Time For Doomed Yuri With An Iconic Pose

blue eyed french girl got me tripping

when your girl is so gorgeous even afternoon tea gets you impossibly needy </3

fluffy and smutty, top!vautour bleu, sub!femreader, fingering (r receiving), 5k words

A/N: this was just an excuse to write about my slight fixation on bleu’s fingers, they’re really pretty okay… also i dream of sitting on her lap .

will fix the spacing issue in the morning i have class at 8 💔

The pearly white porcelain cup, adorned with blooming flowers, looks even more delicate when picked with her thumb and index finger and brought to her mouth in one fluid motion. She lifts her free hand to lightly rest her fingertips on the warm bottom of the teacup, and you follow the liquid’s journey out of its confines and past her painted lips. She slightly tilts her head back as she swallows her sip of orange tea, some strands of her golden bangs caressing her cheeks with the movement; your gaze lowers to the fleeting bulge in her throat, captivated, before it disappears and she softly sighs in contentment. You watch her put her cup back on its saucer with a quiet clinking sound. A finger slowly traces the rim and passes the indigo mark where her lips have just been, effectively attracting your attention.

One, two, three deliberate turns around the cup then she abandons her tea to pick up the previously discarded fork on the table to her right. She holds it loosely between her fingers and the metal scrapes against her plate as she sinks the fork in a moist coconut cake topped with fresh lemon zest. Her head leans forward, her lips slowly wrap around the silverware and when she takes a small bite, some of the cream sticks to the corner of her mouth. The tip of her tongue peeks out to lick it up. She hums, pleased at the taste. Every gesture she makes is elegant and executed with practiced grace as if she’s used to putting on a show, which would make you her enamoured audience. She savours her daily treat without a care in the world and you neglect your own slice of cake and rapidly cooling tea for the sake of observing her mannerisms in the sunlight.

It’s not like you haven’t done so a hundred times before, it’s simply too easy to lose yourself in the way her eyes crinkle with pleasure whenever dessert gets delivered to her door, or how tendrils of smoke curl around her frame in a tender hug after she’s taken a drag from her beloved pipe. Now, you can’t avert your gaze from her long hair, blessed by the sun, cascading down her back and lovingly brushing her bare shoulders— it should be your touch, you think, skimming across her skin. Your fingertips to the lines of her shoulder blades, your palms brushing down the gentle curve of her spine, your nails spelling words on the expanse of her back. Under the afternoon sun her skin seems even softer than you know it to be, her expression warmer. Her smile is without the tinge of wistfulness that usually accompanies it and she gazes longingly at the pastry on her plate like she hasn’t had one in ages.

The soft clink of metal against porcelain along with Vautour Bleu’s satisfied French mumbles make up the quietude of her living room. You shamelessly stare at her and she lets you. You’re certain that she’s aware of you drinking her in, and this little show she’s putting on is solely for you. You don’t mind. She finds her satisfaction in the lovesick veil over your eyes, the admiration in your expression like she is the person most deserving of it. Sometimes she wonders if your features would twist in hatred and disappointment if you knew all that she was hiding, then she wills the upsetting thought far from the forefront of her mind, back in that little corner where it constantly resides.

Once Vautour Bleu is far enough into her dessert, her head tilts to look at you. Fond amusement gleams in her eyes. “You’re staring, ma chérie.”

You pass your tongue over your lips and smile. “Well, you’re beautiful. And you’re making eating a piece of cake into something very erotic.”

“Is that right?” She asks like it hasn’t been on purpose.

She leans sideways into her chair and leisurely crosses one leg over the other, the fabric of her nightgown rising up her smooth thighs a few inches. Her right hand is casually placed on her hip as she turns her full attention to you. You glance at her bare legs for what you meant to last only a second but the sight has you swallowing subtly, and you pause on the fair skin of her thighs too long for it to be called anything but shameless ogling.

You’re drawn to the light drumming of her manicured fingers. They’re slender, long, and would seem delicate if you weren’t already sure of how firm they could be around your wrists, your hair, the hollow of your throat. Your mind drifts to a heated memory of them digging into the flesh of your waist, her round nails painting crescent moons on your skin. You think of how they feel against you, her hard knuckles and cool jewelry pressed on your body or brushing up the walls of your dripping cunt until they’re as slick as you are. She has this habit; her ring finger goes first to test the resistance, carefully inching inside until you can feel the metal of her rings teasing the edge of your entrance, then her middle finger follows suit and she curls her digits on the way back out of your pussy before quickly plunging them back in. The accessory brushes against you with every thrust and adds a dizzying sensation to having her fingers inside of you. Sometimes, when you beg properly, she won’t take off the band around her middle finger. It stays comfortably around her first knuckle and she mercilessly slides the digit into your wet heat, fucking you just how you need it. Her jewelry warms up quick and is coated in your arousal even faster. It grazes your inner walls so heavenly you can’t help but you whine pathetically after each intrusion, a sound she delights in forcing out of you. You stare at her hand now, heat steadily growing in your stomach and pulsing between your legs.

“Seems like I’ve lost you again,” Vautour Bleu’s playful voice pulls you out of your reverie and you blink rapidly, looking back at her. “Where did you go just now?”

You’re only half sure she knows the answer to that question. “Uh…”

“You were quite fixated on my fingers for a moment there.”

Yeah, she knows.

“I like your rings,” is the first excuse that comes to your mind. Her widening smile lets you know it’s an unconvincing one.

“Oh, I’m aware.” She wiggles her fingers. “You like my rings so much you’re squeezing your legs together just at the thought of them.”

Embarrassment fills you from head to toe as you realize that she’s right, you force yourself to relax the muscles in your thighs and clear your throat nonchalantly, shrugging once.

“It’s not like that,” you lie futilely.

“Like what?”

You don’t know how to respond, and her quiet laugh makes you sheepish. You glance away from her like a child who’s been caught reaching for something they shouldn’t. She’s not mocking you, her amusement is genuine and without malice. You’re still surprised by how much you want her, so whenever something like this happens you’re left a flustered mess before her. You know what draws you to her— her charming composure and easy smile, her care for fragile and fine things, the wistfulness in her eyes that reveals more than she knows— but the way she gets under your skin is somehow always unexpected. You would be screaming injustice at the heavens if it didn’t feel so right.

“Come, mon coeur.”

Vautour Bleu uncrosses her legs and gently pats her thigh, watching you approach expectantly. You obediently rise from your seat with no need for further encouragement and make your way to where she comfortably lounges in her chair. When you’re close enough to touch, her hands reach out for your waist to pull you to sit on her lap. You straddle her thighs warmed by the sun and face her, your hands loosely hanging around her neck. Your fingers toy with the vibrant blue collar she often wears. She holds onto your waist and tilts her chin up to look you in the eye. From this close, you can see the tenderness in hers.

“I should get you matching ones,” she says. “Would you like that?”

“Matching rings?” You take one her hands and look down at the pristine jewelry adorning her fingers. Your thumb traces their silvery surface. “I don’t know if they’ll look as good on me as they do on you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

You lift her hand to your lips and kiss her fingertips. “I’m serious,” you rest the backs of her fingers against your cheek, the metal slightly cool to the touch, “no one wears them like you do. But I'd love matching ones.”

“I think you like them for a completely different reason than how they look on me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Vautour Bleu strokes your skin with her knuckles, eyelids drooping as her gaze follows the affectionate gesture. She draws a path up to the apple of your cheek then back down to the corner of your mouth. It parts almost instinctively for her touch. She smiles knowingly, and you drop the indifferent facade when she brushes your bottom lip with the side of her index. You plant a chaste kiss on her first knuckle.

“I think,” she continues, watching her digit slowly push past your lips, “you’re entranced by them because of how they feel.”

You can’t protest in your current position nor do you want to anymore. You meet her eyes and suck her finger deeper into your mouth. For a moment she simply keeps it there for your tongue to swirl around, coating her in your saliva. Then she presses down on the wet muscle, strokes the flat of it, and pulls a small sound of surprise from you. Your hand wraps around her wrist, your thumb to her steadily quickening pulse. It thumps against your skin and directly contradicts her calm facade. Her middle finger is brought to your puckered lips and they open in a warm and wet welcome. You shift on her lap, heat starting to pool in your core the longer you sit there with her fingers in your mouth, but Bleu only squeezes your waist in a silent command to stay still. She takes great pleasure in reducing you to this helpless state and enjoys it even more once pretty pleas fall from your lips as you beg for more of her.

“Tell me, ma chérie, how do they feel?”

You can’t speak properly, so you suckle her digits harder in response. Your tongue quickly swipes over the band around her middle finger, not leaving a single spot untouched. She seems to get the answer she’s looking for, however, judging by the pleased look on her face. You think she likes being adored, yet something also tells you that she’s unused to it. Perhaps it’s the way she can’t resist chasing the feeling like she’s doing now, foregoing passivity to steadily thrust her fingers inside your mouth with expanding pupils. She’s composed as ever but there’s an edge of wonderment that accompanies her actions, like she’s discovering something new and exciting each time the both of you explore the deeper feelings between you.

Her digits slip from your mouth with a slick sound and Vautour Bleu spreads them apart in the sun, admiring how they glisten so beautifully. She rests the manicured tips on your lips, wetting them. Your thighs clench around hers.

“That’s what it is, isn’t it?” Her fingers move down your face, her painted nails lightly scratching under your chin. “You think about them on your body, in your mouth, and lose all of your composure.”

You nod wordlessly because it’s what she expects from you and, though embarrassing, it’s also the truth. She reads you like the lines of a book she’s already annotated a dozen times and you’ve long accepted the fact that you can’t hide anything from her even if you enjoy pretending otherwise. You sit before her, open, and let her regard you with that alluring, pleased smile on her lips.

“Lost your voice?” Vautour Bleu teases. “Speak up, mon amour. Tell me what you want.”

“Your hands… all over.”

“Mmm? You’ll have to be more precise for me.”

You lean closer until your chest just barely brushes hers and stop inches away from her mouth, arms linked around her neck. She watches your eyes drop to her lips but makes no move to close the remaining distance. Her hand on your waist sneakily slips under your shirt and lazily wanders over the curves there, her touch warm on your skin.

“I want…” you begin slowly, and each word is felt on her lips, “your hands on my body everywhere they can reach, on my throat, my tits, my thighs. Your fingers in my mouth— one at a time or stuffing it full, doesn’t matter. I want them inside me, buried so deep I can feel your rings threatening to slip inside too, until I can picture the feeling every time I close my legs. And then, I want them in your mouth so you can taste just how wet you make me. ‘That precise enough?”

Your declaration arouses you both, you can see it in her stare and feel your desire throb between your thighs. Unlike you, Vautour Bleu maintains her composure effortlessly. Her nails are dragged across the plane of your back, unhurried and tantalizing.

“So lewd. You must need this very much.”

“So bad, Bleu.”

“Then where are your manners?”

You almost huff impatiently at her indirect order but you need her to give you exactly what you want, so you muster the one pleading look she can never resist for long and press even closer to her, your arms tightening around her neck. Your breath fans over her lips as you utter one of the few phrases she taught you some weeks ago.

“S’il te plaît. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Her smile widens. “Well, since you promise…” Her hand leaves your back to join the other that has started unbuttoning the front of your shirt, starting with the first button between your collarbones. “I see no reason to refuse such an adorable plea.”

Her fingers are nimble and efficient, they leave behind a trail of undone buttons on their journey down your torso, exposing your body to her expert hands and lustful gaze. You bite the inside of your cheek in barely contained anticipation and squirm on her lap again, the throb in your cunt now harder to ignore. You press grateful kisses to the curve of her jaw, your lips following the path towards her chin then up to the corner of her mouth. You don’t kiss her properly yet, you want her to initiate the first one. It doesn’t take long, soon you feel her slender fingers curl around your throat as she tilts her head upward to meet your lips, capturing them in a firm kiss that she deepens after a moment. You welcome her tongue when it seeks entrance into your mouth and it slides languidly over yours, so familiar and warm. Your fingertips tangle in her blonde hair and her palm runs down your chest, fingers tugging cheekily at the band of your bra. Her insistent kisses reflect her need; she keeps you close with her hold on your neck and forces you to submit to her pace until your head pounds and your pulse goes off the rails. You exhale sharply through your nose, the need to breathe too important, yet don’t attempt to pull away. Her lips are moist and taste of coconut, much sweeter than the dessert still sitting on the table.

You feel her slipping under your bra to cup your breast. Bleu chuckles low into your mouth at the stuttering gasp that she tears from you. She greedily steals the rest of your broken breaths, thumb wandering close to the stiffening peak of your nipple, then it presses against you and your hips buck forward, seeking stimulation from her thighs. The position you’re in makes it slightly difficult with both of your clothes still on. A muffled, petulant whine registers to your ears and it takes a few seconds to realize that it came from you. You don’t have the time to be embarrassed however, Vautour Bleu’s mouth withdraws from yours just as your nipple is rolled between two fingers; the sensation is heavenly and goes straight to your fluttering cunt.

“Impatient little thing…” She reproaches your behavior with a click of her tongue, “I’m starting to think there’s only one place you truly want my fingers.”

“You have two hands…”

“I do. But only one of them wears the rings as you like them, non?”

To prove her point, she lifts her right hand where gorgeous jewelry adorns her index, middle and ring fingers and traces the metal on your heated cheek. Your thoughts drift to how it would feel coated in your slick arousal, and the crease forming at the corners of her eyes from her smile tells you that she’s following your exact train of thought.

“Just touch me,” words laced with a soft plea, you can only focus on her pretty face and the hand still toying with your chest. Your hips move forward once again, gliding across her thighs, so as to squash any confusion concerning your desperate demand.

“I am touching you, mon coeur.”

“Well, go faster.” She raises an eyebrow, and you hurriedly add, “Please…”

You lean into her, nuzzling her cheek with the tip of your nose and murmur devoted pleas into her skin until you believe she’s finally caved in and will give you what you’re craving for. Her right hand teases the waistband of your pants for a few anticipated seconds but shifts upwards to brush the curves of your stomach instead. She smiles yet takes her time despite your begging, an implicit lesson that she only ever moves at her own pace. She fondles your breast and feels the goosebumps up and down your abdomen, your waist, your lower stomach. She is slower than usual, almost lazy in her repeated motions on your body because she’s enjoying this moment as much as you do her touch, and Vautour Bleu savours what she likes. You can only find solace in the crook of her neck, underwear now damp with need, while she takes you on her terms.

Her head turns and her question tingles your eardrum as she speaks, her nails lightly scratching your skin the lower they travel— another one of her little habits that has you melting in the palm of her hand.

“Let’s see just how wind up you are, shall we?”

You breathe a sigh of contentment when you feel her fingers swiftly undoing the buttons of your pants. She allows your erect nipple some reprieve to open yourself up further to her attention. With a steady hold on your hip, her digits teasingly sneak past the band of your underwear one by one and feel the damp curls there, already slick from her earlier ministrations. She hums in contemplation, unsurprised by your desperation. You cling to her with your arms linked around her shoulders and your face buried where her neck meets her shoulder, and Vautour Bleu touches you like she’s done over a dozen times by now: with the intent of turning you into pudding for her to lick up afterwards. Her index grazes your clit and your next inhale gets stuck on the way to your lungs. You stammer, pressing your pussy into her hand for more stimulation, and a quiet sound leaves your mouth when she purposely repeats the action to hear you again.

“So sweet,” she inadvertently comments on your moans with an aroused sigh of her own.

Her heavier breaths near your earlobe and the way her fingers dig into your hip with every twitch of your body are the only indications you have that this is affecting her too. Your cunt continues to drip around her digits and clenches around nothing, achingly empty. She leisurely rubs your wet folds as if it was her first time exploring you, delighting in the soft moans you breathe out over her skin. A shiver runs down her spine and were you more sober-headed, you would have noticed the small tremble of her limbs at the sensation.

You long for her fingers inside you, stuffing you to the brim until you can’t take any more, but Bleu is no longer interested in your wants and needs and rather prioritizes her own desire to enjoy the feel of you against her skin. Her hand fits snugly inside your soaked panties, she runs down your slit almost in wonderment of the depth of your attraction to her then plunges only the tip of her digit just past your entrance. The rounded edge of her nail sends a sharp thrum of pleasure through you, pleasantly tightening your insides, and you can’t help sinking your teeth in the creamy expanse of skin before you in response in an attempt at muffling the pitiful noise that tumbles from your lips. You vaguely hear a soft hiss somewhere through the haze of your addled mind. It feels so good, what little she gives you. You’re unable to do much but clamp around her finger in a greedy demand for more.

“Ah, careful…” Bleu chastises in amusement but still tilts her head to the side and gives you more access to her neck.

You playfully suck the bitten skin into your mouth until it turns a gorgeous shade of reds and purples and her grip on your hip tightens fractionally as a pretty gasp escapes her. Your tongue swipes over the newly formed bruise, such a sharp colored contrast to the smooth beiges of her bare body. In the afternoon sun, it shines with the sheen of your saliva like the golden bangles around her wrist. Her finger doesn’t push any further inside you, its owner momentarily caught in the sensations of your mouth on her, so you take the opportunity provided by lapse in control to grind against her and litter her neck with love bites. Your clit grazes the heel of her palm, pulling yet another helpless mewl from you.

“God, fuck,” there’s a clear rasp at the edges of your voice, perhaps it’s what brings Vautour Bleu out of her daze because what follows is what you’ve anticipated for ages— she buries her finger into you in one smooth movement, the metal band around the first knuckle brushing the edge of your entrance, and you almost gush into her hand instantly.

You moan into her, drawn out and lustful, eyes fluttering close .Your hand flexes in her hair, gripping her long locks tightly as you adjust to the intrusion. Your mouth closes in on her once more seemingly instinctively, marking her shoulder with teeth indents and saliva, and this time the airy moan coming from Vautour Bleu is clear to your ears. She brushes up the walls of your cunt and effectively coats her digit in your arousal before slowly thrusting into you. You feel the pleasure in your gut and it spreads to the tip of your toes, making your thighs clench around hers and your mouth utter near unintelligible words or phrases in encouragement. Vautour Bleu smells of datura flowers and something sweet you can’t quite place, comforting and intoxicating all at once. You lose not only your composure but all thoughts not pertaining to her fucking you on her lap.

“Mmh, since you’re so intent on using that mouth, ma chérie, why don’t you tell me how this feels?”

Her playful words are followed by a second finger sliding inside your clenching pussy without an ounce of resistance. Your chest stutters for an instant, and you don’t register her free hand wandering up your waist to pinch at your nipple when you take too long to answer.

“Hah…!” You can barely reply to her taunting, eyebrows pinched in pleasure and a hint of pain from the sudden added layer of stimulation. “Fuck—”

“So vulgar. Are you such a mess already? I’m only using two.”

Deliberately, her pace quickens as you part your lips to answer and the wind is knocked out of you a second time. You tug at her hair in retaliation and her head is pulled backwards, to which she simply chuckles. You give up on spoken words and instead press your lips to her neck, planting hasty kisses all the way up to her jaw. Her fingers curl deliciously on their way out of your cunt then plunge back in and spread apart in scissoring motions that have your arms trembling around her neck. The best part of loving her pretty, jewelry-adorned fingers is that she knows how to use them. You meet each thrust with your hips as best as you can but your mind is hazy and when she shifts to press her lips against yours in a firm kiss, you struggle to even reciprocate. Her tongue licks at your lips, prompting them to open, and her kiss turns messy quickly. Clearly she doesn’t mind leading while you’re overwhelmed, slipping into your mouth and swiping over the bottom of your upper teeth, the flat of your tongue, the underside of it. A trail of saliva, yours or hers or both, gathers at the corner of your lips. She steals the air from your lungs with every kiss she takes from you and every thrust inside your gushing pussy. The wet sounds of her fingers inside you and her mouth on yours are positively sinful, filling the open living room of Vautour Bleu’s apartment. In the heat of the moment, you both forget the open patio doors steadily letting in the gentle breeze wandering through Désir.

She withdraws from you to speak, her breath short, “Can you take another, mon coeur?” She asks, already teasing your entrance with a third finger.

“H-Huh?...”

“You can, can’t you? Heh, perhaps you’ll come immediately, I can feel you getting close…”

Bleu tests her theory by inching her digit into you to join the other two, and your mouth falls open in a silent, blissful cry. She stuffs you full and the coil in your lower stomach nearly snaps at the dizzying sensation. Her left hand travels down your side and up your back as if to ease the transition. She hungrily watches the emotions play out on your face, the quiver of your bottom lip, the crease between your brows, the flutter of your lashes— she drinks them all in as the telltale squelching noise of her fingers paired with your desperately needy moans muffle both of your ears. Your cunt squeezes her digits, sucking them in deeper, and she knows you’ll fall over the edge right before you do. Your body tenses, toes curled and fingers closing into a fist, and in the next instant, you cream around her fingers. She slows her pace but keeps you filled up, switching to a tantalizing massage to prolong your orgasm. The moans out your mouth are a broken symphony that Vautour Bleu deeply revels in. You lean into her with the force of your orgasm and she is there to hold you with an arm around your back, soothing caresses along the curve of your spine.

Your heart pounds for long moments after the brunt of your high has passed. You pant into her skin, and she allows you time to slowly come back from your peak with some soft French words spoken into your hair that you don’t know the meaning of. Vautour Bleu gently slips out of your overstimulated pussy, one finger after the other, and you bite your cheek at the feeling of her nails grazing your walls.

“Ah…” You feel her leave your ruined underwear altogether and spare a glance at her cum-covered hand once it reaches your line of sight. Your mind is starting to clear and you have the decency to be slightly embarrassed by how drenched it is.

“This might be a record,” she wonders out loud, amused and a touch impressed as she examines the slick dripping from her wrist, “what do you think?”

You don’t respond, flustered by her observation, but your current speechless state doesn’t seem to bother her.

“What was it you said? You wanted my fingers buried deep, and then…”

Vautour Bleu teasingly lifts her fingers to her lips and sucks them in, tasting you fully while you stare at her disappearing digits until they come out coated in a mix of spit and cum. She licks up the palm of her hand and smiles wide at the entranced look on your face as you watch her, unable to tear your gaze from her tongue. She pulls you close by the lapel of your shirt, languidly meeting your mouth with her own in a tangy kiss. You melt further into her embrace. Her slow kisses and praises uttered across your lips make you giddy despite the heaviness of your body. You stay like this for some time, with her hand absentmindedly rubbing your back and her mouth everywhere she can reach— she plants kisses to the corner of your lips, your jaw, your cheek, and the muscles of your face start to hurt from how big you’re smiling.

It’s only when Vautour Bleu decidedly pulls away from you that you’re made aware of how uncomfortably the fabric of your soaked underwear clings to your skin, and you shift one too many times on her lap for her to notice your predicament.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we? I think I’m due for a nice nap. Will you stay?”

“Of course.”

You don’t tell her that you would stay past today, past tomorrow and the following weeks, but you think that maybe she knows because the colored depths of her eyes gleam with something other than the sunlight as she offers you her clean hand to help you up.

scribbling on my S8 tablet

I'm away from my PC atm so I'm just scribbling stuff...

i haven't opened this app in so long wtf

i am so tired i want to cry so i drew some stelle for myself

*insert Cure (sua & mizi.ver)* 🥹🥹🥹

They come as a set, do not separate

Stelle hanging up her ex’s wanted poster in her room, you know, as you do

OH MYGOD

wasted with longing

You and Kafka have a simple, superficial relationship that benefits you both. You should have known that nothing is ever simple when she’s involved.

friends with benefits, smut, afab!reader, gp!kafka, vaginal penetration, blowjob, dom!kafka, 4.5k words

A/N: fuckboy kafka is real and we should all be running… towards her🤣 this will be a series! i’ll fine tune it when i wake up but this is for my very excited anons and mutuals <3

part two

this is the collective playlist, i’m still adding songs as i go: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4fNHJsbeJLC49Fa8ACVOwW?si=pgaCSUzVTgmXZ8OuQJWLKA&pi=u-9uwba0QiQlWH

You push open the door to your apartment with a tired sigh and step inside. Freeing your feet from the new boots you bought days before feels heavenly, you’re still breaking them in and the process is almost torturous, often leaving you sore by the evening. You put on the slippers you discarded that morning as you shrug off your jacket, placing it back into the tiny closet near the front door. The lights are off but you don’t bother turning them on, instead, you make a beeline for your bedroom and flick that switch on. It’s late, around 11 PM, and you’re itching for a shower before collapsing into bed after spending the afternoon on your feet. You open the window a crack to let the breeze in, seeing as the summer nights tend to leave you sweating. You discard some of your clothing on the way to the bathroom, holding onto them to throw them in the laundry basket next to the sink. Standing in your underwear, you turn on the shower and adjust its settings to room temperature before removing your clothes. You’re grateful for the peaceful moment when you step into the shower, simply letting the water hit your face and soak your body.

Today was particularly challenging; your boss was a jerk your whole shift, more demanding than usual, and you’d promised some friends that you would go out with them after work even though you just wanted to be home by then. Forcing yourself to socialize is mentally taxing and often leaves you with a headache at the end of the night, too. Under the refreshing water, you feel the knots of your muscles loosen slowly as if smoothed out by warm, gentle hands. Your head tilts towards the shower head. For a few minutes, you wash away the weight of the day, focusing on the pitter-patter in your ears deafening you to all but your thoughts. An impulsive one passes by, meant to be fleeting but it solidifies in your head until you can’t help but entertain the idea.

You wonder what Kafka is doing, if she’d come running if you called the way she often does once the sun sets. She’s been busy lately, you think; you haven’t heard from her in around two weeks and you’ve been too preoccupied with work to bother checking on her. You don’t know what she does for a living, only that your palms brush against new cuts across her skin every once in a while. The acknowledgment of their presence goes unsaid like many other things, locked in a messy closet to which you both hold the key yet refuse to organize. Still, she’s skilled in the ways of your body and works you out like no one else can, so you ignore a lot about her to prioritize how relaxed you feel after a couple of hours with her. Some parts of you, your heart and fingertips, twitch to understand her absences and inconsistencies. You try not to dwell on that confusing desire for too long lest you come to a conclusion you don’t like. Kafka’s enigmatic, she’s mysterious and rehearsed as to always keep the upper hand in whatever war she’s implicated in like the world is an open minefield and she can’t afford a single misstep. Every semblance of genuine conversation about her turns into a game she has to win and you’re getting tired of playing along. However… you have to admit that you could use the distraction tonight.

The thought doesn’t leave you as you finish washing yourself and step out of the shower with a clean towel around your frame. You look for your phone once in the bedroom, picking it up from where it was discarded on your dresser, then sit at the edge of your bed. It takes a bit of scrolling through your recent conversations to find Kafka’s contact. You refrain yourself from rolling your eyes at the last texts you’ve exchanged. She can’t be relied on for your impromptu needs and you wish the opposite was true as well, but you’ve learned to make yourself available whenever she seeks you out. It’s pathetic, you tell yourself, even as your thumbs hover over the screen’s keyboard. You recline on the mattress with a sigh and hold your phone above you, wondering if you should do this. It’s late, and though that’s usually when you see each other, Kafka has the habit of not replying until hours later. It’s irritating, especially when you scroll up to her last messages and notice how quickly you always answer them. You toss your phone on the bed and cover your face with your hands. You swallow a scream.

“Embarrassing, embarrassing,” you mutter to yourself, “no dignity at all.”

As you question your life choices and consider blocking Kafka’s number to make yourself feel more in control than you are, your phone buzzes with a notification. You turn on your stomach to pick it up, tapping open the screen.

You stare at the most recent text for almost a full minute before closing the device and sitting up straight. The coincidence of her messaging you while you’re debating whether you should text her first leaves you reeling for a moment. You hesitate, fiddling with the phone in your hands. You want to leave her waiting like she often does to you, but… Excitement creeps up your spine at the thought of seeing her. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Why not take what you need from her and send her on her way? This is what she’s good for, it’s how she regards you as well, so you give in to your impulses and craft the perfect text. Kafka’s reply comes almost instantly.

You can’t deny the flutter in your gut but you sure as hell can ignore it.

You make sure to be ready before Kafka comes knocking at your door. You lather yourself with your favourite lotion before pulling a tank top over your head and putting on pyjama shorts. You clean up around your apartment even if she never lingers long enough to get a good look at it, picking up dirty laundry and clearing the dishes. You don’t see the minutes tick by as you do your best to seem presentable. You check your teeth in the bathroom mirror, decide to brush them because you don’t have any mint, then tap your cheeks a couple of times, tilting your chin this way and that. You’re looking at your nails, wondering if you should clip them since they’re getting a bit long, when the doorbell rings.

You take measured steps towards the front door so as not to look too eager and shake your head at your antics. You turn the handle, revealing Kafka’s nonchalant expression on the other side of the door. She smiles at the sight of you, clad in her usual tight clothes and custom-made coat, and you have to suppress one from betraying your thoughts as you take her in. She does the same to you, gaze appreciatively raking over your figure before she even greets you. She still has makeup on, hiding the fatigue you know rests under her eyes, and she’s holding on to her pair of gloves instead of wearing them. You think she probably wrapped up whatever it is that she does and came to your apartment right afterwards.

You open the door wider and step to the side so she can come in. “You look tired.”

Kafka walks in and closes the door behind her with a foot. Her smile widens a touch, a self-assured edge to it. Her head tilts— you watch the loose strands of hair follow the movement— and her eyes drop to your chest for a deliberate second then lift to meet yours. “You look beautiful as ever.”

You don’t hide the annoyed roll of your eyes. You turn your back on her to lead her further into the apartment. She follows, slipping off her coat from her shoulders and discarding it on a sofa in the living room.

“You got rid of the painting?”

You look at where she stopped in front of the couch. She points to the far wall with her chin as she lays her gloves on top of her coat. You stand, dumbfounded. You used to have an abstract painting hung on that wall but stored it to install a TV instead. You’re mostly surprised she noticed; her lips are usually on yours instants after she’s stepped through the door.

“It’s here somewhere,” you gesture vaguely to the room.

“Mm… This coffee table’s different, too.”

“You broke the glass of the other one the last time you were here.”

Something in the way she glances at you, a cocky glint in her eyes, tells you she remembers.

“Right. What was it you said that night— ‘Don’t you dare stop?’”

You know Kafka revels in the flash of irritation that creases the bridge of your nose.

“I don’t remember that.”

“No?”

She makes her way to you, fingertips trailing on the back of the couch and amusement shining through her contacts, dusty pink swallowing the lilac at their edges, reminding you of carefully plucked calla lilies. Her slender fingers cup your jaw to tilt your chin, the nail of her index sliding across your skin, and you meet her stare with practiced ease. You hate how easily the anticipation of her touch heats the embers in your belly and you can’t stand knowing that she’s aware of her effect on you. Kafka brings you closer until all you care to see is the lustful, rosy shades of her irises. Her gaze lowers to the curves of your mouth.

“Need a reminder?” Her murmur is felt on your lips like the warm, inviting breeze wafting through the open windows.

You hook a finger under the waistband of her shorts and tug her forward. “Guess so.”

Her low chuckle is cut off by the kiss you plant on her lips. Kafka indulges your control over her, lets you back her up against the wall and pull her close with a hand around her neck. Her arm snakes around your waist, your body pressed to hers. She tastes sweet, like a sugary drink or a juicy fruit, and your tongue slips into her mouth to taste her fully. She welcomes it readily and allows it to swirl around hers before you feel her fingers curl around your throat. The pace shifts, hungry and hurried, as she effortlessly takes over the kiss, momentarily taking your breath away. You’re forced to follow her lead and exhale through your nose when she doesn’t release you. The hand on the back of her neck travels down her collarbone, pulling on the leather strap of her outfit so it slaps against her once you let go, and the hum that sounds from her throat softens your bones until you’re putty in her hands. Her shirt crumples in your grip while your fingertips tease the buttons of her shorts. Your world is reduced to the soft caress of her tongue in your mouth and the growing bulge beneath your palm.

Her hold on your neck relaxes slightly and you pull away enough to regulate your breathing. You stroke her over her clothes, drawing a sharp intake of breath from her. A pleased smile makes its way onto your face and your eyes blink open to stare at her swollen, peach lips.

“Someone’s happy to see me.”

Kafka traces the hollow of your throat with a rounded nail, smiling amusedly at your teasing tone. “Mmm.”

“Two weeks and a little kiss gets you worked up?”

“Were you counting?”

“Please. You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” You unclasp the buttons of her shorts and pull them down her waist to reveal the band of her pantyhose, toying with it and sighing in faux exasperation. “I suppose I could help.”

“Yeah?”

Kafka stares at you, anticipation in the way her lips unconsciously part, and you retain her lustful gaze as you withdraw from her body to put your hair up using the hair tie on your wrist. You raise a playful eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth, and her eyes narrow a touch at your cockiness. She doesn’t say a word, though, simply watches you lower yourself to your knees with that smile that says she’ll wipe that expression off your face soon enough. You start with her thigh-high boot, zipping it down to get it out of the way, then grip the edges of both her pantyhose and shorts to slide them off the rest of the way at once. Her layers annoy you on nights when your need is greater than your patience, but you enjoy teasing her like this; testing the elasticity of her boxers’ waistband, running the pads of your fingers over the thin fabric and along the thick of her bulge, pressing leisure, open-mouthed kisses on the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Kafka is a patient woman, her hand tangles in your hair but doesn’t pull. Her heavy stare makes you feel powerful despite being the one on your knees, she either doesn’t bother to hide her desire or she can’t— regardless, you’re her only way towards sweet release and she has no choice but to grant your petty wishes.

Your lips trace the outline of her length over her underwear. One hand cups her between her legs while the other kneads her plush thigh. You delight in the little hums Kafka doesn’t care to contain as you pepper kisses on her clothed cock, a thumb gently massaging her balls until you feel her twitch under your lips. Still, she doesn’t tell you to hurry along or pressure you in any way. Knowing that her cool demeanor is an act fuels the satisfaction in your gut. You pull at her boxers and free her hard cock, refraining from biting your lip at the sight of its prominent vein. You follow its pattern with your mouth and use a hand to curl around her base, eyes fluttering shut. You’ve done this so often, licked long stripes up to her tip and stroked her sensitive skin with teasing touches, that the feel of her against you is engraved in your gray matter. Your tongue swirls around her leaking tip to collect her pre-cum before taking her into your mouth. Kafka is so big you have to use your fingers to stroke what can’t fit past your lips. The weight of her cock on your tongue makes you so incredibly wet, you feel arousal trickling down your inner thigh. Her hips buck forward and her hand caresses your hair in a manner so fond you’d mistake her lust for care if you didn’t know any better. You work her up with quiet, muffled moans around her dick and she guides you down her length with one hand, unable to tear her eyes from your pretty face as you suck her off. You take as much of her as you can, feel the head brushing the back of your throat every few thrusts of her hips, and revel in the short, throaty moans spilling from Kafka’s lips.

“Mmhh… How pretty you look with your mouth full,” she manages to tease you in between low gasps, smugness dripping from her words. You give her sensitive tip a particularly harsh suck and bask in the uncontrolled jerk of her hips.

You look up at the crease between her brows and the rapid rise of her chest, her audible pants intoxicating you. With her head tilted to gaze down at you, strands of magenta hang in the air like threads of silk. You squeeze her base once to draw a longer moan from her. The taste of her bypasses your every thought, and you can only focus on her throbbing, wet cock filling your mouth. You stroke her with the same hungry pace, occasionally squeezing your thighs together to appease the heat between your legs. She’s so hard, so needy, you can’t help the indignant whine that escapes you when her fingers grip your hair and pull you away from her dick. A thin string of saliva connects her head to your tongue and breaks with the distance, falling onto your chin.

“Don’t pout, you’ll get your fill,” Kafka smiles despite her heavy breathing, urging you to stand with her hold on your head, “I’ll make sure of it.”

A tinge of irritation surges in your bloodstream at the cocky edge of her tone and the way your pussy aches for her touch. Her nose brushes yours once you’re on your feet, warm breath fanning over your lips. You hate that you want her, that your body responds to her by melting into hers as she steals the air in your lungs with a single heady kiss. You hate the way your thighs part almost immediately to allow her wandering hand better access to your cunt. You hate the amused chuckle that leaves her when she realizes you’re not wearing any underwear and rubs between your slit with a finger. And yet, you only get wetter under her ministrations, brows twisting with the pleasure she’s giving you. Her digit withdraws from your slick pussy, glimmering with your arousal, and Kafka stares at you with lidded eyes as she brings it to her lips to suck it clean. The wet sound of her mouth sends a jolt straight to your core. You need her to fuck you so badly, you can barely think before grasping the leather strap under her collarbones to pull her forward.

Your lips meet in a messy, heated kiss, her salty taste on your tongue and your slick on hers. You stumble down the hallway, losing pieces of clothing along the way, until you reach the bedroom and Kafka firmly pushes you down onto the bed with a hand on your bare chest. Her mouth is locked with yours and you feel her touch on your hips, across your waist, over your ribcage where your heart drums for her. Her thumb applies pressure on your erect nipple, drawing a needy sigh from you. You sneak around her chest to unclasp her bra and she assists you in sliding it off her arms to discard it on the floor. Her cock presses against your thigh while she teases your nipple between two fingers. You know you’re ruining the sheets beneath you but you can’t bring yourself to care; you get more desperate with every minute she’s not buried inside you, unable to contain the quiet whimpers that escape you.

“Kafka…” you breathe out in a whine, aware of how much it turns her on to hear her name out your lips. Her cock throbs on your thigh at the sound.

She plants kisses down your jaw and pinches your nipple a couple of times, the feeling delicious yet not enough. Her hum rumbles through her chest, “Mmm… Pleading already?”

Aeons, she’s infuriating. You wrap a leg around her waist and her length rests on your slit, but you bite the flesh of your cheek to keep in a breathy moan, not wanting to inflate her ego more than it already is. Kafka reaches down to rub her tip between your lower lips, almost groaning as your slick mixes with the saliva from your tongue. Your lungs stutter and you suck in a breath, nails digging into the expanse of her back. Her head grazes your aching clit, you arch further into her to repeat the action. It feels so good you forget all about who you’re dealing with until she speaks up again.

Kafka’s licks a broad stripe up your neck, then her mouth brushes the skin of your jaw on its way to your earlobe, pressing a kiss just below.

“You’re dripping…” Though her voice is close to your eardrums, you barely register the words she utters, lost in the pleasure of your clit sliding against the thick of her cock. “How much do you want this, mm?”

There’s a lick on the cartilage of your ear before she pulls away to look at you through the dull pink of her irises, eyelids heavy. The movement of her dick on your pussy comes to halt and it takes you losing that relieving friction to understand that she expects an answer.

“W-What?”

“Did you miss me this much?”

Your heel digs into her lower back to pull her closer, but her lips simply stretch into a knowing, teasing smile. She presses her tip against your twitching clit once, delighting in the flutter of her eyelashes and the beginnings of a needy moan that you refuse to let her hear.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you reply, but even you have to admit that your sentence lacks conviction or venom.

“Mm…” Kafka guides the tip of her cock to your gushing entrance and your next inhale gets caught in your throat. “Is it flattery if it’s true?”

“You w— Hah—!”

She pushes the head inside you, feeling you clench instinctively at the intrusion, and lets out a sigh of pleasure as your warm, tight cunt welcomes her cock. She watches a quiver go through your bottom lip and briefly bites her own. One hand digs into the plush of your love handle, the other sinks into the bedsheets next to your head. She slides another inch into you and your fingers tangle in her locks, tugging at the sensation of her length inside you, stretching you so well a breathless gasp spills from your mouth. Her smile is smug, pleased at your silence, and you swallow as you muster the strength to speak. Kafka leans closer, the tip of her nose against your cheek and her breath warming your skin. Slowly, she bottoms out completely and gives you a moment to adjust to the fullness. Something in the way her pants falter occasionally tells you that she needs that pause too. Her lips are on your jaw in a kiss way too soft, too gentle to be from her; her who means nothing to you aside from the pleasure she provides you.

“I missed you.”

You feel a buzzing sensation in your lower belly that has nothing to do with her cock nestled in your cunt. The words are murmured like a confession but you know they aren’t one, Kafka means to provoke you so that she can put you in your place, a game you’ve played since the day you met. You can’t explain why it’s as if your heartstrings are plucked and manipulated like those of an instrument, its melody disorganized and disharmonious. You don’t understand the sudden irritation that mixes with your arousal, sending a shiver down your spine.

You tug at her hair and her head follows the movement backwards, lips parting.

“I hate you,” you manage to utter through gritted teeth, and you’re frustrated to find that there’s no truth in what you’ve said.

Kafka’s growing grin turns mocking. “Aww. But you’re sucking me in…”

To prove her point, she withdraws from you just to thrust back in, her tip hitting that sensitive spot inside you. Her length rubs your walls with every thrust of her hips, rendering you speechless aside from the quiet whimpers that fall from your tongue, and your anger fades away, replaced by the desperate need to come. Your fingers messily swipe at your clit and your nails paint crescent moons on her back from how tightly you’re holding on to her body. Despite her own need, Kafka is determined to pull more lovely sounds from you. Her pace is tantalizingly slow but harsh in the way you prefer as she fills you to the brim. You feel her all around you, her lips on your jaw, the pads of her fingers sinking into your flesh, her cock buried deep inside your fluttering cunt. Her low moans and short groans hit your ears in sinful sounds that only make you wetter. Her breasts are flushed to yours, following the rocking of her hips.

“Fuck, fuck—“ you babble breathily, lost in the pleasure, “more…”

You don’t register Kafka manhandling you with an arm around your waist so that you’re straddling her lap instead, only that the change in position allows her to drive deeper into you. You moan brokenly as she grabs your hips and guides you down onto her cock in one go. Your thighs tremble, aching, and your orgasm is imminent. Kafka groans into your shoulder, bouncing you on her dick, the taut coil in her belly begging to snap. Your slick trickles down her length and your wet pussy swallows her cock, you clench around her like you dread she’ll pull out before you can come. She uses a palm to apply pressure on your lower stomach, feeling the faint outline of her bulge inside you, and the sensation pushes you over the edge. You cream on her cock with a cry. Your head tilts back and Kafka leans away from your shoulder to gaze at your cum drenching her girth. She knows how sensitive you get after an orgasm, can feel you twitch against her with the aftershocks, but she can’t help jerking her hips upwards to fuck your cum back into your pussy. She wants to see her own cum merge with yours until you’re so full of her that you’re gushing.

“Kafka—!” You gasp out, fingers gripping her loose ponytail, “W-Wait…”

She shushes you with an insistent kiss. She’s close, guiding your hips up and down her throbbing cock. With a particularly harsh thrust, that familiar coil in her stomach finally breaks and her cum spills into you in hot, intense spurts against your inner walls. It’s too much for you to handle even as her thrusts stutter, yet a second orgasm builds inside you, quick and desperate; your body moves on its own accord, further stimulating you and drawing a long, drawn out moan out of you. Kafka’s lips are parted and you miss the sheen in her eyes as she stares up at you unashamedly riding her until you come around her dick a second time.

You’re both coming down from your high some time later, your eyes are shut and the pace of your rising chest slows down enough for you to take deep breaths. Kafka is a comforting presence beside you on the bed, and like you do with many things, you ignore the warmth that is born from your chest and spreads across your torso. A welcomed kind of exhaustion creeps up on you, almost pulling you into a dream, but you hear Kafka move next to you so you turn your head to look at her. She’s fixing her hair, putting back locks of magenta into her ponytail. She feels your gaze on her and meets your eyes with a small smile. There’s that twitch of your heart and fingertips again at the sight of the soft glow of her sweaty skin under your bedroom lights.

“You look exhausted,” her tone lacks its usual teasing edge but you’re too tired to notice, “I’ll use the shower and lock behind me with the spare key. You should sleep. I’ll message you tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything to that. You stare at the ceiling as the shower is turned on in the background.

Kafka doesn’t text the next day.

Let's start this thing well... ...by posting some real old Hades sketches. Because I like 'em, I dunno. I gotta draw more Hades stuff. I like artemis, people.

it’s always “why did you sacrifice yourself and leave me behind” and never How was the sacrifice Was sacrificing yourself fun it looked fun