and it makes your cunt throb with need.

"Get up. Get up, sit on the desk. 'Need to fuck you."

You do as you’re told, open up for him with no hesitation, smiling as he works his fat cock into you—yeah, his stress will be gone in no time with the way he fucks your hole so hard and fast that you shake with each creak of his desk. ⊹

⊹ ATSUSHI NAKAJIMA—STUCK IN THE ELEVATOR WITH MY SEXY NEIGHBOR!

"Ah! Atsushi, open the door!"

"Um," he frets, punching the button until he's sure it'll break. If it's not broken already. "I—I can't, it's not working!"

Not working? Is he fucking serious? You're trapped in the door—all you did was try to reach back out for your bag you'd set by the elevator and now you're stuck, by the waist, between the two sliding maneuvers, your bag dangling from your hands.

"It's supposed to have a sensor! It's not supposed to even close when someone's on the threshold!" you cry through your teeth as you try to squirm out. Atsushi's mind is already working, though, over the way you're pinned in half, wiggling your ass as you struggle against the industrial strength of the elevator door. "Atsushi, help me, please call someone or something—"

But his hands are on your hips, pulling backward, and you can't help the noise of surprise that slips out of you.

"Atsu', I seriously don't think that will work, please, just call—Atsushi!"

His hands shake as he slides your pants and underwear down your thighs, exposing your ass; he tunes out your protesting as he undoes his belt. You hear the clink of it hitting the ground, you feel his fingers dipping into your cunt from behind, and he cannot be fucking serious.

"I'm sorry," he cries like it's out of his control—he feels like it is. "I'm sorry, you're so hot, you're right here, I've wanted this for so long."

And you feel yourself beginning to drip at his desperate tone. You can't fucking believe it—this is depraved. This is some shit you would've never expected from the sweet, cute boy in the apartment across the hall who helped you drag your bedframe and couch from this very elevator to your room but here he is, prodding at you with his pathetically leaky cock while you're stuck in the damn elevator door.

And you'd be frustrated with how your body reacts, but as he slides his dick along your cunt, drenching himself in your wetness, you can't help but arch back into his touch.

"Atsushi, you have to fuck me, please."

And he does, fast and unpracticed—he whimpers for you, tells you you're all he thinks about when he jerks off; he confesses that he looks through his peephole when he knows you're leaving for work or school just to get at least one glimpse of you everyday to fuel his imagination, and you gush around him, the pain of the door trapping you falling irrelevant, drifting out of your mind, as he buries his face in your shoulder and humps into you like an animal, pounding against your cervix.

"Fuck, that's right, so good, so, so good—better than I could've imagined—agh, fuck, that's right, take it all, take it, take it, take it...!" ⊹

⊹ RYUUNOSUKE AKUTAGAWA—HOT BABE HAS NO MONEY, LETS THE DELIVERY BOY DESTROY THAT PUSSY!

You rifle through your wallet and hum when you come up short. "Um, I... know you said you don't have a card reader, but I don't have enough cash."

The delivery boy looks at you with little more than boredom until you invite him in.

"Here, let me look in my room—I might have more stashed somehwere..."

He stands over you, searching you with his curious gray eyes as you dig through a drawer, a bag, another bag, only to come up short again. You even peek under your mattress for good measure, but you're just out. You turn to him sheepishly.

"I, uh... I don't have enough, I'm really sorry."

"Well, I can't leave without some form of payment," he deadpans, and you try to think of something, anything—you have a few giftcards for other delivery services, some jewelry—but he's letting his bag fall off his shoulder and grabbing you by the hips before you can register what he means.

You end up face down, ass up on your bed as a compromise, his hips rutting into you from behind as he holds your wrists behind your back. Ryuunosuke his name tag read—you're quick to adopt a way around that mouthful, moaning out, "Ryuu, Ryuu, please!" as he splits you open and calls you a whore.

"Fuckin' slut—"

When you're able to glance back for a second you can see his pretty black hair swaying with each rough thrust, and you're sure he's hitting your lungs—he's so fucking deep inside you, and you're gasping, moaning for more.

"—so eager to—unh—take this dick. Probably hiding your cash somewhere."

But whether you are or not doesn't matter; your eyes are rolling back to the hard smack of his hips against your ass and the white-hot pleasure that rolls through you every time he plows straight into your g-spot, and he's throbbing inside of you at the way your cunt grips him. Your pizza's getting cold on the counter in your kitchen, but you don't care—not when he bunches his fingers up in your hair to arch you back up to him so he can wrap his other hand around your throat.

You hold onto him as he bends you, pulling air down into your lungs when you can, and his gravelly voice barrages you with more words that make you gush around his cock.

"Gonna let me cum in this pussy so you don't have to fork over a few bucks for a pizza? Pathetic."

His teeth sink into your shoulder, his other hand reaches down to torture your neglected clit, and you're sure he's gonna break you over this, your hot delivery boy who just so happened to have the idea to fill you up as payment. You pant his name desperately between thunderous moans—you're gonna cum soon. ⊹

⊹ SAKUNOSUKE ODA—THIS PLUMBER FIXED MORE THAN JUST MY PIPES!

"Okay, that should do it." The man stands up, back to a height at which he towers over you, and you lean on the doorframe to the kitchen as he shuts the cabinets beneath your sink. "It's all movin' again."

You were in your robe when you answered the door, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't run to the bathroom to fix your hair and swipe on a little lip balm while he was working. Really, you hadn't meant to try to fuck the plumber. But this man was gorgeous, with his auburn hair, stubble-lined jaw, large hands, broad shoulders. You felt your eyes widen when you first laid eyes on him, and now you'd been throbbing thinking about what those thick fingers could do other than plumbing.

You pull your robe tighter around yourself, hoping to subtly accentuate the outline of your body. "Thank you so much, really, I don't know what I'd have done without the sink."

"Probably used the dishwasher a lot more," he cracked dryly, and your previous words suddenly feel stupid, but it only serves to make him hotter.

"How should I pay you?" You stride over to him. "Cash?"

"You can just pay online." He looks tired, but he has a well-meaning smile on his face.

You look a little incredulous. "Really? I can't—do you accept tips? Seriously, top notch work and super quick. I can't not thank you."

"I'm really not supposed to take tips," he drawls, running a hand through his hair. You find yourself biting your lip; you can't look away from him. You must look like a rabid animal right now, but you can't help it.

He doesn't tear his eyes away from yours.

"I mean, unless..."

Those three words are what find you on your back in your bedroom with your robe thrown open, the sweet and efficient plumber named Sakunosuke standing at the edge as he impales you on his cock. He worked you open with those fingers first, fast and harsh, just how you begged him to, but nothing could've prepared your weeping hole for the stretch of his fat dick—and now he's pounding into you, his hands clutching your waist as you hold your legs open for him to thrust deeper, deeper.

“Oh, shit. Unh—so wet—“

His groans come from his chest, deliciously—he looks a little like he knows he shouldn't be doing this, but your cunt is sucking him in like it was what he was supposed to come here for all along. You spasm and clench around him and he throws his head back, your whole body rippling as his strong hips and heavy balls smack lewdly against your ass with each thrust.

“Mmph—fuck—break that sink of yours more often, alright?” ⊹

⊹ ANGO SAKAGUCHI—I JOINED THE MILE HIGH CLUB (EXTREMELY RISKY)!

The man you met in the airport bar—oh, he’s pretty.

He's even prettier in your mind when the pilot announces phone permissions now that you're in the air, and the first notification your phone receieves is from him.

I have an open seat next to me in first class. Come visit.

You don't hesitate for a moment. You stride forward from the economy section, past the flight attendants who protest at you flimsily to search for his seat number—you see his unmistakably gorgeous hair, his glasses, his sharp side profile as he speaks to an attendant, catches you in his peripheral, and then shoos her away.

There's hardly niceties before one of your legs is slung over his knee and he kisses you with fervor. You don't think too hard about the people around you—none of whom can actually see you but without a doubt will know exactly what's happening in a few minutes—as you grind down onto his thigh, bite his lips, draw soft gasps from him when your knee nudges his bulge.

Before you know it, his cock is free and he slides your underwear to the side so you can sink onto him; he groans shamelessly when your wet heat envelops him completely, causing heads to turn in your direction, but you just brace your knees against the airplane seat and your hands on his shoulders make quick work of milking him of everything he has.

He kisses you, hot, heavy; he smells good, he smells expensive, and you tear his dress shirt open to rake your nails down his chest as he grabs your hips, letting his head fall back and a full-bodied moan into the cramped air of the plane as he does so. You lift up to let him thrust, let lewd smacks resonate throughout first class, and with your chest in his face he rides your shirt up to latch his teeth to one of your nipples; you echo him, moaning unabashedly, running your hands through your hair, gripping him as people look on.

"Fuuuck, yeah, feels so good," he praises from beneath you. "Knew I had to fuck you from the second I saw you." His eyebrows draw up in concentration as he looks down at where your bodies meet and continues fucking up into you hard. "Hah—listen to that cunt cry for me. You like being watched, huh? Gonna let me fuck you 'til the plane smells like sex? Huh?"

You nod, messily, desperately, and he quickens his pace ever faster, pulling you back down into a sloppy kiss.

An attendant awkwardly approaches in the aisle, but the gorgeous man who's destroying your insides just holds up a palm, shoos her away again.

"Fuck—so sexy. Keep takin' this dick." ⊹

⊹ NIKOLAI GOGOL—LUCKY INTRUDER GETS TO FUCK HORNY VICTIM!

You're splayed out on your bed, two fingers stuffed deep in your cunt—and he's just surprised you didn't hear him breaking the lock on your front door.

When you meet his eyes, you're so glazed over with pleasure that you barely miss a beat, your gaze only blowing wide when he peers around your bedroom doorway. His snowy white hair, his sharp features—you can't find the sense to be alarmed at this unfamiliar man, the one holding your laptop and—is that your wallet?

Doesn't matter—they're clattering to the ground, another factor here you can't find it in yourself to care about as his gray eyes are locked onto you fucking yourself open on your sheets. The sheen of sweat that covers your skin, your desperate moans as you grind your clit against your palm, the obscene squelching that comes from your wet cunt—they all serve to propel him over to you, prompt him to dig his already-hard cock out of his pants as you just watch, beg him with your stare to come fill you up. You're so lucky he's here, really—you look like you're struggling to get deep enough with your pathetic little fingers; he guesses it's only fair that he repay you for the material goods he's about to rob you of and pawn off on whatever sucker will buy them for cash, right?

"Right? I'll help you out—" He gives his cock a few pumps as he positions himself between your legs, "—looks like you need it, sweetheart."

You can only bite your lip to supress the moan that leaves you as he enters your cunt and lifts your fingers up and out of you by your wrist to swirl his tongue around them, lick them clean. He's huge—even your third and fourth fingers weren't enough to prepare you properly for the burglar’s dick in your needy pussy, so you let out strained combinations of gasps and screams when he starts to drill into you mercilessly. You can't help the way your ankles link behind his back, the way you reach for him—and he smiles wickedly when your eyes roll back.

"You like having a stranger's cock deep in your guts, huh?" he speaks between deep sighs and grunts. You can only babble your incoherent agreement, your laptop and wallet forgotten, the actions of this man forgotten, everything but how desperately you need to squirt all over him forgotten—you reach down and rub your clit, play with your nipples as your mouth is frozen open as you moan, moan for this man who's just broken into your home. "Uh—yeah, you're gonna like takin' all my cum, too, I bet." ⊹

⊹ SIGMA—MASSEUR HELPS HIS SEXY CLIENT RELIEVE STRESS!

"Oh, yeah—right there," you groan softly as the heel of his palm meets the center of your back. You've been looking forward to this full-body massage the whole week, and this man was not disappointing.

He works his way down your back, twisting knots out as he goes—his lithe fingers feel like heaven against you, overworked from hours at your desk hunched over your computer.

But it's a full-body massage, as mentioned before; when his fingers dig into the plush of your asscheeks, you can't help the groan that leaves you.

"That okay?" he inquires; you think you hear a shake in his voice.

"More than okay," you reply, thinking you could fall asleep as he works you into relaxation. You could close your eyes from how good it feels, or you could peek behind you and see his face burning with blush at your sounds. You do the former, but smirk a little at how sweet it is of him to check in.

He checks in again when his hands are inching your underwear down, and you tell him of course, he's the professional.

He's still the professional when he climbs up on the table behind you and buries his flushed face into your cunt. You arch up and back, crooning, as his hands stay massaging you, spreading you apart, kneading your ass with career expertise and plunging his tongue into you with enthusiasm.

"Oh! Oh—feels good," you breathe, grinding back into his face, onto his nose. He laps at you happily, this masseur you've barely looked upon for a total of twenty seconds, but you can't lie to yourself and say you didn't think he was pretty when he led you back to his room; he hums into you, sending you shivering, twitching. "Please, more."

"Mhm," he mumbles, releasing one of your asscheeks to lay back beneath you and insert a long, thin finger into your pussy; you sigh, you settle onto his face, and his tongue speeds up in this new position in a way that rips a high moan from your lungs.

Not hunched, but arched, the stretch feels heavenly on your back in combination with the way he pumps another finger into you; you graciously sit up, throwing your head back, begging, pleading for more until his tongue settles into a tight back-and-forth rhythm over your clit. "Please, please, please—"

You grind against his nose, your moans become more erratic, and you dig a hand into his hair as your hips move in dizzying circles over his head.

"Cum for me?" he asks, muffled by your pussy; you'll ride him until his face is soaked. ⊹

⊹ FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY—CONFESSING MY SINS ENDS IN HUGE CUMSHOT ALL OVER MY FACE!

“And I’ve been terribly, terribly lustful, Father Fyodor,” you say with regret. “It consumes me. I really never used to be like this."

"Temptation lurks everywhere," the priest sympathizes. You can barely see him through the grate, but his soft, forgiving voice sounds close to you. "The Devil and his army are constantly exploiting our vulnerabilities to try and turn us to sin, but worry not, child of Christ; we're human. I'm here to guide you. Continue."

You shift on the wooden seat in the booth, crossing your hands tighter over your lap. "That's really all. It's been very concerning to me. I think about it... I think about it so much."

"About what?" Father Fyodor prompts, and you bristle even more at being asked to elaborate.

"Sex," it barely comes out as more than a whisper. "I can't help it—it's everywhere. It leaves me feeling so... exhausted and frustrated, and the only thing that helps is... Well..."

But you're met with silence. You know he wants you to go on. You're here to confess, after all.

"...touching myself. I do it at least once a day. It's like a burning within me—nothing helps but—but—cumming all over my fingers." Your voice is laced with shame—the throbbing of your cunt as you talk makes you feel all the more guilty, and you can only imagine how he's shaking his head. "That's all. That's all."

"You'll do penance," he says, comfortingly. "When we bring our sins to the Lord and repent he cleanses us of them."

The grate pops out of the window, and you see the the waist of his alb as he speaks his next words.

"You'll take communion, now—" the cinctures around his waist fall undone beneath his hands, and the alb is hiked up to reveal a leaking cock, pretty and pale and bobbing in the air of the confessional. "—and be saved from the flames of perdition.”

"Yes, Father, please. Anything to be saved." But your mouth waters in a way that you know has little to do with your thirst for salvation.

"Take this; eat. This is my body," he recites the scripture as his length reaches through the window; your hands, eager and already on the threshold, accept him willingly. As you wrap your mouth around him, he groans, and it's like seraphim singing their holy, holy, holy.

"That's it—child of God, follower of Christ; I absolve you of your sins," he gasps as his tip hits the back of your throat which was begging for forgiveness moments ago. His hands reach through the window to stroke either side of your face, and then hold you in place to fuck your throat. "The Lord will forgive you for this." ⊹

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thewriteadviceforwriters · 6 months ago

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Writing a book series can be an incredibly rewarding experience for authors, but it also requires careful planning and execution. A well-crafted book series can captivate readers, build a loyal fan base, and provide a steady stream of income for writers. However, planning a successful book series is no easy feat.

It demands a deep understanding of world-building, character development, and plot progression. In this ultimate guide, I'll help you explore the essential steps to help you plan a compelling and cohesive book series that will keep your readers hooked from start to finish.

Develop a Compelling Premise The foundation of any successful book series is a strong premise. Your premise should be unique, engaging, and have the potential to sustain multiple books. Consider exploring a complex world, a captivating concept, or a character with a rich backstory that can evolve over the course of several books. Ask yourself: What makes your premise stand out? What will keep readers invested in the story for multiple installments?

Create a Detailed Outline Before you dive into writing, it's crucial to create a detailed outline for your entire book series. This outline should include the overarching plot, major story arcs, character development, and key events for each book. Having a solid outline will help you maintain consistency, avoid plot holes, and ensure that each book contributes to the overall narrative. Don't be afraid to make adjustments as you write, but having a roadmap will keep you on track.

World-Building: Crafting a Vivid and Consistent Universe One of the hallmarks of a successful book series is a richly developed and immersive world. Whether you're creating a fantasy realm, a futuristic society, or a contemporary setting, pay close attention to world-building. Establish the rules, customs, histories, and geography of your fictional world. Consistency is key, so ensure that the details align across all books in the series. Consider creating a "bible" or a comprehensive guide that outlines the intricacies of your world, making it easier to maintain continuity.

Develop Compelling Characters Great characters are the heart and soul of any book series. Your protagonists, antagonists, and supporting characters should be well-rounded, multi-dimensional, and undergo significant growth and transformation throughout the series. Craft backstories, motivations, flaws, and strengths for each character, and ensure that their actions and decisions drive the plot forward. Remember, character development is an ongoing process, so be prepared to explore new facets of your characters as the series progresses.

Establish Recurring Themes and Motifs Themes and motifs are powerful tools that can add depth and resonance to your book series. Identify the central themes you want to explore, such as love, redemption, power, or identity. Weave these themes throughout the series, allowing them to evolve and deepen with each installment. Motifs, like recurring symbols or imagery, can also create a sense of cohesion and add layers of meaning to your narrative.

Plan for Cliffhangers and Resolutions One of the key strategies for keeping readers engaged in a book series is the strategic use of cliffhangers and resolutions. Cliffhangers create anticipation and leave readers craving for the next installment. However, be cautious not to overuse this technique, as it can become frustrating for readers. Balance cliffhangers with satisfying resolutions that tie up loose ends and provide a sense of closure, while still leaving room for the story to continue.

Consider Pacing and Narrative Structure Pacing and narrative structure are crucial elements to consider when planning a book series. Each book should have its own narrative arc, with a beginning, middle, and end, while also contributing to the overall story progression. Vary the pacing between books to maintain reader interest, alternating between action-packed and slower, more introspective sections. Experiment with different narrative structures, such as multiple perspectives, non-linear timelines, or frame narratives, to keep the series fresh and engaging.

Manage Continuity and Consistency As your book series grows, maintaining continuity and consistency becomes increasingly important. Keep detailed records of character descriptions, plot points, world-building elements, and timelines. Regularly refer back to these notes to ensure that you're not introducing contradictions or inconsistencies. Consider creating a series bible or a wiki to help you keep track of all the moving parts.

Plan for Character Growth and Evolution In a book series, characters should undergo significant growth and evolution. Plan for character arcs that span multiple books, allowing your protagonists and supporting characters to face challenges, make difficult choices, and emerge as changed individuals. This character development will not only add depth to your narrative but also keep readers invested in the journey of your characters.

Anticipate and Address Potential Plot Holes As your book series expands, the potential for plot holes and inconsistencies increases. Be vigilant in identifying and addressing these issues during the planning stage. Regularly review your outline and notes, looking for any logical gaps or contradictions. Enlist the help of beta readers or critique partners to provide fresh perspectives and catch any potential plot holes you may have missed.

Consider the Overarching Story Arc While each book in your series should have its own narrative arc, it's essential to plan for an overarching story arc that spans the entire series. This overarching arc should tie together the individual books, building towards a climactic conclusion that resolves the central conflict or mystery. Ensure that each book contributes to this larger narrative, advancing the plot and raising the stakes for the characters.

Plan for Marketing and Promotion Finally, as you plan your book series, don't overlook the importance of marketing and promotion. Develop a strategy for building buzz and engaging with your audience throughout the release of each book. Leverage social media, author events, book tours, and other promotional opportunities to keep your readers excited and invested in your series.

Remember, writing a book series is a marathon, not a sprint, so be prepared to invest time, effort, and dedication into crafting a truly remarkable literary journey. Hope this helped!

Happy Writing - Rin T.

Hey fellow writers! I'm super excited to share that I've just launched a Tumblr community. I'm inviting all of you to join my community. All you have to do is fill out this Google form, and I'll personally send you an invitation to join the Write Right Society on Tumblr! Can't wait to see your posts!

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hexhomos · 4 months ago

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The 'Talis' hypothesis

So I think the S2 trailer confirms something central about Arcane I've wondered for a while. This has plot bearings to it, namely what nebulous purpose 'Magic' serves in the story -- how they're changing the role Hextech has in the game lore, incl. its power system & ruleset -- and what kind of hubris is associated with it historically. But it also answers something that has always nagged at me: why the fuck did they change Jayce's name?

So let's talk about this picture. And I'm going to give you the rosetta stone in 5 seconds:

This is Hextech now. Like that is just an incredibly concise and complete descriptor of Hextech-in-Arcane, right. It 'harms' Jinx, it 'protects' Jayce in the snowstorm, it 'heals' Viktor to a degree. It is installed permanently in architecture; the Hexgates ARE the brand.

First off, we have this fucker carrying around a talisman from back when he was 7, and the cinematography of the show agonizes over showing you this throughout all of ep2:

Jayce's bracelet is a bang-on definition of a historical talisman. The way hextech *functions* in the show is inextricable from the promises and rites associated with talismans, a word appropriated/popularized by the French - which I'm going to conservatively argue Fortiche would be familiar with;

Which brings me to the subject of what Hextech is, and how Hextech was changed for the tv show (and what its possibly being retconned to in the game)

Hex'tech' is not technology. The name is a carryover from a bygone era of leagueoflegends speak; Hextech in Arcane, and presumably in expanded lore going forward (given Skarner's rework and other things) - is the study, development, and the building of an industry around the craft of practical Talismans. If you want to understand how this shit works you need to promptly abandon the assumption that it is 'manufactured' magic -- its pure magic. It's raw magic. The tech part is a red herring misnomer.

The beliefs around this already cover links to 'the Arcane' as another, ethereal destination realm with Inhabitants that learn and change, ontop of rune-carving as magical instruction;

This also covers Viktor's impending transformation and the changes made to his character.

IN MY OPINION, via the content released so far and what we've already witnessed in S1, Viktor has been shifted away from becoming 'the machine herald' and re-positioned to become the Herald of Divine Rune Alchemy or whichever name they end up using.

I don't doubt that he'll get the armor at some point, because that's a recognizable visual and as much fanservice as they owe his decade-long fans, but... I would temper my expectations around the thought of machine evolution. It's not what this Viktor does, and it's not what he (or the narrative,) is interested in -- My guess is that the armor comes into play as a secondary way to AVOID overusing limited magical power, as we've seen runes can be depleted, and the hexcore tends to kill things in exchange.

Now that we've established all that, here is the bridge that I'm going to sell you.

Now, for today's homework, I expect you to run off to do something useful and homoerotic with this information.

#arcane #arcane netflix #jayvik #viktor arcane #jayce arcane #jayce talis #jayce league of legends #viktor league of legends #hexposts #arcane meta #jayce lol #viktor lol #jinx #jinx arcane #long post #arcane analysis

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leclsrc · 2 years ago

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do you want it? ✴︎ cs55

genre: summer love!!!, slight age gap, porn w plot basically...

word count: 10.5k

Whatever preconceived notions you have about your summer at the beach house are all toppled over when your parents announce the arrival of a guest, who happens to be your dad's friend. title from this

auds here… hiii :) req'd by several people! few notes... carlos is aged up a tad, the age gap is 21/33 so not too bad (i aged him up bc the age gap was 7 yrs and i was like. Huh. thats tame). if ur not into that (tho everything is consensual and reader is legal) its ok! anyway im sorry this came so late i had like 6 anons asking ab carlos and lana haha. also big thanks to dani whose work got me thru 4 writing ruts

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... sexual tension, penetrative sex, dry humping, oral sex (m and f receiving), deepthroating, semi public sex ish?, praise central, size kink, like a flash of spit kink sorry..., overuse of the term good girl

Half past noon and after a particularly snappy call from his manager, Carlos bites the bullet on summer plans and decides to accept what is arguably the least glamorous offer on his roster. By no means a dazzling standout, the offer to stay at a family friend’s house in Comporta seems to be the most comfortable option—besides, he doesn’t feel himself to be in the glitzy mood for cities like Los Angeles or Monaco.

Lando, beside him, is thus the first to get wind of the news that “grumpy old man” Carlos will not be accompanying him to the ultimate, tequila-flavored “summer extravaganza” in Morocco.

“You’re boring,” Lando moans, pacing the room. Outside, London’s skyline moves passively. Carlos hangs up his phone call with his assistant, receives a picture of his flight details, and looks up amusedly.

“Portugal is not boring.”

“Morocco. DJs, drinks, girls.” Lando raises one hand. “Comporta. Family friends, apple cider, sand in your eyes.” He raises another hand a few inches lower. “See the difference?”

“I appreciate the difference.” Truth is, Carlos has needed this kind of quiet, calm time off for a while now. The season gets heavy and intense and tiring, and sometimes just staying by the beach with a beer is the best kind of reprieve.

“You’re getting old,” Lando says with a sour grimace. “Old.”

“That is,” Carlos says, searching for the word, “defamation.”

Lando shrugs, moves off the subject as he shoves a handful of crisps into his mouth. “Are you meeting family there?”

“No.” Both of his parents are out of the country for the next few weeks; Carlos was invited by his dad’s friend, though the bond they share is more friendly than just the standard uncle-nephew type of relationship, and they often refer to each other as just friends. “Just friends. Gallery owner and a company owner, I think.”

Lando whistles. “Rich.”

In response, Carlos nods. “And their daughter, who’s visiting from university in the States.” The details are fuzzy in his head, but the gist is about right.

“Sounds boring,” his friend snorts. “Come on, mate. You, me, Daniel. One last chance to watch Peggy Gou’s set and take shots and have fuuun.” He says the last part with the suave that would only rival a preteen’s.

Carlos, for a second, lets his resolve waver. Maybe it would be better watching loud DJ sets, dancing, getting all flushed with alcohol. But he blinks and shakes his head anyway. He hopes his decision is the right one, that summer in the beach house ends up being worth it. It’s a few weeks by the beach, anyway—what’s the worst that could happen?

—

Any recollection of your childhood almost instantly connects to the beach house in Comporta, big and wide and right by the coast. You spent fall, winter, and spring in a constant bumbling state of excitement to spend summer there. Your parents owned it, and often offered family friends to take up residence there when summers in the city got unbearable; for the most part, though, it was the three of you and, on rare years, a guest.

Your summers there have since smudged into the same few memories, of your mum and dad’s faces, of swimming and the learning curve of sailing, of bonfires by the beach on cold nights. And they have since become just that: memories. Summers grew sparse with time, and eventually the idea of meeting distant family friends became more embarrassing than exciting; by the time your parents moved you out of Europe for college, you’d lost almost all memory of the house.

So when your parents ask if you want to fly back to Comporta and spend a few “quiet” weeks there, you figure there’s no harm in seeing what the house is like and what summer can offer you beyond the weekly club outings. Instead of the usual quiet and overall lack-of-bustle that comes with summers, however, you open the front door to three housekeepers dusting every surface in your immediate eyesight.

“Are we hosting a wedding?” You ask when you find your parents tending to two sweaty glasses of champagne. You gesture faintly to the cleanfest inside. “What is going on?”

“We have a guest,” your mother says as she gets up to hug you tight. “Staying for the summer.”

“You said this summer would be quiet,” you deadpan, eyes narrowing underneath your sunglasses.

Your mum pinches your elbow. “I wasn’t lying,” she defends, raising her eyebrows. “Carlos’ son is coming.” She pats your arm. “You know? The race driver! He’s close with your father.” And, leaving no space for you to voice your dissent, she slips back into the house through the screen door, your father kissing your cheek then following suit. Your mouth parts, thoughts beginning to rush with implications of what your mother has just told you.

Carlos—if you’re correct—is Carlos Sainz, Sr., a good friend of your dad’s, and his son is Carlos Sainz, Jr., another good friend of your dad’s, because if there’s one thing rich Europeans do well, it’s the repetition of names. You’ve never met his son, only heard of him and seen a few pictures, but being so far detached from life here, you can’t even shape his face.

All you recall is the fact that he should now be thirty or older, which makes him rather older than you—and therefore effectively incapable of providing any break from any possible summer boredom. For fuck’s sake, he’s close to your dad. You’re at the top of the stairs when you hear the commotion by the front door, peeking at the foyer to catch a glimpse of him.

He’s solo, you observe; upon a glance into the front parking, you notice he’s driven here in a Ferrari, one a bit too modern for your taste but beautiful nevertheless. He carries only two pieces of luggage, and the sun blinds you for a moment before he’s finally at the doorframe, smiling politely, talking to your dad in casual Spanish.

He is, for lack of better word, insanely handsome. He wears a polo that shows off much of his arms, that flex as he puts down his luggage to shake hands with your parents; you follow the movement of his hands to watch one comb through his thick hair, then down to his smile, back up to his brown eyes, deep and so, so pretty.

Maybe this summer deserves a little less begrudge, you decide as you retreat back into your room, still brewing with residual annoyance.

Your parents send him off after a drink and a brief conversation, catch-up, tour of the downstairs area. Carlos knows his room is supposed to be upstairs, but the problem arises in the fact that there are two upstairs rooms and he doesn’t know which one he’s supposed to be staying in. Setting his luggage down for a minute, he knocks on the first door; permissive silence greets him for half a minute, so he turns the knob and prepares to enter.

To his surprise, he finds somebody already inside, a figure by the mirror on the other end of the room. What catches his eye is not the tiny skirt, but the half-tied bikini top currently being wound around two fingers at the centre of your back. You’re basically clothed, but Carlos can’t decide if he’s thankful or not—he doesn’t have time to when you catch him in the mirror and turn around quick, mouth agape.

“Can’t you knock?!” You ask, catty.

“I did—I knocked, but you—there was no answer,” he explains profusely. “I’m Carlos. Sorry, apologies. Truly.”

You introduce yourself. You’re his friend’s daughter, this and that, and you’re visiting from the States to spend summer here. He apologizes again when you finish.

“Well, seeing as though this is my room,” you shoot back, “that must be yours.” You gesture vaguely to the one down the hall. Amused and a little embarrassed, he mouths apologies as he closes the door.

Carlos exits, departs and doesn’t have time to take in the room before he’s facedown on the bed. Any sleepiness he’d collected from the trip over, from the day drinks, from the headache that’d been blooming at the temples of his head, has dissipated. His mind’s been imprinted with one image only, and it’s down the hall in a tiny skirt.

—

Lunch brings lemonade and pasta, two staples for every summer meal. You, however, find yourself hopelessly distracted by the presence of your guest, and despite your best efforts, the churn in your stomach disables you from fully enjoying the carbonara on the table. The conversation between Carlos and your dad ends up taking your attention instead. “So you’re racing again in a few weeks?”

“Sí,” Carlos nods in-between forkfuls. Then, to add, “Busy, busy times.”

“Well. It’s the worst of our days,” your mum says, a quote she picked up from—of all places—a BBC sitcom she watched to tears last winter. “You are a talented driver, Carlos. Very cultured. I’m sure you’ll enjoy Comporta.”

“I have not been around much,” he says; his gaze flutters over to his glass, which is devoid of water or lemonade. “Any recommendations?”

“A lot, cabrón. Our daughter will be happy to take you around,” your father says on your behalf. He turns to you. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure,” you say, allowing a terse smile. “There’s some places around here that aren’t so boring. But that’s being generous.” Carlos laughs at your joke, raucous and goofy, and you would definitely be lying if you told yourself it didn’t get you blushing a little bit, eyes casting themselves to your still-full plate.

“While you’re here, Carlos,” your dad continues, “I have an old car in the garage that could use some looking at. Are you—would you know how to—?”

Carlos nods, accepting the favor—then the conversation naturally slides into one of cars and racing. Carlos chronicles his journey in Formula One, his Toro Rosso days back then when he was younger, his McLaren period, and now, his time representing Ferrari. He talks of pet peeves on the grid, annoyances but also praises for the sport.

“I’d appreciate the downtime, actually,” he explains, “that I’d get from working on a car instead of in one.” He laughs, eyes briefly meeting yours. He looks away, then looks again. He can’t help himself. He wonders if he’s being obvious, if you can tell the way his looks are anything but casual. “Can you pour me a glass?” He adds.

“Yeah,” you mutter, sitting straight to pour lemonade into his waiting glass. You meet his eyes and almost pour it over the pasta. The rest of the lunch is uneventful, a series of adult conversation you can’t seem to engage yourself in fully, and whether that’s because of personal preference or Carlos’ presence, you don’t make an effort to try.

“…ney. Honey.” Your mum’s voice distracts you from your thoughts; when you look up, half the table is clear and Carlos and your dad have ventured inside to deposit plates at the sink.

“Sorry. Wh—sorry, what?” You blink.

“Your father and I are heading out for the evening. Carlos will be working on the car. That okay, or you want to come along?”

“Um…” You pretend the latter is even an option before shaking your head. “No, I’ll stay.”

“Good.” She strokes your hair. “He could use the company.”

You follow her walking figure inside, where you station your eyes on Carlos. He’s sipping a lemonade. His eyes meet yours for a second and your face is outrageously flushed when you realize you’ve been caught staring, just like his had been earlier when he walked into your room.

—

You’re hellbent on solving a Sudoku puzzle when the dinner bell rings, and you have to finish it on the stairs. Your dad’s always been a stickler for arriving to dinner on time—every meal, but a gargantuan emphasis on the last—and you’ve been victim to scoldings about being five to six minutes late, an instance you don't wish to repeat.

9, you scribble, bare feet moving with speed through the living room, indoor dining room, then to the patio door. 4 comes next, your footsteps following the smell of grilled meat. 8, you write as you turn into the outdoor dining area. You’re halfway through 2 when you stop, look up, and find Carlos preparing dinner.

“Oh—” You pause. “You rang the dinner bell? Are my parents not…?”

“They are at a dinner,” says Carlos, eyes meeting yours briefly. It reminds you of earlier and you clear your throat, looking away. “So I hope my cooking is good enough.”

“It smells great,” you offer, seating yourself down and pouring a glass of wine. He sets the plate down—just-cut steak, a smear of potatoes. “Christ, you cook better than Dad.”

“I take that as a compliment,” he laughs, sitting across you. “Listen, I want to apologize for accidentally walking into your room earlier.”

Your face warms. “No, it’s okay. I was just surprised.”

“It was wrong of me. Let’s start over. I’m Carlos.” He reaches over to shake your hand, still standing. You take it, eyes flitting over his hand, spotting no glinting ring on his finger. With a saccharine smile, you assure him it was an honest mistake, so he segues into a different topic, the corners of his mouth turning up. “So, do you have an itinerary for me tomorrow?”

You hum, passing the wine over to him. “A bookstore, an ice cream parlor, and a bike ride. Anything else is seriously not worth it. You’ll have the next few weeks to explore town. If the house gets that boring.”

“I haven’t been bored so far,” he says, eyes glinting.

“Oh?”

“You know, with the car fixing.” He points vaguely to where the garage is. “But it’s only been a day.”

“Car fixing is boring,” you state matter-of-factly. “You’ll have fun tomorrow.” You cut into the steak and bite into the forkful you stab at, eyes fluttering.

“Good?” Carlos asks, smiling a little.

“I love it,” you mumble. “You’re so good at this, Carlos.”

Carlos retires to his room that night, and finds that today has held a collective motif of losing his shit. He’s anything but sleepy. Restless, wild-eyed, combing hand after hand through his hair. God, if he’d known you were this pretty—this hard to resist, on his first night here, no less—he would’ve been watching some DJ spin out a set with Lando right now.

Instead, he finds he can’t stop himself from thinking about you, the way your eyes had fluttered when he tried saying something on the edge of flirty. Your hair. Your hands, your fingers, lithe around the stem of your wine glass.

I love it, you’d said, you’re so good at this, Carlos. You knew exactly what you were doing, skittish tone putting him on edge. Despite himself, he can’t help but squeeze himself through his pants when he sits down on the edge of the bed, breathing heavy to purge himself of thoughts so low and dirty.

You’re so pretty. You’d be so easy to wreck, make his, goad little moans out of you, get your lips around him, puffy and pink and pretty. He wedges his eyes shut tight and hopes these thoughts will dissipate as the week passes.

Something tells him he’s wrong, though.

—

The tour is delayed because your dad insists he go fishing with Carlos three days in a row, but eventually (likely due to your mum’s insistence) it pushes through. You greet him with a smile, waiting by the door, wearing a sundress. Sundresses will definitely be his demise.

You’re a good tour guide, though, Carlos figures when you’re finished pointing at every turn and sign and dictating what goes where and where the passage to the coast is, when you’ve even quizzed him about where you are and where the house is supposed to be.

After he points in the correct direction, you nod approvingly. “That’s how my dad made sure I wouldn’t get lost,” you explain when he laughs at your choice of tour guidance.

“And you were what—twelve?” He asks, walking beside you. It’s fairly empty in town, a few tourists mulling about carrying shopping bags and plastic cups of juice.

“Try fourteen,” you argue.

“Well, quizzing a, uh—a fourteen-year-old is really not the same as quizzing a grown adult.”

“Ha. Call me when you can’t find your way home tonight,” you diss sarcastically, making a turn toward the bookstore down the street. “Okay, here we are. Don’t get too excited. They’re just books.”

For a relatively empty town, the bookstore always has new batches of titles, displayed proudly for natives and tourists alike front and centre. But you’re already going to the right side of the store, busying yourself with looking at the signs.

“The classics shelf is always my favorite,” you say, already walking ahead of him. Your dress bobs softly with your legs as you pace, short and sweet and white. You turn and his eyes slide back up instantly, and he hopes he was quick enough. “Do you have any authors you like?”

“I am not a big reader. You?”

“Huge,” you say, smiling a little. “Okay, we can browse. Are you into any genre…?”

Carlos proceeds to tell you his track record in the literary field includes: reading half the Harry Potter series, a car manual, and a few other titles in Spanish he cannot recall the name or plot of. But, he adds, he’s always wanted to read, found the activity so quiet and still and perfect, so he allows you to lead him through the titles stacked on each table and condensed on each shelf. He points at, sometimes, or picks up covers he finds appealing.

“How about—?” He reaches for a pink cover that reads It Ends With Us, but your hand loops around his wrist before he can pick it up and you’re pulling him into another aisle.

“…Not that.” You continue perusing the books around you, your hand still wrapped around his. With your free finger, you point at the top shelf, and tiptoe against the bookcase to try and get it. You come close, but not close enough.

Carlos, behind you, is successful, not even needing to tiptoe to reach for the red hardbound you’d been pointing at. It also means he’s pressed up against you, heavy and big, and the sensation dizzies you. When he finally pulls it off, you turn to him and find respite in the proximity—you two are so close, every exhale out of your lips causes a puff of air to blow against his hair.

He steps backward. You smile and gesture toward the book he’s holding. “That’s a good one.”

“Gabriel Garcia Marquez.” He reads out the author’s name in one fluid sentence, his Spanish accent becoming naturally more obvious.

“Okay, colonizer.” He knits his brows. “Trust me,” you insist. “One Hundred Years of Solitude—so good. It was one of the first books I read front to back twice in a row.”

“Wow, what an honor,” he teases sarcastically as you move along the aisle, fingertips brushing against the indents of the books. You turn to narrow your eyes and stick your tongue out. Unfortunately for Carlos, the effect this inflicts upon him is not oh she mocked me, but oh how would it look if—

He needs ice cream. Or to just get out of this aisle.

—

You punctuate the day with two cones of it, melting way too fast in the heat of summer. He’s already half-finished with his vanilla, and you’re taking your time with the lemon sorbet you’d gotten for yourself. Apparently, this is the only other highlight the town has to offer, and judging by the fact that most of the other stores are expensive clothes, souvenir shops, and a Bible bookstore—yeah.

Carlos is also more than sated with the three books in the paper bag he’s holding. Scratch that—six books, you bought a haul for yourself—but it’s not a particularly heavy load, so he’s fine. His phone has been buzzing with Lando’s update requests that he’s been deliberately ignoring.

“They make the best ice cream,” you rave, smiling. You lick over the melt on your lips. “Right?”

He might actually drop his cone now. “It is delicious.”

“Well…” You look around, your hair flying with every turn of your head. Lick over lips again. Again, and again. He has to look away.

“…Do you wanna stop by anywhere else?” You turn to him and ask, licking over the tip of your ice cream cone.

It’s hard for Carlos to pretend he’s looking around your surroundings, at the signs and storefronts, and not at your sticky lips, your pink tongue just peeking out to lap at the quickly melting gelato around your hand. His eyes flit downward, to where the hem of your tiny white dress has flown up in the coastal wind, exposing more of your thighs.

“Carlos?” You repeat, voice sweet and waiting.

He snaps his eyes back up and wills his voice to remain passive. “We can head back.”

So you do, meaning your tour ends around noon, and your parents greet you both with lunch and the round of inevitable questions. Did Comporta live up to your expectations? What books did you get? Was our daughter a good tour guide? The latter, Carlos answers with a smile—very good. You allowed your face to flush, blamed it on the sangria.

Now, though, it’s the brink in-between chilly and hot, sticky traces of the summer afternoon still lingering in the air, mixing with the cool of dusk when you decide to exit your room and fix yourself a glass of something, preferably sweet and alcoholic. An empty driveway save for a Ferrari means your parents are gone, leaving you and—if you’re lucky, which you hope you are—

“Carlos,” you call out from the window you’ve just tugged open with the expertise of somebody who’s lived here for twenty-one summers. “Thirsty?”

He looks up from where he is, outside, continuing his operation on your dad’s car. The hood’s been cranked open, and his long hair is damp with sweat, flying gently in the face of the sunset breeze. He smiles when he sees your figure peeking out.

“For what?”

“Whatever you want,” you respond, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. His white shirt’s stained with oil and dirt, tainting it beige and grey, the tight fit even tighter from his sweat. You can make out the outline of his abs just underneath.

He squints. “Beer?”

You make an exaggerated eugh face to tease him, but duck back inside to bring your homemade aperol and an open, frosty beer outside. When he sees you, he walks closer, smiles and takes a swig of the drink you offer. He makes a noise of satisfaction and you have to make a real effort to maintain a semblance of normalcy, eyes averting from his lips to gaze instead at his solid shoulders, his build, big and tall.

“What’s the problem with beer, hmm?”

“Tastes like shit.” You raise your aperol. “The sweeter, the better. How’s Dad’s car?” You blink, sidestepping him to try and gauge his progress.

“Casi termino.” You look at him, raising your eyebrows, and he translates. “Almost done. It wasn’t that destroyed, if at all.”

“You think he’ll let you drive it when you’re done?” You ask playfully, swiping your condensation-wet finger over the side of the car. You turn, smiling expectantly; Carlos laughs a bit, shrugs.

“It is just a favor. But if he does, I’ll make sure you get to come along.” He says. “You like that?”

“Mmm,” you nod, sipping on your aperol. You part from your straw, lips stained, and smile up at him. “I do.”

His gaze is stuck on your lips. You lick over them, and he looks away with a slow blink. You watch as he ruffles his hair, rounds the car and crosses his arms to view it from the back.

God, he’s handsome. You think of the long-winded nights you’ve been spending trailing your fingers over your legs or texting inspired paragraphs to friends back in university about him. Their responses are almost always Send pic now and a cacophony of heart eye emojis when you manage to snag a stolen shot of him doing just about anything.

His gaze is scrutinizing, every little detail of the car, and eventually he closes the hood again. “Should be good by tomorrow.”

“Where’d you learn to fix cars?” You ask sweetly, nearing him. The wind bites at your legs, your flowy skirt bouncing sporadically and held down by your free hand. When your eyes flit to his, waiting for his response, you find them snapping upward. He’d been distracted.

“I work with cars, so it comes natural.” You lean on the hood of the car and he comes to stand in front of you, his eyes pointed downward at you. “That’s not a very good habit,” he adds.

“Drinking?” You pout, raising your half-empty glass. You blink up at him, the corner of your smiling lip caught in your teeth.

“Biting your lip.” His gaze is intense. “You do it a lot, I noticed.”

You smile, leaning backward a little. His resolve is breaking. “Can I borrow one of the books you got earlier?”

“The three ones you bought not enough?” He raises a brow, downing beer again. Some of it dribbles out of the corner of his lip. You’ve never been one to like the taste, but you’d lick it off him if you could.

“I just wanna browse it,” you push. “I’ll return it tomorrow.”

“Fine,” he relents. “I’ll give it to you tomorrow.”

—

He sees you the next day after lunch, which you’d skipped because you “weren’t hungry.” You’re wearing a dress, hair clipped into a bun when you excuse yourself to pick up an earring in front of him. He almost thinks it’s a fib until he sees it, the pink gem on the floor.

“Sorry,” you say, voice mellow, and then you’re bending over to pick it up. You’re wearing pretty lace panties underneath.

Carlos clears his throat and excuses himself, adjusting his shorts as he goes upstairs.

—

He gives you Norweigan Wood after dinner, like he promised earlier in the week. Two raps on your door, and when you open it, he’s already handing it to you with a quiet smile. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice clipped.

“Our tour isn’t over yet,” you tease, tossing the book onto your bed and descending the steps back downstairs. Confused and interested, he follows you, to the back area of the house, past the swinging screen door, down the steps, and onto the sand.

“Tour?” He repeats, for clarification. The only things to tour are sand and twigs.

“Yeah, Carlos. This is the real tour,” you joke, walking backwards. Every step sends your foot sinking into the cold sand, slowing your pace until Carlos catches up, matching your steps once he does. “Comporta—real and unfiltered.” You both laugh at your hyperbolic, MTV-worthy statement, and he waits for more, entertains you further.

“What is so real about this?” Carlos laughs, allowing himself to humor your little schtick.

“Well, mister. This isn’t bookstores and ice cream parlors.” You point to a nearby spot in the sand, just by a rogue stick. “This is where I smoke without getting caught. Near enough that I can run back in seconds, but faraway enough that my parents can’t immediately see what I’m doing. Granted, I don’t need to be sneaking around much, but if you ever want to do something in secret—”

The implication sends Carlos into a spiral of thought.

“—here’s your spot.”

“So you smoke,” he says when he sits himself on the sand, observing the now-dark skyline of the area. You continue pacing around a little, and when you raise your arms up to stretch, he catches a glimpse of your abdomen, the waistband of pink lace underneath the low rise of your denim shorts.

“Occasionally. Don’t play Holy Mary,” you warn, standing in front of him and stretching your hand out to reveal a box of Marlboro Reds.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he responds, taking a stick and inserting it in between his lips. “Got a light?”

“No,” you tease, taking one for yourself and sliding your lighter out from your pocket in one quick motion. The flame illuminates your face, casts a light on your thin white tee and on the bikini top you have on underneath. You puff out a small cloud of smoke, and Carlos reaches up to take the lighter.

“I said no,” you giggle, your lips knotting into a pout. You hold the lighter just out of his reach, red and bold against the bleak evening.

“Give it.” He sits up higher, reaches harder; he almost gets it, but you step backward and raise your arm out of reach. Again your shirt rises with the movement. The view he gets, this time, of your hips, the lace that hugs the area there, is much more close. The laugh you emit sends a cloud of smoke out.

“No, no,” you continue, laughing, a sweet sound.

Carlos gets up, tries again to lunge for the lighter. At this point he doesn’t even care about the cigarette in between his lips, just wants to entertain you. He tries again but you’re quick with it, ducking every lunge just in time.

“Come on,” he goads, laughing himself. You pace backward, smoking, until your ankles hit the shallow shore water, water that goes deeper and deeper until you’re knee-level, still smiling at him mischievously.

“Fine,” you relent, shrugging. You throw your hands up in surrender, in the process taking the stick out of your mouth to blow smoke out. “Do you want it? C’mere, then.” You beckon him closer, wave the lighter tantalizingly so he steps closer, closer, until you’re holding the flame to the cigarette between his lips.

He’s so tall, he has to bend a little to let you light it, his eyes meeting yours, illuminated by the pale moon and the orange of the flame.

It all goes to plan. Once you light it, you place two hands square on his shoulders, whirl him so he’s behind you and thus even deeper in the water, and with all your might, push him into the sea.

“Brat—” he manages to gasp out as he goes, the word leaving his lips in the first and last puff of smoke he lets out. He surfaces, every dip and ridge of his abs and chest accentuated, his linen polo near invisible with how saturated it is with water. His long hair, too, sticks to his forehead; he combs it backward, reveals his amused-irritated eyes, the dead cigarette spouting seawater and ash.

He spits it out. You stare and pinch the soggy stick in between two fingers, stuffing the trash into his chest pocket. “That’s bad for the environment.”

“I am freezing,” he says in response, but you’re just stifling a laugh.

He narrows his eyes, and with unsurprising ease given his build, picks you up and carries you over his shoulder. You barely have time to protest, almost dropping your own cigarette into the water, kicking and pounding on his back to please put me down. You can feel the water getting deep, deeper, and when he finally dunks you in, it’s only a second of dryness before you’re submerged in the chilly water.

Your cigarette dies, and you manage to collect it, because you’re not in the interest of leaving your stick floating; you wedge it into your pocket.

“You’re such”—you gasp for air—“a dick!”

You’re smiling, though, flailing your legs to stay afloat. Carlos can’t help but stare, entranced with the way your eyelashes stick together, damp, the droplets of water on your cheeks, your two hands wringing saltwater out of your hair, and when you swim upward, the way your white tee leaves nothing to his imagination.

You can tell. He can tell you can tell—because the next thing you do, with some faux exaggerated sigh of annoyance, is say, “Can’t swim, too heavy,” and you’re taking off your shirt so all he sees is the red of your bikini top underneath. The white tee bobs softly with each passing wave, and you’re smiling up at him. Checkmate, you’re saying. I’ve got you. A skittish, playful smile on your lips.

“I can help you swim,” he offers—retaliates, more like, his height offering him great advantage. He finds your bare ankle underwater, guides it to wrap around his waist. Naturally, your other leg follows until you’re flush against him, held up by him so you don’t need to wag your legs around just to stay above water.

Your hands go on his still-clothed shoulders first, then eventually around them, fingers linking at the nape of his neck. Your smile is wicked. You’re so sinfully pretty. He wades deeper, holds you all the while, two big hands on either side of your waist, thumbs rubbing over your sides so you can shiver.

“‘M so wet,” you say, voice shaky with chill and laughter. His grip tightens and he has to squeeze his eyes shut to try and pretend you didn’t just say that.

He dips you underneath the surface to surprise you, and your shriek is cut off by the water—he pulls you up quick, laughing, but underestimates his strength because as he tugs, you barrel right onto him, forehead bumping his.

Your eyes are closed, and you momentarily detach from him to wipe salt out of them. “Ass.”

“Brat,” he responds.

You open your eyes to find he’s close, so close you could just lean forward an inch—an inch—and you’d be meeting his lips. You wonder how they feel, how he kisses. He’s confident everywhere else, would he kiss you like that, too? You lean closer, a wrecked gasp escaping you.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, and it’s supposed to be teasing, but your breathy voice is genuine, honest. A thumb swipes over his eyelashes, causing him to blink, then the bridge of his nose. He leans upward, tries to catch your lips, but pauses, his eyes fluttering open and closed.

“This is wrong,” he says in a quiet breath, making no move at all you stop either of you from kissing right now.

You want—need—to kiss him, but you can play the long game if he wishes to. Your eyes flit back up to his, dark brown and reflecting the moon.

“Then let’s head back,” you suggest, even if both of you want anything but.

Long game. He guides you back to shore, picks your tee up, uses it as a sieve for any loose ash and cigarette bits in your path back to shore, even finds your red lighter that’s now dispensing water. He apologizes for not having anything to dry you with, and drops you off at your room with a puddle in both of your wakes.

“Thank you again,” he says, his voice a whisper through your ajar door. He observes your room with what little vantage point he has. The posters on the wall, the art, postcards. The laptop on the bed, open. The phone charging on the nightstand. The thong hanging out of the hamper.

“No problem,” you say back, voice saccharine. Your hand wraps around his wrist. “See you tomorrow.”

Even if you’re doused in seawater, he can still smell the traces of your perfume, the summery sweet of it, when you close the door. He stays for a second, blinks, relishes in the hint of floral.

—

You spend three days walking on eggshells around each other, testing the limits of interaction.

Your night at the beach was risky, dangerous, thrilling—but it was fun, sending you both into antsy, restless trains of thought. Carlos self-medicates with coffee, beer in the afternoon, working on your dad’s car, and the first two hundred pages of the Marquez book you insisted he pick up. He spots you sometimes, lounging on the beach with his book in your grip, the waistline of your bikini bottoms leaving a tanline he can’t stop staring at when you walk back into the house.

But he can’t act on it—he was the one who labeled it wrong, the one who suppressed himself, held the urge back. He told you it was wrong. And it is wrong. He’s older, he should be wiser; he’s close with your dad; and a cacophony of other rational reasons he shouldn’t be playing into this skittish summer crush.

“Dad said the boat’s free,” a voice says, and he looks up from his book to find you standing in front of him, wearing nothing but a bikini top and a skirt, loose and riding low on your hips. Your lips stretch into a sweet smile. “Wanna come?”

He really shouldn’t. “Sí.”

So he goes. He’s thirty-five. That’s a grown age. If anything, he’s capable of making sure he stays responsible. He dog-ears his page and picks up his beer to follow you to where the boat is docked. He’d been on your dad’s yacht earlier in his trip here, to go fishing, but it’s quieter today, bobbing softly atop the water. You lie yourself down on the sunny side of the boat, sunglasses over your eyes.

“Stay anywhere you like,” you say charmingly. It’s silent for a while, Carlos seating himself on one of the lounge seats in the shaded area, and then you’re moving around on your towel.

You peer over your lenses, blinking and sitting up, and this is when he knows he can’t do it.

“Carlos,” you call out. “Can you put sunscreen on my back?” You get up again, rifling in your bag for the bottle of sunscreen, dragging a hand through your hair to comb it out. It falls in loose waves, swishing when you turn to hand him the bottle. He pretends he’d been distracted on page 210 when he accepts it, watching as you sit in front of the seat, your back turned to him, your little figure in-between his spread legs.

A minute passes with no hand at your back. “Go ahead, move even slower,” you joke, and the tension breaks a little; he humors you, laughs and apologizes.

“It’s because hour hair is in the way,” he says, touching it gently, combing it to the side.

“Wait—” You dig through your bag again and pull out a blunt pink ribbon, slipping it into his hand. “Can you braid it for me?”

“Braid?” He doesn’t know jack shit about braiding hair. “I don’t know how.”

“At that age of yours and you don’t know anything about how to please a girl,” you whistle lowly. “Adult virgin?”

But you guide him through it despite your teasing, teaching him to divide your hair in threes, weaving one strand over the other until “it looks half decent.” He fucks up a few times and your hair looks odd at some point, but in the end, it’s—well, it’s a braid.

“How is it?” You ask, and he can hear your smile.

He does the job well enough for a first-timer, he thinks, finishing it with the ribbon, which he ties loosely lest you’re unhappy with the finished product. It becomes easier to move your hair out of the way, and once your back is saturated with sunscreen, you unfold your legs and get up, turning around and smiling down at his sitting figure.. Loose tendrils of hair frame your face, the braid resting at your back softly, already loosening.

“Your hair can be braided, too,” you comment quietly, knotting a rogue few strands in your fingers. It hasn’t been this tense since that night at the beach, but that ended before the tension rose further—this, now, keeps going. You step closer and he leans back, smiling. “Can I?”

He blinks, nostrils flaring, then nods, his grip on your hips gentle when you sit on his lap, your legs on either side of his. You smile coquettishly, feeling how hard he is underneath you, the denim of his jeans rough against the skin of your bare thighs. Your skirt’s riding up on them with every little shift you make, just to rile him up.

Carlos drinks in the sight of you, sunkissed and on his lap, legs sprawled out, pretty little face framed, bottom lip in your teeth. You’re inviting him closer, your gaze meeting his with sleepy, demure eyes—do something. You look so fucking precious, so pretty. It makes him want to give you everything right now.

You reach forward, make an attempt to try and weave his hair together—but he grinds upward, your breath hitching and a whimper punched out of your mouth.

Your hands are shaking now, barely able to piece his hair together with how good his clothed cock feels pressed against you, where you need it most.

“Carlos,” you gasp, and all he can really think is—where’d all your fight go? You were so used to being a brat and a half, now you’re whimpering, on the edge of begging.

“Be quiet,” Carlos grunts, digging his fingers into your hips. His other hand lifts your skirt, bunching the fabric around your hips for a better view of your cunt rubbing against the bulge in his pants. The damp fabric of your panties is swallowed between your lips with every grind you make forward and he has to stop himself from cursing out loud at the sight. “Good girl.”

Your hands move from his hair to his shoulders, sturdy and broad; you can feel him squeeze your waist with both hands, then pull you down against him, just once, so your weight presses down on the hard shape of his cock. It makes him shudder and you whine out loud. You resist the urge to grind over it; you’re already so wet you’re making a mess on his jeans.

His praise, mumbled deep and slow in your ear, gets you feeling all warm, almost ditzy. Your hips roll on their own, chasing the delicious drag of rough denim against your clit, slick soaks into and through your panties, making the material cling to the shape your folds. Carlos’ hands are rough when they wander and grope, hiking this godforsaken skirt up so he can press a thumb against the centre of your folds.

“Been so good for you, Carlos,” you whine, circling your hips against him. He can’t stop staring at your pretty, fucked-out eyes, your bitten lips. He shoves two fingers in-between them, imagines how they looked just a few days ago slick with ice cream—now your tongue is laving over his hand. The braid you'd just taught him is quickly unraveling with every nod of your head. “‘M gonna—can I—” The pleas leave you quick, your voice choked.

Euphoric, your mind lifts, foggy and saturated with pleasure, the braid almost completely undone now. His praise is so addictive, gets you worked up and needy. Come on, he says. Make a mess. His accent, his deep voice, the way it rumbles right through you—his voice drops, his touch a little heavier as he presses harder.

You gonna cum for me? His thumb rubs faster until you’re gasping, shuddering, little ahs leaving your lips. He’s got the upper hand now, but you can hear the strain, the suppression in his voice as he rubs over the soaked fabric; you feel his cock growing under you, getting harder.

P—please—I want to—please let me, you say breathlessly, and you’ve never needed it to the point of begging before, but Carlos is different. He keeps going, doesn’t give you permission, rubbing faster, your heart hammering in your chest.

Feel good?

Y—yeah, you whimper, trying your best not to fall apart here, on your dad’s boat, where anybody could walk on—or maybe see you from afar, humping your dad’s friend in broad daylight. He loves watching you like this; you’ve somehow become even prettier, face flushed and voice shaky.

Come on, he goads. Be a good girl. Cum for me.

It’s the only instruction that matters to you right now, your body seizing with it and cute little moans escaping you as you finish. You catch your breath against his chest, craving warmth even if it’s hot—maybe you’re craving him, his touch, Carlos, just Carlos. You maneuver yourself so legs, exhausted from shaking, are on one side of his body—he holds you close, humming.

He rubs a steady hand across your lower back, gentle and firm and you want him so much more now. “Are you okay?” He asks. “Talk to me.”

“Perfect,” you pant against his polo, fingers playing with the stitching, tugging the collar down so you can mouth at his skin. His hand plays with what’s left of the braid, winds the pink ribbon around his fingers. “Let’s go for a swim.”

—

“And we drove the jet ski around, too,” you say gleefully, your damp hair bobbing with every move of your head. Your face is sunkissed, a little sore from being in the sun for most of the afternoon. Carlos laughs along from where he is at the grill—he’s cooking for dinner, on a quest to make burgers because he’s known for making the best ones back in Madrid, apparently. Your dad, of course, insists on joining, and the two have been asking and answering questions while you and your mum sip rosé at the table.

“Did you have fun?” Your mum asks, her head turning to address Carlos.

“Yeah, tons,” he replies with a smile, his eyes meeting yours for a brief second. You know what he means. It’s been only two days since the afternoon on the boat, and since then you’ve mostly swam and ridden around on the jet ski with Carlos—nothing more.

“See, sweetie,” she adds, placing a hand over yours. “I told you this summer would be fun with him around!”

“Mmm, yeah,” you say, nodding and parting from your glass, “I can really count on him for some excitement.” The statement catches his attention and he almost trails off, eyes returning to yours, before he continues speaking in Spanish to your dad about something or other.

The burgers’ reputation precedes them, and is warranted, you learn later when you’re biting into it for the first time. The remainder of dinner passes by in lively conversation, the sun setting low underneath the Comporta horizon, wine taking the place of rosé. Carlos mentions the racing world again, about how he’ll be back into the thick of it sooner than later, and you pulse with something akin to sadness.

Your parents, apparently so grateful for the blessing that is Carlos’ burgers, offer to clean up and before long, they retreat to their downstairs bedroom. Upstairs, you marinate in your thoughts, blinking up at your ceiling, twining your pink ribbon around your fingers as your hair dries splayed over your bedding. You let your arm down, in the process bumping your elbow against a hard surface.

Upon investigation, you find it’s a copy of Norweigan Wood.

Carlos is at his desk, taking a timezone-separated call about simulation and season prep, when two soft knocks go at his door and it creaks open. He turns the chair away from the desk to see who it is. An ankle steps in first, then more leg, and then you—in a lovely, pretty pink lace dress, your face illuminated by the moonlight outside. One hand clutches a copy of his book; the other, the ribbon he’d used on your hair earlier.

He’s nursing a bottle of beer, just to help ease the drag of the day, and he watches you approach him, your footsteps quiet against the hardwood of the floor. Wait, he mouths, finishing the call in a hushed tone, and when he hangs up you approach him again.

“I thought you should have this back,” you say, offering him the book. Your eyes rake over him, wearing the same getup he’d worn to dinner—denim jeans, because he’d ducked out to buy food, except he’s ridden himself of his shirt.

He takes the book, places it on the table, continues staring up at you. “And I thought you should keep this.” The ribbon, pale pink, is now looped around his wrist and tied into a delicate ribbon at the apex of it. You admire your handiwork with a smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

You lean down, face just shy of his. “We shouldn’t,” he manages to eke out, his voice strained.

“But you want to,” you respond softly. “No one’s going to know. Our little secret.”

His eyes are shut, contemplating, and then he’s kissing you—the only thing you’ve wanted, craved, touched yourself to the thought of over the course of the summer. You reciprocate immediately, parting your lips to let him kiss you deeper, a whimper leaving your mouth. He kisses like he knows he’s a good kisser, and he really is. His scent is intoxicating, a drug, sending arousal and desire straight through you.

You part, eyes half-lidded as you stand straight again. You cock your head slowly to the side, and with your head’s movement your hair follows, gathering on one side. It exposes much of your shoulder and collarbones, which lay underneath the thin lace dress you wear to sleep, and which is now subject to Carlos' unwavering stare. He has no shame, eyes raking over you, up and down and back up. One hand curled around a bottle of beer, the other coming up to slowly graze the back of your thigh.

Your breath hitches. “Do you like the dress?” You ask softly, teasingly. It’s nothing special, Carlos, you seem to say; it’s just a nightie.

His hand is rough against the thin skin of your leg, traveling upward. He gives you a nod in response; he does like it, the sheer material, the pink color, the loose way it hugs your body. Roughly, he voices his assent. “Come sit on my lap.”

“Wait,” you say, pouting. Your knee rubs softly against the material of his jeans, and you slowly sink onto your knees, hands placing themselves on your thighs. His grip goes from the back of your thigh to your hair, combing it softly, cradling your face.

“Let me,” you say, letting your silence imply everything unsaid. He’s going crazy, losing his mind.

“So pretty,” he says, nodding. his voice thin. “Go ahead, baby.”

The petname gets you dizzy. You lean forward, resting your face on the hard bulge in his pants, smiling up at him. You’ve got these big, doe eyes, begging him, and he’s not so sure he even has the upper hand anymore—he would do anything you asked, any request that left those pretty bitten lips. He gathers your hair in two hands, forms a messy, unclean braid, crisscross at the back of your head just so he has something to grip while he fucks your throat.

You make quick, deft work of unbuttoning his jeans, and he watches, leaned back on the chair, legs spread wide with bent knees on either side of your body, caging you in. Carlos’ eyes are half-lidded, a hand at your braid, bringing his beer to his lips, swallowing before he sets it onto the adjacent desk.

His cock is big—thick, intimidating—and you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to fit the whole thing in your mouth without choking. It twitches in your palms the longer you stroke him, precum weeping from the head and slicking up your palms. Gruff expletives, in Spanish and English, slip past his gritted teeth and the sounds travel directly to your core, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together to soothe the ache blossoming there.

You take head of his cock into your mouth, feel it roll over your tongue, heavy and warm. Drool gathers in your mouth and your fingers dig into the muscle of his thighs in anticipation. The hand wound around your braid, pressed against your head, presses heavier slowly, slotting the first few inches of cock into your mouth while avoiding the back of your throat. You relax, letting your lips seal around the length, cheeks hollowing and tongue lulling at the underside. He curses.

You continue bobbing your head, lewd noises leaving your mouth with every move you make; it embarrasses you, but also sends slick gushing out of you.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes when the tip of his cock grazes the back of your throat; you cough, fingers heavy as they dig into the flesh of his still-denim clas thighs; drool trickles onto his balls. The hand remains there, though, pushing you and keeping you pinned in place as he slowly thrusts upward. You haven’t even gotten him all the way.

You gag and sputter, eyes fully watering the harder Carlos bullies his cock into your throat; you’re dizzy with arousal and submission, maybe one, maybe both, you’re too far gone.

“Easy,” he orders, and you will yourself to breathe nasally, relaxing, burying more of him in you. He loves seeing you like this, hair all pretty—his braid, too—and on your knees, trying your best to please him. “Being so good for me, good girl,” he says, losing resolve. You’re so pretty when you cry, eyes rimmed and bloodshot, tear streaks all over your cheekbones.

He ruts shallowly into your throat, every move punctuated by a guttural gag from your end—once, twice, a third time, before finally he releases you. You let out a cough, and a gasp, breathy, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. He doesn’t want to cum yet—not like this. You gaze up at him, big eyes anticipating, and he guides you upward, on the bed.

He kicks his jeans off and readjusts his briefs, watches you scramble to position yourself on the bed, sitting down properly. “Will you fuck me now?” You ask, your sweet voice raspy. He likes knowing he’s the reason why.

You inch yourself backward so you’re fully on his bed, a hand traveling to stop your tiny dress from riding up any further. He steps closer, one knee on the bed, caging you in again, and stops you. His gaze flickers down to your legs, forces your knees apart so he can see in between them. Your pretty cunt’s soaked through your panties. “Don’t hide from me,” he says, voice rough as he steps back off the bed and kneels beside it.

“Carlos,” you breathe, letting him have his way with you. Your mind’s all fuzzy, but it’s okay—he takes care of you.

Strong arms snake around your thighs and pull you toward him until your cunt is level with his face. His breath, warm, fans against you, muted by the thin fabric of your panties and it does nothing to help the unadulterated, dirty arousal throbbing in your cunt. He bites at the flesh of your inner thigh, then hooks two fingers into your panties and pulls them aside.

The taste of you is so good; it goes straight to Carlos’ head. And all of your embarrassed, whiny whimpers, the way your fingers knot helplessly into his hair as he drags his tongue up your cunt — that drives him absolutely crazy. He licks at your pussy, sticks his tongue in, nudges your clit with his nose, ekes whimpers and debauched moans out of your lips.

He pushes two fingers into you, doesn’t give you time to adjust before he’s fucking them in and out, moans spilling out of you involuntarily. It’s lewd, it’s dirty, getting his friend’s daughter all spread out for him like this, but Carlos loves it. More, you sob, more, please, I need—yeah—

His skilled tongue doesn’t let up, continues toying with you, licking up all the arousal oozing out of your cunt. He eats you, fucks you with his fingers, until your eyes are welling up with overwhelm and the need to release, your hands pulling at his long hair—your pussy dripping, quivering, right at the edge of your orgasm.

Any of the reservations you had are now out the window. Your grip on Carlos’ hair is tight, pushing his head deeper into your pussy and grinding against his mouth mindlessly.

I’m cumming—!

Your voice is so dirty, so lewd, so needy, when you finally finish around him, slick dripping out and your pussy twitching, clenching and unclenching around nothing as you release. Panting, you hoist yourself on your elbows, your braid surprisingly intact, and pout down at him.

“I said fuck me.”

“So you complain,” he responds with a coy smile, his lips shiny with your slick. You want him to fuck you stupid.

He does eventually, gets you all calm and lying down on the bed, knees to your chest. Your feet cross and uncross with anticipation. He lets his cock rest first on your stomach, where it twitches, smearing precum under your belly button.

“That’s where you’ll be,” you say, stroking him. When he finally does begin thrusting into you, he wishes he could save the image of your pretty eyes fluttering closed, puffy lips open in a whimper.

Your legs tremble with the size you’re taking, his hand gentle as it is firm on your hips, forcing you to take him, take him good, take him better. Good girl, he’s saying, good fucking girl. Inch by inch, you struggle to take all of him, his girth thicker than what your cunt is willing to take. You’re positive you’ll feel him in your stomach.

“Carlos,” you whimper, voice aching.

“Fuck,” is all he can muster, watching your pussy swallow him. “So tight.”

He’s drunk on the feeling of you, wet and clenching around him, so tight. He can tell you’re high on it too, on the stretch of him, the way you keep trying to meet every thrust, legs already beginning to tremble with pleasure and deep arousal. He bottoms out, an expletive leaving him in Spanish, and then slowly begins to fuck in and out of you.

He watches your face, the way your brows knit as you take him, take his cock, eyelides fluttering. “So good,” you moan, mouth open. He drops a glob of spit onto your tongue, tells you to swallow—you do, presenting your empty tongue to him. Good girl, prettiest girl—any and all praise leaves him in dizzy, heady breaths.

“Teasing me for so long,” he pants, his dick splitting you in half. “This what you wanted? Hmm?”

But even in your cloudy mind, you find the grit to retaliate, teasingly, a cloy smile on your lips. “You said it was wrong,” you gasp out with every thrust. “Fucking your friend’s daughter.”

“But you love it,” Carlos goads. “Do you?”

You nod, cockdrunk, but it’s not enough. “Use your words, pretty. You can do it.”

“I do, I love it. I need more,” you whine, getting off on his teasing, on the implication that this is all wrong, that neither of you should be doing this. “Needed this so much, Carlos.” You crack your eyes open to watch the bulge in your abdomen, the shape of his girth splitting you open. He slams into you harder and you try to squirm away, but he keeps you pinned in place.

“And if your dad walked in?”

You gush slick all over him. “Carlos,” you plead.

“Saw his daughter taking his friend’s dick?” He says it low into your ear, bending to make sure you hear all of it. “Taking it like a good girl, too.” He pulls out, slaps your ruined hole with his dick, then shoves it in deep again, groaning when you cry out—getting off on you whining about how sensitive you are, the way you tremble under him and around him. Your pretty little face, all sweaty and ruined.

“I’m gonna—fuck—I’m, Carlos—I’m gonna cum,” you say, nodding. You’ve probably cum twice already, little bursts of pleasure causing your cunt to twitch around him, sensitive. “Can I—?”

“That’s it,” he praises. “Come on, cum for me. Been so good for me.” You tremble around him as you finish, broken moans fucked out of you with every surge of his hips forward.

He’s close, too, having held off fucking you for the past how many days, and you can tell; his thrusts get shallower, faster, until his hips are stuttering and he’s panting your name out, long hair framing his flushed, pretty face. You reach up to comb a hand through it. “Cum inside me,” you beg, watching him go crazy, his nostrils flaring and eyes blinking quick.

He pumps his cum into you, thrusting several times as he rides it out, fucking you full of him, of his cum. You relish in the feeling, of being his girl, his good girl. “You’re a mess,” he comments, his face buried into your neck. He pulls out, both of you sighing at the sight and feeling of his cum dribbling out of you, onto the bed.

You unfold your legs, sitting up despite how sore you feel. Your dress is damp with sweat, and slick, and cum. “I feel a mess.” You pout.

“You look pretty.”

“Can I sleep here tonight?” You ask, voice meek. He nods, holds you tight as you both drift off, like he knows that you won’t be his to call his by the time the summer wanes and Comporta is left empty again.

—

“It’s the post-race interview,” Ali calls. “Hurry!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” You hop into the living room, tossing her the bag of popcorn she’d requested you to cook. Fall has officially dawned upon the city, adorning it with orange and red leaves, jazz music and cold nights—and weekends watching races.

Around you, all your university friends watch with intense gazes at the winner of the latest Formula One grand prix—something none of you had been remotely interested in just months prior.

You watch, eyes glittering, at the winner. Tan skin, long hair, jogging over to the journalist. Sainz, what a stellar drive! She sounds awestruck, genuinely taken aback by his dominance on the track today. She asks for a message in Spanish, as always; a few words of inspiration, and then, just as a fun little tidbit—did you have a good luck charm today?

He smiles to himself, like he’s just heard an inside joke and seems to think for a minute. “No, not really.” Then he combs a hand through his hair. There, looped around his wrist, is a pretty, pale pink ribbon.

#f1 #carlos sainz #carlos sainz drabble #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz smut #carlos sainz imagines #carlos sainz one shot #f1 x reader

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writingquestionsanswered · 5 months ago

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how do i make my writing more ‘mature’? i always feel like no matter how sophisticated i write and no matter every which way i change it up it always has a sense of being childish or juvenile.

Making Writing Sound More Mature

1 - Better Plot and Story Structure - One of the telltale signs of juvenile writing is a story that meanders, has no obvious plot or structure, has no conflict or has a protagonist with no goal. So, make sure you have a well fleshed out plot, with a conflict, protagonist goal, and which hits the beats specific to your story's genre.

2 - Three-Dimensional Characters - If you're writing plot-driven fiction, make sure your main characters have a fleshed out personality, stakes, motivation, goal, and compelling relationships with other characters. If you're writing fully or partially character-driven fiction, do all of the above, but also make sure your main characters have a relevant internal conflict and a thoughtful character arc.

3 - Well-Developed Setting and World - One common hallmark of juvenile writing is a lack of "sense of place" and under-developed world building. So, make sure you put a lot of thought into where your story takes place... not just the immediate setting of each scene, but the overall world of the story, or at least the parts of it that are relevant.

4 - Incorporate Literary Devices - Juvenile writing tends to be lacking in the use of metaphor, simile, symbolism, irony, themes, and motifs. So, make sure to include those, but also take the time to make them relevant to your story.

5 - Include a Broad Range of Vocabulary - One common element of juvenile writing is a reliance on limited, simple vocabulary. Don't be afraid to use a thesaurus to find more interesting word choices--just be absolutely certain to crosscheck your choices with a dictionary to make sure they are the right choice. Online thesauruses in particular are bad about offering up bad suggestions. Also, make sure to learn and use special vocabulary that is relevant to your story, genre, or setting. For example, if your character is a retired police detective trying to solve a murder on his stalled cruise to Alaska, you need to make sure you know the proper investigative terminology, because he will definitely use it. And, by that same token, you'd want to make sure you know cruise ship lingo as well. And, part of this, too, is getting better at description and the inclusion of emotional and sensory detail.

6 - Use Varied Sentence Structure - This is a big one... juvenile writing tends to use repetitive sentence structure, such as simple sentences (she stood up, she went to the window, she waved at the man), lack of subordinate clauses (Tad Smith, who was a seasoned and retired investigator, had looked forward to this cruise his whole life...), repetitive starts (every sentence begins with a pronoun, for example), uniform length (all short sentences, for example.) So, make sure your sentences are varied. If you read them out loud, you don't want it to sound rhythmic, but more like a complex melody.

7 - Show, Don't Tell... Most of the Time - Telling definitely has its place, but most of the time you want to show rather than tell, meaning that instead of stating things simply and directly (the sun was shining) you want to paint a clear but indirect image (dappled sunlight shone through the trees.)

8 - Avoid Cliche Phrases - Human language is littered with everyday phrases like "to each their own" or "better late than never." Generally-speaking, you want to avoid these phrases in your story, especially in exposition. If you include them anywhere, they're best spoken as dialogue by a character who it makes sense would say something like that. Likewise, be careful of cliche genre or character-type phrases. For example, villains who say things like "we're not so different, you and I..." or "I finally have you right where I want you!" These overused phrases tend to make stories sound juvenile and unpolished.

9 - Avoid Cliche Tropes - Another type of cliche to avoid if you want more mature-sounding writing is cliches of various tropes. Tropes on their own are a good thing, but when tropes are used the same way over and over again in a genre or type of story, they become predictable. For example, the super gorgeous protagonist who everyone is in love with, but they view themselves as plain and not special. Or the broken/hopeless/addict mentor character. It's not that you can't use any cliche tropes at all, just make sure your story isn't riddled with them, and do what you can to put your own spin on the ones you do use.

10 - Read, Read, Read - And I can't stress this enough... the absolute best way to improve your writing style and take your writing from juvenile to polished is to make sure you're reading a lot of fiction, in a lot of genres, by a lot of authors. Audio books, short stories, and poetry count, too. The more you read, the more you begin to: understand plot and story structure, recognize well-developed characters, easily envision complex settings and worlds, learn vocabulary and literary devices, become attuned to varied sentence structure, and learn to recognize cliche phrases and tropes.

Happy writing!

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

I’ve been writing seriously for over 30 years and love to share what I’ve learned. Have a writing question? My inbox is always open!

♦ Questions that violate my ask policies will be deleted! ♦ Please see my master list of top posts before asking ♦ Learn more about WQA here

#wqaadvice

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noceurous · 4 months ago

Text

take the heat away, make the girl stay

your boyfriend is always capable of finding solutions to anything, including heatwaves

warnings: cursing, mention of kids, i’d say dilf!dave but he is already a dad, possessive!dave, some ice play, smut (18+), p in v, fingering, usage of various nicknames (honey, darling, baby), daddy kink, praise kink, some cumplay, this is basically little plot big smut

a/n: this is my entrance to #hotdilfsummerchallenge by @hellishjoel (thank you so much kylee for this amazing challenge it really inspired me). it's also my protest against this heat and humidity on where i live. as always reblogs/comments are always appreciated.

You huffed, annoyed from the heat. Constantly tossing and turning on the couch. It felt like hands made out of fire and hot steam were constantly caressing your body.

You got up, heading to the fridge. You needed something, anything, cold to keep you sane. You smiled when the cold air from fridge hit your face when you opened its door.

The picture Dave’s kids drew were decorating the fridge. You loved when he went on full dad mode sometimes, buying fruit and veggies even snacks rich in fibers whenever his kids came to stay at his place. He cared about their classes and high school gossip, used his sources to track their potential boyfriends.

And no, they didn’t have a clue about their caring father was dating a girl who was closer to them in age wise. He knew Carol would have a hard time to keep her mouth shut about you, filling girls’ heads with wrong ideas. He was waiting for the best moment to open up to them first. That’s why the pictures you two had were either on his phone or in your place.

You took out a glass, filling it with ice, and pouring soda over it. The sizzles and bubbling noise made you feel better already. Pressing the cold glass on your cheek, whimpering at the feeling. You could feel sweat moving down between your breasts and your back. The coldness of the glass made you realize how hot your body was.

You heard your boyfriend’s voice as he entered the room, turning your body towards him. “Honey did you see my t—“ He stopped talking when he saw you.

Leaning over on his counter in your underwear and a small tank top, pressing a glass to your cheek. Your body was glistening with sweat.

“I didn’t see anything.” You said, checking him out as he did to you. He had just gotten out of shower, water droplets still dripping from his hair. Clean shaven as always. Lack of facial hair brought out his lips and cheeks, which you loved to wander on with your lips.

“Too hot?” He raised an eyebrow, doing the best he could to save your look in his memory. In small amount of fabric and shining like a goddess.

“I think I have just passed out and woken up again by the heat. We need to buy a new ceiling fan.” You said, pressing the glass on your other cheek.

“What’s wrong with the old one?” He asked, resting his hip on the kitchen counter, watching the sweat drops move down from your sternum disappearing inside your top. The need to touch you became more persistent.

“It’s about to die.” You explained after you pressed the glass on your forehead, trying to cool down your body before drinking your soda.

“Okay. I will take care of it.” He nodded, taking a mental note. Slowly leaning to give you a kiss but stopped when you placed your hand on his chest.

“It’s too hot.”

“Even to kiss you?”

“Even to stand near me.”

He looked you up and down, looking for a sign of doubt after you denied him. “Is this because I had to cancel our trip to Hawaii?”

“Maybe.” You shrugged taking a sip from your still cold drink. Your brain almost froze with your overuse of ice but you tried to play it cool. Freezing seemed much better than boiling.

“Darling, trust me there is not even one cell I have that does not want to take you to Hawaii. It’s just some idiot messed up something important and I need to clean after him. Promise, I will take you there after I’m done with this. Kids are still with Carol, we still have time.”

You rolled your eyes, finishing up the rest of your drink. Dave made plans to spend the last two weeks of summer with the girls in his cabin, and of course you’d be staying here watering his imaginary plants. You had no right to bitch about how good he was as a father, when he made you this wet by being so.

He leant down to kiss you again, but you scoffed away. He groaned, placed his arm on your waist, pulling you closer to him to smash his lips on yours. You sighed when you felt his lukewarm body pressed against yours. You quickly gave into the kiss, he was too good of a kisser for you to push him away.

He placed your glass on the counter, dipped his fingers in to take out the ice. You watched water droplets slide down his long fingers, just before he placed the ice where your shoulder met your neck.

You hissed at the cold feeling on your skin, moving your head to the side to give him more access. “See, that’s better right?”

“Yeah.” You mumbled, watching his gaze fixated on your neck. “I think I can kiss you there now too, no more blaming it on the heat.” He leant over you, tongue tracing along the wet trail where the ice left.

You felt your knees get weaker as his tongue moved on your body, the wetness pooling in your underwear became more prominent. “D—dave.” You said, hands went to his belt of the bathrobe.

“Try again, darling. Who is making you feel good?” He said as he swiped the ice across your collarbones, following the trail with wet kisses, sucking down on the last spot.

“D—daddy!” You exclaimed, unwrapping his bathrobe, letting it show his glory.

“That’s right. Do you want Daddy to make you feel better? Make the heat go away?” He placed his forefinger under your chin, tucking it up for you to look at his eyes.

The familiar warmth of brown of his pupils left its place to hungry darkness, waiting for your permission to go on.

“Yes.” He motioned you to the kitchen counter. Palm tapping on the very expensive white marble.

“Hop on.” He said as he helped you sit on the counter, standing between your legs.

His gaze was dropped down to your chest, seeing your nipples perked up through thin fabric. He licked his lips, watching you wiggle on the counter. “Take off your top for me.” He ordered and watched you obey just the second he finished talking.

He moved the half melted ice to his mouth, placing it between his lips as he placed his hands on you. Your body shivered at the cold contact of his fingers, wanting more. He gently pushed you down on the counter, watching your body jolt with the cold stone.

His lips moved across your naked chest, moving south from the hickey he just gave you. He circled it around your nipples, watching them perk up against the cold. You looked like a statue he carved to himself lying under him, all pretty just for his eyes.

When the ice melted down to a tiny indecisive shape, he swallowed it. His lips and tongue were cold enough to give you shivers when he pressed a kiss above your belly button. “Mine.” He murmured, taking another ice from your glass between his lips. Droplets mixed with water and soda dropping on his floor.

His tidy mind was too focused on you lying needy in front of him. He threw it inside his mouth, swirling his tongue around it. He placed it back between his lips, kneeling in to move the ice along your thighs. His hands were placed on the back of your calves, gently separating your legs. He smiled when he saw the large wet patch on your underwear, leaning closer to trace the ice along your inner thighs, wanting to see your reaction.

“Oh!” You held your breath, feeling the cold between your legs. Your eyes fluttered, your clit throbbing inside your panties. You bit down on your lower lip when you looked up and saw his cock; in a dark shade of red, looked like it hurt him.

You licked your lips at the sight, wanting to touch him, feel him. When you tried to move your hand to him, he held your hand, placing it next to your head. “What do you want?” He said, moving the ice on your lower belly. Watching the cotton soak up the droplets.

“I want you.”

“You already have me darling. You need to be more precise.” He said as he moved the ice higher; from your hips to your belly, then to your sternum, missing your breasts and your needy swollen nipples on purpose.

“I want you to fuck me until I’m no longer bothered by heat.” He smiled, pressing the ice on your lips.

“Open.” He pushed the ice between your lips, feeling himself throb when he saw how you took the ice between your lips.

He cupped your pussy, before dipping inside. Fingers tracing along your slit. You moaned. “Fuck, you are so wet baby. And so hot, what will I do with you?” You wanted to open your mouth but his gaze on you was a warning enough.

He collected your slick from your slit, pressing his finger tip on your clit. “Oh, Daddy!” You moaned, tugging down on his hand holding yours. His finger circled around your entrance, pushing his finger inside. You moaned under him, feeling the coldness left from the ice.

“So tight, so warm…” A whimper left your mouth when his finger curled inside you. “That’s my good girl, so responsive.” He kissed your temple, pushing another finger inside you.

“Fuck!” He chuckled, fastening his fingers as his other hand held your wrist tightly. Still surprised with the way you clamped down on his fingers, small whimpers leaving your lovely lips and eyes flashed open with pleasure. Small frown between your eyebrows from the pleasure.

You came down around his fingers, chest moving up and down quickly. He pressed a quick kiss on your neck, pulling out his fingers.

He sucked down on his middle finger. “Taste so good, better than anything you can imagine.” You felt yourself flutter, as he raised you back on your feet.

“Take off your robe.” You protested, lips still felt numb from the ice. You pushed the soft material down his shoulders, making him stand naked as you did. You looked down when it fell to ground with a thud. Feeling victory when you saw his aching cock; tip glistening with precum.

You kissed on his neck, taking in the scent of his shower gel, pine and something more bitter. His body shivered slightly to press of your cold lips. You kissed along his shoulder and chest, as he wrapped your leg around his waist. His cock aligned perfectly to your entrance with your angle.

Before a sound could leave your mouth, he pressed his lips to yours, taking in your whimpers and moans as he pushed himself into you. He bit down your lip when your warmness surrounded him, groaning against your cold lips as he started moving inside you.

You placed your arms around his neck, fingers tangling around his locks. You could taste yourself on his lips and tongue. “Shit, you’re so big.” You whispered between kisses, nails scratching the back of his head.

He nudged your nose with his. His large hands pushed your body closer to him. Feeling the heat radiating from the space between your legs. Perfectly pressed on his groin.

You were looking at him, head dizzy with pleasure, eyes were locked into his. Your breasts were pressed onto his chest. “You’re a sight, aren’t you?” Too afraid to admit to himself how precious you were to him. Afraid you’d be slipping from his fingers if he got any louder. One of those fingers had a ring mark that already faded away, he wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.

“I’m your sight.” You responded, lips forming a soft smile on his, pressing a gentle kiss. You loved to be owned by him, being his and his only. Letting him take control of your mind and body when you feel overwhelmed to do it by yourself.

Now the heat was the least thing on your minds when his balls felt tighter and you felt your walls closing around him. “You’re close.” He said as his chest swollen with pride, feeling himself larger than he already was.

You nodded, breathing got quicker and you felt your silk coat your inner thighs. “Yeah.” You answered, your body moved without consulting your brain and your elbow hit your glass, knocking it down.

Pieces of glass, soda, and ice mixed all together on the floor. You didn’t care when you felt your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, almost slipping from his arms but he was holding you tightly.

“That’s my good girl, my perfect girl coming for her daddy.” His hand at the back of your neck, holding you up as his thrusts got sloppier.

He pressed his nose down at your shoulder, his teeth sinking down into your shoulder. Marking your soft skin up, his eyes closed with the pleasure. You felt his hot cum fill you up, leak from your hole to smear around your thighs.

He stayed inside you for a while, kissing you with all he got. It felt like you belonged to him, your place was between his arms. “We’re going to Hawaii tomorrow night, I’ll make some calls, and you should pack your bags.”

“Really?” You could not stop smiling, cupping his cheek to make sure this was real.

“Anything for you.” He said kissing the top of your nose.

“Then we need to take a cold shower again, after I clean up here.” He clicked his tongue on his upper palate, wrapping your tired legs around his torso.

“Shower first, cleaning up second. It's too hot.” He said as he carried you to the bathroom. You giggled as you burried your face on his neck, mentally preparing yourself for the second round.

#hotdilfsummerchallenge #dave york smut #dilf!dave york #dave york x reader #pedro pascal #dave york fluff #dave york x you #dave york #dave york x female reader

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carlyraejepsans · 6 months ago

Text

UTY!Flowey, "lore" and how to criticize a fan prequel without being an insufferable pedantic, a guide by Biscia.

(for my muskless fellows, here's a transcript of my thread on Undertale Yellow that I posted on Twitter. enjoy!)

There's this really frustrating attitude in fan spaces i like to call "lorepilling" where people are substantially more concerned with encyclopedic knowledge of details & minutiae (so called "lore") in place of full-text thematic/narrative analysis as if the two are mutually interchangeable.

It's especially common in large franchises and story heavy videogames, and it's like... Are You Treating This Piece Of Art Like A Trivia Battle Or Are You Treating It Like A Story

This is coming from a person who is also deeply autistic about UTDR trivia btw, I'm just saying that when it comes to transformative *stories*, depending on the impact it has on character, themes, and narrative structure... lore is expendable.

Ultimately this is why most of the UTY criticism i see (on twitter specifically) falls flat. What does it matter if "lore" means Flowey couldn't chronologically be there when the justice human fell, as long as the game narratively justified his presence in the story in a compelling way?

The real criticism, in the end, is that it didn't.

He's a plot central, main cast character from the canon returning in a cast of mostly OCs and what does he have to show for it? An admittedly sick boss battle in 1/3 endings, sure but... not much else. He has no significant "presence" in the story, no tie, interaction, or even just... an opinion on the rest of the cast. Which is a huge miss when Flowey's meta role is to be Thee completionist player mirror. He's the OG lorepilled UT fan! He's an opinionated little shit!

This isn't to say that UTY *didn't* engage w/ his metanarrative. When me and @a-town-called-hometown first started playing the game (we were both skeptical of Flowey's inclusion), he immediately said "It would be really cool if they made it so this has been going on for a while and Clover has no idea". Which is precisely what the game did in the neutral ending, and what I will openly say was the most well written & well executed part of this game's story...

...a part we almost didn't see, because the pacifist ending disappointed us so much we lost all will to replay.

To put it in the words of my friend Mel @clowwwnbytes, there's a deafening hollowness to UTY Flowey's motivations & core principles where his guilt towards Chara—and resulting black and white thinking—should be. You're telling me Mr Kill-or-be-killed, "sacrificing yourself to do the right thing is stupid", would stand there after 1000s of failed attempts to make Clover survive, look on as they make the same mistake Asriel he did, and fondly call them friend? Cue the guitar, roll the credits?

He would lose it. Oh my god he would lose his goddamn mind, he would throw the nastiest temper tantrum in the world. Are you serious? How dare you. How DARE you. All this effort, all my patience, and you just let yourself DIE for a few worthless idiots? I should've let you ROT!

*clears throat* sorry got a bit too into character. as i was saying.

I can understand a UT prequel wanting to distance itself from the canon Chara storyline in order to form its own identity, but then turning around and choosing Insane About Chara The Character™ for a sidekick is... far from optimal. In the end, Flowey comes across as underutilized and inconsistent, with a whole lot of wasted potential.

This is an issue I have with UTY's character writing (original AND returning) and story structure as a whole. Lots of inconsistent character arcs, tonal dissonance, overuse of situational sadness... it's an amateurish work, after all, and you can feel it. There's no shame in that.

(Though, there ARE some issues that i take more seriously with its writing, especially when it comes to its two main female characters—Ceroba's lack of narrative agency and depth borders on misogynistic writing imo. But that's a topic for another day)

Over all, UTY was an incredible piece of collaborative transformative work, with gorgeous art and a genuinely incredible OST, which... would have benefited from more experienced writers. But hey, you can only ever learn by trying!

For all it could've been a better story, it certainly did not fail to entertain: both when my friend was playing it, and after in our many discussions of its writing, its faults and how it could've been improved (royal scientist!ceroba character fix you will always be famous. to ME!)

I'm sure this project served as an incredible source of experience for the developers: as individual creators AND as a team. I look forward to their future projects!

but also if i have to see another person say UTY is better than Undertale i might turn into The Jonker.

end of the essay! really couldn't stand any of the pedantic ""criticism"" I'd seen of this fangame so far, so i had to say my piece as someone more versed in analysis. happy to elaborate on anything in the replies or in my inbox!

#undertale #undertale yellow #uty #flowey #mywriting #metanalysis

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deception-united · 8 months ago

Text

Let's talk about story structure.

Fabricating the narrative structure of your story can be difficult, and it can be helpful to use already known and well-established story structures as a sort of blueprint to guide you along the way. Before we delve into a few of the more popular ones, however, what exactly does this term entail?

Story structure refers to the framework or organization of a narrative. It is typically divided into key elements such as exposition, rising action, climax, falling action, and resolution, and serves as the skeleton upon which the plot, characters, and themes are built. It provides a roadmap of sorts for the progression of events and emotional arcs within a story.

Freytag's Pyramid:

Also known as a five-act structure, this is pretty much your standard story structure that you likely learned in English class at some point. It looks something like this:

Exposition: Introduces the characters, setting, and basic situation of the story.

Inciting incident: The event that sets the main conflict of the story in motion, often disrupting the status quo for the protagonist.

Rising action: Series of events that build tension and escalate the conflict, leading toward the story's climax.

Climax: The highest point of tension or the turning point in the story, where the conflict reaches its peak and the outcome is decided.

Falling action: Events that occur as a result of the climax, leading towards the resolution and tying up loose ends.

Resolution (or denouement): The final outcome of the story, where the conflict is resolved, and any remaining questions or conflicts are addressed, providing closure for the audience.

Though the overuse of this story structure may be seen as a downside, it's used so much for a reason. Its intuitive structure provides a reliable framework for writers to build upon, ensuring clear progression and emotional resonance in their stories and drawing everything to a resolution that is satisfactory for the readers.

The Fichtean Curve:

The Fichtean Curve is characterised by a gradual rise in tension and conflict, leading to a climactic peak, followed by a swift resolution. It emphasises the building of suspense and intensity throughout the narrative, following a pattern of escalating crises leading to a climax representing the peak of the protagonist's struggle, then a swift resolution.

Initial crisis: The story begins with a significant event or problem that immediately grabs the audience's attention, setting the plot in motion.

Escalating crises: Additional challenges or complications arise, intensifying the protagonist's struggles and increasing the stakes.

Climax: The tension reaches its peak as the protagonist confronts the central obstacle or makes a crucial decision.

Falling action: Following the climax, conflicts are rapidly resolved, often with a sudden shift or revelation, bringing closure to the narrative. Note that all loose ends may not be tied by the end, and that's completely fine as long as it works in your story—leaving some room for speculation or suspense can be intriguing.

The Hero’s Journey:

The Hero's Journey follows a protagonist through a transformative adventure. It outlines their journey from ordinary life into the unknown, encountering challenges, allies, and adversaries along the way, ultimately leading to personal growth and a return to the familiar world with newfound wisdom or treasures.

Call of adventure: The hero receives a summons or challenge that disrupts their ordinary life.

Refusal of the call: Initially, the hero may resist or hesitate in accepting the adventure.

Meeting the mentor: The hero encounters a wise mentor who provides guidance and assistance.

Crossing the threshold: The hero leaves their familiar world and enters the unknown, facing the challenges of the journey.

Tests, allies, enemies: Along the journey, the hero faces various obstacles and adversaries that test their skills and resolve.

The approach: The hero approaches the central conflict or their deepest fears.

The ordeal: The hero faces their greatest challenge, often confronting the main antagonist or undergoing a significant transformation.

Reward: After overcoming the ordeal, the hero receives a reward, such as treasure, knowledge, or inner growth.

The road back: The hero begins the journey back to their ordinary world, encountering final obstacles or confrontations.

Resurrection: The hero faces one final test or ordeal that solidifies their transformation.

Return with the elixir: The hero returns to the ordinary world, bringing back the lessons learned or treasures gained to benefit themselves or others.

Exploring these different story structures reveals the intricate paths characters traverse in their journeys. Each framework provides a blueprint for crafting engaging narratives that captivate audiences. Understanding these underlying structures can help gain an array of tools to create unforgettable tales that resonate with audiences of all kind.

Happy writing! Hope this was helpful ❤

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prokaryotics · 2 months ago

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warmth of doorways | joel miller x reader

pairing: no outbreak!contractor!joel miller x f!reader

summary: joel spends another late night at work. you pay him a visit.

warnings: MDNI. plot and porn. allusions to joel's unsavory youth. oral (fem receiving). mentions of violence, past arguments, and money insecurity. joel smokes one (1) cigarette. alcohol. fingering. unprotected p in v. no mention of reader characteristics other than wardrobe. overuse of commas and hyphens. proofread once. 5.8k

mildly inspired by it will come back / i'm on fire

The office clock ticks rhythmically with every second that passes, broken up by the muted whirling of the ceiling fans as they turn almost imperceptibly counterclockwise on the ceiling.

Austin is quiet. Outside, orange streetlights glow in narrow cones on the sidewalks, humming, straining with electricity as the bulbs fight to keep the pavement lit. If he really listens, he can hear the faint footsteps of heels against the concrete, the soft sounds of giggling and the low baritone of the voice that follows. Somewhere further down the block, someone is closing their car door, almost swallowed by a dog barking. A breeze pushes against the building and flows through a draft near the window's ledge, pushes through the double-paned glass, and brings with it the smell of damp earth and wet asphalt, leftovers of an afternoon storm. The air is cool and calm as if waiting to be born again tomorrow morning into something more alive, more chaotic, as it simmers in the heat of the Texas sun.

The other contractors have gone home, back to their wives or families or one bedroom apartments, leaving the office silent save for these sounds of a city reminding him that the hour is late, that the night will not wait for him.

His chair creaks beneath his weight as he shifts, the leather uncomfortably warm from his body heat.

Joel stares down at his work. Its contents blur together into a massive, nondescript monstrosity of a shape, small lines of scribbled pencil spilling over one another and morphing into a clump of meaningless letters. He tries to spread them out again into something he can read until a film gathers over his eyes. He’s forced to rub them with the heels of his hands, but even then they are still irritated, his tired gaze struggling to focus on anything other than the sting that radiates through his corneas from the strain of keeping them open and concentrated for so long. The paperwork never ends. It just seems to grow and grow in a pile of meeting briefings and documents requiring his signature, clipboards, a backlog of voicemails from clients to listen to, and notes to take. His palm and the space between his fingers are beginning to cramp with the pressure of the pen he’s holding, having gone through almost everything in one sitting, desperate to put even a tiny dent into the mountain that rests before him.

The fluorescent lighting isn’t helping, blanketing his work space in a coat of sterile white, making everything around him feel sharp and cold and like he’d hurt himself on it, even the half-filled plastic water bottle sitting at the edge of the desk.

He sighs, leans back, drags his carton of cigarettes against the wood then taps the bottom against its surface a few times, forcibly packing the tobacco tighter. You’ve been trying to get him to relax on his smoking, or at least cut back, but with shit storm after shit storm constantly coasting towards him with no remorse, the nicotine is the only thing keeping him from going entirely AWOL. He does his best not to feel guilty about it. It would be sad, and ironic, that if he managed to make something successful out of the fucking mess of building a business, his downfall would be lung cancer, and he knows you know that, too, but you never push. You’re never like that and he’s grateful for it.

He lets his mind drift to you and what you must be doing as he lifts his lighter, a small, stainless steel zippo engraved with his initials, a gift from his parents when he graduated high school, and lights his cigarette before bringing his wristwatch to his face, squinting to read the time.

Almost midnight.

Hours spent studying schematic designs, imagining rooms, and the lives that might be led within them, has made him lose track of his own. The days blend together, hours passing as easily and fluidly as water does lapping up against sand, every one of his thoughts curtailed by installation fees and HVAC subcontractors, schedule conflicts and site plans.

You’ve been good about that, too. Gentle. Guiding him back into his own existence. Making it easier for him to remember that although overseeing is his job, he doesn’t have to be invariably vigilant, that not every waking second has to be dedicated to worrying, that he’s going to burn himself out if he keeps going on like this.

So he isn’t surprised when he spots your shadow first, cast long against the polished tiled floors, followed by your appearance in the doorway.

He instantly relaxes.

“What are you doin’ here? You should be sleepin,’” Joel chastises, although he’s smiling just a little, flicking his cigarette against the clay ash-tray sitting at the center of his desk, surrounded by notepads and coffee mugs and drafting pencils.

“You should be at home,” you counter, smiling back.

He pauses, brings the bud back to his lips and takes a drag. The air goes thick and heavy.

“There’s a lot of things I should be doing," he answers, stress and worry coupled in his voice as he sits forward and exhales, one elbow on the desk, pushing his fingers through his hair, the other dangling with his cigarette, billowing with gray smoke.

You look at him for what feels like a long time, following the tense line of muscle in his shoulders as they stretch and roll beneath the cotton of his dress shirt, see his eyes close as he rubs a hand over his face, his breath leaving his body in a reticent, exhausted exhale.

Then he’s watching as you push off the door frame and walk over to him, plucking the bud from between his middle and pointer fingers and quietly extinguishing it, your lips pursed. You lean against the wood of his desk, between his legs.

Neither of you have forgotten about the plate you’d dropped. It was only some cheap ceramic thing you had picked up while out shopping when you first moved into your house, one of the ones with the grooves on the bottom to keep it from being knocked over as easily, dipped in bright yellow pottery glaze and dotted around its edges by bright blue flowers, the texture of the sponge used to make the design adding a sort of authentic, homey feel. A pretty thing that came in a set of six, the other five still sitting in your cabinets. It wasn’t difficult to clean up, broken into three solid pieces with only some of the powdery dust from its impact really needing to be swept up, but it wasn’t so much about the plate breaking itself than what it meant. What it symbolized.

Your shattering frustrations.

His fracturing exhaustion.

“They can’t wait?”

Joel leans back.

“Not most of ‘em, no.”

“So you’re killing yourself here? Instead of lying in bed with your wife?” You eye the half empty amber bottle of scotch and the glass filled with melting ice next to it, glance at his accolades hung on the wall, certifications he worked tirelessly to achieve.

He sighs, hollow, empty sounding. “It’s ain’t that simple. I told you they can’t wait.”

You go to sit in his lap, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek. “It could be. Divide the work. You’re just one man.”

He grabs your hand. It’s not your fault you don’t know he can’t bring himself to when so much hinges on the success of this enterprise. Your future. Sarah's future.

“I’m just one man in charge of everythin’ else. It isn’t.”

There’s another pause, filled by your heavy gazes as you look at one another, waiting for the other to yield. It’s been like this before, instances where you’re stuck within pregnant hesitations, expecting the other to give in, too stubborn to realize it shouldn’t be about who breaks first.

You’re learning that, though, no matter how frustrating it is.

“I miss my husband,” you confess, although it’s not really a confession more than an admittance to what you both already knew, what you’ve both already felt, everything about this feeling delicate and intimate in a way that makes your lungs constrict.

Joel frowns, turns his head and kisses the inside of your wrist. His gaze is soft upon you, as gentle as the quiet moon.

“I know. ‘M sorry,” he murmurs against the delicate skin.

“You could have called,” you whisper, breathy and painfully soft, not sure you’d be able to say it any louder and still maintain the fragile, stunned atmosphere existing in the space between your bodies.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

You almost roll your eyes. No, better to be up and left worrying.

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

Joel glides his hand up your forearm, his calloused palm warm and heavy, the pad of his thumb brushing soothingly across the bend of your elbow.

“I would have.”

Your chest swells up and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia, on memories of when your husband wasn’t being stripped away from you bit by bit by a business he’s trying hard to keep afloat. And you’re choking on sadness, too, on the overwhelming feeling of active loss, so you’re tempted to let yourself lean into it, to just drop the conversation even though you know that you need to have it because sometimes it's easier to let your problems fall asleep quietly rather than wake them by pushing too hard. It’s easier to let yourself rest.

Still, you persist.

“You can’t keep going on like this. It isn’t just that I miss you, Joel.”

He knows you won’t repeat yourself. He knows what you mean, anyway. It isn’t about clarity. He’s been doing what he can, suffering what he must.

“Please, I don’t want to have this argument, honey.”

The beginnings of a headache are settling somewhere just behind temples, spreading quickly across his forehead, behind his eyes. There’s nothing more he wants than to be able to do what you’re asking, but he chose this profession, and you chose him. He doesn’t have the energy or the will to fight with you right now.

You reach up and trace the curve of his brow with your thumb, hoping to ease away the wrinkle that lives between them, and maybe mute the thought that has manifested it, the friction and stress of the situation rising until it’s nearly palpable.

“I’m not trying to argue with you. I’m trying to talk to you, something I seem to be able to do less and less," you explain, palm dropping to mold against the curve of his jaw.

Joel looks away, at the folders and blue and white floor plans in front of him, at the doorway, half-expecting to see someone standing in it, ready to give him another piece of information that will set construction back weeks and cost him more money than he has.

“You think I enjoy this any more than you do?” The sharpness in his tone is immediately countered by the look of frustrated remorse that softens his expression, a sort of tug on his eyebrows until that damn furrow is finally gone.

“No, I don’t,” you say gently. “And I know that you’ve got a job to do, but I’d like it if it didn’t tear you away from me completely.”

You twist the hair at the nape of his neck between your fingers as you lean forward, resting your forehead against his own and closing your eyes.

“I love you, Joel. I miss you. I don’t like sleeping alone in our bed.”

He won’t apologize again, and he’s sure you wouldn’t want to hear it anyway, but not for any spiteful reason. You’ve both got your hands tied, but he’s sorry for a lot of things - for keeping you awake, for worrying you, for stressing you out, but mostly he’s sorry he’s given you a marriage like this. A marriage filled with nights spent alone in a house he had picked out because it was the safest, because that’s what he needs to think about instead of whether you like the view, or what the outside looks like. He’s got to think about whether the locks will hold, whether the windows won’t shatter completely, whether - god forbid - you can have neighbors to rely on if something were to happen because he’s away all the time now, gone, trying to build a life.

He’s got to think of these things and you’ve got to make the sacrifices.

“I don’t like it either.” There’s an unspoken end of his sentence, an ellipse, a part that he leaves out that neither of you wants to say. I don’t like it either, but...

But this is my job.

But this is our life.

But you’ll have to get used to it.

So he masks it with an exhale, an empty and low sound, as if he’s been waiting for too long with too much, not relieved but resigned.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve been alone.” He changes the subject, sitting back in his seat as you open your eyes.

“Yeah,” you agree, trying not to feel bad about it. “Too long. It feels like we’re dating again.”

Joel chuckles, low and warm and light, like smelling laundry through an open window when the wind carries it through the house, cool and placid. He still looks at you that way, the same way he had when your relationship was just starting, with honey-dewed eyes and a sort of crooked, half-smile, like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, just couldn’t help himself. The same way he’s looking at you now.

“Except this time your father isn’t here watchin’ us, lookin’ like he wants to kill me.”

Your groan is superseded by your laughter as you shake your head, glad for it but also feeling like time is moving too quickly, too fast for you to really keep up with it. Where had that time gone? Where is it now?

“Thank God that he isn’t. And he likes you now, it just took him a while.”

Joel rolls his eyes, scoffing. He’s sat through too many tense dinners and awkward conversations to believe that, even coming from you.

“Uh-huh. You keep tellin’ yourself that, honey.” Your father is a hardass, but he’s well-intentioned, their every interaction peppered with warnings about providing for you like Joel doesn’t feel guilty enough about dragging you down with him.

He looks at you, still grinning.

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, the remnants of laughter still in your voice. “But I still married you.”

“For reasons I’ve still yet to understand.”

“For reasons I’ll remind you of until the day I die.”

Joel quiets and shifts his gaze to some point of interest on his desk, where one of the edges is chipping, maybe, or maybe he’s looking at a stained ring discoloring the wood because a drink had been left to sweat without a coaster. Nothing important, nothing that warrants catching his attention, the movement secondary to the thoughts in his head to retreat. You both are aware of the alternative to that sentence.

You guide him back to you.

“I mean it, Joel. I don’t regret marrying you.”

“I know you don’t.” Joel rubs his mouth with his hand. He finally meets your gaze as he continues. “But sometimes I wonder what your life could have been like, if it could’ve been better.”

“It would have been nothing,” you correct fiercely.

“You would have been comfortable, provided for-.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that I put you through hell every day that you’re with me.”

“Stop it.”

You don’t even know half of it, he thinks, through no fault of your own. He’s shielded you from what he can, has kept things to himself, given you half-answers when you’d ask why he’s adding overtime dates to the calendar on the fridge, checking to see if Sarah’s lunch is packed before making his own, tossing change into an old paint can on a shelf in his closet.

‘Things with work,’ he says.

‘Issues with the client,’ he says.

‘I need to stay a little later,’ he says.

‘This company might fail,’ he doesn’t. ‘And it scares the shit out of me.’

“I’m sorry, honey. How can I make it up to you?”

It isn’t about making anything up to anybody. This is far too complex for that, but he can at least give a little. You sacrifice so much for him, for a life you didn’t really ask to be living, so whatever he can give he knows it won’t even begin to replace what you’ve lost. Your sleep and sanity and security. And it probably won’t ever, but he can try to return the comfort that you give him, the peace of mind, the love.

The kind that has to be fought for, torn from your chests in hissing, passive aggressive outbursts in the middle of your kitchen that burn like acid with each word that crawls up your throats, or falling easily after being pulled gently from your hands in moments like this, when you’re trying to convince one another that your biggest concerns shouldn’t be each other because you both can’t stand the feeling of being a burden, unable to handle the lurches of guilt and the helplessness that accompanies it.

“Coming home at a normal hour would be nice.” You aren’t looking to make this conversation any more serious, to be stuck spending a night convincing him that he hadn’t damned you to some sort of anxiety-ridden, fearful existence by proposing to you because for all the bad, all the heartache and stress and worry, there are the good moments too. The early mornings, subdued afternoons spent sitting in the sunshine reading, evenings spent dancing on your patio bathed in warm light from paper lanterns he had hung up the summer before. Moments that are perfect, beautiful, and real and everything you hang on to when the bad ones come.

Joel senses this and wants to protest, and while he gives you a searching look he refrains from saying anything that might carry the conversation backward.

“It won’t always be like this,” he says instead, moving one hand to rest at your lower back, his thumb rubbing the soft skin beneath your shirt. “But I like these visits.”

“I’m sure you do. None of this looks at all exciting.” You turn to the desk, at the documents scattered everywhere, at unfinished contract drafts, at illustrations of building models that are far from perfect, with stairs and doors leading nowhere like they lead to some ghost elevator, at the crumbled-up balls of paper.

“Unfortunately even the borin’ parts are still my job.”

“Good thing I’m here then, huh?” You shift in his lap, draping your arms around his neck.

“Yes,” he agrees, both palms now molded against your waist, digging slightly into your hips. “It’s a very good thing you’re here.”

It feels nice to have these instances, tediums between bigger periods in time like the one you just had, insignificant and maybe not that meaningful but sweet nonetheless, where you can be happy, flirt with your husband while trying your best to speak in hushed, shy voices so the nighttime janitor doesn’t come skirting down the hallway, wondering why he’s hearing a woman’s voice so late at night coming from the contractor’s office.

So you take his face in your hands feeling like a lovesick teenager, his cheeks flushed warm with affection, a little scratchy from a day’s worth of stubble, his eyes soft, and for the first time since you got here, free from the burdens that normally cloud them, and you kiss him, saccharine and slow and easy.

He tastes faintly like the scotch, and his lips are little bit chapped but they’re amiable in their movements, as if he’d be content to just go on like this kissing you, not worried about where it will lead, or if it’ll lead to anything at all, making you feel slow yet hyper aware from his gentle caresses, and his hands when they climb higher, having moved beneath your shirt, are rough and hot and careful - always so careful with you - and you don’t like to think about why even though you’ve got a pretty good guess. Careful hands that have a history you know only in bits and pieces. Careful hands that have curled into fists, become bloodied and bruised and scabbed. Careful hands that sweat around the grip of a saw, or a hammer, nowadays, the scabs of his youth long gone, but hinted at in the fading white scars that litter his knuckles.

Careful hands that don’t want to risk letting that seep into you, as if you’re something he’d be able to taint, convolute.

You lean away, then move even further back when he follows, quickly speaking before he’s on you again. “Touch me like you mean it, Joel. Please.”

“Anythin’ you want, honey.”

You card your fingers through Joel’s hair, tug slightly at the roots and try not to get too lost in his answering rumble as his kisses slowly grow in intensity until it becomes nearly desperate, finally indulging in the need for closeness he’s stifled to keep himself from cracking beneath the pressure of work completely.

Joel pulls you closer with a shallow groan, shifts his seat so that you’re right up against the desk, the lip of it digging into your back, but his warmth is seeping into you and through your clothes, so you really don’t care how the wood bites a little into your muscles, coupled with the way his cock is already straining through his jeans, hard and thick and it makes you feel like this entire thing is sort of scandalous. It is dangerous, and even though you know he wouldn’t be doing this if he wasn’t sure the building was empty, the possibility of being caught does thrill you; makes you grin against his lips, lets him pull you apart piece by piece, his kisses loving and devoted and his hands roaming across your rib-cage and breasts like he isn’t sure where he wants to keep them, wanting to touch all of you at once.

He rises to his feet, takes a step forward and places you onto the desk, his focus so far away from the papers and other shit that decorates it he doesn’t notice or even really care how they’re being pushed or crumpled or ripped by your movements, desire curling and slivering throughout his body, pooling in his belly, settling itself in his lower abdomen and pressing itself against you, his hips between your legs, the thin fabric of your work skirt doing little to fight the hard outline of his cock against your thigh.

Joel keeps kissing you, fingers pressed against the space between your shoulder blades, the other flat against the surface of his desk, pausing only once to check the doorway again as he kisses your cheeks, then your jaw, before descending down the gentle curve of your neck, trailing his mouth down and across your collarbone before sucking a bruise into the skin at the base of your throat, right next to your fluttering heartbeat.

You say his name, syrupy thick and mellow, inhaling sharply when he rolls his hips in response and hums a pleased, vibrating sound that makes you pull him closer and wrap your arm around the broad expanse of his shoulder while the other goes to his belt, untucking his shirt with a shaking, hurried hand, feeling like it's unfair that you’ve got two layers to go through while he only has one, his lips slanting against yours again making it even more difficult to focus on getting him undressed especially now that the palm that isn’t on you is suddenly sliding across your thigh and he’s - God - he’s -

He’s making you feel worshiped. Murmurs of his supplication whispered against your mouth, swallowed by your answering, pitiful moans.

He has to help you with his belt, lightly pushing your hands away to do it himself, tugging the leather through the buckle and then out of the loops, tossing it haphazardly onto the chair behind him, turning back to you without saying a word, looking so in love with you that it makes your chest ache.

“Joel-” His name gets caught in your throat, but it doesn’t matter because he’s talking and he knows. He knows exactly how you’re feeling because it’s the same for him too - this longing, this incredible, suffocating, twinge of remorse and grief all jumbled up and twisted somewhere beneath your breastplates for things left unsaid yet still acknowledged, the terrifying things, the things that bring you here when it's midnight and you should be asleep but you aren’t because they’re the same things that keep him away and keep you awake.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs and it’s like you’re drowning in how much he wants you, his eyes raking over you in a way that makes your entire body feel warm, taking in every inch of you with a reverence that makes your thighs tense up and your cunt squeeze around nothing.

He urges you to lay back, heavy-lidded and following as you do what he says, your skirt bunched around your waist, waiting for him to do something, anything at all that’ll relieve the restless thrumming that’s settled just below your belly button, spreading like an opening fan throughout your abdomen, converting with every second that passes into a dull pounding that makes everything you’re wearing feel insufferably uncomfortable, hyper aware of the way your panties stick to your cunt, and you’re about to say something again, plead with him to move faster, but he’s leaning down and kissing you - placating you - earnest and cloying and you’re just relaxing into it when he leans away, traveling down and down and down your body until his shoulders are between your legs and he’s -

You open your mouth to say something but you don’t know what. You can hardly think with the way he inches lower and lower, hooking your already spread legs over his shoulders with so much ease it makes you blush. His arms are positioned on either side of your legs and his breath is hot and swirling over the insides of your thighs and the realization of what he intends to do and the seriousness of where and why and the fact that you’re on his fucking desk of all things makes you tremble and your chest bloom in flustered warmth and your fingers curl into the pliable material of your skirt, waiting for him - always waiting - to do something.

He starts at your knee, with kisses gentle and sweet, works his way up to the inside of your thigh, humming against the delicate tissue nonsensical praise and muses before giving your other leg the same treatment, the same pattern, sucking bruises and nipping at them pinprick sharp before soothing it with his tongue, making you squirm and gasp with every press of his lips, unsure what to do with the overwhelming affection you hold for him growing exponentially in your chest.

This continues for a long time, hazy and drunkard slow, calloused palms sliding up and down until it feels like you might explode from the tension and you whisper his name, deferential and restive and it nearly makes him grimace in anguish at all the things he can’t do for you, his heart feeling as if it’s been filled with cement and splintered, then shattered completely - the fragile, desperate whine in your voice splitting it in incomplete halves and you think, unsurely, that if he keeps going on like this you’re going to burn up - catch fire and asphyxiate on the smoke.

But then his thumbs are hooking beneath the lines of fabric that curves across your hips, and he begins to pull them down, tells you to bend your knees and you listen without a second thought, allowing him to strip you of the garment and then they, too, join his belt on the chair and you’re left with nothing really at all protecting you aside from your skirt but its bunched up around your waist like it has been since he laid you down and not doing a damn thing to stop the shiver that makes you shudder against the desk, your heated skin erupting into goosebumps.

Joel settles himself and brings his hands to your cunt, reaching out to spread you open. There isn’t time to formulate any sort of thoughts about it or what he’s doing because you can hardly breathe let alone think, Joel’s mouth hot against your pussy, his tongue dragging over your clit and you’ve been so worked up that it hurts, almost, and you’re left trying to push him away and pull him closer in equal measures.

Your lungs stutter, muscles tensing, all the while panting and keening and rocking your hips with no real sense of direction as he brushes a spot that makes you moan and when you twist your fingers in his hair he makes a sound that’s nearly a growl, then he has one finger inside you then another, fucking you slowly with his fingers, taking his time, curling them up and flexing his wrist, his watch digging uncomfortably into the juncture of your leg where it meets your thigh but its okay because all of its mingling together and he’s suddenly yanking you closer as if he wants to fucking devour you, looking up at you with hungry eyes and the next few seconds seem to last for entire years, everything so intense already that you flutter around him, helplessly keening.

He sucks gently, looks up again in time to see your eyes screw shut, your eyelashes fluttering as he puts his whole mouth on you, rumbling rich and low at the taste of it, your brows creased tightly in coiled pleasure. Joel groans at the sight from somewhere deep within his chest, his cock twitching, his belly feeling like it's been filled with magma as you dig your nails into his hair, fracturing into little pieces.

The words he drags from you are babbling, halfway to a cry or sob, something equally as frenzied in its neediness, syllables of his name and something that might be please catching against the rounding of your teeth.

“I’ll give you what you need, baby. Relax,” Joel appeases against your already oversensitive cunt, the pleasure too much and so much that it makes your toes curl until they hurt, like he’s injected gasoline into your bloodstream and made you swallow a match, ready to snap and burst into a fucking supernova, so close to cumming it feels as if every nerve has been stripped to its bear components.

The pressure against your clit intensifies, becomes sharp and fierce, his tongue circling over and over again, so acute that your hips twitch and he keeps you pinned - holds you down, keeps going and going and going until the world turns white-hot and bright and you’re choking, every breath drawn in fighting against some invisible leaded anchor and fuck - it’s too much all at once, too much after what feels like so long, too much that life can’t always be like this.

He eases away from you, presses his lips to your shuddering thighs wet and shiny with your cum, deliberate in his motions as he crawls back up your body, soft and pliant and slightly sore, guiding your legs carefully - tenderly - around his waist.

“I love you.”

God you love him too. So much that it physically hurts.

But arousal, harsh and blinding, eclipses your every sense, keeps you from saying anything at all other than his name, moaned pitifully when you glance down and see him undoing his pants and taking his cock in his hand, hard and thick in his fist and you clutch at his back, feeling spun out and delirious as he pushes in gradually, gently, turning your body into a liquid quiver.

Joel gasps as if the sound was wrenched from him against his will, and your eyes flicker over him, at the muscles tensing beneath his shirt, the sweat darkening his collar, at his lips, red and raw and plump from kissing you beneath his beard glistening with you, his shoulders broad and his arms are sturdy, and his eyes, when you finally meet his gaze, are blown with affection and desire and love.

And then it’s broken.

His hips snap forward and you shift a little up the desk, one of his hands moving to cup the back of your head while the other finds your own, lacing your fingers together and you let out a shaky, short, involuntary whimper as he starts to move, getting pleasantly lost in the feeling of being so stretched and full.

He trails open-mouthed kisses along your neck, curled over you, and the picture of it in your head, of him so big and broad and draped over you like a second skin, makes your cunt clench and rips a groan from his throat that sounds just as wrecked as you feel, his lips dragging along the underside of your jaw, his fingers squeezing your palm.

Neither of you are going to last much longer. You’ve already been made too taut, too tight and stretched out and resting on the precipice of something, like fingertips pulling back a bowstring, fiery bright pleasure cementing you to his ministrations when his thumb catches your clit, swiping once, your body singing, then over and over again until your shoulder blades are folding against one another as you rock off the desk and into him, his arm encircling your waist, never stopping, working you through every roiling wave and every filthy noise you make until you collapse - falling away from him whimpering.

“You’re perfect. So good for me, sweetness. So fuckin’ good.”

His rhythm falters, his breathing hard and burning and shuddering as he holds you against his chest, leaving you to wail against his shoulder, puffing against his neck, clinging onto him like he’s the only thing keeping your grounded and then he shatters too, fingers suddenly in your hair, whispering sentences that you can’t quite make out, adoring among a slew of curses.

His office comes back in pieces, blurry splinters and slightly out of focus.

His head tips against your shoulder and you both stay like that for a long while, resting against each other, breathing. You sigh, shuddering and low and content, and he leans back to look at you, his expression open and sincere and it’s the most vulnerable you’ve seen him in awhile.

“I’ll try to come home earlier.”

You know that he’ll try. You also know that it doesn’t matter.

You’re not going to dwell on it.

“I don’t know if you should. This visit was fun.” You grin, exhausted but happy and glad to be near him, glad that’s happy, and if anything at least he’s here - in this building where he’s less likely to get hurt, less likely to do anything other than listen to conversations and go through paperwork.

‘Yeah, until we get caught,” he agrees before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

You hum in agreement, then start to giggle. You’ll go home with him tonight in one piece. That’s all you can ask.

“Then it’ll really be like when we were dating.”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #tlou #tlou2 #the last of us #tlou hbo #joel miller x you #the last of us 2

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