#deuce smut

It began in the most stupid way possible - foolish, mundane, almost laughable in its simplicity.

A sleepover. An ordinary rite in your shared companionship, woven from countless hours beneath cheap blankets and whispered secrets in the deep hours of the night. A ritual, banal in its familiarity, yet somehow destined to become the crucible in which something irreversibly human would be forged. Ace kissed you - hungrily, shamelessly, like a man condemned by his own appetite, feasting at last upon the fruit he was never meant to touch. His lips pressed against yours with the urgency of one who had starved for too long beneath the tyranny of restraint. He gripped your waist with trembling hands, not in gentleness, but in the desperate way one clings to a dream fading at the cusp of morning.

And Deuce... sweet, earnest Deuce. He sat paralyzed, a silent witness to something sinful and dirty. A crimson flush crawled up his neck, painting his cheeks with the color of shame, of heat, of something he could not name - only feel, like a fire he dared not feed. His wide eyes flickered between the two of you, as if torn between fleeing and reaching out, as though he too had been kissed, but only by silence.

The catalyst? A trifling provocation, a careless remark from your lips: a tease, an accusation flung lightly into the air - that Ace had never known the touch of someone, had never crossed that most irreversible of thresholds. It had been said as a playful thorn... and yet it struck him with the force of prophecy. And so he acted. Not to prove you wrong, but to make you his. To etch himself into your memory, not as the fool, but as the flame. What is it in human nature that turns innocence into provocation? That takes the fruit from the tree not because it is ripe, but because it is forbidden?

Perhaps it was fate. Perhaps it was the inevitable collision of souls too reckless to resist gravity. But whatever it was, it was no longer innocent. The sleepover was dead. In its place, something else bloomed - lush, radiant, and aching like a rose pressed in a book, forever marked by the day it was torn from the living vine.

The second boy lingered at the edges of the moment, simply watching, wide-eyed and silent. His gaze now floated adrift in the storm of bodies before him: Two souls - his closest companions - intertwined not as friends but as lost souls. They moved with hunger, with feverish need, like beasts unchained. Flesh against flesh, mouths breathing fire into mouths, and gasps echoing like sacrilege in a chapel.

But Deuce did not flinch. He did not flee.

He should have. He should have turned his eyes away, pressed his palms against the sockets and begged for the innocence of blindness. But instead, God help him, he stared. Entranced. Possessed. He felt it then, like a serpent slithering through his veins: the call of sin. That ache blooming beneath his ribs. He felt wrong. Unclean. But above all else, he felt alive. Like something dormant within him had stirred and begun to claw at the inside of his chest, demanding to become.

And so he stepped forward.

Ace’s lips, still wet with your kiss, parted - perhaps to speak, perhaps to mock, perhaps to offer him a way out. But Deuce denied him the chance. Without words, he reached, trembling, and claimed what he could no longer only watch. Their mouths met in a clash and Deuce’s hand gripped Ace’s jaw with a desperation that bordered on violence, as if terrified the moment would shatter before it became real. Their kiss was not beautiful. It was chaotic, frantic, and terribly human. Tongues tangled like twin flames in a storm, and the boy's shoulders shook with the weight of everything he had never allowed himself to feel.

This was not how love was taught. This was not how friendship was meant to evolve. And yet, it was truthful in the way all taboos are - truthful like pain, like longing, like a scream muffled beneath silk. No words passed between them, for none could bear the weight of what had just occurred. In that tangled breath, three lives became something new - threaded not by reason, but by a primal desire to feel the heat of their bodies pressed. Perhaps they would never speak of it again. Or perhaps, from this night forward, they would never speak of anything else.

Futons lay askew like the aftermath of a forgotten battle, card games abandoned mid-play, their scattered pieces bearing witness to the unraveling of innocence. The hearth was cold, and the night air slithered through the cracked windows, curling around bare skin like the breath of a ghost. Shadows trembled against the walls, cast by the flickering candlelight that dared not shine too brightly - ashamed, perhaps, of what it was about to illuminate.

There was no ceremony to it - only trembling fingers and the sound of buttons surrendering one by one to the slow cruelty of desire. Pajamas fell away like dying petals, each layer peeled back as if to reveal the soul beneath the flesh. Deuce’s mouth found yours with growing confidence, as though he were learning to pray through sin. Your hands - once used to hold cards - now traced the lines of his body like an artist committing holy blasphemy onto flesh.

And all the while, Ace watched. Not with horror. Not with jealousy. But with amusement, like the devil perched at the edge of a confessional, savoring every forbidden syllable. His voice broke the silence like a match to dry paper - playful, taunting, yet heavy with the knowledge of what had already begun to bloom between the three of you. “Well, aren’t you two generous?” he drawled, reclining. “Eating each other up and leaving me out of the fun?”

He wasn’t angry. He was tempted.

There was something unholy in the way he looked at you both - something that suggested he, too, had crossed an invisible line, not with his hands or lips, but with his gaze. He lingered at the border restraint, a voyeur by choice… for now. 

You laughed. A soft, crystalline sound - too pure, perhaps. With grace, you shed the final veil of modesty, peeling the fabric from your upper body as though casting off an old skin. The candlelight caught your bare chest like a painter’s dream - luminous, offered. There was no shame in your exposure, it was as if you were an altar upon which sin itself had come to kneel.

You didn’t speak, but your gesture said it all. A beckon. A silent invocation. You summoned Ace with nothing but a look - a flicker in your eye, a tilt of the chin - and he came. Not as a boy, not even as a lover, but as someone guided by lust. He approached from behind, his breath already trembling with anticipation. His lips brushed your cheek with the worshiping of a priest at the threshold of sacrilege, before trailing lower - down your throat, to the hollow where pulse and his lips meet. Each kiss left a promise behind, as if to say: I have waited lifetimes for this moment. Still, Deuce did not move away. His hands, loyal and trembling, remained on your waist like iron chains - binding you, steadying you, even as the world began to shift beneath your feet.

And then you felt it. Ace pressed closer, his body flush against yours, and there - against the small of your back - you felt the rising evidence of his desire. It was not obscene. It was inevitable. Like the pull of the tide. Like dusk chasing the sun. His hands, once playful and teasing, slid down your torso in a slow descent, as though mapping the contours of a temple long forbidden to him. He reached your belt - and there, he paused - just for a breath - and then he unbuckled it.

Your trousers were cast aside, falling somewhere among the chaos of discarded cards and crumpled fabrics. And there you lay, your form stretched across the futons like a fevered vision from an erotic painting, draped in the ghostly pallor of the moonlight. It was hardly the ideal place for such an act - Ramshackle held better rooms, softer beds, quieter corners. The sofa stood just within reach, the bedroom but a stairway away. But none of that mattered. Not now. Comfort was a forgotten god. In that moment, you were governed by no logic, no forethought - only by the ache that bound the three of you. The idea of movement, of distance, of patience - such things were buried beneath the pounding rhythm of blood and breath.

Your body, reclined and unveiled, sprawled among the rumpled blankets like an offering left at twilight. Skin kissed by the futons, chest rising and falling with shallow gasps, you were no longer a person - they saw you as a moment made flesh. An invitation. A temptation. They were consumed, driven by a need so raw it stripped away every thread of civility they had ever worn. You watched as they followed - stripping away not only clothes, but hesitations, identities, masks. There was no Ace, no Deuce - only two terrible hungry men, desperate to be closer. To be inside the mystery that your body had become. They joined you in your nudity as if shedding their former selves - worshippers kneeling at the feet of desire incarnate.

At last, after what felt like an eternity of kisses that blurred into rotten flowers and touches that danced upon the edge of unforgiveness, a threshold was crossed. Deuce entered you - slowly, deeply - as though praying for a God who denied him for so long and, finally, had his wishes granted. The moment felt holy in its own corrupted way. Your body yielded with a grace that could only be called divine, opening for him like dusk surrenders to night, quiet yet inevitable. 

His head fell back in rapture, the muscles in his neck taut as he exhaled a moan that tore itself free from his lungs like confession from a trembling sinner. The heat, the pressure, the sensation of being enveloped by you - so tight, so warm, so utterly alive - rushed through his veins like a sacred fire. Your walls gripped him mercilessly, pulling him deeper with every shudder, every breathless shift of hips. He was inside you, and yet more than that - he was lost within you, swallowed by a place where identity dissolved and only need remained.

In between thrusts, Deuce looked toward Ace. Their eyes met - one wide with wonder, the other gleaming with something darker. Perhaps Deuce sought grounding in his friend’s gaze, something to remind him that he was still tethered to the real. But what he found only stoked the flame already devouring him. Because Ace was watching you two with unashamed delight. His fist wrapped around the length of his own arousal, stroking with languid hunger, like an artist lost in his own masterpiece. His breath came fast, chest rising in tandem with yours, his eyes heavy-lidded yet vivid with sacrilege. And when he noticed Deuce’s gaze upon him, he did not shy away.

He smiled. And in that smile, there was an invitation. A trinity had formed - not of saints, but of sinners bound by the sweet ruin of desire. Three hearts tangled in firelight and moans, painting something obscene and sacred across the worn floors of a crumbling dormitory.

With eyes glassy and cheeks flushed, you opened your mouth - not to talk, but to offer him a tempting invitation. The sight of him - so brazen, so unrepentant in his pleasure - sent a thrill down your spine like the tolling of a distant bell at midnight. There was something beautiful in his shamelessness, in the way his gaze burned with hunger, unclouded by guilt. That hunger called to you, and your body, obedient to desire’s cruel logic, answered.  Ace paused only for a fraction of seconds, stunned by the sight of you kneeling in such submission.

He stepped forward, one hand in your hair, the other curling at your shoulder. He pressed himself past your lips, into the warmth of your mouth, into the wet dark where breath gives way to silence. And then he moved. His hips rolled forward, cautiously at first, then with the rising desperation of a man tasting heaven only to realize he could never stay. His breath caught as he disappeared deeper into you, inch by inch, until your throat bloomed around him like a reluctant flower, soft and quivering beneath his thrusts.

You gagged - of course you did.

Your body reeled from the intrusion, lungs gasping as the rhythm overwhelmed them. Crystal tears slipped down your cheeks, not from pain, but from the beautiful violence of acceptance. You blinked through them, never looking away, your gaze meeting him. Ace groaned above you and the sound vibrated through your skull like thunder on stained glass. To be taken this way… by him… was both agony and bliss. He was your friend and your confidant - and now, in this moment, he was your ruin. But still, you stayed open. You let him use you - not out of weakness, but out of want.

Deuce’s rhythm faltered and what began as steady movement soon unraveled into something wild. His hips collided with yours in a rhythm that no longer followed reason, only instinct. He clung to you as though the world beneath him was breaking apart and only your body could anchor him to reality. His breath hitched with every motion. His skin burned against yours, slick with sweat, his moans caught somewhere between prayer and plea. There was a tremor in his movements - the kind that only comes at the precipice of ruin.

He was close. You felt it. And he knew it too.

He chased the edge without shame, driven by the overwhelming swell of sensation that turned thought into ash. His hands grasped your hips, fingers bruising, as if afraid you might slip from him before he was ready to let go. But he was ready. His body betrayed him - those final thrusts turning uneven, clumsy, sloppy. And then he broke. A shudder, a strangled gasp - and the warmth of him spilled inside you, filling you with that quiet aftermath that only true pleasure leaves behind. He buried himself deep, holding you there, pressed against your body like he wanted to carve himself into you. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, breathless and wordless, as if the very act of release had emptied him of language.

You had barely drawn a breath, still trembling from Deuce’s release, when Ace withdrew from the depths of your throat with a gasp and a low groan - flesh slick, breath ragged like a storm at sea. He said nothing. He offered no warning, no gentleness - only the raw, instinctive culmination of a moment that had been simmering in the dark corners of his heart for far too long.

His pleasure spilled forth in a sudden burst, painting your face with his climax - hot, sticky, and unceremonious. It struck your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. You flinched, blinking hard as the warmth clung to your skin like a sacrament given without consent. Your expression twisted, not with true anger, but with a delicate blend of surprise and mild exasperation. Eyes closed, you reached for your cheeks, fingertips grazing the mess he’d left upon you, as if confirming to yourself that, yes - he had done that. With no hesitation.

And yet, how could you stay angry? Even in his selfishness, even in his vulgar delight, there was something endearing about Ace - something boyish and tempting that you just tasted. You gazed up at him through tear-glossed lashes and streaks of his release, your mouth still parted, not in shock but in amusement to the absurd beauty of what you all had become.

Ace Trappola.

Deuce Spade.

Jack Howl.

Epel Felmier.

Sebek Zigvolt.

-----------------------------

Sub! Deuce who has no stamina, he's never done this with anyone else before!

Sub! Deuce who is telling you it's too much before you've even started

Sub! Deuce who whines and babbles that he can't take it until you put your fingers in his mouth and he plays with them like the obedient little puppy he is

Sub! Deuce who gets louder the more you praise him, who moans so sweetly for you even through the tears you know he hates

Sub! Deuce who sniffles and asks you to kiss him, repeatedly pleading your name until you do

Sub! Deuce who needs comfort while you rail him because he was right, he can't handle all this affection! Please remind him how much you love him, he'll keep coming hard for you as long as he can.

Sub! Deuce who can't form words anymore as you play with his cock while he's already shooting blanks

Sub! Deuce who cries again when he can feel your cum leaking out of him after you pull out. Who pouts but can't move while you clean him up afterwards. He came so much more than you did, why can't you let him keep it?

All posts will be written as gender neutral as possible.

The event will end as soon as all the characters have run out of letters.

Characters

Fem riddle🌹 C D F W

Fem trey♣️ K M O T U

Fem cater♦️H K V X

Fem deuce♠️ F K M X

Fem ace♥️ H K V X

Letters

A-Aftercare(what they're like after sex)

B-Body part(favorite body part on there partner)

C- Cycle(would they have sex on there piereid)

D-Drty secret(a dirty secret they have)

E-Experince(how experienced they are)

F-Favroeit position(what position do they like the most)

G-Grooming(how well groomed are they what do they smell like)

H-Hands(how skilled are they with there hands what do they look and feel like)

I-Intimacy(how romantic are they in bed)

J-Jobs(how good are they at giving a hand job and would they)

K-Kink(one or more kinks thay have)

L-Lingerie(what kind of nightwere do they have)

M-Motivation(what gets them going)

N-No(what will they not do)

O-Oral(do they like receiving or giving)

P-Place(where they like to do it)

Q-Quickie(do they like doing them in what situation)

R-Risk(are they a risk taker or do they play it safe)

S-Stamina(how many rounds can they go)

T-Toys(do they like using them what kind do they like)

U-Unfair(are they a tease or are they nice)

V-Volume(how loud are they what kind of sounds do they make)

W-Wet dream(how often do they have them what are they about)

X-X-ray(what do they look like under there clothes)

Y-Yearning(how high is they're sex drive)

Money is the idol of this age - the tyrant that moves the hands of kings and beggars alike, that sets the world to its ceaseless turning. With its glimmer one may summon laughter to their halls, purchase nights of revelry, even conjure the pale likeness of affection. Yet what is bought is never consecrated. Such affections are phantoms, pale spectres destined to wither as the roses that bloom too early in frost. For love, when forged in deceit, decays like flesh in a tomb; it crumbles, foul and inevitable, beneath the weight of its own falsehood.

Deuce knew this truth as if it were etched into his bones. He stood unlike the princes and heirs of Night Raven College, whose tongues spilled promises wrought of silver and whose hands, heavy with jewels, offered treasures that gleamed as if eternal. He had no diadem to press upon your brow, no estates to pledge at your feet. What he bore was poorer, yet purer: a devotion that burned with the quiet suffering of a candle. And yet, it was this humble flame that seared you both. His love was not adorned with ornaments, but raw - so raw it bled. At times it shattered you, as though his tenderness were too human, too fragile for the cruel architecture of fate. It was a love that cut even as it healed, like a rose whose beauty cannot be plucked without the sting of its thorns.

He kissed you with such care that it seemed not the touch of mortal lips, but the fleeting brush of a butterfly upon a flower too exquisite for this world of decay. His gaze, steadfast and wide with awe, clung to yours as though you were some divinity cloaked in mortal flesh, a sacred vision poised to grant him benediction. In that look was neither lust nor vanity, but an adoration born of suffering and of hope. Deuce was no poet, no sculptor who could hew his heart into marble, nor painter who might set his soul upon a canvas. He possessed no lexicon of sonnets with which to clothe his affections. Yet in his silence lay the very truth that men of letters often betray: if love could be defined, it would not be by words, but by the trembling of his hand in yours, the adoration in his eyes, and the ache in his kiss. For if there were such a thing as love uncorrupted - love unpurchased, unornamented - it lived, fragile yet eternal, in what he bore for you.

His hands cradled your jaw with such exquisite tenderness that it seemed the very gesture of how a lover ought to touch - gentle, as though fearing to mar what is sacred. He drew nearer, with the fervor of one starved for closeness, and buried his face in the hollow of your neck. There, he lingered, breathing you as though your very essence were the air his lungs had long been denied. The fragrance was like a spell - vanilla wreathed with the memory of pressed roses, mingled with the ineffable warmth of your own flesh. It was the perfume you anointed only in rare, special moments, brushing it behind your ears, upon your wrists, as if you had crowned yourself with the scent. To him, it became a scent eternal, indelible, belonging to none but you. He would have known it in darkness, in ruin, even beyond the grave.

His hands, worried yet devout, slipped beneath the veil of your garment, skimming the hidden skin that had never before known another’s worship besides his. Each touch was prayer made flesh, awakening in you a shiver as though his very palms carried the chill of eternity and the fire of desire at once. There was nothing profane in his gesture, though it longed for more - it was love itself, raw and so real, clothed in the frailty of human hands.

To cease kissing you was an impossibility, for your lips bore the sweetness of forbidden fruit, a nectar too intoxicating to abandon. His mouth was drawn again and again to yours with the desperation of an angel tasting sin, salvation and damnation in a single breath. Your eyes, luminous as twin diamonds kindled beneath moonlight, held him captive more securely than chains of iron. He thought them jewels beyond the wealth of kings, relics more sacred than any gem guarded in cathedral vaults - for in their brilliance lay all eternity, and he, unworthy, was yet permitted to behold them.

Amidst the fever of your entwinement, garments surrendered to impatient hands. Buttons, one by one, fell undone, like shackles cast aside at the threshold of freedom. With each piece of cloth discarded, you were unburdened of the frail decencies that sought to bind mortal flesh in modesty. At last, what remained was you - bare, save for the delicate lace that veiled your form with more cruelty than mercy, a detail of concealment that made your beauty the more unbearable. And in that moment, he beheld you as one might glimpse an angel stripped of celestial raiment - a vision meant to be worshiped and feared alike.

His face came to rest upon your breast, finding the sanctuary denied at him all his youth. His lips wandered there, planting soft kisses,and leaving behind faint bruises - marks not of cruelty, but of an ardor so pure it could not remain wordless. They bloomed upon your skin like violets pressed in the pages of a book: bruises born of love, not violence, fragile testaments to the sanctity of flesh when cherished. Your hands traced his form, the body that a god too cruel had carved. It was firm, tempered by discipline, yet scarred - a witness to the follies of his youth. Once, he had been a boy pretending to be a man, a delinquent. He bore wounds of that era, both visible and secret, the remnants of a self that sought power through defiance and found only emptiness.

Yet now, in this moment, he was remade. Manhood had come not with fists, but with the gentleness he now placed upon you. He had learned that true strength is not in destruction, but in restraint, the courage to be kind when cruelty would be easier. And so, he touched you not as one who sought to conquer, but as a hopeless romantic who feared to profane the altar he adored. When his hand descended at last to the final veil that clothed you, it was not with the hunger of possession, but with humility.

Deuce’s hand descended, each touch capturing a syllable in a language sacred and perilous. His fingers moved so slowly, sliding into you as though afraid to profane what was holy, and stretching you with the patience of one who builds a chapel stone by stone. He watched you so closely, just like a scholar who has devoted his life to the study of truth. Your body’s shivers, the trembling of your breath, the unbidden sighs that escaped your lips - these became his guide. Each reaction was weighed, cherished, and committed to memory, so that he might shape himself not as master, but as servant to your pleasure.

In that moment, all his rough beginnings, the scars of a boy who once mistook recklessness for strength, were transfigured. Here was no delinquent, no violence, but a man reborn in gentleness. He sought communion, devotion… true love. 

Another kiss, burning and tender, was pressed against the curve of your neck, even as his own body betrayed him - his desire straining, aching with a hunger that could no longer be denied. In his face you read both torment and longing, the desperate plea of a man corrupted by love and need. With mercy, your hand descended, finding his genital - heated, trembling, marked with the silver sheen of desire already spilt. As you touched him, his breath broke into unguarded moans, sounds so pure in their vulnerability that you felt your own restraint begin to crumble. You bit your lip, imagining what it would be to draw him into yourself, to feel that aching length buried within, granting you a pleasure so fierce it seemed to border on the profane. That vision was a delight so intense that angels, veiling their eyes, would turn away in sorrow or disdain. Yet you, mortal and flawed, reached toward it without fear - for to crave such an act was to embrace the very truth of your humanity, fragile and lust-bound, yet unashamed.

Deuce’s gaze sank deep into the radiant gems of your eyes, searching there with a silent plea, like he was asking wordlessly if he might dare trespass. Your answer was a smile - soft, unguarded - and the parting of your thighs, as an invitation. He drew a steadying breath, the weight of the moment pressing upon him, and placed himself between your legs. He guided his length forward, pressing gently until he was enveloped within you. The sensation struck him like thunder clothed in silk - too fierce, too exquisite, nearly breaking his control. In the warmth and tightness that closed around him, it felt as though heaven and earth had collapsed into that single instant, and he, trembling, stood upon the edge of the end of the world. He nearly spilled then, lost in the middle of the sweetness of your body’s embrace. Yet, he mastered himself, forcing the tide back, for he knew this moment was not his alone. You were his maiden, his beloved, and in his heart lay a promise: not merely to take, but to give. To offer you pleasure as proof of love, to ensure that your body sang with the same rapture that threatened to consume his own.

Though the years had bound you together, he had never become a master of the carnal arts. His thrusts were unsteady, his rhythm faltered and his body betrayed a desperation he could scarcely conceal. Yet in those imperfections dwelled a beauty far rarer than polished skill - for his eyes, wide and earnest, carried a love too vast for his mortal frame. How precious it was to witness him - this man who once blushed at the mere thought of speaking to women - now striving with all his heart to make you feel as though Eros himself had descended, weaving ecstasy through your veins. You found yourself struck by its sweetness. There is a charm in clumsiness when it is guided by genuine love, a grace more enduring than artifice. And sex with him always ended the same: with both of you unraveling together, bodies surrendering to one another, until his soul melted into yours and climax came like a shared melody.

The rhythm of your union slowed, the echo of hips colliding growing softer, until you understood - he was holding himself back, fighting the rising tide of his own desire so that you might linger longer in delight. That fragile act of sacrifice, written in the aching flame of his body, stirred a tender smile upon your lips. With mercy, you leaned forward, claiming his mouth in a kiss - not as plea, but as absolution. There was no need for him to deny himself, no need to carry the burden of restraint as though his only purpose were to serve your own needs. In that kiss you told him the truth: love is not measured in endurance, nor in the denial of joy, but in the shared breaking of flesh and spirit together. Lips pressed to lips, you gave him leave to fall.

Freed by your benediction, he yielded. His movements quickened, desperation conquering restraint, until at last his body betrayed him, shuddering with a violence too sweet to endure. His ecstasy tore through him like a storm through fragile glass, and he spilled himself within you, panting. Convulsing, his gaze fell to the ceiling above, searching for heaven in the throes of his mortality - finding it not in angels, but in you.