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What does this mean? Why are certain days on the calendar marked?

All Through the Night [1]

Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

Genre: Royalty AU! Werewolf AU! Childhood Best Friends to Lovers. 

Rating: M for Mature. Sexual Content/Future Smut. Language. 

Word Count: 5,740

Summary: Jungkook, Prince of the Werewolves, must mate before he can take his rightful place as King. How you, a human, became one of the candidates for his Queen is a mystery to all – including you.

A/N: Hi all!!! I decided to split this into two parts because it was taking me so long and I needed a break but didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer. I should have the next part up this weekend! also I was really anxious to post so I’m sorry if it’s not super edited. I will do a read through when I wake up tomorrow.

The anticipation for what awaits you is agonizing. There is a heaviness in your heart. It is a painful pounding that beats furiously against your breast. It reminds you of everything you have to lose tonight. It reminds you that too much has been left unsaid between you for far too long.

But there is no guarantee that any of it would matter anyway. He is to become a king, after all. What would a king want with a heart as delicate as your own? What use does a king have for a woman like you? A human woman at that. One whose presence could very well mar the crown he will soon wear and everything it stands for.

It does not matter to many that you are no ordinary woman. Your blood is as blue as the ocean is deep but you are a human all the same. How could a werewolf as powerful and revered as Jungkook ever hold his head high with an interloper for a bride? Surely there would be outrage amongst the members of the pack. Surely you would be the cause of far more stress than your tender heart is worth. No, a king needs domain over his kingdom, not the love of a human.

But loving him is not something you can so easily abandon. It expands well beyond what you can fit in that silly heart of yours. It has been growing steadily inside of you since the innocence of your youth. It started way back when Jungkook was still a ruddy cheeked runt who used to chase you through his family’s orchard. It has matured since then, just as you have after all these years. It is deeper now, desperate even. It begs to be unleashed and reciprocated with an equal vigour.

Keep reading

Hi,

It’s you friendly neighbor fanfic author here. In the light of this apparent new trend of people feeding unfinished fics to AI to get an “ending,” and some people even talking about “blanket permissions,” let me just say this:

I EXPLICITLY FORBID ANYONE TO FEED MY FICS TO AI. DUDE, THAT IS ABOUT THE LEAST RESPECTFUL THING YOU CAN DO. IF YOU DO IT, SHALL YOU BE EXCOMMUNICATED FROM YOUR FANDOM AND WALK ON LEGOS BAREFOOT TILL THE END OF DAYS.

That is my anti-permission.

Thank you for your attention.

i know it when i see it

pairing:  pornstar!joel miller x fem!reader

rating: explicit 18+ minors dni

word count: 8k

warnings: sex work, masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, it’s literally porn, age gap (unspecified), oral sex, dirty talk, explicit p in v sex, praise, catholic guilt, cowboy puns

summary: it's the golden age of porn. sex and sin are the national pastime. you're paired with joel miller for your first scene.

You’re going to hell.

That’s what all the billboards say. The televangelists. Nixon and his whole committee. 

You’ve spent your whole life hearing that sex is a sin. Every Sunday, pressed into a pew wearing your pretty dresses, you’d listen to the pastor praise those who kept themselves pure, chaste. You’d learned that a good girl kept her knees shut tight. That those led astray by lust would fall into the Devil’s clutches. That sex would ruin you. And it hadn’t once stopped you from wanting it. 

Well, now you’re waiting in line to get your tits out for a room full of strangers. If sex is a sin, what you’re doing is downright blasphemy. 

But there’s good money in dirty movies. And you figure if the Devil is already keeping a seat warm for you, then you might as well earn it.

When they call your name, you feel like you might be sick. Which is stupid, since you’ve been waiting in the goddamn hallway for half an hour, sitting on a sticky plastic chair in a whole line of girls who look a whole lot like you. 

The casting office is small, almost cozy. A mustard-yellow carpet stretches between you and a small folding table, where a man and a woman sit. Another man stands a few paces back, fiddling with the view-finder on a film camera.

It’s the woman who speaks first.

“Go ahead and stand on the mark there,” she indicates a spot on the carpet. She’s got a harsh, angular kind of beauty. Her gaze is sharp as it meets yours. “My name’s Tess. What’s yours?”

You tell her, conscious of the way your accent softens the syllables, makes it all too obvious that you’re a long way from home. 

“So,” Tess says, leaning forward and folding her hands under her chin, “You like sex?”

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks, but hope it isn’t too obvious.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It slips out without your permission. You’ve tried so hard to beat out that good-breeding, the debutante bullshit, but sometimes it sneaks up on you. You see the corner of Tess’s mouth quirk up at it, like she’s trying not to laugh. 

“You any good at it?”

She’s testing — teasing. But you hold her gaze.

“Never had any complaints.”

Tess nods. Gives a slight flick of her pen.

“Can you take your top off for us?”

Your breath catches in your throat. And you knew this was coming, knew it was part of the whole deal. But still — it sends a nervous sort of thrill through you, and you have to suppress a shiver as you reach for the buttons of your blouse. 

The air is cool against your bare skin, and you feel the way your nipples stiffen. The camera whirrs and you clench your teeth, painfully self conscious. You’re not sure where to set your gaze. It’s strange to be looked at just for the sake of looking, not as a prelude to anything else. 

Then Tess let out a low whistle.

“Linda Lovelace who?” she smirks, “Where the hell have they been hiding you?”

You flush, the praise washing over you; that warm reassurance that you are worth looking at. 

Tess tilts her head, “You know what you’re getting into here, right? This isn’t a business for nice girls.”

You think of your mother. Your tidy, Catholic upbringing. The chastity balls and purity rings. The housewives and the husbands that hated them. All the ways women were stripped of themselves in the name of being nice.

You meet her gaze.

“Never said I was a nice girl.”

Tess grins, and there’s something wolfish in her smile. 

“Well, then. Welcome to the sexual revolution.”

x x x x x x x x 

You’ve done three films for Tess since then. All solos — splayed out on silk sheets, touching yourself while she told you what to do from off-camera. Proof of concept, she’d called them, and paid you fifty dollars for each. 

You were the concept. The idea that was only half-formed. A bit lip, a slip of pink. Girlish pieces waiting to be shaped into a sex symbol. She said she was still figuring out where to put you, finding the right role.

God, your mother would cry if she could see you like this. And your father would curse and shout and try to scare you into behaving, like he has so many times before. But you’re too far away to hear them now. Besides, they haven’t answered any of your postcards. Maybe they knew you were a lost cause the second you stepped foot out their door.

But you don’t feel lost. Not when you’re sweaty and sated and smiling at the camera. Not when there’s a song playing on the radio, and the windows are rolled down, and it feels like the first time you’ve ever really breathed. Not in the tiny apartment you share with three other girls, where you never feel lonely. 

You’re not some sob story, not a lost kid clinging to a last resort. You chose this, all of it. You’ve been a sinner since the day you found out what that thing between your legs was really for. And all the pearl-clutching in the world couldn’t have kept you shut up in that small town.

You want to be seen. 

You want to shock, to disgust. To rip away all the ribbons and bows tying you to some expectation of decency. You’re so tired of being decent, being clean. You like being messy, like the sheen of sweat and sex that makes you feel like life is something that belongs to you. 

Tess calls.

“I’ve got a scene for you.”

You coil the phone cord around your hand, trying to force down the little thrill of excitement that zips through you. You keep waiting for the shame to sink in, but it never does.

“It’s not a big part, but it could get you some attention,” Tess goes on, “You know anything about Joel Miller?”

You don’t. You’re still new to all of this, green in a way that Tess warns could get you in trouble if you’re not careful. 

“Should I?” you ask.

“He’s an old friend,” Tess says, “Does a couple of films a year under the name Texas. The housewives love him, they eat his shit right up. Not a bad way to make a name for yourself.”

That was important too, the name. You were still trying to figure out yours. What would they call you when they watched your scenes? What name would they say when they came thinking of your face?

You take the bus downtown to the video rental store and slip through the beaded curtain at the back. The air inside is heavy with the smoke of someone’s joint, the tapes bathed in blue lighting. It turns out Texas occupies a whole shelf all to himself. The titles range, but they all convey a similar sense of rugged masculinity. 

Cowboy Take Me Away

Lone Star

Fix Her, Up Her

Saddle Tramp

The Mechanic

Spur Me On

You rent three tapes and try not to blush when the cashier tells you which one is her favorite. 

Your roommates go out for the night, but you stay in. Wedge the window open with the phone book. Pour a finger of vodka over a single, sweating ice cube. Turn the volume dial low and start up the first tape.

It’s all sort of silly at first. The sun-baked ranch. The farmer's daughter. The cowboy hat and coveralls. A soft, twanging guitar underscores the whole thing and it feels just shy of parody.

Then he enters the scene. Tall and broad. Sharp jaw, strong nose. Handsome in a way that’s solid, sure of itself. He looks like he belongs there, leaning against the barn door, his dark eyes taking in the scene.

And there’s no posturing with him, no clumsy performance. Suddenly the whole thing feels that much more real, and it’s like you can see the tension simmering on screen. You press your legs together at the low rasp of his voice, laced with suggestion, as he offers to teach her how to ride. 

You watch, enraptured, as the scene unfolds. They move together in a way that doesn’t feel rehearsed, lacks any sort of pretension. You watch as he bends her over, tugs down her cotton panties, and fucks her with his fingers until she’s coming hard all over his hand. 

You think it’s real. Fuck, it looks real, the way her fingers flex against his forearm, her stomach tenses, and her mouth falls open with a faint cry. No screaming or flailing, none of the overwrought drama. The camera catches the way her legs quake, the way she sucks in a breath before turning to face him. 

There’s a close up on his crotch as he palms himself through the rough denim of his jeans. He undoes his belt to reveal a dark thatch of hair and then the long, thick shape of him. His heavy hand slides to the hilt, lining himself up against the gleam of her wet and waiting cunt. The tip of him presses against her entrance, parting her swollen lips as he pushes inside.

Your own hand is between your thighs before you realize what you’re doing. But you're aching — restless and unsettled as you stare at the screen. 

You can’t take your eyes off of Joel. The way he moves, the way he fucks. All long, slow thrusts at the start, letting her feel every inch. Then the steady increase in speed until he’s fucking her in earnest, his massive hand holding her down as he drives in deep. 

Your own fingers slide beneath your shorts, slipping through your slick to press against the hard nub of your clit. You try to relieve some of the pressure, the overwhelming arousal as you watch the farmer’s daughter whine and writhe on his cock. 

Only, in your mind it’s you. Your hips he’s holding, your hair he’s tugging on as he drives deeper into your aching cunt. Your hands are the ones reaching back to feel him, to scratch along his forearms, searching for purchase as he pushes you closer to climax. 

It’s his voice that undoes you. The low growl of it, the way he grits his teeth and tells her to just —

“Take it. Yeah, that it’s. Take this fucking cock.”

It pushes you over the edge and you’re coming, hard, drenching the sheets beneath you. You watch in a daze as the scene finishes, the farmer’s daughter smiling through her facial and giving the camera a cheeky wink. The credits roll over a cactus.

The tape whirrs and then clicks to a halt. The only sound in the apartment is the distant grind of traffic, your own heavy breathing. You stare up at the ceiling, still reeling from the force of your orgasm. 

So. That’s Joel Miller.

x x x x x x x x 

You tell Tess that you’ll take the part.

You run out the rental period on the first three tapes and return to the store for the rest of them. You’ve orgasmed more in this past week than you have in your entire life. All to thoughts of him. His hands, his voice— God, his fucking cock.

You feel untethered by your attraction to him, the raw want that he awakens inside of you. And even though you tell Tess yes, you feel a thread of panic rise as the shoot day approaches. Because watching him is one thing. Fucking him, actually fucking him, feels like another beast entirely.

The idea of it terrifies you. He terrifies you, if you’re being honest. There’s nothing warm or welcoming about his onscreen presence. He’s all stern silence and stoicism, only ever losing composure when he comes, and then just for a second. You’ve memorized the expression he makes. How his eyes fall shut and his jaw goes slack, the way he loses himself in that moment. 

You want that. You want to be the reason.

The late summer heat washes over you as you step out of the cab; August in all her sweat and shine. You have the address Tess told you scrawled on a scrap of paper, held tight in your hand. You’re somewhere in the Arts District, but the area looks rough, rundown. The building in front of you seems abandoned, but the cab is pulling off the curb before you can question it. You check the paper in your hand, matching the numbers to the faded paint above the boarded front entrance. 

There’s the screech of metal as a side door is kicked open, and Tess sticks her head out, squinting against the sunlight. 

“Come on then,” she calls, waving you over. You hurry to catch up before the door closes on you.

Inside is dark, musty. Peeling wallpaper, yellowed posters clinging to bulletin boards. Dust catches the light as it filters in through dirty windows. None of the sleek, sexy style you’d come to associate with this line of work.  You cast a sideways glance at Tess as she leads you down the hall. 

“What is this place?”

“Not a real school, obviously. We’d all go to jail,” Tess says, “It used to be a rec center. We got it on the cheap.”

You’re not sure what to say to that, but she seems to sense what you’re thinking. 

“It’s not all silk sheets, kid. Think you can handle that?”

That’s the thing you’ve liked about Tess from the beginning — the blunt edge of her honesty. She didn’t bullshit, it’s not in her nature. She calls it like it is, doesn't try to spin it into something else. It makes you feel safer, somehow. She’ll tell you if you get too close to the sun.

“I can handle it.”

You can. You didn’t come here to be coddled.

“You got your list?” she asks.

“Oh, yeah.” You dig in your pocket and pull out your hastily scribbled list of hard no’s. It had taken a while to come up with. The trouble was, there wasn’t much you didn’t want Joel to do to you. Even the most debased things made you feel all fluttery if you thought about him doing them.

Still. You had some limits.

Tess scans over the paper and she nods.

“Great, no issues here. Joel’s not really a piss-shit-puke kinda guy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What about knives?”

Tess gives you a wry smile. “No knives for the cheerleader movie. At least, not yet. We’ve still got three more scenes after yours, so who knows.”

She stops short in front of an open door and motions you inside.

“This is your dressing room.”

There’s a rack of flimsy cheerleader costumes up against the wall, bright blue with red accents. Cosmetic bags are spread across the counter, spilling out eyeshadow and tubes of lipgloss. It’s all a reminder that you’re not the first girl to come through here, not the star of anything. Not yet, anyways.

“You good to do your own makeup?” Tess asks

You nod, dropping your bag onto a chair. “Yeah, sure.”

“Try not to go too heavy. We’re playing the fresh-faced innocent thing here.”

You glance at the mirror, as if trying to catch a glimpse of exactly what she’s describing. It’s funny to think about yourself like that, the way Tess sees you. It feels like you straddle the line — too hard for your hometown, too soft for this city. 

“And here’s the script.”

She slides a stapled stack of papers over to you.

From what you’ve gathered, there isn’t much to the premise: a coach fucking his way through a cheerleading squad. But it’s not like anyone would be watching for the plot. Each scene had a loose sort of set up — stretching, showering, showing up late to practice. And they all end with a cheerleader taking a load somewhere the camera likes looking at.

You flip through the pages, searching for your scene. It’s noticeably scant on both dialogue and direction. The words “they fuck” appear more than once. 

When you reach the end, you look up at Tess. “This is the whole thing?”

“Were you expecting a monologue?”

And no. Not exactly. But you always sort of assumed these things were more structured. At least, you had hoped they might be. 

“There's no dialogue.”

Tess shrugs, “Most of these girls will go cross-eyed if we try to get ‘em to memorize lines. And nobody gives a shit what you’re saying anyways.”

A nervous coil twists in your belly.

“What if I say something stupid?”

“You won’t,” Tess says firmly, “I’ve seen your stuff, you’re a natural. And Joel will take care of you.”

That did nothing to ease your anxiety. You look away to hide the heat rising in your cheeks. 

A door opens in the hall, and Tess glances over her shoulder.

“Speak of the devil,” she waves someone over, “Come here a sec.”

There’s the head tread of boots down the hall, and then he’s there. Standing in the doorway. 

Joel fucking Miller. In the flesh. 

The subject of so many fantasies, so many wet dreams. How many times have you made yourself come to his videos? Hand between your legs, fingers drenched in your own slick, fucking yourself as he railed someone else on screen. You know the exact cadence of his voice, the way his breath hitches when he’s close. You could pick his dick out of a line-up.

And now he’s here, all broad shoulders and deep brown eyes. The tousled dark hair, the beard that is just starting to gray. The videos don’t do him justice. He’s painfully handsome, good-looking in a way that unmoors you, makes you feel small and sort of silly. Like a kid with a crush, girlish and inconsequential. 

You’re in way over your head.

“Hell of a place you found,” he says to Tess, and the low timbre of his voice scrapes through you. That familiar rasp, the heavy Texan drawl.

“Yeah, well, you want big budget, you go work for Spielberg,” Tess tells him, “This is what we call in vérité, asshole.”

Joel scoffs at her.

“That a fancy way of saying asbestos?”

Tess flips him off, then jerks her head towards you.

“This is your girl, by the way,” she says, “Lucky cheerleader number seven.”

His gaze finds you for the first time and it feels like you’ve been struck by lightning. His eyes are dark, a deep brown that doesn’t catch the light, that seems to go on and on. You feel the weight of his gaze dragging over you, giving you a full-once over before it slides back to your face.

You feel a familiar, anxious unease. That ache for approval. Did he think you were pretty? Was he disappointed? Or had he become numb to things like that. Maybe for him, sex was narrowed to its essential parts — aesthetics were irrelevant.

Joel nods once, then turns back to Tess.

“You got a room for me or was that out of budget too?”

“Second door on the left,” she tells him, “Extra roaches, on the house.”

He gives a sort of unimpressed grumble and heads back down the hallway.

You look at Tess, hoping that the heat in your cheeks isn’t too obvious. You want her to think you can handle this, handle him. 

“He always that friendly?”

“Pretty much,” she smirks, then pulls a tidy slip of paper from her back pocket, “Speaking of - here’s his rider.”

You look it over the list. Many of the same extremes you had included in your own. From everything you’ve seen, he isn’t much of a sadist. No biting, no scratching, no hickeys. Reasonable, assuming he has more scenes to shoot. Even if all you want is to sink your teeth into him.

You stop short on the last bullet point.

“No kissing?”

Tess rolls her eyes, “Don’t take it personally. He’s just like that.”

You try to think back, but you can’t recall seeing him kiss any of his co-stars. How had you missed that? All the hours you spent watching him fuck, and you hadn’t even noticed. 

You ignore the slight sting of disappointment. You wanted that — the scrape of his beard, the slide of his tongue, the taste of him. But you’re a big girl. You don’t need it, really. 

You’re going to get everything else.

x x x x x x x x 

The stupid cheerleader costume clings to you, the fabric flimsy and coarse. It doesn’t make you feel particularly sexy. It’s like playing dress up. But your hair looks nice, high in its ponytail, and you’ve done your makeup just so. 

You aren’t exactly some blushing virgin. But still — the idea of stripping down in a room full of strangers has you all riled up, anxiety thrumming through you as you hover at the edge of the set. 

No one seems to pay you much mind. The crew moves easily around you, cracking jokes as they adjust the lighting and clear the cables from the shot. Your scene takes place in the hallway outside the gymnasium, where you catch the coach coming out after practice. 

You try not to think too hard about the set up, the absurdity of it all. You feel the buzz of anxiety and excitement, the tangle of nerves, the taste of arousal already on your tongue. You stare down at the waxed linoleum, counting your breaths, waiting to get fucked in a room full of strangers.

“Well, look at you.” Tess’s voice jolts you out of your own head. You turn to find her giving you an approving smile. “You look like a wet dream.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Yours?”

She laughs, “You wish, kiddo. But every man in America is going to be creaming his jeans seeing you like that.”

You’re not sure what to make of that, to think of the eyes of every man on you. You’re mostly worried about the one waiting down the hall.

“Your mark is over here,” she indicates, “Joel’s going to enter from that door down there. Give us a couple lines to set the scene, then get to the good stuff. Easy enough, right?”

“Sure. Easy.”

Tess settles into a chair to the right of the camera. Everyone else seems to have found their places, the set quieting around you. You find your mark, white sneakers squeaking against the tile. The set lights heat against your skin, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.

“Let Joel take the lead. He’ll get you where you need to go,” Tess says, then catches the look on your face and asks, “You ready?”

You must look nervous. Unsure, out of place. Wide-eyed, waiting to be told what to do. The good Christian girl, always minding your goddamn manners. Saying your prayers, your pleases and thank-yous. 

But you’re not that girl anymore.

You straighten. Set your spine. Remind yourself that this is something you can do. 

Sex is easy. It’s a skin you can slip into. You’ve been tying cherry stems with your tongue since you were eleven, and by now you’ve perfected the art. You like playing the part: wearing the gloss and glitter, getting all dolled up just to get stripped down. It makes you feel powerful, being watched. Being wanted. Like you’re more than some soft kid from a small town. Like you’re someone who could mean something.

“Ready,” you tell Tess. 

She smiles and she sits back in her chair, giving the crew a once over before calling out — 

“Action.”

The door at the ends of the hall slams open and you jump, turning around to face Joel. 

He's wearing gray sweats and a t-shirt that stretches across the broad expanse of his chest. There’s a whistle around his neck. It should be ridiculous, but it is definitely not. You can’t think of anything less funny than the way he’s looking at you right now. 

“What are you doing here?”

His voice is rough, decidedly unfriendly. It’s the role, it’s exactly what was written in the script, but it still stirs a strange embarrassment in you. You shouldn’t be here. You’re going to get in trouble. 

“I, um -“ you swallow and start over, “I was looking for you.”

“Is that right?”

Fuck, his voice.  The low rasp of it seems to reverberate in your ribcage, stoking a flame that started burning from the first the second you saw him.

You nod, “I - I wanted to ask you something.”

You feel the scorch of his gaze against your skin, and when his eyes meet yours he looks pissed. You’re wasting his time. He doesn’t want you here.

“Practice is over. You got a question, you can ask me tomorrow.”

He starts to walk past you, like he’s going to leave, like he has better things to do. You speak before you know what you’re going to say.

“Some of the other girls were talking,” you say quickly, and he stops short. You have his attention, so you keep going, “They said you helped them. I was hoping you could help me too.”

He takes a step closer, and he towers over you. This is the closest he’s ever been. You can feel the heat of him, his skin sun-warmed and tan. You notice the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. 

“Help you with what?” he asks. 

You don’t know what to say. Everything you think of sounds too crass, too cringey. There’s nothing explicitly sexual about the scene so far; you can tell he’s waiting for you to take it there. To cross that boundary.

You take his hand in yours. His palm is rough, calluses catching against the soft pads of your fingertips. You draw his hand slowly down your body, his knuckles dragging across the thin fabric of your dress. When you reach the top of your thighs, you feel him tense. You hold him there, between your legs. Let him feel the heat of you. The want already burning in your core. 

“Here?” he asks, and you nod.

He cups you, his hand covering your whole sex. 

“Does that needy little pussy want some attention?”

You nod, and his hand moves against you, pressing hard against your clit. Even through the fabric, the feeling is intense. A whimper slips through your lips. 

And oh, he likes that. You can see the way his gaze darkens, his pupils blown wide with arousal. 

“Gonna have to ask nice,” Joel tells you. 

You feel tense — taught. A bowstring about to snap. You’re not above begging.

“Please.”

“Please what?”

“Please touch me.”

He grabs you by the hips, turning you, pulling you tight against his chest. You sink into the warmth of him, the scent of sweat and sun. You feel his hardness stiff against your lower back, already straining in his sweatpants.

Joel flips up your skirt, exposing the pretty lace of your panties to the cameras.

Oh right, the cameras. 

You almost forgot, so caught up in his gaze, the furious heat of his attention. But his eyes aren’t the only ones on you. You’re being watched. Your gaze skims the edge of the scene, sees the eyes staring back. You wonder if they can see the way you tremble, taught in Joel’s grip.

“You already wet for me?” he murmurs against your ear.

You tense slightly as he pulls your panties aside and dips his finger into your slit. You’re wet. You’re so fucking wet. It’s almost embarrassing. 

His finger drags through your slick, the heavy drip of your arousal. He groans against your neck, and his grip on you tightens.

“Fuck,” his teeth scrape along your jaw, “You’re soaking. All this for me?”

“Yes,” you pant, “All for you. Just for you.”

“Poor baby,” he coos, his finger ghosting over your clit. You flinch, the feeling almost overwhelming, “Sitting through practice with your panties soaked. You just wanted some attention, huh? Wanted me to play with you like all the other girls.”

He presses hard against your clit and you gasp, writhing in his grasp. You’re already so close, on the knife’s edge of it. You just need a little more, just the tiniest bit of friction —

But then he’s gone, stepping away. Palming himself through his sweats. His gaze is dark, burning, but he still looks so composed. 

“You’re gonna have to earn it,” he tells you, “Get on your knees.”

You felt almost dizzy, overwhelmed with arousal. You know that you’re wrecked already, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and shining. You can barely catch your breath.

“You heard me. On your knees.”

You don’t wait to be told a third time. You drop to your knees, feel the cool linoleum against your bare calves. You position yourself beneath him, folding your hands in your lap. Waiting for instructions, waiting to worship at the altar of the man above you.

Joel rubs the outline of his cock through his sweatpants, his eyes tracking over you. 

“You gonna be good for me?”

You take that as permission, reaching out and carefully tugging down the sweatpants to release him. The thick length of him slaps up against his belly, fully at attention. He’s big. You knew that already, had admired the size of him in so many of his tapes. 

But it’s different now. Almost overwhelming. The tip of him flushed red and angry, already weeping. Your mouth waters.

You look up at him from under your lashes and he nods. Go ahead.

Your hand wraps around him, marveling at the way your fingertips barely touch. You stroke along his length, feeling the silky warmth of him, the heat. You squeeze softly at the tip and precum beads at the slit. You lead forward quickly, tongue darting out to taste him. 

Joel groans above you, tangling his hand in your hair and tilting your head up. 

“Mouth open.”

You open obediently, sticking your tongue out. 

“You gonna let me fuck your pretty face?”

Pretty. The word stirs something low in your stomach. He thinks you’re pretty.

He slides inside your waiting mouth. He stays shallow at first, gliding across your tongue, wetting himself with your spit. His forehead is furrowed in concentration, dark eyes fixed on yours. 

Fuck. Arousal burns in your core, heavy and molten. You know you’re soaking through your panties. You want so badly to touch yourself, but he hasn’t told you to. You want to be good. Want to impress him, show him how well you can play your role.

“This what you wanted?” Joel grunts, “Got jealous of me fucking all those other girls. Wanted some of me for yourself, huh?”

You moan around him. He’s just playing his part, but fuck if it doesn’t strike a nerve. You were jealous of all the other girls in his videos, had wanted so desperately to be in their place. But you hadn’t known it would be like this, the want so powerful, so overwhelming.

He pulls you back, holding your head away from his cock. It shines with your spit.

“I want to hear it.”

You look up at him, eyes wide, chest heaving. Barely able to catch your breath, to form words through the haze of arousal.

“Yes,” you pant, “I wanted you. Wanted to taste you. So bad.”

Joel makes a satisfied sound, tapping the head of his cock against your lips so you open again. He presses back inside, the salt and musk sliding heavy over your tongue.

He picks up his pace, his cock kissing the back of your throat with each stroke. He holds your head steady, ponytail wrapped around his fist, keeping your mouth in place as he begins to fuck your face.

Your eyes water, but you stay put. Letting him use you, chase his high, press deeper and deeper into your throat with each thrust. Spit pools at the corner of your mouth, dribbling over your lips and down your chin. 

“Fuck, look at you. Being such a good girl, such a good hole for me.”

You whimper, his words going straight to the heat between your legs. 

He presses you down until your lips are wrapped around the base of him, your nose buried in the dark curls there. You’re surrounded by his scent, struggling to breathe. You can feel him down your throat.

He groans, low and guttural. “Jesus, fuck.”

You gag and Joel pulls out, a strand of saliva trailing between the tip of his dick to your lips. You fight to catch your breath, blinking back tears as you stare up at him.

His jaw has gone slack, and there’s something new in the heat of his gaze. His hand cups your cheek, feeling the flushed heat of your skin. His thumb traced over your cheekbone, down to your mouth, running over your spit soaked lips. 

“So good for me, baby. You feel so goddamn good.”

He slips back between your lips, pressing deep. You dig your nails into the flesh of your own thighs, fighting against your gag reflex. Tears spill down your cheeks, mixing with the spit dripping down your neck. You choke and he pulls out, letting you catch your breath.

“Taking it like a champ. One more time.”

Joel presses forward again, forcing himself further down. His hand moves down to your neck, and he gives it a careful squeeze, feeling himself in your throat. You gag, but he holds you there a second longer, letting your throat flex around him. He groans as he pulls out.

He uses his grip on your hair to pull you up, pressing your back to the lockers that line the hall. There’s a new sense of urgency in his touch, a kind of fervor. He grabs roughly at your breast, thumbing your nipple through the fabric. You arch into his hand, craving his touch.

“So desperate, baby. You like this? Like me using you?”

He runs his hand along your body, over the swell of your breasts, across your stomach. Feeling the way you tense and tremble for him. He reaches beneath the hem of your skirt, and his hand meets the sticky slick of your inner thighs. You’re fucking dripping for him. 

“Jesus Christ,” his eyes move over your face, taking in the flushed cheeks and tear tracks, “Show me.”

You fumble for your skirt, but he’s already tugging the uniform up and over you, impatient. He balls up the cheap fabric and tosses it aside, leaving you bare and aching for him. Only the damp scrap of your panties between you. His fingers skate along the band of them, inches away from where you need him.

“Shit,” you gasp, hips bucking involuntarily, “Please.”

You expect him to fuck you then. It feels like he might, the length of him hard against your hip, slowly rocking against you, dragging spit and precum across your stomach.

Instead, Joel lowers himself to his knees. His hands skate up your thighs, thumbs hooking under the band of your panties and dragging them down your legs. You stand above him, fully exposed, your skin flushed and feverish from his attention.

He takes your thighs in hands, carefully coaxing them apart. His eyes go dark as he stares at your wet cunt. Your swollen clit, skin damp with slick. His palms slide up to your burning core. His thumbs drag up your lips and pull them apart, exposing you — to him, to the camera, to the room full of strangers. But you can only see him. The way he’s looking at you.

He leans forwards and spits.

His thumb moves up to rub your clit, mixing his spit with your slick. A whine slips through your lips.

“So pretty, baby,” Joel mutters, voice low, “Got you all worked up, huh.”

He begins drawing tight circles over your clit, finally, finally giving you the friction you so desperately need. You bite your lip, nerves sparking, already close to overstimulated. He drags your wetness down to your entrance and slides two fingers deep inside you. You both groan at the feeling. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.”

His fingers are so much thicker than your own. His knuckles rub against your inner walls, hitting you exactly where you need him. His thumb drags over your clit with every stroke.

Your legs begin to shake. He hooks his free hand around your calf and lifts your leg, hitching it over his shoulder. You lean back against the lockers, letting him hold you up like this, keep you open.

“There you go.”

His fingers drive deep up into you, thumb grinding against your clit. Your hips move against his hand, chasing the feeling. His gaze stays fixed on your cunt, focused on the way you grip his fingers, your arousal dripping down his wrist. He twists up into you and scrapes against a spot that makes you see stars. Your breath catches in your throat, you’re so fucking close —

“Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

His eyes flicker up to meet yours, and then tension inside you releases all at once, snaps and sends you hurtling over the end. Heat flares inside of you and your cunt clenches around his hand, walls rippling as you ride out your orgasm. Joel works you through it, his fingers keeping a steady rhythm inside you. 

You struggle to catch your breath. Trying to remember what’s supposed to happen next. 

But Joel's eyes haven’t left you. He looks up from between your legs, roving over your body, taking it all in. The flush on your chest. The faint sheen of sweat. The slick shining at the apex of your thighs. 

“Fuck, that was pretty,” he murmurs, real quiet. Too low for the cameras. His thumb ghosts over your clit and your body jerks in his grasp, already so sensitive. 

“Want you to give me another one.”

You open your mouth to respond — to say what, you’re not sure. You feel unfocused, television static fuzzing your brain, scattering your thoughts. 

“Can you do that? Can you come again for me?”

Joel presses harder against your clit and you choke on a moan. 

“Yes,” you whine, the words catching in your throat, “God, yes. Please.”

There’s a gleam of approval in his eye.

“Good girl.”

Then he leans forward and licks a broad stripe over your dripping cunt. You flinch at the sudden intensity, thousands of nerve endings lighting up at once. His grip tightens on your thighs and he holds you steady as he buries his face between your legs. 

His tongue slips through your soaking folds, lapping up the slick that has gathered there. His mouth moves hungrily, devouring you, drinking you down. His beard scratches along your sensitive lips, sending little shockwaves through you. Your hand shoots out, tangling in his hair. He lets out a low groan of approval.

You can feel your second orgasm building, sparking up your spine as he scrapes his teeth carefully across your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter and tighter, everything inside you drawing taught. No one has ever made you feel this good, nothing has ever felt like this.

Joel slides two thick fingers inside, sucks hard at your clit, and you’re gone. 

Your vision goes white as you clench down on him, coming hard, your orgasm ripping through you in a way that’s almost painful. Joel’s tongue catches your sweetness as it spills from you, tasting you from the source, letting you soak his face.

When you whimper at the overstimulation, he pulls away, beard shining with your release. His eyes are so dark they look black, pupils blown wide with lust.

He slides out from under your leg, standing and keeping you steady with a hand on your hip. He drags his damp fingers across your flush skin, over your stomach, between your breasts. Up to your mouth, swiping across your bottom lip.

You hold his gaze as you wrap your lips around them, tasting yourself, licking him clean. You’re panting when he pulls away.

He gives you a long look, chest heaving, the heavy scent of you on his breath. 

“Gonna fuck you now,” Joel murmurs.

You feel his cock rub up against your belly, and you look down to where it’s trapped between your sweaty bodies. He thrusts against you, smearing precum across your stomach. 

You bite your lip. He’s so big. And even though you’ve had him in your mouth, all the way down the back of your throat, you’re overwhelmed by the idea of all that inside of you. 

Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and it’s like he can see what you’re thinking. He thumbs over your cheek. Almost affectionate.

“It’s alright. We’ll make it fit.”

Joel turns you around, hands sliding over your waist. He drags your hips out so that you’re bent over, exposed, breasts flush against the cool metal of the locker. His hand smooths down your spine, forcing you to arch for him. You feel his fingers drag through your folds, teasing your entrance.

Your breath catches as his head presses against you, the weeping tip parting your lips. You brace yourself, cheek pressed against the metal, looking over your shoulder as he finally, finally slides inside. A moan tears itself from your throat at the stretch, the way your walls flex around him. 

He fills you in one slow stroke, until his hips are flush with yours, cock kissing your cervix. You’re so full you can barely breathe. It’s like he’s everywhere all at once, choking the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck, baby,” Joel growls, “So fucking good. Gripping me so goddamn tight.”

He sounds almost as wrecked as you feel, voice low and hoarse. His fingertips dig into the meat of your hips, holding you tight to him. You can feel yourself bruising beneath him, but you don’t pull away. You want him to mark you, to leave something of himself behind.

He gives you a second to adjust, then pulls back, almost all the way out. The slow drag of him is excruciating. You whine when he thrusts back in, nails scratching against smooth metal, struggling to catch your breath. You can feel the way your walls grip him, clinging to the hard length of his cock as he takes you in long, deep strokes. 

“That’s it,” he grits his teeth, “Taking it so well.”

All you can do is take it, barely holding yourself up against the locker, letting him set the pace. He increases the speed of his thrusts, his hips snapping against yours. The sound is filthy, wet and wanton, the slap of skin on skin. 

He gathers your sweaty hair in his hand, pulling your head back, baring your throat. His teeth scrape against the sensitive skin there, and you keen, high and reedy. You’re already so fucked out, unable to focus on anything but the slide of him inside you, slick and raw. 

He lifts your leg, exposing the place where your bodies are joined, where your sex is stretched so obscenely around him. His hand slides over your stomach, down between your legs, to where you’re still so raw, soaking wet. You cry out — it’s too much, way too sensitive — but he’s relentless, fingers rubbing hard against your overwrought clit, wringing a third orgasm out of you. 

“Good girl. Good fucking girl.”

You shiver through it, feel the weak flutter of your cunt around his cock. His arm wraps around your waist, holding you up. You can tell he’s close, the way his body draws tense, how he crowds even closer. 

“Look at me.”

He cups your jaw with his hand, tilting your head back, angling it so he can see you. Your eyes are glassy, tears clinging to your lashes. Your spine bows in a delicate curve, and all you can feel is him. The hand on your face, the one at your hip, and his cock driving deep, deep inside you.

His jaw goes slack — that expression you’ve memorized, the one you know means he’s close — but his eyes stay open this time. He stares down at you, brows furrowed, his hips stuttering through the final few thrusts, and then he’s coming. He pulls out at the last second, spilling over your skin, streaks of thick cum painting your pussy. 

His hand is still wrapped around your jaw, thumb pressed against your frantic pulse. You stay like that, breathing hard, gazing up at him. 

“And cut.”

You blink. It’s like coming back to yourself. Everything is suddenly in sharp focus. You feel the floor beneath you, the sweat cooling on your bare skin. The sticky tack of his cum over your aching cunt, slipping down your thighs. 

Joel releases your leg, steadying you before stepping away. His touch feels different now. Formal, almost. Perfunctory. He doesn’t quite meet your eye as he tucks himself back into his sweatpants.

He looks so composed, like he hasn’t just fucked you within an inch of your life. You’re suddenly conscious of just how naked you are.

“Great job, guys,” Tess says, stepping out from behind the camera and passing you a robe. You slip it over your shoulders, tying the front, tucking yourself away. Even though everyone had already seen everything, your nudity now stings with a kind of self-consciousness, a strange obscenity. 

Tess is saying something, and you have to shake your head to refocus on her.

“Sorry, what?”

Your throat feels raw, stripped from sex.

“Statement of consent,” Tess repeats, pointing, “Straight into camera.”

“Oh, right.”

Your knees are shaking, and Joel’s semen is slowly dripping down your thighs. Your pulse hasn’t slowed, still racing beneath your skin. You’ve barely had a second to catch your breath.

You make eye contact with the camera lens.

“My name is —“ you start, but cut yourself off with a breathy laugh, “Shit, sorry. My name is —“

A fresh wave of giggles overwhelms you. You feel giddy. Freshly-fucked and freer than you have in your whole life. You manage to gasp out your name before biting down on your knuckles, trying to suppress the laughter.

Joel glances at you. 

You struggle to pull yourself together.

“Right, sorry. I consented to, you know,” you wave your hand, “Everything.”

Tess gives you an amused look.

“Good enough for me,” she says, then claps her hands together, “That’s a wrap, everybody.” 

There’s a general shuffling as the crew begins to move, striking the sparse set, packing up the equipment. Tess turns away to speak to one of the grips, and you linger at the edge of the hallway, unsure of what to do with yourself. 

You feel raw, every inch of your skin oversensitive. There’s a tenderness between your legs, bruises ripening on your hips, but nothing hurts. It’s a good kind of sore. You lean into it and find you like it. You search yourself — for shame, for regret — but find nothing but a low hum of satisfaction, the pleasure that still pulses through you.

“You did good.”

You look up sharply and find Joel watching you. You feel yourself flush, the blush rising high on your cheeks. Which is ridiculous, after everything. After he’s touched every soft and secret part of you, laid you bare and made you come undone. 

But still, you blush.

“Thanks.”

Joel’s expression is unreadable, but the earlier intensity is gone. He’s just looking. 

You feel like you should say something, anything, so you stammer out, “You too. I mean. You were — that was. Thank you, for that.”

Stupid. What a stupid thing to say. But you think you see the corner of his mouth twitch up, the faint suggestion of a smile. He opens his mouth to say something else, then seems to think better of it. 

He gives you another, slightly stilted nod, then turns back down the hallway. And there’s a funny sort of feeling low in your stomach, a longing. You want so badly for him to look back at you.

But he doesn’t.

x x x x x x x x 

author’s note: this fic is pro-sex work and anti-patriarchy. i do not believe in the exploitation of female bodies for male profit or entertainment. capitalism is evil and all men should die. xo

umm,...... um

guys I can explain,,,, guys- guys please

huh.

life leads you to the weirdest paths sometimes.

anyways.

only @spaciebabie gets to see the spiciest version of this drawing by the way.

they know.

1. Yes they have to fight, 2. Tell me who’s fighting who in the tags! (I’ll add the most ridiculous combos in a reblog)