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There’s a man on your land. It’s not yours, you shouldn’t call it that, but there’s a man you do not know, here, with you, leaning against a wall as you tug down sheets your father set out to dry last night. It’s midday; you’re a shut-in. That’s not the problem is, your father spoiling you isn’t either, the problem is that there’s a man you do not know of, on the land that isn’t yours, but knows you. Gaia knows you. This man is not the Goddess of the Land. So, you stall, not like a deer caught between headlights, but having heard human feet crunch- no, boots that humans wear with their rapacious, greedy needs, seeking you with a shotgun, wanting to shoot a deer and use up its life. You are content wasting away; your father is content with it, and you are more than content listening to his laments only for this share of the life you want to live. Solitude: you want solitude, and you do not have it here. You have anxiety on two long legs wearing a suit. Where is your father?
As if hearing the sheets, not rustle, but stop rustling, he looks back over to you, on another’s building peering into yours. You drop the sheet and run into the house, locking the door. Foolish? Absolutely. Childish? Only the youngest age of a toddler. But are you alone now? Yes, even with your heart thundering like a stampede’s ground, even with the eyes you can still feel on you, calculated, pedantic, experienced, and grey-browned eyes. He’s… hot.
And besides that, he’s also outside where you have left the laundry you promised your father you’d take in long before midday, but you wanted to sleep in and you are your father’s only child, only living relative. He understands you want to waste away, to lie in depression and have no one pick you up. He understands you think too much for your own liking and how you will find your way once he dies, no matter if he thinks so or not. He’s young though; and so are you, so you do not worry about anything but the laundry. And that hot man outside. Waving a hand in front of your hot face, heated like from the steam of drained water, you tug at your dress’s v, the soft and stretchy brown cotton not so much aiding in your cool down as making his face reappear, over and over again, from the soft touch of the fabric on your thighs, your thighs against each other, your hands just a bit too shaky as one touches the side of your waist. Yeah, maybe being in your solitude was actually more of a hindrance than you wanted to admit, but you only need to worry about the laundry, not that hot man, or how hot you are.
Dreadfully, there is a knock on the door you just entered, just slammed shut in your haste to keep the thoughts of him away, of you in your just-woken-then-frazzled state. It’s your father, you know it by the knock, but still, you wince at the notion that a, there’s a sheet that needs rewashing, and b, the man has left. Taking a breath, you let your knuckles smooth over the heights of your cheeks, letting your palms fall onto the skirt of your dress and wash away any of the sweat that’s accumulated in your heat of the moment. With your hand finding the doorknob, you open the door, hiding behind it a bit as you weaponize your tongue to make your father ignore the mess you didn’t take care of. Might be able to refuse to as he laments your whining most. Spoiled is an understatement, you are loved, cared for. “Father-” With your brows raised in the middle, a pout already sprouting like the buds you water on the windowsill, you find the man there, head tilting to block the heat of Helios.
Hot blades of mellow shine around him, his face angular but soft, exhausted even with the sun’s brightness, and his head is covered by an old headband seemingly. He stands there, in front of you, and you more than shy behind the door, less petulant as you are abashed by knowing another stranger, besides your fellow nosy neighbors, parse your bratty behavior. Blinking once, a flutter of your lashes and a drowning of your tongue in the forgotten words to your father, he hums, “Is this your residence?” Your bottle lip wobbles for words, eyes dragging down to the ground as you shake your head. “No?” You swallow, shutting your eyes and calmly relaying to the stranger, cheeks heating as the water boils again. Makes to spill and burn you: your thoughts, you mean. “No, my father is the owner of this house.” He weighs his head again, entertained almost, no, pedantic. He knows what he’s doing; you hate being easy to read. “But you do reside in it now.” You nod again, still unable to keep much eye contact while he makes sure to keep his flittering eyes on yours. “Yes; he is out on a job.”
He hums. “A hunter, right?” Your eyes dart up to his; he knows more than just your countenance. “Why do you ask?” He lets his face be kind, lets his face maneuver from his cheeky facade to a soft understanding. “I am an old friend of his. I was wondering if I could come in while I wait for him.” You need to do the laundry, pick it up, but your home is tiny, your home is piquant, so you let him in. You let him in because you are just fucking horny, and you aren’t a hunter, you aren’t your father, you have desires in solitude, desires solitude can’t reach. With a creak of the wooden floorboards from his entrance, you shut the door behind him, letting your hands find the cold handle and singe you in headily. You turn on your heels as he stands there, letting your hand gesture to the table a bit away. “Please, sit and I’ll give you water. It’s fresh from the springs.” He sighs in thanks, pulling out a chair that scrapes against the old boards; you crave for more from here, crave for something good that he doesn’t feel ashamed in being in. No, that you don’t. You like your solitude, but Gods would you like someone else to like it too.
As the water decants into the thin, translucent glass, you take it with both hands to the man sitting down, natural in the space you refer to as your own, as your father leaves and returns each time with you stayed curled with your books and fantasies of nothing more than monotony. You wish for nothing more than the man before you. Offering it to him, he takes it, letting his fingers, long and thick, boned and muscled, tickle against your own stretched around the glass. You take a breath as nominal as you can, your touch’s taste of skin that’s not of you, that’s a part of this humanity of the globe. You know he knows your countenance is as thin as the glass, is as see through as it, as fluid as the water in its state. So, you let your hands shakily brush against the comfortable cloth you wear. He takes form it, letting it graze his full lips and make his throat swell with the liquid, that bob of his bone, his tongue darting to his bottom lip. He doesn’t stay sitting for long, and you look to where the glass lands, on the edge of the table, right teetering between safety and normality. “You seem a bit preoccupied in your mind.” You swallow. “In my mind?” He weighs his head. “Don’t you have a guest n your… lands. Shouldn’t your attention be on me?” You look up to his eyes again, a bit darker, his countenance maybe, nominally, a bit as yours, a bit easy to read as yours. With books, you think he’s easy to read.
Your lips part, and you swear your heart jumps to your tongue. “Deviate.” He leans into your presence. Quirking a brow, he confirms your thoughts of him being of an easy read. The easiest. “I am?” He’s indulgently, haughtily pedantic. “Then why are you looking at my lips-” And you kiss him for it. Say fuck him with your lips on his, your tongue tasting what humanity you can find in the memories of his words in his mouth, mixing with your own. Knowledge isp assed between you two this way, you swear, with his hands more so, with your hands finding his shoulders and pulling him into you, down into your lips with his still wettened with water, that liquid clear and calming and freeing as you rink from his fountain of memories. You feel his hands slide against your sides, your dress adjusting to him just as you always will, as you’ve always dreamed of, reached down between your thighs and never were able to quite find it. He does, letting you wrap around him, your body pushing into him as he lets you, lets you move into his being like you do your solitude, shocked into the house with a thumping heart, a heart between your lips that smooth against his own, one hand moving to cup your cheek, to let his fingers groove against the skin and glide you into him when walking. His legs between your own, his back turning as his hand slips up the dip of yours. He gently touches you, but rapaciously, unlike boots in their bloodthirst, but quick fingers like yours in their deep desire for satisfaction.
It’s gentle even as your rump comes in contact with the table, face moving against his, but his hands quick to raise you onto the table, letting them dig into the clothed flesh just so he can guide you against his front, his groin with a sigh of a groan, his lips plumped, bruised with yours and all the saliva of words never said, of actions threading through the words. He doesn’t part, rather choosing to shove his head into yours, bump your face away so he can trail wetly down your being, first swiping beside your cheek to your jaw then licking and letting his teeth graze against your neck, his hair tickling you as you move to finger his thick strands, breathing out need as he finds the sensitive divot of your neck. Your fingers tug at the knot of his headband, whining when it takes more than a moment to be removed, cascade down to the floor. You greedily pull at his roots, letting your eyes act as sponges to his beautiful fluid looks. He shows desire in his rouged cheeks, in his wettened and bitten lips and his panting breathes.
You tug at his suit’s jacket, his being getting closer only after removing it, letting you fumble with his top buttons whilst he tangles with the bottom ones, headily meeting yours in the middle and pushing them aside as he leans back to tug off his shirt. Free and bare and not even a bit chilled with the hot sun-drenched atmosphere, he leans into you, moving his hands back to your bottom, only to tug your dress up from the length it provides, the coverage, before the thick straps on your shoulder are gone, and you are left in your loose cotton panties. He lets his breath hitch when met with the sight between your legs, still clothed but Heaven-high because he is a man of Gods; he’s driven between your legs be a Gods-given desire, purpose, by a need as he tugs them apart and up, nominally ignoring the catch of shock in your voice. He moves too fast, but with so much fervency, you do not bid him too much mind. You feel his breath one the drenched cloth, and you will never care.
He looks up at you, his body hunched, maybe awkwardly uncomfortable, but he’s uncaring as he moves down your body, laid on the sturdy wooden table you eat on, and he devours you first with his eyes, almost pleading, not so much servile as they are devoted. He breathes, intoxicated, suffocated of air even if your legs are loose in his hold, his hold tight on you like the control of your hands on a book. “Forgive me for I will die without at least one taste of you.” Your hand, shaky and unfamiliar for so long with this desire, unless on pages to your shaken eyes of information, you thread a few fingers in the loose strands of his hair. “You’re forgiven, my deviate.” He eats you on the table you eat, this man is in your land, diving into it as you garden to your plants, and you can imagine more of this, of this desire. If he were to rest under you by the windowsill and bathe between your thighs, a leg perched on the kitchen counter whilst he grips and tugs at your flesh. Or here, now, pages to prints of his grip, his fingers tugging the cotton aside for your pussy. His fingers dig into your thigh, his shoulder shoving your other. Nothing is getting between him and the meal before him, his breath fanning once, shaky, before he dives into you as a man starved.
It’s an art when it’s him, it’s a passion, it’s a destiny as he licks at you, slow at first, one stripe, one flick, one moan, groan against you and you swear a tear shed from his eyes as he whines for more of you, laments as you’ve never heard, know to respond to before. Your hand loses his strand quickly, threading through his hair before it becomes too much to even hold, to even focus on his now-rejuvenated face, brows furrowed in focus as if he were on a mission like he should be known for, and his tongue is as dexterous as his hands with your skin, digging into them because this is his mission, sloppy and tantalizing. His tongue is wet, hot, parting through you and taking all of his fill, piling every bit of his saliva into you, moving his hand up to shove your thigh away, to let his fingers graze against your mons pubis, to graze and pat against your sensitive, soft nub. Your chest heaves, your stomach rolling as you arch back, fall against the table. You can feel the split of his smirk but pay no mind for the damage he does to you for his pleasure, damage necessary like burning grass for more to grow. You will do more than grow here, you will burgeon into the nubs of flowers on the windowsill.
You open your eyes to see them and note one’s in full bloom like you are about to be. Auspicious. Your eyes shut again, tight as something slippery slides deep into you, stretching you and letting your squeeze down on the deft muscle of pink and heat, making you hotter and hotter by the second, even his prints, calloused and matched with the Earth’s design of nature, heat you until your core is the Earth’s temperature. You feel it build, feel the softness collide with an unrelenting force of nature, sweat and slick dripping from you as you tense, look over to him as he continues, letting the water fall from you, ebb in sweet tufts down his messy lips, his throat bobbing yet again in that attractive, necessity of this man unrelentingly book-bound.
As you look to his eyes, it’s as if his starving has been satiated, but he is greedy, he is filling his cheeks so much that he refuses to relent, and it’s then that you realize the glass to his eyes, the whine of a door pried from him as you try to push at his being, try to not feel the twitches in your being, the heat pooling in your core, an onslaught from the one before. It’s too much- too much. But he doesn’t hear you, he doesn’t find you entertaining, as necessary as your pussy, his tongue diving in yet against and playing with you like a meal he will never end. He finds purpose in it, and you give note to his own hand between his legs, grinding down on the bulge as he gets his fill. It’s hot, and you beg, you plead, you whine as you do so spoiled and so kempt to solitude of your own, finding another to enjoy it with you, desire it like you’ve always wanted, to let himself inside of you. But he tugs, he pulls, he pushes, he pressed as much as he can into you, ignoring his need between his legs when you fuss, you move, you twitch, you lift yourself away from him. He tugs you, a jolt to the table subsequently, to his mouth, a greedy lick to your clit, pulsing and twitching and growing in sensitivity as he pulls yet another orgasm for you, though this time wetter, this time as Earth-quaking as you feel, wracked with pleasure, and wresting with the desire to breathe but the lust to continue.
He stops gently, kisses up your body, a bit sweaty and all the messy, and he as this smile on his face, pleased not only with his self, but pleased with the taste of you. Drunk. He is drunk on you. Deviate is not for him; a fairy tale is. Kissing one cheek, he breathes, “You are the sweetest dessert I crave all day. The only craving, and I wish to do it again, if I can.” He kisses your other and you let your led-boned hands find his biceps, his hands massaging your hips. You moan out a promise, “After you cum in me.” His brows furrow and he groan intensely, letting his head find your neck as he whines, “Fuck, you make me insane.” You huff, finding a little energy return to you from his desire, his holy desire. “This can be your treatment, then.” He huffs, pulling away only as much as he needs to undo his pants the upmost necessary amount. “Next time, definitely.”
You giggle, light and fluffy like the sweet you need to bake, letting it wrack through you just as your cum did, only this one energizes you as you tug him back to you by his bicep. “Fuck me as you ate me.” He breathes a breath of desire again, one that wracks through him as he slips into you, and you feel it twitch, feel it split you open like his tongue did, only thicker, only it feels like a puzzle piece in the center, a picture-perfect sensation wracking through you and him. You can feel his lust strangle him, his head now on your collarbone, and you can feel the dig of his mark on your slick skin, your toes curling as you wrap them as much as you can around him. He lets you, digs himself into you with so much control, so much softness that you think you’ll melt before he can even cum.
Your back arches, nudity against nudity, nipples and skin of sweat, albeit your skin is softer, slacker with fulfilled tension than his with tense fulfillment. It’s a nice contrast though, makes your hands grasp at every morsel of his muscles, at the flex of his back, letting your nails graze against him, make him shiver, to know this man you have not seen has come into you with a request you can fulfill, will cum into you with a request you both share, a desire you both carve with your teeth. You can feel every ridge od him, the fulfillment that suffocates your throat as he bumps his hot, sticky tip agaisnt your spot, your gummy spot that kisses his as his words kiss your lips. “Feel good?” You moan your approbation and kiss him. He moves, he fucks- he fucks you sharply, tugging his dick out of you and then slowly letting it slide in, bumping against your spot, and then the tension builds until the band snaps, his hips snap against yours and he mutters against your lips praises you’ve missed, mutters with sweat beading his thick hairline.
You feel your body shake with his thrusts, with his desire as he humps, digs into your flesh, his hands on your hips, then moving to grip at your waist, the outside of your thigh, his words finding your ears as he pushes deeper and deeper becomes more erratic and builds you up, making sure you cum onto him, from him. It’s possession that grasps him here, that haughtiness that will never leave with tease. He ebbs with you, flows with you, finds every bit of you in every bite of him, so when the table shakes, it’s because he loves you, because this isn’t a man you didn’t know, it’s a man you love, and loving is knowing. And he knows to touch you gently, to swipe his thumb between your bodies and let your back arch off of the table, shock coursing through you as you find your flowers again, his tongue poked with his teeth in determination. He swirls it, raises himself to thrust into you at an angle. All you feel is fullness, all you feel is sharp calculation, experience with your body, pedantic haughtiness. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you, he sings it in his touches as he lets the table rock and the water spill when you cum, when he spills into you, when he wants to feast on you yet again because he’s deep in you, deep in you and deep on you, hugging you up into him with his strength and your pliancy. You feel the love fill you up and spread deep inside of you, make you extra warm and extra sweaty because you’re too spoiled for chores, you just want your brain numb from him, not the world.
When you take a breath, head resting on his shoulder, you note his smell of laundry, his thumb rubbing circles on your lower back and pressing you against him. He’s twitching a bit, and he’s yet to calm down his rager, but it’s never just on round with you two, you both know each other too much for that. You are each other’s missing puzzle pieces in one another’s puzzle. The only pieces that matter You swallow; throat parched from his own lips. “You know,” you barb, “these fantasies you flesh out of me are very delicious after your long missions.” He hums, and you pull away to whine as he bites right back, “Better than the books you read?” “Chrollo!” He squeezes your sides as you pull back, keeping his grip on you steady to make sure you’re okay; to selfishly take more of you like you like him to.
You look into his eyes, rejuvenated. “When’s your next mission, again?” He weighs his head, still flitting his eyes between yours. “Not for a long time.” You smile, leaning up to him as you mutter, “Good, because I know of something you can do with your time.” You can feel his grip find your thigh, grip the flesh like before only with more fervor, now sealed with a promise of eating more of his fill. “Oh, yeah?” He leans against your lips with the question, his brow arching and eyes lively. You smile against, mere moments from his lips, massaging his shoulders as you elucidate, “Yeah, the sheets outside. My father’s coming and he’s expecting the guest bed, now make haste, Loverboy~” He huffs a chuckle. Pulling away with his eyes still on yours, not your lips, he comments, “Deviate. Tease.” There’s a man that parts from the land, but not for long. Never long for you.