#(thank god bc he would not know what to say if he had to say something)

[lilybug-02]

❤️🌸🌼 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞…. 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟏 🌼 🌸 ❤️

To get questions out of the way, yes, The Chara Timeline Comic will not be continuing… (mostly)

I started this comic back in November of 2021 on the simple idea of "What if Players possessing humans was normal?". I didn't think it would go beyond a simple page, but it did. It was an idea that blossomed into a 3+ year comic, spanning hundreds of pages, side art, fanart!!!, new blogs, and led me to meeting some of the sweetest and brightest Tumblr people I have ever met. ✨❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜✨ (I’m gonna shout u out eventually 😈)

But, I was doing this COMIC on my OWN and in my free time while juggling college, serious mental health issues, and many crazy life events.

So after so many years, I think it's finally time to put this comic to rest. I grew out of my Undertale and Deltarune love months ago and I am ready to look forward to other projects and interests. (Now... I am open to drawing more for it...but I am okay with telling the world the full story in case I don't ,:))

Because this comic means the ABSOLUTE WORLD to me... I want to give it a last hoorah! I am making multiple parts to this because I want to do my comic justice. ❤️🧡💛💚🩵💙💜

I will be going over my favorite art, scenes, characters, deleted scenes and more. And at the end of it all I will go over what the finale would look like and give you guys some art of that :)

First off...MY FAVORITE SCENES!!! (and my thoughts on them)💕

The Beginning:

Still have this saved in my files, thank god. Man... my art has improved so so much!!!! Gone are the playdough hands and strange proportions! Though my faces and consistency always need work.... haha. I'm surprised how colorful and pretty this first page is :) It makes me happy to see it in a new light.

My Favorite Darkworld Page:

I put hours upon hours of work into each page (especially for the colorful Darkworlds), but none still makes me hold my breath as much as the first introduction of The Mayor! I loved drawing the perspective and colored background motifs in this page. And the way the emotions are on full display ~ Chefs Kiss. (I also loved the "Let's shoot out the lights" metaphor being a double entendre. Representing the Mayor's wants to kill/get rid of light-ners and also the term being an old saying for "completely dominating one's opponent" as he want's Kris to join him in his dastardly deeds.)

Backgrounds:

I put my heart and soul into the backgrounds of this comic. I hid details like eyes in walls, moss covered plateaus, spoon shaped rocks, tea kettle inspired trains, hidden characters, and wayyyyy more. Some of my favorite backgrounds have to be of the more subtle ones. But I’m very proud of the detailed ones like the computer.

Silly Kris to Chara Talk:

This one scene (part 8 and 9, which was 12 pages) took me 5 months to make. It was hell. But I did it. The script took me FOREVER to figure out. I have like 4 different drafts of this scene (which I'll show later). I was exhausted and a bit deflated at the time, so I wasn't as proud with it. I'm happy now, but I feel like it could have been easier to make. I'll never know.

All of the Weird Route:

THIS. I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS.🩸💔 I would love to say this is the magnum opus of the comic, but I am being very biased. Horror is my specialty and I was ecstatic when I made the decision to write and draw the weird route for this comic. The idea of having a THING control your body to kill while you’re conscious of your actions is a great horror concept and I loved delving deep into it. Obviously, I feel like some of the writing could have been more worked on (like the part where Chara is explaining HOW soul entities control the body) bc it's confusing, but I'm still so happy with it :) And even if I didn't finish the main one, I finished the weird route. So I made a conclusion somewhere!! (even if it's hella morbid lol)

Darkworld Train Fight:

I had been hoping to make this scene since week ONE of the comic. An epic train fight in a Wild West themed Darkworld? It was perfect! And I also really wanted to have a reference to the Alaskan Bull Worm 🪱🧽 from Spongebob for some reason. Because Sandy Cheeks (the squirrel) is Texan and somehow that all connects back to Rodger the Worm haha. I thought it would be fun, but it took me forever to figure out how the worm and train would combine in a fight scene. In retrospect, I think i spent a little too much time in the darkworld, as it took time and energy away from a more tight-knit story, but hind sight is 2020. 💖🚂🚋🚋🚋🪱

Shaker Sisters:

Just look at them. They are actual baby.

Chara's Crashout and Eventual Talk with Asriel:

This idea of Chara yelling at the Mayor was originally just one page of Chara making an offhand comment about how he was annoying. But it turned into a much more impactful, story changing moment. I wanted to highlight Chara's intensity and why they might have been labeled as "not a good friend" in Undertale. They have anger issues. They are unapologetically blunt. They are anxious and critical of their self worth. They echo their past abusers onto themselves and others and they believe they are justified in their actions. But Chara is human and I wanted to respect them as such.

...I also love Chara being silly <3 (That ice cream took 3+ hours to draw) 😭🍦🍪

Asriel Being Cute:

I just think this one drawing looks cute :)

Chara Finding Kris:

I love drawing comedy and this was no exception. I wanted it to be equal parts horror and funny. Chara's "F*Ck" being cut off is so funny to me 😭 And the horror of a literal Human organ just floating up to you?? Peak dark humor. I also think I nailed the panel layout here 😊

Kris' Confession:

These are my FAVORITE pages out of the ENTIRE COMIC. I feel like the writing, art, and scene layout is as flawless as it can be. I'm still shocked at how well it turned out. They were also a blast to work on ❤️

Silly Azzy 🥺 Face:

I knew people would love his droopy face, but literally so many people liked it, it became a meme. Thank you. I also think it's the funniest thing ever.

A Moment Between Friends:

I love Asriel and Chara's relationship in this comic. They care for one another so much even when they don't see eye to eye.

Breakfast:

This one panel took me 4+ hours. The perspective is wonky and there are 5 different characters. But man do I love how it turned out. Susie is chowing down on those detailed pancakes (yes, those are human and monster pancake faces :) 🥞🥞🥞).

Chara Kicking Stones:

idk why but this one panel scratches an itch in my brain. It’s detailed and colorful :3

The 7 Humans:

I guess we’re getting to some of the last pages I’ve done…. I’m really happy with this one. It’s spooky but gives a sense of intrigue. I also love the layout. Also Also- Frisk’s shirt is a reference to that one submarine guy from the Titanic movie. Idk why, but the happy face with a bullet in its head just fits the vibe.

[concretejunglefm]

bestfriend!noah thot that has been brewing in my head for soso long

reader telling noah she’s never had sex even tho she has preached to him every which way about how her ex bf would fuck her any chance he got and noah being respectful thanks her for her honesty despite her lying withholding information (bc that’s a big thing to admit yknow)

she tells noah that she had always wanted him to be her first so that’s why she made up the lie in the first place but noah’s her best friend how could she just say that!!

then noah offers to be her first and…….. sigh yeah

hi bb I went for a real soft approach on this one, I hope you don't mind and you like it 💕

CW: smut including unprotected sex (p in v), first time, virgin!reader, soft and fluffy vibes/talk, light fingering (f receiving), confessions of love, best friends to lovers vibes.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“I was wondering… would you like to go to prom together?”

Noah had been contemplating asking you for nearly two weeks, ever since the posters advertising the school prom began coating the corridor walls, but your pause—between his question and your answer—caused him to hastily clarify something far from the truth, something that didn’t reflect how he really wanted to go with you.

“As friends.”

He didn’t get the chance to go with you—not even as friends.

Lately, you’ve been having these conversations more often. Gentle topics, approached lightly, but Noah knows the inevitable is coming—the kind of discussions you’ve both danced around, avoiding with careful footwork. A practiced tango where neither of you misses a beat.

And it’s in this rhythm that Noah’s confession finally slips free.

“When I asked if you wanted to go to prom together, I meant it as more than friends.”

Saying it aloud now sounds almost ridiculous. To admit the fear he felt in your delayed response, how that silence twisted in his chest, forcing him to blurt out ‘as friends’, like it didn’t splinter something deep inside him. No, you weren’t anything more than friends by label, but the way you look at each other—God, it tells a different story.

Back then, part of Noah had dreamed of walking hand-in-hand with you. Dancing together beneath whatever dollar-store decorations the gym had that year. That version of prom never happened, not as friends, and not as anything more.

But now, he’s determined to make it right.

It’s been less than a week since Noah brought it up. You honestly expect that he may have forgotten—but in truth, what he needs is time to prepare.

When you arrive at his, he banishes you to his bedroom with firm instructions: change into what he’s left for you, and don’t come out until he knocks. You attempt to peek over his broad shoulders as he directs you, stealing a glance past his larger frame to the multitude of bags spread out across the living room.

“What do you have planned?” you ask, brow arched.

His answer is firm—an instruction, giving you nothing. “Upstairs. Now.”

Stepping into his bedroom, you softly close the door behind you. Before you can even snoop around for a hint of what he has planned, your eyes catch on a large box laid out on the bed, finished with a ribbon and a card tucked beneath it.

You trace your fingers along the ribbon before slipping them beneath and retrieving the card. Tentatively, you open it, reading the soft inscription: No prom date is complete without a dress.

Tears press at your waterline, and you do your best to blink them away, but it’s opening the box that truly steals your breath.

Resting atop a folded dress is a white and red corsage made of delicate carnations. A soft sob catches in your throat as you reach in and gently lift it, stroking the petals before your eyes fall to the red dress beneath it.

You unfold it and hold it up against yourself, marveling at the sight. It’s a near-perfect match to the one you wore back then, but how Noah knew, you have no idea. He’d dropped out of school before prom came around, focusing on his band while you had your date—your first official boyfriend. Things only grew further apart from there, until recently, when your breakup seemed to pull you and Noah back together.

When you step in front of the mirror after slipping the dress on, you blink back tears long enough to really look at yourself. You’re not seventeen anymore—you don’t feel like a girl playing dress-up in something fancy, but the way your heart pounds in your chest, the butterflies swirling in your stomach,  it makes you feel it more than ever.

You honor Noah’s request and wait. You don’t leave the room until you hear his knock, and when you do—he’s changed, too.

His suit is slick, charcoal grey—the only one he owns, but it fits. A white and red carnation, matching your corsage, is pinned to his lapel. You’re not the only one losing your breath, because the second the door opens and he lays eyes on you, his is gone too.

“You look… wow. Wow. Oh, wow…”

A heat blooms in your cheeks and you drop your head, shying away, but he reaches out, his hand gently finding your cheek, guiding you to look back at him. His eyes lock onto yours, and he can’t stop smiling, he doesn’t think he ever will.

You look like you belong in a movie—like the kind of sight people write songs about, and maybe he will write one about tonight.

“Can I?” he gestures toward the corsage in your hand, taking it before you have the chance to answer. He slips it onto your wrist, and the brush of his fingers against your skin makes your heart skip a beat. You almost dare to believe you’re dreaming—until his fingers slip between your own, guiding you down the hallway and stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs awaits your first cheesy prom tradition: photos. The backdrop is a constellation sheet he found at Goodwill, which hangs a little crooked, but the effort makes it perfect.

“Say cheese,” he instructs, slipping behind you and falling into generic poses as Bryan takes a few snapshots. It takes until now to realize you’re not entirely alone—you can hear faint chatter coming from another part of the house, the living room, which has been blocked from your view. You imagine it’s the rest of Noah’s friends, and when he leads you into the main room—the now-transformed living room—you see them all hanging around, dressed in suits or their own versions of prom attire.

His living room has become a starry dream—more middle school dance than high school prom, maybe, but it’s magical anyway. Fairy lights sparkle, tinsel glimmers from every corner, and glow-in-the-dark stars blanket the ceiling and walls. Noah’s stuck them anywhere he could reach, and he’ll be finding them for weeks—but it’ll all be worth it for this.

“A night under the stars,” he says, grinning nervously. “It’s cheesy, right? You think it’s cheesy.” He panics before you even get the chance to speak, but the look on your face silences every fear.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a question.

You take his hand, and he pulls you close, your body melting against his. Over his shoulder, you spot Matt—semi-dressed-up with an open shirt over a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—controlling the music. He switches it to something slower and softer.

Georgia, wrap me up in all your… I want ya in my arms Oh, let me hold ya…

Your hand finds Noah’s chest, palm flat over his heart. You can feel it—strong, steady, racing. You move effortlessly with him, a soft, swaying rhythm that matches the hum of the music, the lyrics washing over you both like waves.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks before you realize they’ve fallen. Noah pulls back just enough to see you, and the sight of you makes his breath catch—like the world has narrowed to just this moment.

This is the memory he had wished for a thousand times before: dancing with the love of his life at eighteen. The chance you never had back then, but here, now—it doesn’t matter anymore.

He holds you like you’re everything, and he’s never loved you more.

I would never fall in love again until I found her I said, I would never fall unless it’s you I fall into I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her I found you.

This is everything your prom should have been—and so much more.

When Noah leans down and dares to kiss you, it’s everything he could have ever imagined and yet somehow more. Your lips are soft and warm, and you make a gentle hum in response, as though you’re lingering in it the way he is. His heartbeat, thrumming in his chest, matches the rhythm of your pulse racing beneath his hand as he cups the side of your neck, holding you close in the embrace.

For a moment, you linger. You don’t say a word, just sway to the music, his forehead resting against yours. Neither of you dares to break away too soon, to fall back into reality.

It’s you who breaks the spell first, a soft confession slipping from between your lips.

“I always wanted you to be my first, you know. After prom… I thought that…”

You don’t finish the sentence, you know he can draw the conclusion of what you had anticipated. Even if Noah had suggested going as friends, you held onto the hope that it meant more—that prom night would change your friendship forever into something better.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be.”

You hear it, there’s a faint hint of something in his voice, as though there’s genuine sorrow over not having been that person for you, and while you would have chosen to hold onto your words longer, you can’t stop them from tumbling out in one breath.

“You still can be.”

Noah pauses, pulling back to gaze down at you. His face twists, and for a moment, you think he’s going to be upset with you, but as quickly as the thought comes, his shoulders relax, his features softening—as though he understands without you needing to explain about why you lied—or rather, why you never corrected any assumptions he’d made about you and your previous relationship.

“Do you really mean that?”

You can’t quite pinpoint it, but it looks like relief that washes over him. Like he’s happy to know your ex never had you in the way he clearly always wanted to, and while he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s exactly what he’s thinking.

You nod—slow, but sure and he meets your mouth with another kiss, whispering softly, “We’ll take it at your pace.”

That’s all you need—his assurance, the tenderness in his words that allows you to fall into him even further.

Everything is at your pace. It’s you who takes Noah’s hands and guides him out of the ‘prom’ and up the stairs to his bedroom. You who starts pushing the suit jacket from his shoulders, your fingers tentatively trailing along the buttons of his shirt. When his mouth meets yours again, it’s soft and warm, and it sets off fireworks behind your eyes. This kiss is more intense, more devouring, more devoted than the one you shared downstairs.

It’s you who can’t hide your hunger for him anymore—no longer shying away from how you feel. You’ve held back for too long.

Piece by piece, you strip off your clothes until you’re falling back onto the bed together, Noah slotted between your thighs, both of your chests heaving with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his fingers delicately gliding across your skin, following the curve of your hips before they tickle along your stomach—making your body arch instinctively toward him.

“Yes…” you breathe, your fingers threading into his hair as you guide him back down to meet you. Your mouth finds his in a slow, gentle kiss, and the moment his hand slips between your thighs, a moan escapes into his mouth. His fingers circle your clit, teasing over the sensitive nub, and your hips rise instinctively, pushing closer to him.

“Noah…” you whimper, tugging at his hair. He smirks against your lips before trailing kisses along your chin, down your throat, pressing soft, reverent ones to the front of it. You’re sure he’s about to say something teasing about patience, but instead, he covers your skin in kisses, whispering the sweetest nothings—words that have your toes curling before he’s even inside you.

Beneath him, you raise your hips, trying to coax him closer, your skin tingling from the heat of his body and the way his throbbing erection presses against your thigh. 

“Please…” you whisper, breathless, your nails dragging down his back. Then you hear the soft rustle of foil. You reach for his hand, stopping him. “No, please—I want to feel you. I need to feel you inside me, Noah. Please… please, baby.”

The way you say ‘baby’ sends a surge of heat through him, pulling a trembling groan from his throat. Your pet names sound sinful and sweet when they fall from your lips like that, especially when you’re in this state—desperate, vulnerable, utterly his.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throat, then trailing back up to yours. You answer with a soft, affirming sound, your eyes full of need.

The condom he’d been fumbling with is tossed aside, forgotten, as he slips a hand beneath you, cradling the back of your thigh, while the other wraps around his cock, guiding himself to you.

The press of his tip against your slit draws out a soft, needy sound from your lips. Your hips buck against him, your body craving him, aching to be filled. Slowly, he begins to sink into you, and a deep groan escapes his throat as your head falls back with a sharp gasp, followed by a moan that fills the space between you.

“How does that feel?” he whispers.

You clench around him in response, pulling him deeper, and he twitches inside you with a shudder.

“So good,” you whimper—and it does feel good. Incredible, in fact. It’s overwhelming and perfect all at once, like he’s sliding home to where he truly belongs and it’s a sentiment Noah shares, because nothing has ever felt so fittingly right as being wrapped in you, like this.

“I’ll start slow, okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, grounding you with a hand at your waist, cradling you close. “Okay?” he presses again, waiting for your answer, needing it—any sign that you’re okay.

A faint “yes” falls from your lips as your fingers tangle back into his hair, urging him on. You hold him close, your body trembling beneath him, unraveling with pleasure.

Every slow drag of him through your soft, velvet walls sends a shiver down his spine, right to the base of his cock and you feel it, too—the slow build in your stomach, a warmth that tightens with every movement, something you can’t quite name but know you never want to end.

“Feels…” you gasp, another moan tumbling out. “So good.”

Your legs wrap around him, desperate to pull him closer, and it’s enough to make him sink even deeper. Your bodies are completely pressed together as his hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You’re wrapped in each other—lost in the pleasure, the affection, the shared breaths and whispered truths that make this more than just sex. It’s love, pure and soft and all-consuming.

Noah’s confessions come in panted breaths against your skin. “I’ve always loved you. I don’t think there’s been a time I didn’t. And I’ve always thought about this… about you, about being with you.”

You clench around him, and he throbs inside you, perfectly in sync. Your bodies respond to each other instinctively, like they’ve always belonged together. The slow buildup of your climaxes comes with soft declarations of love, yours whispered against his jawline, teeth brushing the scruff that grazes your cheek with every movement.

And when you fall apart, it’s together—loud and messy, with moans and soft cries, praises and confessions tumbling out between gasps. You give yourselves over completely to what you’ve both fantasised about for so long: two best friends, deeply in love, finally and completely each other’s.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-you-blood @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconictaurus @flowery-mess

[peanutheaddd]

For divine au, once Petey has left dm’s body and seen the damage possessing him has caused is he afraid that he’s accidentally killed him at first? Is he afraid that dm won’t wake up? Fellas is it gay to stay by the bedside of the man you possessed and formed a soul bond with while you wait for him to wake up? I imagine that Petey would be very protective of dm for a while after while he’s recovering and would help him tend to his injuries

ur au’s are so good Peanutheaddd they make me so crazy please don’t explode and disappear lmao

AAAAAABSOLKUUUUTTEEELYYYYYYY THANK U FOR THIS ASK YES YES YES A MIIIIOKIM TIME YES!!!!!!!!!!! ohhh my god post possession detey save me save me post possession detey

he knows abt the soul going dormant and the comatose state Yes but he has No idea if dms body can handle all the physical damage he took . and he feels So So So guilty . he is 100% terrified that hes accidentally killed him . and he has no way to tell . yes his heart is still beating but he has No idea if it will Keep beating .

in my head the possession actually ends prematurely . i think dms body Couldnt keep going . like it physically broke down and petey was like wtf happened so he left his body . so theyre lwk still in hot water when the possession ends and petey sees how fucked up he got . so its just thjs shit ass situation where lp is Still at active risk of getting taken by heaven, dm is completely out of commission and they have No idea if hell even Survive the next hour, and peteys lwk spiraling bc this is quite literally the Worst thing that could happen

its important to note here that petey actually doesnt believe that god is alive . he fully believes god has Been dead for a while . i think graces death made him completely apathetic bc he had this mindset of if god was alive then she wouldnt have died .

but its This moment . where hes terrified bc he has no idea what theyll do to his son and he has no idea if dm will live or die . that he prays for the first time in. Forever. and the Only thing hes praying for is lp and dms safety . zero regard for his own safety . and ultimately Thats what wakes god up . love that makes even the worst sinner not only Have Faith again but pray for something in an Entirely sefless manner . Oh my god im sick.IM SICK IN THE HEAD BRO

i dont have the deets yet but essentially god is the one who ends the altercation . but once it ends petey Stil has no idea if dm will live or die . basically the end of the altercation only guarantees that lp will be safe . since it only happened in the first place to try and take him away . so once the altercation ends yes hes So So So relieved lp is safe and will be safe but he cant say the same abt dm and thats freaking him out .

i think he js hauls ass to the church and gets dm to his room . and he just . sits there . doesnt rlly move . and he js keeps watching him . for however long it takes for dm to wake up again .

i actually think the church people and lp tend to him while hes in his comatose state not petey . i feel like petey wouldnt wanna touch him bc of The Guilt. like Hes the reason hes like this so how could ge even think of laying a finger on him .

i also think petey leaves before dm wakes up . like . its js this idea of like Oh theres No Way hed be happy to see me not after what i did to him . so when dm wakes up lp is there and dm is like oh thank god ur ok. bc that means the possession was successful and the altercation ended in their favor but then hes like ?? wheres ur dad . and lp is like 😬😬. bc lp knows damn well this is peteys self sabotaging behavior coming out . and he tells dm this and dm is like holy fuck is that cat stupid bc literally all he wanted after he woke up was to see his kitty cats plural 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔💔

i reckon he gets up to try and find him (which is stupid bc he could be Literally anywhere) and peteys lit js camping outside the church where hes out of eyesight but he can still kinda keep an eye on him and js be around should anything happen .

i mentioend in a prev ask that demons can feel their vessels pain and i thinm pt gets like a body ache and hes like That cant be right. so he looks around and lo and behold he sees dm meandering about outside when he Should be resting and he Knows that hes not fully recovered yet bc he can literally feel how it hurts for him to even walk . so without rlly thinking he immediately confronts him and is like WHAT THE FUCK . GO BACK TO BED BRO and dms response to that is to hug him . and he can feel his heart beat . feel the strength in his arms. and hes like Oh my god. and the relief js completely floods his system . like Oh hes alive . hes well . hes still in one piece .

but theres still this Guilt thats making it impossible for him to let his guard down . the hug goes unreciprocated even tho its lwk all he wants to do at that moment and he goes kinda stiff bc he is So terrified of hurting him again . its so palpable dm can Sense it . all the guilt and the fear . so hes like js stay with me will u ? like damn . 😭😭😭 and at this point peteys lwk weak to him so hes like Okay . I guess .

and then i reckon its js petey awkwardly hovering around the room keeping an eye on dm like a nervous mom and dm having to gradually go pspsps to him and get him to stop being freaked out all the damn time

there is def a scene where dm insists that petey helps him with changing his bandages or smth bc hes trynna ease him back into just . remembering that dms not made of glass and remembering that hes not an inherently dangerous person . and that he fully has the capacity to be gentle . i reckon seeing the injuries kinda makes dms plan backfire bc peteys like Ohhh my god this is literally my fucking fault

seeeeemi unrelated but i think pt also starts subconsciously keeping his wings away from dm which sucks for dm bc he likes peteys wings LMFAO when hes not adrenaline pumped theyre kinda js pleasantly warm

its just this whole sich post possession where dm almost dies and petey starts seeing himself as inherently a dangerous person . even tho their relationship up until this point has been implicitly amicable But more explicitly kinda hostile and antagonistic (enemies to lovers L) dm has to kind of put that aside and be gentler w him js to remind him that he still cares abt him and that he did the right thing and that hes fine and he will be fine . so its js them kinda spending day to day w lp doing whatever . DOMESTICITY WIN!!!!!!!!!! YEAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

and i think thats where my thought process ends for now . #motherfuckign awesome I LOVE MY AU

[britneyshakespeare]

i have been working with kids for four years and i had to write my first ever note just now about a seventh grade boy being inappropriate towards me. i don't know what the hell this could possibly lead to or what. he was trying to feel my legs repeatedly to the point where i had to stop sitting next to him (and i was subbing for his one-to-one para!!!). he's got high support needs. in that kind of job, you're supposed to sit next to them all day and look over their work.

the teacher whose classroom this was happening in could also tell something was wrong. the whole class was acting kinda crazy because it was the day before school vacation week and there was another class coming in to share projects. so like, he was swamped with keeping order already. but we were sitting two feet away from his podium at the front of the room. the kid was giving him and me a hard time when he wouldn't take out his chromebook as he was instructed. and then when he did take out his chromebook, he immediately, for some reason, places it on my lap. he had been ogling my legs the whole time. he puts his computer ON MY LAP. and i'm just like, stunned, because what the hell? can you not keep it on your own lap, for some reason? i don't even know what to say, i just hold it a little above my lap while i'm thinking why on earth would this be happening? he would NOT do this to his regular para if she were here, would he? this can't be normal.

and the teacher sees this and within a minute places a stool in front of the kid for him to put his laptop on. and i'm like. oh ok. yeah. he notices exactly what's happening and that that's not appropriate. and then when the other class comes in to share projects he tells me "miss b——, you don't actually have to sit next to c—— this whole period if you don't want to." and he grabs me a chair for me to go sit with the other paras in the back opposite corner of the room. like he KNEW. and thank you mr. d—— for recognizing that because i was just kind of shocked and didn't know if i was overreacting in my head to all of this.

when there's a point in the class where the kids are discussing stuff, i privately mention what's happened to the para who's sitting closest to me. and she says that the thing about him calling me pretty is something he's been known to do, but the fact that he kept trying to touch my legs is new behavior. and that's a completely different class of behavior. i was telling him NO, don't do that, and he kept doing it. and the fact that he was calling me pretty repeatedly, even when i was giving him instructions that he wasn't taking. and this is the second to last class before the end of the day, so she says she'll take a walk with him before learning center and talk to him about it, and i'm grateful for that. she does. the kid apologizes to me as soon as i come into learning center. but like. WHAT the hell.

i'm STILL like what the hell. this is unfathomable to me. the other adults who i told about this or who witnessed it were supportive of me. but. what to do??? i wrote a long note to his regular para about this, because i knew she was going to hear about it at least from the first para i told. the second para i told about it after school had a kind of... i'm not gonna say enabling reaction, but i suppose since it had already been "taken care of" (or at least, he had been spoken to and apologized) she didn't really have much to add in the way of discipline. i told her what happened after school and she was just like... a little bit, laughing? like oh, yup, that dog. she at the very least confirmed he KNEW what he was doing, that that was not an accident. she said to me "i had a feeling he was going to develop a crush on you" (me and these other paras were together for most of the beginning of the day too). but it's like. it's not about that.

i have worked with children for FOUR years. children have had crushes on me before; i'm quite unfazed by it. boys from the ages of 5-to-15 have told me i'm so pretty before and asked me to marry them. i've never had them feeling up my legs before. i've never had them making me physically uncomfortable. it's NOT about this seventh grader having a crush on the pretty substitute. he is NOT unusual for that, at all. but i've never had a boy of any age or education level repeatedly touching my knees and thighs. THAT is problem behavior!!!

because what if i wasn't assertive enough with him to tell him to stop? what if i was a girl his age? worse, what if i was an adult who encouraged this behavior? i don't come to the middle school to be a seductress. i had no intention in putting on a pair of tights and a skirt this morning of being viewed as an attractive object, especially not by a pubescent boy. what if i did though? what if his interpretation of me wasn't so incorrect and offensive? what if i let him keep touching me inappropriately and saying flirtatious things to me? me, an adult in my mid-twenties, towards a middle school boy?

in no world would that be ok. if i had been feeling up and overly-complimenting a CHILD at my place of work, holy shit would there be reports about me. so a child acting that way could never be ok either. if it'd be firable for me to be reciprocating that action, then that action should not be happening to me. ever. and that child should never repeat that action again to any other adult again.

like i am simply not there to be treated as an attractive young woman. i put on a skirt that shows too much knee and get paired with a boy, though, and that's apparently just a natural consequence. hooo-ly shit. like i don't know what to do. first of all, the more time passes since this has happened, the more i am just unable to stop thinking about it. i wasn't "hurt" or too emotional in the moment but i'm just still processing it and it gets worse. i'm just more and more disgusted.

i don't know what i expect to come out of this, or the email i sent to his regular para. like, am i gonna have to attend a fucking meeting? what is the precedent that this sets for him? WHY do i feel BAD for him about this? well, because he's a child, of course. a child who has done wrong he may not be able to understand. but he knows WHAT he did. he just doesn't know WHY it was wrong.

and i couldn't even say something to him that was like, "well, how would you like it if i was touching you like this?" because young boys do not understand how inappropriate it'd be. i'm sure this kid thought he was gonna get away with what he was doing at the very least. but probably not unlikely he (being a child with no concept of how wrong it'd be) thought he could get some sort of "positive" attention for treating me like this. either way he was simply doing what he wanted to do, with no perspective of how it would make me feel or that it could be classified as harassment. teenage boys think it'd be awesome if the older attractive woman would reciprocate their affections. they're wrong. i, as the older attractive woman of his affection, cannot be the one to convince him of that, though.

i don't know. i don't know. like it's just so not ok. but if i didn't tell another adult about this, he would've gotten away with it. he would probably do it again. and him being in trouble for it is not the same as him understanding that it was wrong. unless someone has a REAL talk with him about inappropriate attention and consent, it's not unlikely that he'll just repeat the behavior in a setting where he thinks he won't be caught or told on. THAT'S the problem. me, i could just never have to be this boy's para again. in my email, i didn't say that i would never be ok working with or around him ever again. he already knows i didn't like it and i'm not afraid to tell on him; as far as that lesson applies to me, individually, i think he's become too ashamed to repeat that.

i don't know. i don't know. i very much expressed that i, i guess, "forgave" him in the email that i wrote. i clarified that i was writing it for the sake of having it on the record. i think that could potentially be very important for the purposes of preventing further similar or escalating behavior from him in the future. i don't want him to be in trouble. i don't think i will be blamed for this, especially not with how promptly i acted, although i don't know to what extent this will be framed as me thinking i'm a "victim." i'm not... i don't feel victimized. i feel disgusted. i feel afraid for the sake of what could happen to or with him in the future, if he thinks behavior like his towards me today is ok.

i feel like if i end up having to further respond to this, this will be made about me. in a way it kind of was. is? in the moment it was happening, it was certainly about me. because i was the one this boy was giving all this unwanted attention to. but to make the consequences of this about me and to involve me any further, i also don't want. because i said what i said already, i don't care if a student has a crush on me. this isn't about me being the pretty substitute. i'm the pretty substitute all the time, to tons of people. that's not really something i've been concerned about up until now.

but do i have to reexplain my personal embarrassment? that i was wearing a skirt? that he was ogling my legs? really? what more do i have to gain from sharing that, other than having the adults at my place of work confirm or deny me in their heads as the pretty substitute? i don't know. perhaps that's REALLY overthinking it. but i don't want to be the substitute that caused a problem for this special ed kid. i don't wanna be the reason that he can't be around me anymore, the person people think of when they're monitoring how he's acting around girls and young women. i DON'T want to be the one people think of when they think of his past misbehavior. i'm NOT here for that.

that's just fucking humiliating. and in this being a thing that could follow him, i have to be ogled and touched over and over again in people's minds for this to be taken seriously. but for this to be swept under the rug would be even worse, no? i don't know. i hate this. the principal is a nice guy; i wouldn't be surprised if he and/or people from the special ed department reached out to me sympathetically about this. but i don't wanna be reached out to. i don't wanna have ppl i work with tell me "sorry that kid was just so attracted to you he couldn't help himself" like come on. if the kid himself doesn't change then i don't really care to remember this incident. and no one reaching out to me and saying they've talked to this kid will actually prove to me he understands. this is the kind of inappropriate behavior it takes years for people to understand why it was wrong, especially a child who has no idea. i mean come on.

[hauntingblue]

Marineford part 3 - we should all kill ourselves

What does that haki have to do with having people drawn to him???

If sanji were here..... tell em girl

Oh my gooooooood...........

KILL YOURSELF NOW!!!!!!!

GARP WHEN I GET YOU GARP!!!!!! Garp saying there will be many things in life that you won't want to do.... this man is ruined by the marines.... he locked himself in a cage.... stop protecting old man

This fucking page jesus christ.... garp you are going to hell....

HIM JUST ACCEPTING IT HE IS SO DONE!!!! GARP!!!

Whitebeard getting shot again as luffy reaches ace I can't keep doing this....

DON'T MAKE ME SEE THIS WHEN I KNOW WHAT'S COMING YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO MEEE!!!! OH MY GOOOD I HATE THIS!!!!! What a good fucking Chapter (571) I'm killing myself tomorrow

Everybody is so happy why am i tearing up 😭😭 ITS PAGE TWOOOOOOOO

AAAAAAAARRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH I need to take a minute to recompose after every page someone please sedate me

Alright. its fine really

This is fine too. Nothing to see here of notice

Oh my fucking god....................

Can I be honest ace stopped to face akainu because he insulted his father (like he did when he was a child and people insulted roger which btw made him feel like he was insulted too) but then akainu starts talking about how they literally don't deserve a home bc they are pirates and that's insane. Ace was a pirate before he was born. The whole purpose of ace's journey (AND WHITEBEARD'S) has been finding a home and this man just called them both losers and scum for it. And this AFTER whitebeard sacrificed himself for ace which has been making him feel guilty ever since they all showed up. Imagine his state at the moment.

I just will never forget his face here I think. Like after all of this he plays dirty and goes for luffy. Akainu kill yourself now.

Like oh my god

So the two guys with swords can kill ace but sakazuki can't.... alright man sure 👍🏻

I'm sorry you didn't get to save me is insane. Is there anything as undoing as a little brother. Omg.

Oh my fucking God.

What can I even say. Fuck my life

The faces on his hat read left to right make it looks like a happy face becomes sad but LIKE THIS ON THE PANELS IT IS THE OPPOSITE and idk if that's just like western view of it and means fuck all but it means something to me now.

The flashback dialogue being "did you think I was dead" after he hits the ground is so insane like yes but no he isn't. He was right he is never going to die.

In a way turning back to face akainu is ace fighting for his existence. Yes he was a pirate before he was born and he deserves a home and to be loved and happy and at the end of the day that is it and he got it and he died with a smile. He died being loved and loving luffy and that's how I cope. Goodnight forever

The chapter is called voiceless rage.....

OH MY GOD

Approved comments by me

TELL MEEEE!!!!! ODAAAAAAAAAA

"YOU'RE NOT HIM" *BOOM SOUND EFFECT* DEAD!! DEMOLISHED!! EXECUTED!!! This is insane... also him saying "when it's [the treasure] found..." DOES THAT MEAN ROGER DIDNT FIND IT??? or am I reaching... like roger was waiting for a man to do that... that man is luffy and he will find the one piece bc roger couldn't for some reason (maybe bc he was sick???) And that's why he says the one piece is real

[kalashnikovlobotomy]

just one breath is bliss for me, please my death come slowly☺️

[spikedfearn]

Bloodbound

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: In Godthrone, Mississippi, salvation comes at a cost: one girl, every ten years. Bound beneath a blood moon to Remmick, you become more than offering. You become his. He tastes your terror like honey, drinks your arousal like wine, and marks you in ways no god could forgive. Through soul-binding magic and whispered vows carved into skin, you learn that some monsters don’t take—they tether. And once you're his, there's no such thing as free will.

Only desire. Only devotion. Only him.

wc: 15.3k

a/n: I don’t even know where to begin—I’m still trying to process the fact that Brittany Broski posted Mercy Made Flesh to her insta story like it was just another Saturday and not the coolest thing that's ever fucking happened to me 😭 I’ve been writing these aus with my whole heart, but I never expected the absolute avalanche of love and support these past couple of weeks. The comments, the reblogs, the screaming in the tags. It’s meant more than I can say, you have all helped me find the joy in writing again, I promise I’m just getting started <333 and an extra big thank you to Liz @fuckoffbard for swooping in and not only beta reading but posting the fic from my account with her laptop bc Tumblr mobile kept crashing on me every time I tried to edit it. Not all heroes wear capes

warnings: possessive vampire, blood kink, bite kink, soulbonding, dubcon elements, obsession, marking, monsterfucking, ritual sacrifice, forced proximity, loss of agency, manipulation, primal sex, size kink, somnophilia (implied), power imbalance, breeding kink (suggestive), Southern Gothic horror, emotional coercion, sacred corruption, body worship, predator/prey dynamics, fear kink, aftercare, blood drinking, religious overtones, stockholm syndrome elements

tags: @sweetheart2210, @seashelleseashellsbytheseashore, @cosmicneptune (comment if you wanna be added to the tag list)

likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, please enjoy!!

They told you not to cry.

The priestess with the burnt fingertips and clinking bone necklace—she gripped your chin between cracked fingers this morning and said it soft, but firm: “He won’t choose the ones who cry. He likes a little fight.”

You didn’t ask who he was. Everyone knows. They say his name like the air around it might curdle. Remmick. No surname. No title. Just Remmick, the vampire king of the blighted woods, the monster who made your town a deal eighty years ago and never broke it.

Not once.

The sun rose slowly this morning, heavy with heat that made the back of your dress stick to your spine before you even got out the door. The August air tastes like rot and copper. You dressed in the church’s parlor room, with the other girls. Seventeen of you. All local. All barely women, but old enough for sacrifice. The law calls it The Binding, but everyone calls it what it is: Bloodbriding.

Your dress is cotton muslin, faded sky-blue with a high collar and puffed sleeves. You think it used to be a baptismal gown. It’s been worn before, passed from girl to girl, all of them marked and married off to the dead. It smells like dried lavender and fear. The buttons up your back had to be done by the priestess. You couldn’t stop trembling.

The town of Godthrone, Mississippi was dying even before the Great Depression turned fields to dust and fathers into ghosts. But they say things changed in 1853, when Remmick came up from the swamps with hunger in his eyes and a deal in his mouth. He would protect the town from sickness, starvation, and war. No one from Godthrone would suffer famine, plague, or enemy. In return, every ten years, a bride would be chosen.

One bride. One binding. One soul fed to the dark.

They tried sending soldiers once, back in 1891. Sixteen went into the woods. None came back whole. Some came back dead. Some came back wrong. One woman started speaking tongues until her mouth filled with spiders. After that, they stopped questioning the pact. Instead, they polished it, sanctified it. Made it a ceremony. A celebration.

Tonight, the Choosing will be held in the town square. You will be walked up barefoot, hair unbound, throat bare. They say the mark will bloom on the girl he wants. A burning, black sigil over the heart. Like a brand. Like a marriage license signed in blood.

Your fingers clutch the hem of your dress. Your name is somewhere on the roster. Somewhere between Eleanor Avery and Ruth Jameson, though it's hard to keep track when the names aren't arranged in alphabetical order.

You haven’t eaten since yesterday. You haven’t even had your first kiss and you’re ridiculously terrified. Because you’ve dreamt of serrated teeth in the dark for weeks now. Because your skin itches like something under it wants out. Because when you close your eyes, you swear you can feel someone watching. Someone already choosing.

And the sun is starting to go down.

They say only the pure get chosen. But that’s a lie. You’ve seen who’s been taken before.

Rebecca Sue, who slit her baby sister’s throat in a fever dream. Agnes Miller, who used to take men’s teeth as trophies.

None of them were pure. They were just...unlucky. Or pretty. Or strange enough that no one would miss them.

You’ve always known you were one of those girls. Born during a blood moon, baptized late because no one could find your daddy until spring thaw—when they fished him out of the river with his eyes missing and his hands gnawed to bone. Your mama didn’t cry. Just braided your hair tighter that morning and told you to never kiss a man with a gold chain or blue eyes. Said they never bring nothin’ but grief.

She died a year later. Something in her blood turned sour. The town doctor wouldn’t touch her. Said it was Remmick’s curse, passed down from when she laid with a man not her husband. Said that’s what happens when women sin.

You were seven when she died. You remember the flies buzzing in her throat. You remember how quiet the house got after. They moved you into the orphan house at the edge of the bog. You learned quickly not to cry at night. Crying brought the wrong kind of attention. So you got good at being quiet. Good at disappearing. Good at keeping secrets under your tongue until they turned bitter and black.

You never learned to curtsy right. You never kept your head bowed during sermons. But you were beautiful, and that was enough. Curious eyes, soft demeanor, a voice like river water. You didn’t want to be, but beauty in Godthrone is a death sentence wrapped in silk.

And now here you are.

Twenty-one and cursed with symmetry.

Chosen to stand under the sickle moon tonight, wearing a dead girl’s dress and nothing else beneath it. Your whole life leading to this—one slow march toward a monster’s mouth.

The town pretends this is holy. They hang garlands on the chapel door and sing hymns in minor chords. The mayor’s wife gave you perfume, lemon balm and sugar, and told you to “make the town proud.” Her eyes didn’t meet yours.

You think about running. You always think about running. But there’s nowhere to go. Not with that feeling in your chest. That strange pull. That sense of something waiting. Something with teeth.

And a name you never dared say out loud until last night. Whispered into your pillow like a prayer. Like a confession.

Remmick.

Your skin burns when you think about it now.

There are stories, of course. Every girl who grows up in Godthrone hears them. They start as whispers during thunderstorms—told under quilts with a candle burning low, shared like secrets between girls too young to know better and too scared not to listen.

“He walks on graves and doesn’t leave footprints.” “He drinks from animals and people, unless he’s claimed you.” “If he marks you, you’ll never want anyone else. Even if you try.”

But the worst ones are the quietest. The ones passed from dying lips to trembling ears. The ones that don’t sound like warnings—they sound like wishes.

“He touched me once. I haven’t known peace since.”

There was one girl—Celia Mott—who came back. Just once. Just long enough to be seen. The Binding year of 1911. She walked into the town square three years later, barefoot and smiling with red-stained teeth. Hair grown long and wild, white dress yellowed with age, eyes gone black. She didn’t speak. Not even once. Just walked right into the chapel and curled up on the altar like a dog. They found her there the next morning, hands folded on her chest, body cold as the river.

No one talks about Celia. But everyone remembers her. You remember her.

You were only thirteen, peeking through a knothole in the chapel wall. You watched as they wrapped her in burlap and buried her deep. You remember thinking she looked peaceful. You remember being jealous. That was the first time you ever said his name, whispered into the dirt above her grave. Not out of fear. Not even hate. Curiosity.

Because what kind of man makes a girl lie down and die smiling?

You used to wonder what he looked like. The other girls said he was monstrous, with claws for hands and eyes that burned like oil lamps in the dark. But that never sat right with you. You don’t think a creature that ancient would need to be grotesque to be feared. You think he’d be beautiful—awfully, unnaturally beautiful. The kind of beautiful that keeps you up at night, sick with craving.

And that’s the part that terrifies you most. Because somewhere in the dark part of you—the part that still dreams of blood-slick mouths and hands around your throat—you want it.

You want to know if he’ll kiss you first or just bite. You want to know what it feels like when the bond takes. You want to know if the mark will hurt as much as it’s supposed to. You want to know if you’ll scream.

You press your palm flat to your chest. Nothing yet. No mark. No burn. No claim. But you swear—you swear—you can feel something there. Like a match waiting to strike. Like teeth ghosting your skin. Like someone’s already touching you from the other side of the veil.

The sun is sinking lower. The bell will ring soon.

And then—the chapel doors open like a serpent unhinging its maw.

Wood creaks. Heat rushes in. And for a second, you don’t move. Then the priestess nods. Just once. That’s your cue.

You step forward on bare feet, feeling every splinter in the boards, every grain of dirt that clings to your soles as you pass the threshold and step into the sweltering dusk. The sky bleeds orange and purple, clouds dragging low like bruises. Somewhere, a cicada screams. And just like that—it begins.

The town square is only five blocks away, but the walk feels like miles. You don’t look at the people lined along the street—don’t dare. You can feel their eyes anyway. Heavy as wet cloth, pricking your skin like pins. Old women in rust-stained aprons. Young boys clutching their mothers' skirts. Men who won’t meet your gaze but still lean in for a better look.

It feels like being paraded through the gallows. Or the garden before slaughter.

The other girls walk ahead and behind you, a procession of blue and white and shaking, anxious limbs. No one speaks. Even the priestess has fallen silent. The only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot, and the dry shush of cotton brushing thighs.

Your heart beats so loud it’s all you hear. It doesn’t sound like fear anymore. It sounds like an invocation.

The town square unfolds in front of the old courthouse, the brick stained dark from a fire no one talks about anymore. There’s a raised wooden platform at the center—built just for this, just for tonight. The gallows rope is still looped overhead, a relic from older rituals, back when Binding meant hanging the chosen until they gasped awake with his name on their lips.

Now it’s cleaner. More sacred.

They say he prefers it that way.

Gas lanterns flicker along the perimeter, casting warped shadows over the crowd. Wreaths of night jasmine hang from the eaves, their scent thick and cloying in the heat. Everything smells like smoke and sugar and sweat. It makes your stomach roll.

The girls are led to the platform and lined up—seventeen of you, barefoot on the warm planks, hands clasped at your waists like dolls posed for judgment. The crowd stares. Some murmur prayers. Some cry. And some just watch.

You keep your chin up. Not out of pride. But because you know he’s watching too. Somewhere. Behind the crowd. Behind the dusk. Behind the veil of what’s seen and what isn’t.

You can feel it. That tickle at the base of your spine. That breath against your collar. That heartbeat that doesn’t match your own.

The mayor steps forward. Fat and red-faced in a linen suit too tight for the heat. He clears his throat. The priestess lights the ceremonial flame in a basin of copper and bone. She whispers in a language that isn’t English, isn’t Latin, but makes your skin crawl all the same. The fire flares blue.

The bell tolls from the chapel behind you. One. Your pulse stutters. Every eye is on you. Two. You glance down. No mark. Just the flutter of your own chest, just the sickly thrill under your ribs. Three. You feel the wind change. Just slightly. Like something just arrived. Four. The bell keeps tolling, steady as a countdown. Or a death knell.

You don’t flinch, but your knees feel loose. Like they’re no longer yours. Like the wood beneath your feet is suddenly shifting grain, trying to swallow you whole.

The priestess raises both arms. Her voice, when it comes, isn’t loud, but it carries. Thin and sharp and dry as snakeskin. “By covenant sealed and blood remembered, we offer our daughters.”

The crowd murmurs the response: "May He spare the many, and take only the one."

Five. You keep your eyes straight ahead. The girl next to you, Ruth Jameson, is breathing so fast she sounds like a kettle about to boil. She’s a preacher’s daughter. Always wore gloves, even in the summer. Once slapped you for speaking during Sunday reading. You almost hope it’s her.

Let it be her. Or Eleanor Avery. Or Violet Price with the thick braid and expensive teeth. They’re prettier. Cleaner. More practiced in obedience. You’ve heard the whispers that the vampire favors grace, not sharp girls who talk too little and think too much.

Six.

You exhale slow through your nose. Try to imagine the town square without people in it. Try to remember how it looked in winter, dusted with sleet and full of silence. Try to picture yourself anywhere else. You can’t.

The priestess begins the litany. A string of old names, spoken in a dialect that feels like ash in your ears. “Ishari. Vael. Thorne. Kelrem. Narthyx…”

The words twist like vines around your ankles, tight and burning. They say the names are the True Ones. The old ones. The first vampires. Remmick’s forebears, or his victims, no one’s really sure. You doubt there’s a difference.

Seven.

The wind shifts again. This time, everyone feels it. A ripple goes through the crowd—silent, almost reverent. A little boy starts to cry and is shushed immediately. You don’t dare move. You feel it too. It’s like being brushed by something that isn’t there. A pressure. A pull. Like your body isn’t entirely your own anymore.

Still, no mark.

You wonder if you’ll even know when it comes. If it will be sudden. Sharp. Like lightning. Or if it’ll be slow. Like seduction. Like being kissed where no one else can see.

Eight.

The priestess’s eyes are closed now. The other girls tremble. Someone is crying. You’re not sure who. You dare a glance to your left. Eleanor’s lips are moving, silent prayer or quiet bargaining. She looks ready to faint. Her hands are shaking. You look to your right. Ruth’s eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet. No one is looking at you.

Good. Let it be one of them. Let it not be you. Please.

Nine.

The priestess holds up a small obsidian dagger. Cuts the palm of her hand and lets the blood drip into the blue flame. It hisses, high-pitched and eager.

You smell it instantly.

Not like iron. Like something older. Like the scent of a crypt cracked open.

Ten.

The bell stops. The crowd holds its breath. The fire roars. The flame in the basin spits.

Blue arcs to white. The heat radiates across the platform, and the priestess steps back, blood dripping down her wrist like ink on a parchment soaked too long. Still no mark on your skin. Still no voice in your ear. Still no rush of fire behind your ribs.

You let your shoulders lower a fraction, just enough to feel the strain begin to ease. Just enough to believe—maybe—it’s not you.

Maybe you were only ever meant to stand here, to be one of the extras. The backdrop to someone else’s fate. One of the girls who’ll go home tonight, pale and trembling and untouched.

You could live with that. You could learn to breathe again.

You could get married someday to someone simple and safe. A man with kind eyes and a little farmland. You could forget this ever happened, could press it flat like a pressed flower between the pages of your life. You’re almost ready to believe it.

Until the silence begins to stretch. And stretch. And stretch. Too long. Too unnatural.

The crowd is still holding its breath. But now, they’re waiting. Expectant. The air isn’t quiet—it’s thick. Charged. Like a storm that hasn’t broken yet, a scream that hasn’t been released. You swear the ground hums.

Your skin itches.

Not with sweat. Not with fear. But with awareness.

The priestess’s head cocks slightly to the left. She doesn’t move otherwise. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

And then the lamps flicker. All at once.

Not a breeze. Not a draft. It’s something deeper. Something below.

A mother in the front row lets out a sob. Her child starts crying again. No one hushes him this time.

The flame gutters low.

You see your breath fog in front of you.

It’s August. The air should feel like soup. But all at once, it’s cold.

A cold that doesn’t touch your skin—it touches your soul. And that’s when you feel it.

Not a mark. Not yet. But the presence. The knowing. It’s here. And it’s looking at you.

You don’t see him at first. You feel him.

Like being plunged into deep water. That gut-punch plunge, that pressure in your ears, that moment of suspended breath where your body forgets how to float. The world narrows. The noise dulls. Every hair on your body rises like it’s been called to attention.

The flame sputters. The priestess lowers her head, and the entire crowd follows. All at once, the square is bowing. No one told you that would happen. The girls beside you drop their gazes. You remain upright.

Too stunned. Too still.

And then you hear it.

Bootsteps.

Slow. Measured.

Bootsteps on gravel, a sound far too ordinary for something this monstrous.

And still, you don’t look. You can’t.

Because your chest is burning.

It starts beneath your collarbone. A single point of heat, sharp as a blade, blossoming outward like ink in water. You gasp, clutch at your heart—but nothing’s there.

No wound. Just pain. Just…change. You look down and see it bloom.

A mark.

Black and bright and moving, like a tattoo drawn by something alive. Swirling patterns, sharp edges and curling lines that twist and wind down your chest. You hear someone cry out—a choked sound, like a girl breaking open—but you don’t realize it’s you until the priestess grips your arm to keep you from falling.

She’s smiling. “The chosen,” she whispers.

And that’s when he speaks.

Not loud. Not rushed.

But his voice cuts through the air like a blade through silk.

“Lift yer head.”

You don’t mean to obey. But your chin rises.

And there he is. At the base of the platform. Not monstrous. Not grotesque.

But broad and pale, dressed in black that doesn’t shine, hair slicked back like wet ink, and eyes the color of dried blood and dying embers. There’s no mistaking him. No imagining he might be a man. He is not a man.

He is the end of prayers. The promise of ruin. The reason the dark exists. Remmick. And he’s looking only at you.

Possession, raw and ravenous, carved into every angle of his face.

“C’mere, little bride,” he says, softly.

And when you step forward—shaking, burning, claimed—it’s not because they all told you to. It’s because you want to.

You step down from the platform one trembling foot at a time.

The crowd doesn’t make a sound. No cheers. No wails. Not even a rustle of skirts or a cough from the old men lining the back.

Just silence.

The kind that feels held—like a breath everyone’s too afraid to release.

Your bare feet meet the packed earth. It’s warm from the heat of the day but it may as well be ice. You can’t feel anything but the burn of the mark, pulsing like a second heart beneath your skin. Every beat of it syncs with something that doesn’t belong to you. Something older.

Remmick waits at the bottom step.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He just watches you walk to him—like he knew you’d come, like the ceremony was nothing more than a formality. A ritual to dress up inevitability.

You stop just before him. Close enough to feel the wrongness that coils around him like smoke. It doesn’t repel you. It draws you. Makes your blood thrum, makes your mouth dry, makes your thighs clench in a way that shames you instantly. You pray he can’t tell.

Then he lifts a hand. And brushes his thumb lightly across the mark.

Your knees nearly give.

The touch is not cruel. It’s not even forceful. But it ignites something deep, something coiled and ancient inside you. The mark responds—flaring hotter, the lines shifting under his skin like they recognize him.

And then his eyes meet yours. That red glint beneath the dark, sharp and knowing.

“Felt ya long before this,” he murmurs. His voice isn’t deep. It’s smooth. Clear. Cold. “Y’cried my name in yer sleep last week.”

Your breath catches. You didn’t even remember dreaming. But he speaks it like truth. Like he was there.

“Almost took ya then,” he says, dragging his gaze down your body, slow and deliberate. “But this here's cleaner.”

He leans in. And you flinch.

He pauses—just a hair—and then his mouth is at your ear.

“Like when they tremble,” he whispers, voice full of something dark and warm and terrifyingly pleased. “But I like it more when they beg.”

Your breath hitches so violently it hurts. And then his nose drags along the line of your throat. He inhales. A shiver tears through you, sharp and helpless.

“Smell like mine.”

He says it like a promise. Like a curse. Like a man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to ruin you.

The mark burns.

And your body answers with something shameful and wet.

His hand slips to the back of your neck, cool fingers cradling the base of your skull. “I can feel ya now, little bride,” he says, voice softer. Hungrier. “Every shiver. Every ache. Every time yer thighs press together ‘cause yer thinkin’ of me.”

You want to say no. You want to say stop.

But your lips part— —and all that comes out is a broken, traitorous moan.

The crowd still doesn’t move. The priestess watches with her hands folded. And Remmick, smiling now, presses his lips to your jaw—not a kiss, not yet—and whispers:

“We begin tonight.”

They don't clap. No one dares.

The moment he speaks, the crowd begins to part like a body splitting open. Quietly. Obediently. As if on cue.

Remmick doesn't take your hand. He doesn’t have to. You follow him. You don't look back.

The crowd watches in total silence, as though afraid that one misstep, one murmur, might draw his attention. You feel their eyes on you—burning, curious, afraid. But none of them move to stop you. No one calls your name. No one tries to say goodbye.

And somehow that hurts worse than if they had.

The mark on your chest is still searing, like hot iron beneath your skin. But it’s not just pain anymore—it’s pull. With every step you take behind him, it feels stronger. Hungrier. You feel him through it now. A weight in your gut. A throb between your legs. An ache in the part of you that shouldn’t want this, but does.

You wonder if he feels it too. You don’t have to wait long to find out.

Halfway down the path, Remmick pauses, turns his head just slightly—not enough to see his whole face, just the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. “Stop squeezin’ yer thighs together like that,” he says without looking at you. “Ain’t polite.”

Your cheeks go hot. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it. Instinct. Reflex. Shame flickers to life—but it doesn’t stay long. Not when he glances back, finally, and meets your eyes with something wicked and low in his voice.

“Though I do like it.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just keep walking.

Remmick’s estate lies on the edge of the woods, past the last row of homes where the gas lamps thin and the road turns to dirt. The air shifts the moment you cross the boundary—cooler, thicker. It feels like stepping into another world. A forgotten place. The trees here lean too close. The moss drips like old lace. You see stones sunk into the earth along the path, names long worn away. Grave markers, maybe. Or warnings.

The carriage is waiting for you.

Sleek, black, quiet. Not pulled by horses—those would never make it through these woods. Instead, it waits unnaturally still, shadows wrapping around its wheels, as if it simply appeared when called. Remmick holds the door open for you.

You pause.

Not because you’re afraid. But because everything in you wants to go in.

You hate how much you want it.

Inside, the cabin is too dark. Too cold. The seat cushions are velvet, the color of dried wine. There are no windows. Only candle sconces that haven’t been lit. You sit, carefully. Your thighs still sticky from earlier. You press your knees together and fold your hands in your lap like a good little bride.

Remmick follows. Closes the door behind him with a click.

You’re alone. Utterly, entirely alone.

And you feel the silence tighten around you like a glove.

Then he speaks. Low. Deliberate. “Take off the dress.”

You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

The words take off the dress still hang in the air—heavy, impossible to grasp, clinging to your skin in ways you can’t shake.

Your fingers twitch in your lap.

The candle sconces haven’t been lit, but you can see him anyway. The dark doesn’t seem to touch him, not really. His eyes are brighter in it. Redder. Watching you the way a wolf watches a trembling rabbit—not out of pity. Not out of malice, either. But with the certainty of hunger.

He leans back, legs spread, one arm resting along the velvet seat. Casual. Patient. Like he’s giving you a choice when you both know there isn’t one. “I won’t ask twice, sweetheart.”

The term of endearment doesn’t sound kind. It sounds dangerous.

Your breath comes shallow. You reach for the first button.

The collar is stiff, the thread old. You fumble. Your fingers feel clumsy, not from fear—but from how aware you are of his gaze. It traces every movement. Tracks the tremble in your hands. Watches your chest rise with every breath.

You get the first button undone. Then the second. The third.

The dress loosens across your shoulders. The mark, still searing hot and alive, seems to pulse brighter in the air between you. It aches when you drag the fabric down your arms, exposing more of it. The gown drops to your waist, then your hips. You shift to slide it lower.

Remmick still hasn’t moved.

But the air has. It feels denser now. Like you’ve stepped inside his lungs and forgotten how to breathe on your own.

When the dress slips past your thighs and pools at your feet, you’re left in nothing.

No underthings. No slip.

Just bare skin and that still-burning sigil over your heart.

Your hands twitch up to cover yourself—reflex, instinct, shame—but his voice stops you before they reach your chest.

“Don’t.” One word. Quiet. But it scalds.

You obey. Your arms drop.

He finally leans forward.

His palm drags over his jaw as he takes you in, slow and deliberate. You expect him to leer. To lick his lips or reach for you like you’re already his. But instead, he just looks.

Like he’s seeing something holy.

And then, softly—more to himself than to you—he says, “Fuckin’ beautiful.”

You bite your lip.

Something twists in your belly. Something hot and low and helpless.

He leans in, elbows resting on his knees, and murmurs: “Y’don’t even know what yer feelin’, do ya?”

You try to speak, but your throat’s too dry.

He tilts his head, watching the way your thighs inch together again. “That’s the bond, love. That ache? That throb in yer cunt? That heat sittin’ behind yer ribs like a sin waitin’ to be confessed?”

His voice drops even lower.

“That’s me.”

You shudder. The mark pulses.

And Remmick, grinning now—slow, sharp, possessive—reaches out, thumb brushing just under the curve of your breast, not quite touching the mark but close enough that it sparks again behind your ribs. “Y’feel me yet?” he asks.

You nod. Barely.

He laughs, soft and cruel and pleased. “Good. Then let’s make it permanent.”

Your breath stutters.

His thumb still lingers just below your breast, not quite touching the mark, but the heat from his skin radiates into yours like an ember pressed to parchment. You feel it coil low in your belly, tight and trembling.

And he sees it.

Of course he does.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, voice like smoke curling around your neck. “Already buzzin’ for me. And I haven’t even laid a proper hand on ya yet.”

He lets his fingers trail lightly down your sternum. Not rushed. Not greedy. It’s almost reverent—if reverence could be soaked in hunger. His fingertips drag over your ribs, then down to the soft dip between them, tracing lazy circles that never quite reach where you want.

The bond throbs between you like a living thing.

It doesn’t just burn. It pulls.

Each touch sends something electric singing across your nerves, as though your body’s not fully yours anymore—shared now, tied to something dark and breathing. Every sensation is heightened. The velvet seat beneath you feels too soft. The air feels too tight. And his touch?

His touch feels like command.

He leans closer. You feel his breath on your throat before you see his mouth. “Tell me where it hurts,” he whispers, and his tongue brushes the shell of your ear.

Your hips shift without permission. “Lower,” you manage, barely above a whisper.

Remmick hums. A dark, pleased sound. “Aye. Thought so.” He brings his hand to your thigh, palm broad and cool, fingers spreading to grip you firm. Not harsh. Not rough. But with purpose. Like he’s claiming the space. Like he already owns it. He pushes your legs apart slowly, and the bond sings when you don’t resist.

When you offer.

His gaze dips down.

And he groans—quiet, guttural. “Sweet fuckin’ Christ.”

You’re soaked.

Your body, treacherous and needy, has already given itself over. The mark glows faintly in the dark now, pulse-for-pulse with your heartbeat, lighting the curve of your breast and the sweat beading along your collar.

“You know what this is, don’t ya?” he says, dragging a finger up your inner thigh, stopping just shy of your center. “The bond’s settin’ in. Claimin’ ya. Makes every nerve scream for me. You’d let me do anything right now, wouldn’t ya?”

You want to say no. You really do. But your body says yes in a dozen ways. The way your breath shakes. The way your thighs tremble. The way your hips rock forward, desperate for any friction, even the ghost of it.

You meet his eyes. “Please,” you whisper. It slips out before you can stop it.

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Triumphant. “Say it again.”

Your cheeks burn. But your body doesn’t hesitate. “Please.”

He moves then.

Not fast. Not rough. But with absolute, devastating intent.

He sinks to his knees in front of you. Not in worship. Not in submission. But in devouring anticipation.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider, and he presses a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher. And another. Each one closer to the place that aches. The place he’s not touching.

Yet.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to do to ya,” he murmurs, mouth against your skin. “But yer body’s already beggin’.” He nips just above your hip, tongue soothing the sting. And finally, finally, his hand reaches the mark again—palm flat over your heart.

You jolt.

It feels like fire licking up your spine. Like something ancient waking up. Like something that says: Mine.

“Y’ready, little bride?” he asks, voice rough with hunger, reverent with power.

Because this is more than lust.

This is binding. This is belonging. And you’re about to be his—in every sense.

Your heart is a drum. A hammer. A hymn.

And Remmick holds it in his palm like he’s already broken it open and tasted what’s inside.

He watches you. Eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth parted—not in awe, not in shock, but in possession. Like a man handed his favorite weapon after years of war. Like he knows exactly how to use you. “Keep yer eyes on me,” he says softly.

You do. Because you can’t look away.

His thumb strokes over your mark, slow and possessive. The moment he presses down—just the lightest pressure—you gasp, full-body and shaking. It doesn’t hurt. It’s worse than that.

It undoes you.

Your back arches off the seat. A whimper slips past your lips, high and humiliating, and the fire under your skin blooms wider, deeper, lower.

“Good,” Remmick breathes, as if your body’s reaction is all the permission he needs. “Let it take ya.” He leans in again, lips brushing over the curve of your breast, just below the glowing sigil etched into your flesh. His mouth is soft. Cool. But where it touches, heat follows. Magic, maybe. Or something far filthier.

You shiver.

He trails his tongue in a slow, careful circle around the mark. Not kissing. Not biting. Just tasting.

You make a sound—something raw and helpless—and Remmick laughs, low in his throat. “Feel that?”

You nod, dazed.

He hums like he’s proud of you. Like he owns every breath you take now. “Bond’s startin’ to root,” he says against your skin. “It’s in the blood. In the muscle. Every heartbeat yer body makes now? It’s for me.”

His hand moves lower.

Fingers dragging down your belly, past your hip, settling between your thighs where you’re soaked and trembling and already spreading for him without thought. “You feel like sin,” he murmurs. “Gonna taste like salvation.” And then he finally, finally presses his mouth to the center of you.

You jerk. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

His tongue is slow at first, lazy, almost cruel in how lightly he licks. As if he’s savoring the fact that you’re shaking under him already. You try to move—try to rock against him—but his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, holding you still.

“This ain’t just fuckin’,” he rasps, voice muffled by your body. “This is the bind. This is me settin’ my claim.”

You moan. You whimper. And when his mouth closes over your clit and he sucks, your vision shatters.

It’s not just pleasure. It’s magic.

You feel it in your bones, in the roots of your teeth, in the back of your throat. You feel the bond snap into place like a tether. You feel him inside you—his hunger, his need, his desire—mirroring yours, amplifying it, turning you both into a single, burning thing.

You’re panting now. Desperate. Gone. “Remmick—” you gasp.

He groans like your voice alone could finish him.

You feel his tongue again—harder now, faster, coaxing your orgasm to the surface like a secret—and you give it to him. You give everything. You come with a cry, eyes wide, hips shaking, the mark on your chest glowing like fire in the dark. And Remmick?

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re slumped against the seat, legs still twitching, the bond humming under your skin like a satisfied beast. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Smirking.

“First part’s done,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now we finish it.”

He stands. Unbuckling his belt. Unbuttoning his trousers.

And between your thighs, your body begins to ache all over again.

You’re still trembling when he rises.

Remmick towers over you in the low flickering dark, the glow from your mark throwing soft gold light across the sharp bones of his face. He looks half-saint, half-devil—something carved out of hunger and patience, restraint and ruin.

He doesn’t touch you yet. Not again.

He just watches as you breathe, chest heaving, legs still slack and parted. And for a heartbeat, he says nothing. He simply drinks you in like a man parched. And then his voice cuts through the silence again—low, velvet-rough, intimate as a mouth pressed to your spine. “You’re takin’ it real pretty,” he murmurs, thumbing the buttons on his trousers loose one by one. “Didn’t think you’d fold that fast. But fuck, I felt it.”

Your body answers with a pulse.

You want to close your legs, to pull your dress back on, to shield yourself from how open he’s left you—but the bond won’t let you. It aches when you think about hiding. It pulls you back toward him, like a tide. Like gravity.

And he knows it.

He steps out of his slacks and lets his shirt hang open, chest pale and cut with the kind of lean strength you’ve only read about in books meant to be hidden under your mattress. His body is strong, scarred, real. A monument to the centuries he’s outlived.

Your eyes drop lower. And—god.

You freeze.

He’s hard already, thick and flushed, hanging heavy between his thighs, and for the first time since the mark bloomed, you feel a new kind of fear coil in your gut.

He’s going to ruin you.

And you want it so badly you could cry.

Remmick sees the way your gaze lingers. “‘S alright,” he says, stepping closer. “I’ll go slow. First time’s meant to sting a little.” His hand drags down your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “But y’won’t be scared of the pain. Not when I’m the one givin’ it to ya.”

You make a sound in your throat—something small, breathless, wanting.

He strokes your jaw, then cups the back of your neck, guiding you gently down, down, until you’re laid out across the velvet bench seat. He doesn’t climb on top of you right away. He kneels beside the bench, one hand splayed wide across your ribs, the other pressing just above the mark on your chest.

The weight of it grounds you.

“Last chance, little bride,” he says softly, and there’s something raw beneath the teasing now. “After this, there ain’t no undoing it.”

You look up at him. And despite everything—despite the fear, the heat, the bond that feels like it’s branded your soul from the inside out—

You nod.

Remmick’s smile is slow. Tender. Like a secret finally answered.

“Atta girl.”

He leans down.And when his mouth presses over the mark—soft, sure, claiming—you swear your body catches fire all over again. His mouth seals over the mark, and it’s like being opened. Not physically—not yet—but inside. Beneath your ribs. Somewhere sacred.

You feel it the way thunder rolls over land—first a hush, then a tremble, then a crack that splits you straight down the middle. His lips part just enough for his tongue to drag across the sigil, and something ancient stirs to life.

The mark glows white-hot.

Your back bows off the seat. Your fingers clutch at velvet, at air, at him. A gasp tears from your throat, raw and keening.

Remmick moans against your chest. “There she is,” he rasps, mouth dragging lower, down the slope of your breast. “Fuck, yer soul’s singin’ for me now. Y’feel that? That little ache in the base of yer spine?”

You nod, frantic.

“It’s me,” he says, hand sliding back between your thighs. “That’s me growin’ roots in ya.” His fingers tease your slick folds, feather-light, not giving what you need, just promising.

You whimper.

Remmick watches you writhe, his cock hard and leaking, resting heavy against his thigh. “Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart. That’s it. Just like that. Let me in.”

You do as you’re told. You’d do anything he asks right now. Not because he’s taken your will. But because he’s claimed your want.

He climbs over you slowly, one knee pressing between your thighs, his body blanketing yours with terrible warmth. The feel of his skin against yours makes your mark pulse like it’s alive. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, letting it slip through your folds, slicking himself in you.

You gasp.

“Remmick—”

He cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, voice low and hoarse. “I’ve got ya. Gonna go slow.” He pushes in.

God.

It’s thick. It stretches. It burns in the best, most ruinous way. You clutch his shoulders, nails biting into his skin as he inches deeper—slow, agonizing, precise. Every breath is a plea. Every heartbeat is his. You feel the bond knot tighter, pulling you to him with every inch he sinks into your body. Halfway in, and you’re already fluttering around him, body shaking, eyes wet.

Remmick groans, low and wrecked. “Fuckin’ hell,” he grits out. “You’re tight as a fist. Grip me like you were made for it.” He rolls his hips forward, just a little deeper.

You cry out—more overwhelmed than hurt. Pleasure is coiling inside you like a scream wound too tight to release.

“‘S alright,” he murmurs. “Yer takin’ me so well. Gonna have all of me soon.”

He kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“Y’wanna say it?” he asks.

You blink up at him, dazed.

He smiles against your throat. “Say yer mine.”

The words curl on your tongue, fever-warm. “I’m yours.”

His hips snap forward, burying himself in you to the hilt.

You shatter.

You can’t breathe. Not properly.

Not with him buried that deep inside you—thick and unyielding, pressing against something that makes your vision go white around the edges. The stretch burns and soothes all at once, every nerve pulled taut, every inch of your body drawn to his like a tide to the moon.

Remmick doesn’t move right away. He just holds himself there. Letting you feel the full weight of what he’s done.

What he is doing. What you’ll never come back from.

You whimper, your hips twitching, the pressure too much and not enough and perfect. And all he does is lean in close, his voice curling against your ear like the heat of a candle’s flame.

“There it is,” he murmurs. “Feel me in ya? That ache in your belly? That’s me settin’ in, stretchin’ ya out, makin’ room.” His hand cups your jaw, gentle but firm, tilting your face toward his. He watches you—hungry and soft all at once, like a man who’s both starving and reverent. “Y’wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” he asks, hips giving one slow, rolling thrust.

You gasp, back arching, lips parting in a helpless cry.

He groans, deep in his throat, and stills again. “You’ll never forget this feelin’,” he says. “No matter what happens after. No matter where you run. This right here?” He shifts inside you, not pulling out, just moving deep. “This bond’ll hunger until I feed it.”

You can’t speak. Your body is writhing under him, hips tilting instinctively, needing more, needing movement. The bond is humming now—hot, thick, vibrating under your skin like a wire ready to snap.

And then he starts to move.

Slow. So slow it feels lethal.

He pulls out an inch. Pushes back in. Again. And again.

Each thrust is a deliberate claiming—grinding against the deepest part of you, igniting something wild and ancient in your blood. You moan with every slide, and his name slips out of your mouth between gasps like a prayer, like a curse, like you don’t care who hears.

“R-Remmick—”

He shudders above you, burying his face against your throat.

“Fuck, say it again.”

You do. You can’t stop. “Remmick. Remmick—” Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer, urging him to move faster, harder, deeper.

But he won’t. Not yet.

He keeps the pace slow, grinding into you with the kind of restraint that hurts, like he wants to ruin you one slow breath at a time.

You’re sobbing now. From pleasure. From pressure. From the overwhelming rightness of being filled by him.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the spot where your pulse pounds like a war drum. “Let it take ya,” he whispers. “Let me in. All the way.”

You don't have to let it take you. It's already happening.

Every roll of his hips, every grinding thrust, buries him deeper—not just into your body, but into your very being. You feel him threading through your blood, knotting himself into the soft, wet, secret places no one else has ever touched. You feel him becoming part of you.

And it’s bliss. It’s agony. It’s everything you never dared want.

Remmick groans into your throat, the sound rough and ragged, and you realize—he’s shaking. His arms bracket your head, muscles tense, as if he’s holding himself back with the last threads of a fraying leash. "Fuckin’ hell," he rasps against your skin. "You don’t even know what yer doin’ to me, do ya?"

You moan when his hips shift again, a slow, brutal grind that rubs against something deep inside, sending another crack through your already crumbling self.

"You’re burnin’ me up from the inside," he breathes. "Claimin’ me right back without even tryin'." He thrusts again, a little harder this time.

Your nails rake down his back, and he hisses, the sound sharp and desperate.

"Y’hear that, little bride?" he pants. "The bond’s snappin' shut. Lockin’ us together. Ain’t no prayers that can undo it now."

You whimper under him, nodding frantically because words are gone. Lost. All you can do is feel. All you can do is take him. The magic between you stretches taut—white-hot and endless—pulling tighter with every slow, deep stroke.

Remmick lifts his head. Looks at you. Really looks at you.

And something raw, something wild flashes through his crimson eyes.

Not cruelty. Not hunger. But devotion. The kind of devotion that ruins. That razes. That rebuilds.

And his voice—Christ, his voice—comes soft and reverent, like a prayer said in a burning church. "Mine." He pulls almost all the way out.

Your body cries for him.

And when he slams back in, burying himself to the hilt, the bond explodes.

You barely have time to scream. It rips out of you as Remmick drives back into your body with a force that shatters something deep inside—not bone, not muscle, but something older. Something tied to the very breath in your lungs and the heat in your blood.

The bond snaps tight. It doesn’t just settle between you—it erupts.

A wave of heat crashes through you, stealing your sight, your breath, your thoughts. The air around you blurs and sharpens all at once, everything too bright, too loud, too much. You feel him in every corner of your being—his hunger, his lust, his need crashing against yours in a brutal, endless tide.

Remmick groans low in his throat, a broken sound, like he’s barely holding himself together. "That's it, love," he pants, thrusting deep and sure now, fucking you through the bond’s collapse. "Feel it. Feel me." Each thrust drives him deeper than flesh, branding his presence into you so thoroughly you don't know where you end and he begins.

Your fingers scrabble at his back, nails dragging across his spine. You clutch at him like drowning, like if you let go you’ll be ripped apart.

And maybe you would.

"Yer mine now," he growls against your neck, voice shaking with the force of it. "Every heartbeat. Every breath. Every fuckin’ drop of blood in that sweet body—mine."

You sob beneath him, helpless.

Because it’s true. It’s so true it hurts.

He fucks you harder, hips slamming into yours, the slick sound of your bodies joining filling the dark carriage. Every inch of you aches for him now, craves him. The pleasure is brutal, endless, washing over you in thick, consuming waves that blur the edges of the world. "Say it," he snarls. "Say who owns ya."

You can barely get the words out, your voice broken and gasping between thrusts. "You—Remmick—I'm yours, I'm yours—"

He groans, loud and wrecked, driving himself deeper. "Again."

"I'm yours!" you cry, clinging to him, legs wrapping around his waist without thought. "I'm yours!"

The bond screams its satisfaction, magic sealing tighter, brighter, a perfect, eternal tether. Remmick’s rhythm falters—just for a heartbeat—and then he lets go completely. He fucks you harder, faster, rougher now, as if trying to stamp himself into every molecule of your body. As if the bond isn’t enough, as if he needs your body to remember what your soul already knows.

You’re close again. Closer than before.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from pain—but from the overwhelming rightness of it. The way your body, your magic, your very soul sings under him.

"That's it," he grits out, teeth scraping against your jaw, your throat. "Gimme one more, sweetheart. One more, and I'll fill ya. Mark ya up proper."

You sob something desperate and broken against his shoulder.

And then you fall apart.

Your body breaks first. You cry out, a sharp, ragged sound, thighs locking around Remmick’s hips as your climax rips through you like a flood that’s been dammed too long. It’s blinding—so much more than pleasure. It's surrender. It's consummation.

The bond erupts under your skin, a wildfire racing from your chest outward—your limbs, your heart, your mind all filled with him, only him.

Remmick snarls low in his throat when he feels it—feels you milking his cock, spasming around him, clutching him so tightly you might tear him apart if he were anything less than what he is. "Fuckin’ hell, there’s my girl," he growls, voice thick, shaking, barely human. "God, yer perfect—perfect for me."

You barely hear him over the rush of blood in your ears, the way your heart stutters and kicks under the strain of the bond locking into place. You feel like you’re dying, being reborn, consumed.

And then—

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your throat.

You don’t resist. You can’t.

You offer it to him. Begging without words.

Needing it. Needing him.

Remmick’s breath sears against your pulse, a guttural sound of want breaking free from his chest. "Mine," he rasps, and then— He sinks his fangs into your throat.

You scream—not from pain. From release. From completion.

The moment his teeth pierce your skin, it’s over. The bond seals so violently you swear you feel the whole world lurch.

You feel his cock throb inside you as he spills himself deep, hips jerking hard against yours as he empties everything into you—claiming you, breeding you, binding you. His moan vibrates against your throat, a filthy, possessive sound, full of ancient, ruinous satisfaction.

You convulse around him, helpless, drowning in the force of it—your orgasm crashing into his, a tangled knot of pleasure and magic and hunger so overwhelming you stop knowing where you end and he begins.

Everything collapses into him. His taste. His scent.

His voice murmuring ragged, half-spoken promises against your bleeding throat.

"Never lettin’ ya go." "Made ya for me." "Gonna fuckin’ ruin anyone who tries to take ya." "My sweet girl. My bride."

The world fades to black around the edges.

Not death. Not fear. Just him. Only him.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Him buried deep inside you, teeth still sunk into your throat, body trembling with the aftershocks of the bond and the brutal, gorgeous wreckage he’s left behind.

When he finally pulls his fangs free, you whimper at the loss—but he shushes you gently, lapping at the puncture marks with slow, lazy strokes of his tongue. Sealing the wound. Marking you further.

His hand cups the side of your face, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth like he's calming a horse that’s been run too hard. "There she is," he murmurs, voice low and thick with satisfaction. "My little bride."

You blink up at him, dazed, boneless, ruined.

He smiles.

It’s not kind. It’s not soft. It’s something far worse. Worship.

"You feel it, don't ya?" he whispers. "That ache behind yer ribs? That’s me sittin’ in yer soul now."

You nod weakly. You can still feel him inside you—hot and sticky, filling you in every way a man can. The bond thrums between you like a heartbeat shared.

And he’s not done.

You see it in his eyes. That hunger. That certainty.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth—slow, claiming kisses, each one staking a piece of you deeper than the last. "You’ll never want anyone else again," he promises, voice almost tender. "Yer mine now. Body, blood, soul."

And somehow, impossibly—

You don't fear it. You crave it. You crave him. Forever.

The carriage rocks gently as it moves, but you barely notice. You’re sprawled across the velvet seat, bare and boneless, your limbs too heavy to lift, your skin humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

Of what you are now. Of what he made you.

The mark on your chest still glows faintly, a soft pulse in the dark, echoing your heartbeat—and his. It thrums in your veins, in the tender ache between your thighs where he spilled himself so deep you can still feel the heat of it. You don’t know where your body ends and his begins anymore.

Maybe there’s no difference. Maybe there never was.

Remmick sits at the far end of the carriage now, leaned back lazily against the seat, trousers still open, hair a mussed halo around his head like he’s been through a war and came out smiling.

He watches you. God, he watches you.

Eyes dark and glittering, hungry and satisfied all at once, a predator marveling at the way his prey still twitches even after the final blow.

He’s in no rush. He’s got you now.

Forever.

And you feel it—the first thread of it tightening low in your belly.

A throb. A pulse.

Your body responds instantly to his gaze, hips shifting, thighs pressing together, nipples tightening in the cool air. You bite your lip, trying to smother the shameful rush of heat flooding you again, but it's impossible.

Because now—

Now he feels it too.

A low, wicked chuckle rumbles from his chest. "Aw, sweetheart," he drawls, the accent thick and syrupy, heavy with cruel affection. "Already missin’ me inside ya?"

Your face burns. You shake your head, a weak, pitiful denial—but the bond betrays you.

He tilts his head, the smile on his lips turning downright vicious. "Don’t lie to me," he says, voice dropping low and rough. "Not now. Not when I can feel every twitch of that sweet little cunt clenchin’ on nothin’."

You whimper, curling in on yourself without thinking.

But he doesn’t let you hide for long.

In a blink, he’s across the carriage, hands bracketing your hips, dragging you back flat against the seat. He crowds over you without even touching you fully, his presence alone suffocating, his body heat pouring into you like a second, darker sun.

"You’re open to me now," he murmurs, brushing your hair from your face with almost obscene tenderness. "Every want. Every ache. Every filthy little thought—" He presses the flat of his palm to the mark. You jerk under him, helpless "—I feel ‘em all."

His thumb strokes slow, lazy circles over the mark, and each touch sends new ripples of need spiraling outward—your body trembling, your thighs wet and slick all over again. "You’re gonna learn real quick, love," he says, grinning as you whimper, as you arch into his touch without meaning to. "Ain’t no hidin’ from me now."

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Every time you ache, I’ll know."

"Every time you touch yerself, I’ll feel it." "Every time you think about me splittin’ you open again—"

He rocks his hips against you, not entering, just letting you feel the thick, hot weight of him. "—I’ll be right there, cock hard, ready to remind ya who you fuckin’ belong to."

You sob, overwhelmed.

And his voice goes velvet-soft, coaxing. "Beg me, little bride," he whispers, lips dragging down your throat, over your mark, down the trembling plane of your belly. "Beg me to fuck ya again. Right here. Right now. Fill ya ‘til there’s nothin’ left but me."

You’re already halfway there. The bond shudders and pulls tight, a perfect, beautiful noose.

And you know— You’ll never be free again.

You’ll never want to be.

You don’t even realize you’re begging at first. It’s not words—

It’s sounds.

Soft, desperate little whimpers that slip from your mouth without permission, without shame. Your hips rock up toward him, seeking friction, seeking him, even though there’s no chance of satisfaction without his mercy.

Remmick smiles down at you, all lazy, wicked patience. His thumb strokes your mark again, and your whole body jolts, back arching beautifully off the velvet, nipples peaked, thighs slick. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rich. “Know you can do better’n that. Gimme what I want.” His other hand slides between your legs, fingers ghosting over the soaked, swollen mess he’s made of you.

Barely touching. Barely giving.

You sob out a broken little sound, your hips chasing his hand, your body betraying how desperately you need him to touch, to fill, to take.

Remmick chuckles, a dark, filthy sound that rumbles deep in his chest. “You’re already cryin’ for it, aren’t ya?” he says, tapping your clit lightly with two fingers just to hear the whimper it wrings out of you. “Poor thing. Poor messy little bride. All knotted up and nowhere to go.”

You bite your lip, trembling.

And finally, finally, you find your voice. “Please,” you gasp. “Please, Remmick—please, I need you—”

His breath hitches. He feels it through the bond.

Your honesty. Your surrender. Your helpless, soaking, wrecked want.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging your head back to make you look at him. “Say it proper,” he growls, eyes glowing deep red in the dark. “Say what you want.”

You sob again, blinking up at him, undone and aching. “Please fuck me,” you whisper. “Please—fill me up—make me yours—” You don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

You just mean it. You mean every breathless, desperate word.

Remmick’s whole body shudders. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re perfect.” He doesn’t make you wait after that. He grabs your hips, hauling you down the seat, lining himself up again with ruthless, hungry precision.

You feel the head of his cock slide against your entrance, hot and heavy and inevitable. You whimper, trying to push down onto him, but he holds you still.

“Easy, love,” he murmurs, voice thick and rough. “Gonna give it to ya. Gonna fuck ya slow. Deep. Like you deserve.”

You cry out, nails digging into the velvet, the anticipation unbearable. And then—

He pushes inside. All the way.

Inch by inch, deliberate and slow, stretching you open, filling you so completely you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t be anything but his. Your head tips back, mouth open in a soundless moan, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

Remmick groans like he’s dying. “Christ, yer fuckin’ perfect inside,” he pants, hips rolling slow, deep, dragging against every tender, swollen place he touched before. “Tight little thing. Made to take me.”

You whimper under him, arms thrown around his shoulders, legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, begging without words for more, more, more—

“Shhh, I got ya,” he soothes, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat where his bite still aches. “Gonna take care of ya, little bride. Gonna fuck ya full. Keep ya full. Never gonna let ya go.”

The bond hums louder. Hotter.

Closer.

You can feel yourself already climbing again, your body desperate to fall with him, for him, because of him.

And Remmick—

Remmick feels it too. Feels it through the bond, through your trembling body, through the desperate clench of your cunt around his cock. “That's it,” he groans, pace picking up, thrusts slow but brutal, deep enough you swear you feel him in your throat. “Milk me, love. Show me who ya belong to.” You don’t realize you’re crying again until his thumb brushes the tear slipping down your cheek.

Not hard. Not cruel.

Gentle. Tender.

Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s proud.

“Look at ya,” Remmick murmurs, still grinding deep inside you, the head of his cock dragging over that sensitive, aching place that makes your toes curl and your thighs shake. “Cryin’ so sweet for me.”

He kisses the tear away. Slow.

Lingering.

And then he pulls back just enough to watch your face as he thrusts deep again—slow and rough and devastating—the velvet seat creaking under you both.

You sob, hips rolling to meet him without even thinking, chasing the friction, the fullness, the ownership.

“That’s it,” he pants, voice ragged with pleasure. “Good girl. Good fuckin’ girl. Always knew you’d take me so pretty.”

You cling to him now—arms thrown around his neck, nails raking down his back, legs locked around his hips like your body’s trying to weld itself to his. The bond thrums, vibrating louder, hotter, tighter, until there’s nothing in the world but him—his cock splitting you open, his hands anchoring you down, his mouth whispering filthy worship against your throat.

“Yer built for me,” he growls, teeth scraping lightly against your skin. “Every inch of ya. Every little flutter of this sweet cunt—made to squeeze the life outta me.”

You keen high in your throat, mindless.

Gone.

And Remmick knows it. Knows he’s breaking you. Knows he’s ruining you.

And he loves it.

“You ain’t ever gonna want anyone else,” he murmurs, slowing his thrusts even more, dragging them out until each one feels like a lifetime. “Ain’t ever gonna even think about lettin’ another man touch ya. Not when I’ve already marked ya this deep.”

You whimper, nodding desperately, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it, love,” he urges, voice rough and sweet and brutal all at once. “Say yer mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob, clenching around him so tight he curses under his breath. “I’m yours—I’m yours—only yours—”

He thrusts deeper, harder, driving you up the seat. “Good girl,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

Your climax builds again—fast and brutal—pleasure knotting behind your ribs, behind your spine, the bond squeezing tighter, ready to snap.

And he feels it. His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit with ruthless precision, thumb circling it in time with his deep, devastating thrusts. “Gimme another one, sweetheart,” he pants, hips snapping harder now, cock hitting so deep you swear you feel him in your fucking soul. “Wanna feel you fall apart around me. Wanna drown in it.”

You moan—high and desperate—and the pleasure crashes over you without warning.

You shatter. You scream.

Your body locks up tight, clamping around him, pulsing, milking, owning him as much as he owns you.

Remmick roars against your throat, hips jerking wildly, and then he’s spilling inside you again—hot and endless, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it leaking out around where you’re still clenching him tight.

He bites your shoulder this time—not hard enough to break skin, just hard enough to mark—and the bond howls in satisfaction, sealing it even deeper.

He doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t move.

He just lays there, trembling over you, cock still twitching inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, breath ragged against your skin.

“Mine,” he whispers again.

A vow. A sentence. A promise.

And you—You cling to him like you’ll never let go.

Because you won’t. Because you can’t. Because you’re his. Forever.

You wake in his bed.

You don't remember how you got there.

One moment, you were in the carriage, trembling and wrecked in his arms. The next, you were here—on soft linen sheets, the scent of smoke and leather and Remmick sinking into your skin with every breath you take.

It’s still dark outside. Still heavy.

Still thick with the weight of what’s been done.

The mark over your heart burns dully now, a steady throb like a brand set into your flesh. Not painful. Not exactly.

But constant.

A reminder. A tether.

You reach for him instinctively, seeking the heat of his body against yours—but find only cool sheets where he should be. You sit up, heart stuttering, chest tightening so fast and sharp it’s like you’ve been punched.

Because he’s gone.

He’s not in the bed. Not in the room.

And the bond—The bond screams.

The ache blooms under your ribs, a sick, gnawing hunger that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with absence.

You feel wrong without him. Empty. Fractured.

You clutch the sheet to your chest, trembling. “Remmick?” you whisper into the dark.

No answer. Just the slow crackle of the fireplace across the room.

Your thighs are sticky with the remnants of him. Your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. And still—it’s not enough.

Your body wants him back. Needs him back.

You bite your lip, rocking slightly where you sit, trying to soothe the gnawing ache, the gnashing hunger spiraling tighter inside you.

And then—

You feel him.

Not physically. Psychically.

A thread tugging between you.

You squeeze your thighs together, trying to suppress the fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly—but it’s no use. The mark flares hot.

You whimper.

Somewhere—wherever he is—you know he feels it too.

Because a voice curls into your mind. Low. Rough. Amused. "Miss me already, little bride?"

You gasp, hands flying to your chest, clutching the mark like it might stop the flood building under your skin. “Remmick,” you whisper, voice breaking.

His laugh—low and dangerous—echoes in your mind. "Can feel ya squirm from here."

You shudder violently.

He's not even touching you—and still, he unravels you with nothing but the bond. With nothing but his voice.

"Bet yer soaked again already." "Bet yer clenchin’ that sweet cunt, achin’ for me." "Bet you’d beg real nice if I told ya to."

You whimper, rocking helplessly on the bed, the sheet sliding down your body, baring your breasts to the cold night air. You squeeze your thighs tighter—but it only makes it worse. The bond thrums between your legs like a second heartbeat, cruel and constant.

And Remmick—

Remmick drinks it in.

"Touch yerself," he murmurs in your mind, voice thick with heat and wickedness. "C’mon, sweetheart. Let me feel it."

You shake your head, trembling.

You don’t want to. You can’t. But your hand is already sliding down your belly, shaking, betraying you.

The bond rejoices.

Your fingers trail lower. Soft. Tentative. Shaking.

You’re not thinking anymore. You’re feeling.

Feeling the mark pulsing hot against your ribs, feeling the bond pulling you forward like a hook in your chest, feeling Remmick’s presence wrapped around your mind like smoke.

You part your thighs slowly, the sheet falling away completely. The cool air brushes your skin.

Your slick heat clings to your thighs. You’re already soaked for him.

And he knows it.

"Tha’s it," he drawls into your mind, voice rich with wicked satisfaction. "Good girl. Show me how much ya miss me."

Your fingers slip between your folds, gathering the mess he left inside you.

You whimper. Just from the first touch.

It’s almost too much—too raw, too sensitive—but you can’t stop. Your body won’t let you. Not when the bond is throbbing so hard it feels like a second heartbeat inside your cunt.

You circle your clit with slow, trembling motions. Your back arches. Your breath shudders. “Remmick,” you moan into the empty room, thighs trembling. You swear you can feel him groan from wherever he is—like the sound of your pleasure punches through the bond and wrecks him too.

"Sound so fuckin’ sweet when ya moan for me," he murmurs, rough and reverent. "Could listen to ya all night, little bride."

Your fingers move faster, hips lifting off the bed, chasing the friction, chasing the edge. But it’s not enough.

You whimper helplessly, frustrated tears welling in your eyes. You need him. You need more.

And he feels your desperation.

"Poor thing," he croons. "Can’t even make yerself come without me now, can ya?"

You sob out a broken little “no.”

Because it’s true. The bond won't let you. You’re too tightly strung, too deeply tethered to him. You’re trapped in a pleasure you can’t finish without his touch. Without his voice coaxing you over the edge.

And Remmick? He sounds delighted.

"Good," he growls. "You shouldn’t be able to. Yer mine now, body and soul. Only come when I say so. Only break when I make ya."

Your fingers tremble between your legs, still circling, still trying.

And then—

His voice drops into a low, filthy purr.

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." "Tell me what you’re beggin’ for."

You choke on a sob, panting. “I—I need you,” you cry. “Please, Remmick—I need you—inside me—on me—anything—please—”

The bond tightens, wrapping around you like iron and silk all at once.

And then you feel him move.

Not just through the tether. Physically.

Heavy, sure footsteps across the wooden floorboards.

You twist on the bed, gasping, heart hammering—

And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe.

Shirtless.

Trousers unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.

Eyes glowing deep red.

Cock already hard, leaking, ready.

He licks his lips slowly, predatorily, as he watches you spread out on his bed, hand between your thighs, body trembling with the need he’s been feeding from a distance. “Aw, sweetheart," he says out loud now, voice thick with hunger, accent curling around every syllable. "Look atcha. Fallin’ apart without me."

You shudder violently, reaching out toward him, tears spilling over.

“Please.”

Remmick’s grin turns sharp. Dark.

Triumphant.

“Don’t worry, love," he purrs, crossing the room in three slow, deliberate steps. "I’m gonna take real good care of ya.” The mattress dips under his weight as Remmick climbs onto the bed.

You tremble, thighs still parted, hand still slick and shaking where he caught you mid-plea, mid-fall. But the second his body covers yours—solid, hot, real—you sob with relief.

The bond sings. Bright and brutal.

Tightening like a velvet noose around your heart, your spine, your slick aching cunt.

He hovers over you for a moment, just looking—eyes burning, mouth parted, chest rising and falling with wrecked, hungry breaths. “So fuckin’ pretty when ya beg," he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, all wicked affection. "Could watch ya cry for my cock all night."

You arch up without thinking, hands grabbing at his hips, desperate for him to move, to fill, to own you again—

But Remmick just chuckles. Slow. Dark. Cruel.

"Nuh-uh," he says, catching your wrists easily in one hand and pinning them above your head. "You wanted me, little bride. Now you’re gonna take it."

You gasp, blinking up at him, helpless under the steady weight of his body, the heat of his cock dragging against your dripping folds, heavy and leaking and so close.

He shifts his hips, just enough to tease you—rubbing the head of his cock along your slick entrance, sliding through the mess he already made of you, pressing against your clit with maddening, lazy circles.

You cry out, hips jerking.

But he doesn’t give you what you need. Not yet.

He leans down, nose brushing yours, lips ghosting over your mouth. "Patience," he murmurs, soft and deadly. "Gonna make ya feel it."

And then he moves. Slow. Devastating.

He presses inside an inch. Then stops.

You sob under him, back arching, cunt fluttering helplessly around the stretch.

Remmick groans low in his chest, forehead pressing to yours. "Christ, love," he pants. "Yer still so fuckin’ tight for me."

He pushes deeper. Another inch. Another.

Your legs wrap around his waist automatically, desperate to pull him closer, to drag him deeper, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Greedy little thing," he murmurs. "Can feel it. The way yer suckin’ me in."

You whimper, blinking up at him through a haze of need and tears. "Please," you whisper, broken.

He kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then your trembling mouth.

"Beg prettier," he growls against your lips.

You cry out, the bond pulling tighter, demanding. "Please, Remmick," you sob. "I—I need you—need all of you—please, please, fill me up—"

And that’s what does it.

His patience breaks. With a low, snarling groan, he slams the rest of the way inside you—burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, perfect thrust.

You scream—high and raw and wrecked—as he stretches you open all over again, thick and deep and claiming.

The bond flares.

Brighter. Hotter. Tighter.

You feel him everywhere.

And he doesn’t move at first—just holds you there, trembling around him, stuffed so full you swear you can feel his heartbeat through the walls of your cunt. "That’s it," he pants against your throat. "Take it. Take all of it."

You sob, clenching around him, desperate for more, for anything, for everything.

And Remmick—Remmick fucking smiles.

"Good girl," he breathes. "My good little bride."

He holds still for just a moment longer.

Lets you feel it. The stretch. The fullness. The way your cunt pulses helplessly around him, like your body’s already trying to keep him, even before he’s started moving.

Remmick’s breath fans hot across your cheek. “You feel that, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice low, reverent. “That’s what it means to be bound.”

You moan beneath him, tears slipping down your temples into your hairline as your fingers tighten around his arms—his name clinging to your tongue like prayer, like poison, like you’d die without it.

He begins to move. Slow.

Deep.

Each thrust rolls through you like thunder, like ritual, like a man grinding his soul into yours one inch at a time. He pulls back until only the tip remains inside—then sinks in again, long and devastating, pressing into every tender spot he’s already mapped with hands, teeth, and magic.

You cry out.

The sound is wrecked. Raw.

Remmick groans into your neck. “Fuck, you sound like heaven,” he pants, thrusting again—deeper, harder, making the bed creak beneath you both. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ good. Like you were made for this.”

You nod—wild, desperate.

Because you were. Because that’s what it feels like.

You were made for him.

The bond throbs between you, singing at every point where your skin meets his—breast to chest, hips to hips, heart to heart. It doesn’t just tether. It entwines.

You feel him inside you in ways that have nothing to do with flesh—his hunger, his need, his worship burning through the tether like fire licking silk.

“Never lettin’ you go,” he murmurs, fucking you deeper now, his rhythm building. “Gonna keep you right here—under me, around me—'til you can’t remember what breathin’ feels like without my cock inside ya.”

You sob—moaning, wrecked, grateful.

He lifts your leg over his shoulder without asking, pressing deeper, grinding his hips down to fill every inch of you, dragging another scream from your throat. “That’s it,” he growls. “Squeeze me, love. Just like that. Milk me dry.”

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with perfect, devastating pressure, like he’s already memorized how to tear you apart.

Your back arches, vision blurring.

You’re close. So close.

Remmick feels it. Through the bond. In your body. In the way your cunt flutters, begging to break again. “Come for me,” he rasps. “Come with me inside you. Let the whole fuckin’ world know who you belong to.”

You can’t stop it. You don’t even try.

You break.

Harder than before—clenching around him, crying out his name, the bond lighting up like a wildfire behind your eyes.

Remmick groans loud and possessive above you, hips snapping hard, fast, until he’s burying himself one last time and spilling into you with a sound you’ll never forget. “Mine,” he chokes out. “Fuck—mine. Mine—”

You don’t know who’s shaking more.

Your hands. His voice. The world.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t pull out.

Just holds you. Breathes you.

Like he needs to.

The bond simmers between you, satisfied and sealed, humming like a beast at rest. You reach up, hands trembling, and cup his face.

He leans into your touch like it hurts not to. “Y’feel it now?” he whispers, barely audible. “That ache when I’m gone?”

You nod, eyes wet.

“Good,” he says. “Because I fuckin’ feel it too.”

You wake up sore.

Sweetly. Brutally. Deep in the muscles of your thighs, between your ribs, in the soft swell of your cunt—filled and used and claimed. You shift under the heavy quilt, blinking into the low golden light of the fire across the room.

There’s birdsong. Faint. And the low simmering hum of the bond still thrumming in your chest like a second heartbeat.

It’s quiet here. Peaceful, almost.

Except for the ache between your legs and the warm, terrifying weight of him behind you.

Remmick.

He’s still there.

One arm curled heavy over your waist, bare chest pressed to your spine. You feel the slow, lazy drag of his breath against your shoulder—calm and even, like a man who’s slept deeply. Like he’s sated.

He doesn’t stir when you shift slightly.

But the bond does. It tightens, warm and low, like a pulse at the base of your spine. Like a hand slipping between your thighs. Like a warning.

Don’t move. Don’t leave. You’re his.

You lie there, heart pounding quietly under his hand.

And then—

His voice. Low. Rough with sleep. Slipping against your skin like silk over a bruise. “Where d’you think yer goin’, little bride?”

You freeze.

His fingers flex over your belly, lazy but firm, tugging you back against his chest until you feel the unmistakable weight of his cock, already thick and half-hard between your thighs. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing you in like he’s starving again.

“I wasn’t,” you whisper. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

A soft, dangerous hum in your ear. “Good.”

You stay still.

The silence stretches, warm and weighted, as his hand strokes lazy circles over your stomach. He’s not trying to arouse you—not yet. Just remind you. That he’s here. That he feels you. That he owns every flutter of your heartbeat before you even register it.

“You dream last night?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. You had.

Dreamt of him. Of his hands. His mouth. The way your legs shook when he told you to beg. The way you liked it.

“I don’t remember,” you lie softly.

Remmick laughs against your throat, lips brushing the skin he bit just hours ago. “Liar.”

His hand slides lower. But slower now. Less demanding. More like he’s testing something. Watching how your body answers to his. How the bond hums in response to every breath between you.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud,” he says, nuzzling behind your ear. “I can feel it.”

You tense. Just slightly.

His hand stills over your hips. Then his voice, softer this time. “You scared of me, love?”

The question sinks into your ribs like a needle. You’re not sure how to answer.

Yes.

And no.

And not enough.

You don't answer right away. How could you?

Your throat is tight. Your body too sore, too raw. The ache between your legs still pulses in time with the bond, and Remmick’s presence behind you—his breath on your neck, his cock hardening slowly between your thighs—makes it worse.

Makes it better. Makes it everything.

And still, that question hangs in the air like smoke:

“You scared of me, love?”

He doesn’t say it cruelly. He doesn’t laugh after. He just waits.

His hand stills on your belly, fingers splayed wide over the skin he’s already touched with tongue and teeth and blood.

You swallow hard, voice soft, barely audible.

“Yes.”

Remmick doesn’t tense. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t punish you.

He exhales slowly through his nose, like the answer had been expected. Maybe even hoped for. “Good,” he murmurs. “Y’should be.”

You blink—heart thudding once, hard, behind your glowing mark.

His thumb strokes your stomach, just above your navel. “You should be scared,” he says again, slower this time. “I’m not a man, sweetheart. I ain’t some boy who’ll kiss your hand and promise forever under a moon I don’t get to stand under.”

He kisses your shoulder instead. Soft. Lingering.

A contradiction to the words in his mouth.

“I’m what waits under the bed,” he breathes. “What knocks at the door when you pray it won’t. What takes instead of asks.”

You shiver. Not from cold.

From the way your body doesn’t recoil.

From the way your hips push back against him without thinking.

Remmick hums against your skin. “Scared of me,” he repeats, voice lowering to a hush, “but still so wet for me you’re stickin’ to my sheets.”

You whimper, cheeks burning.

And still—he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t rut into you. Doesn’t force.

He just holds you tighter. Because this is worse than violence. Worse than taking.

This is knowing.

He feels everything. Not just your body.

Your shame. Your desire. Your ache for him.

And he loves it.

“You think I don’t feel what that fear does to ya?” he murmurs. “How it curls low in your belly, how it sweetens the way you clench when I talk like this?”

His teeth graze your throat again. Gently this time. Carefully. “You’re scared,” he says, “and still, you’d let me put a baby in you if I told you to.”

Your breath catches.

Your body answers before your voice ever could—heat surging between your legs, thighs squeezing together around nothing, cunt fluttering at the idea of it.

He feels that too.

“Ohhh,” he groans, laughing low and pleased. “There she is.”

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flip you over. Doesn’t tear you open.

Doesn’t bare his teeth and fuck you through the mattress, even though you can feel how badly he wants to.

Instead—Remmick slips down your body slowly.

The quilt is pulled aside with a lazy flick of his wrist, exposing your bare skin to the cold air and to him. You shiver, more from anticipation than chill.

He kneels at the edge of the bed, dragging your hips to the edge like you’re something soft and sacred he’s about to set on fire. The bond buzzes between you, a hot, pulsing wire strung from your cunt to his mouth, taut and trembling.

You bite your lip. And you don’t dare move.

Because the look in his eyes—

Low. Hungry. Worshipful.

It pins you to the sheets like a hand to the throat.

“Still scared?” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your knee.

You nod. Barely.

He smiles. Slow. Honest. “Good. Don’t stop bein’.”

He kisses higher. The curve of your thigh. Then the crease.

Then—

Close.

Not touching. Not yet.

But watching you twitch. Watching your hips roll up in a silent, shameful plea.

Remmick groans softly. “You think that fear makes me less gentle?” he asks, voice hushed, like confession. “Nah, sweetheart. Makes me tender. Makes me want to ruin you slow.”

You gasp as he finally presses a kiss to your cunt.

Soft. Closed-mouth.

More reverent than filthy.

It’s worse than teasing. It’s adoration.

He parts you with careful fingers, breath ghosting over you until your legs shake from the not-touching, the almost, the please.

And then his tongue finds your clit.

Just once. A soft drag.

Then again. Slower. Wetter. More precise.

Your back arches off the bed.

Your hands reach for something to hold—sheets, the edge of the headboard, the carved wood posts—but Remmick grabs your thighs and holds you down.

“Mmm-mm,” he hums, tongue circling slowly. “Don’t run.”

You moan—loud, needy—and he groans in response, mouthing at you deeper, filthier, gentler.

“You taste scared,” he mutters between licks. “And it’s makin’ me hard enough to fuckin’ kill for it.”

Your legs twitch.

You’re soaked. He’s drinking you in. Taking his time, tongue slow and firm, lips wrapping around your clit like he’s savoring your fear, your sweetness, your surrender.

And still—

No rush. No cruelty. Just… devotion.

Monster-shaped.

Blood-warm.

Endless.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice almost broken. “Even when you’re shakin’. Even when you flinch. Even when you don’t fuckin’ understand what I’ve turned you into yet.”

You sob.

Because he’s right. You’re his.

Even in the fear.

Especially in the fear.

And when he sucks your clit slow and deep, the pressure spiraling out from your spine in white-hot coils, you don’t try to hide the tears.

You don’t want to anymore.

You break the second time he moans. Not from the sound alone—though it’s low and thick and filthy, vibrating through your cunt like a prayer that never belonged to God—but from the way he presses his tongue flat, dragging it slow and steady through your slick folds like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted like salvation.

Your thighs tremble around his head.

You try to close them. He doesn’t let you.

Strong hands pin your legs open, thumbs digging into the meat of your thighs as he devours you—hungry, tender, relentless.

You sob. Tears spill freely now. Not from pain. Not even from overstimulation.

But from the unbearable, overwhelming worship.

He licks you like you’re sacred. He sucks your clit like it’s a rosary bead caught between his lips.

“Please—” you gasp, voice catching. “Please, I—I can’t—”

But you can. He knows you can.

“Y’can,” he growls into your cunt, mouth soaked, voice wrecked. “Y’will.”

His tongue flicks faster now, swirling pressure tight and perfect, designed to drag you toward the edge.

“Gonna come for me, little bride,” he murmurs, biting your inner thigh. “Gonna give it to me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you do. You shatter.

The orgasm tears through you like lightning—white-hot, blinding, burning you open from the inside out. You scream his name, thighs locking around his head, body writhing, breaking.

Remmick groans like your pleasure’s feeding him, like it’s going to his head, to his cock, to the thing in him that isn’t human and never pretended to be.

You’re still shaking when he moves.

Rising up over you. Dragging his cock along your twitching folds, hard and slick and soaked with the mess you just made.

“You’re still scared,” he says, watching you with eyes too dark and too red to be anything but wrong.

You nod.

Because it’s true. Because it always will be.

And he smiles.

Soft. Loving. Terrifying.

“But you want me anyway,” he whispers, lining himself up.

Your lip trembles. “Yes.”

He kisses you.

Then pushes inside.

Not hard. Not brutal.

Just deep.

He sheaths himself in your still-pulsing cunt like he belongs there. Like the bond’s waiting to welcome him back.

You cry out, arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to him like you might fall through the bed otherwise.

Remmick groans, low and aching, forehead pressed to yours. “That’s my girl,” he breathes. “Takin’ me even when you’re scared. Clenchin’ like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

He starts to move.

Slow. Rhythmic. Ruinous.

And you sob against his mouth—not because it hurts. But because you’ve never felt so full of something you’ll never understand.

“Say it,” he pants, each thrust dragging a cry from your throat. “Say the fear don’t matter. Not if it’s me.”

You nod, dizzy and wrecked, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“It doesn’t,” you whisper. “Not if it’s you.”

Remmick groans, fucking into you harder now, the bond singing through your bones. “That’s it,” he growls. “That’s mine. All of it. All of you.”

You nod again.

You don’t fight. You don’t flinch. You give in.

You don’t know how long he stays inside you.

Could be minutes. Could be hours. Could be forever.

Time doesn’t work the same anymore. Not when your body is bonded to his. Not when your soul is stitched to something ancient and starving.

He holds you through every aftershock. His hands stroke your skin as if memorizing the shape of you, the feel of you, the way your body softened under his until it didn’t know where it ended and he began. Eventually, he moves—slowly, gently, as if reluctant to leave the heat of you even for a moment.

You expect him to pull out and clean you, maybe carry you to a bath, maybe tuck you against his chest again and fall into that peaceful quiet you’d been drifting in before.

But instead—He kneels between your thighs.

Again.

Eyes glowing in the low firelight. Expression unreadable. Mouth blood-red and reverent.

“Remmick?” you whisper.

And then you see it.

His knife.

The blade is old. Dark. Iron and bone. Etched with something that moves if you look too long.

He doesn’t raise it. Not yet.

He looks at you with the kind of stillness that makes you forget how to breathe. “I need to finish it,” he says.

You blink. “I thought we already did.”

He tilts his head, eyes trailing down your sweat-slick body, pausing at the faint glow of the mark over your heart. “Nah, love,” he says quietly. “We did the binding. The claiming. The taking.”

He presses the knife to his palm.

“But not the keeping.”

He slices. Clean. No flinch. Blood wells thick and slow from the cut, dark and rich and wrong.

You sit up slightly, heart pounding.

He holds his hand out to you. “Drink,” he says.

You stare. Then whisper, “Why?”

His voice doesn’t shake. It never does.

“Because this world don’t care what I’ve claimed.” “Because someone’ll try to take you from me.” “Because I need them to know you’re mine before they even open their mouth.”

Your breath catches. “Remmick…”

“They’ll smell it on ya. Feel it in your blood. The burn of me, buried under your skin. It’ll make ‘em hesitate. Make ‘em hurt when they touch you.”

You swallow hard.

Your legs are still trembling from his last claiming. You can feel his seed still dripping from you. You can feel his breath in your lungs, the bond in your spine, his mark over your heart.

And still—he wants more.

You crawl toward him. Hands shaking. And press your lips to his palm.

The taste is sharp. Sweet. Thick with something that isn’t just blood.

Power.

Magic.

Hunger older than this country, older than the woods, older than God.

Remmick groans low in his throat, watching you lap at the wound like you’re starved for it.

Maybe you are. Maybe you always have been.

When you’ve had your fill, he pulls you up into his lap, cradling you there like a bride carried across a threshold made of ash and bone. His mouth finds your throat again. Kisses it. “I’ll kill for you,” he whispers. “I’ll burn for you.”

You press your forehead to his. “I know.”

“I’ll never let you go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

His arms tighten around you. One hand slides over your belly. The mark is glowing again. Dimmer, but pulsing steady. “You’ll carry my blood now,” he says, voice soft and ruined. “One day you’ll carry more.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

The bond answers for you.

You are his.

Forever.

Not because he took. But because you gave.

Because when the dark came knocking—when it whispered promises of pleasure and fear and ruin—

You opened the door. You bared your throat.

You said yes.

And now, when they speak of the bloodbound bride of the most dangerous vampire in the Delta, they won’t whisper in pity.

They’ll whisper in awe.

Because you didn’t run. You didn’t cry. You stayed.

And when they ask you why—if you’re ever foolish enough to speak to mortals again—you’ll say the only truth that matters anymore.

“I was scared.”

And then, with a smile, with teeth, with Remmick’s fire burning behind your ribs—

“But I loved him more.”

[yzzart]

Okay! Hear me out! Dante's s/o has angel lineage (bc if there's demons, there must be persons of purity right?) But is a fallen one unknowingly because they're in love and actively dating Dante, who's Sparda's son!

COME FROM WAY ABOVE... ── DANTE

୭˚. ᵎᵎ content warnings: F!reader, daughter of a fallen angel, mention of divine and demonic creatures and Sparda, Dante being a flirt, puns and pick-up lines, light content.

⭑.ᐟ No person had ever, under any circumstances, heard, witnessed or distinguished the factual — or safe, depending on who was telling it — story of your mother; and, not wanting to admit a banal, perhaps clichéd impact, you decided to continue the credibility in telling it.

⤷ Living, throughout your childhood, with the narrative that was handed to you in an institution, carried out by nuns, by a beautiful and unknown woman was enough to dispel any questioning.

⤷ But, how much longer, being extremely risky, could the truth about the woman who gave birth to you being an angel survive? — An angel, unknown to the tales of the human world; being kept only between the so-called paradise and the underworld. — Decreed to eternal suffering, alongside man, and being unable to even say goodbye, properly, to you.

⭑.ᐟ It wasn't something new, unprecedented for you — just some factors that contributed, negatively, and fatally, to you suffering persecution, threats and unlimited demonic attacks throughout your life. — It would be worse, much worse, if it were from DARKCOM, right? right.

⤷ The recent case — or attempted attack — coming from a creature, in your eyes considered a true horrifying and dark brute, fearsome knew how to corner your presence; as always, referring to you, with an altered voice, in complete exhaustion, as “daughter of a fallen one”. — What could you do with that title? — "creation of an irresponsible angel."

⤷ Before you could try to fight back, to question, just like previous occurrences, bullets began to pierce the damned demon; despairing and cutting the creature — The shots didn't stop, and you feared that you wouldn't be hit. — And, by the goodness of gods, that could exist, you weren't.

⤷ The half-demon and half-demon hunter, Dante. — Had practically saved your miserable life, during the ironic moment when, possibly, your past would come to light. — The white-haired man, so bold, killed the demon as if it were the most entertaining and relaxed thing in the world.

“So, ‘angel’, huh?” — He put his pistol in his waistband, kicking his dirty black boots against the ground as he crossed his arms. — “Funny, how did you stay so beautiful even when you fell from the heavens?” — Oh, you didn’t know whether to laugh, thank or punch him.

⭑.ᐟ Could it be considered ironic, — very ironic — biting and sounding like a clichéd and tasteless joke about the fact that the son of a demon and the daughter of an angel had created a bond and, possibly, a relationship? — It could, but it would be met with gunpowder and unfunny puns.

⤷ After the incident, you started meeting up, by pure coincidence — or it was just Dante, trying to bump into you, while trying to reach you — and you were always greeted by jokes, puns or pick-up lines that exposed the truth about your ancestry. — and, as time went by, occasional encounters turned into official ones.

⭑.ᐟ Dante never forced you to reveal, abruptly, or want any statement, about your mother; of course he was surprised, he had never heard anything like it. — He thought that, in the world of the “perfect”, it was not possible for it to happen. — And he always talked about the confidence about his father; you could not compare each other's situations but you knew how you felt about it.

⤷ That didn't stop you from approaching, trying to move some information and showing little knowledge about the hybrid connection; a naive manipulation of light between shadows, — reflecting the dark side of the fall — learning to establish a kind of energy field, something not yet certified. — Dante, most of the time, was a witness to your crucial attempts.

⤷ And, deep down, being unable to deny it, he knew that you could be exposed, more vulnerable, by creating a connection with the son of Sparda. — Adored by some human souls, hated by others and decreed a traitor by the demons. — But, that didn't mean he would give up on you.

⭑.ᐟ Well, losing count, considered mental, of how many times your boyfriend created those damn pick-up lines and puns for you; it was no secret that you liked them, more than you should. — It was a way of relaxing you, in an admirable way and in his own way, which Dante took very seriously.

⤷ And, unable to resist expressing a conspicuous, serious expression, your lips curved into an exultant smile, turning into a hilarious laugh. — Ensuring that Dante's mission was complete.

“If angels really do miracles…” — He put his feet on the old, dusty wooden table as he enjoyed the slice of pizza he had ordered for you and him — “you can only be living proof of that, pretty girl.” — The half-demon winked boldly, which you had learned to like, in your direction.

[anxiouscherubs]

sunday morning

𖤓 summary: the one where you wake up too soon from a wet dream and your boyfriend is there to help you... relieve the tension. 𖤓 warnings/tags: MDNI! 18+, explicit, smut, established relationship, some degradation, bdsm dynamics, yeo is a bit of a mean dom!! you've been warned!!, use of the color system, some choking, fingering, spanking, lovebites, oral sex (f receiving), edging, unprotected sex (don't do that), yes there's aftercare im not a monster 𖤓 dom!yeosang x fem!sub!reader 𖤓 author's note: i know i said i would post this by the end of march but wedding planning and school and work are consuming my life!!!!! finished this with a literal ear infection bc i NEEDED to put it out into the universe lol. this was originally inspired by the fact that yeosang uses the replica lazy sunday morning fragrance and quickly spiraled into depravity. yeosang wrecks me every day of my life and i KNOW he gets nasty. he's too quiet to be anything other than a dom, sorry! this is also my first time writing a relationship with bdsm dynamics so please feel free to leave (constructive and kind) feedback! 𖤓 word count: 5.9k 𖤓 read it on ao3 here

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

“Sangie, please” you moan into your boyfriend’s neck, his cock plunging in and out of you at a relentless pace. 

“What is it, pretty girl?” he teases, his fingers finding your clit, circling the sensitive bud to match the pace of his thrusts. 

”I’m so close, baby, fuck,” your hands tangle in his dark hair as you tilt your head to the side to give him better access to your neck. He licks a firm stripe from your collarbone to right below your ear, never slowing his hips. 

“Come on then, baby, fall apart around my cock,” he growls into your ear. 

The pleasure settles in your core, hot and heavy, building and building as your bodies move in sync. He hits that soft spot inside of you, and you cry out, his name falling off your lips over and over like a mantra. 

“Yeo, oh my god,” you whimper, “fuck, I’m gonna —“ 

A loud crash startles you from your sleep, pulling you from your delicious dream. The soft morning light creeps through the blinds of your shared bedroom, casting gentle stripes across your duvet. The city outside is still quiet as you try to shake the heat from your system, Yeosang’s cold empty side of the bed helping bring you back to reality. You let out a slow breath, stretching your tired muscles, trying to jumpstart your body, ignoring the wetness that had begun to pool in your sleep shorts thanks to your subconscious. You roll over to face your nightstand, squinting at the clock — 9:15 AM. Yeosang always wakes up earlier than you, and sleeping this late is out of the question, unless he’s on his deathbed with a cold. 

You untangle from the sheets, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed to stretch, letting your feet rest on the sun-warmed wooden floor. The morning light shines bright through your window, the warmth melting into your skin. You hear rustling in the kitchen, and realize the sound that startled you awake must have something to do with your boyfriend making you both breakfast, like he does every Sunday. 

Dragging yourself out of bed, you throw a fuzzy cardigan over the tank top you slept in, to match your shorts. Yeosang always gifts you sets of loungewear, because he knows how happy it makes you to laze around the house in something cute. You make your way down the hallway, the warm smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafting around you the closer you get to the kitchen. You round the corner to see your boyfriend bent over the sink, washing dishes from last night’s dinner. A fresh pan of cinnamon rolls sits on the counter next to him. Your favorite.

“Good morning, Sangie,” you softly say from the doorway, so as not to startle him. He peaks over his shoulder at you briefly before turning the water off, a breathtaking smile consuming his features. His gray sweatpants hug his slender hips, and the tight black tank top he’s sporting gives you an unobstructed view of his broad shoulders and strong arms. God, he looks good.

“Hi, pretty girl,” he coos, his deep voice still raspy from sleep. He quickly dries his hands on a dish towel before discarding it on the counter and making his way over to you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in for a warm hug, his familiar scent enveloping you. His fingers rub absentminded circles on your skin as he holds you, his hot touch reminding you what you were dreaming about before you were jolted from your sleep. You feel your cheeks warm, thinking about how, in your mind, he was inside of you moments ago. 

“Did I wake you? I tried to wash everything quietly, but the pan we used last night slipped and I banged it on the counter,” he kisses your forehead, the lingering warmth of his breath working you up even more. 

“It’s okay, baby,” you pull back to kiss his nose, trying to shake the heat from your body. “I needed to get up anyway. I missed you.” You wonder if he can tell how hot and bothered you are. He knows your body like the back of his hand, and when you’re needy, he picks up on it right away. 

“Yeah? Were you dreaming about me?” He squeezes your hips before releasing you, picking the dish towel up and walking back to the sink to hang it up.

“No,” you blush, sensing he already knows the answer. He chuckles darkly, leaning back on the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

“If those pretty little moans I heard coming from our bedroom are any indication, I’m gonna have to call you a liar, baby,” he smirks at you as your soft smile falls from your face. “Wanna try to answer truthfully this time?” The tone of his voice has shifted from the sweet, doting boyfriend he was moments ago, the version of him you only see in the bedroom starting to crack through the surface.

“Y-Yeo, I—“ you stumble over your words. Of course you gave yourself away, how embarrassing. Your face feels like it’s on fire. 

“What was I doing, hm?” Yeosang prowls toward you slowly, a strand of his dark hair floating down onto his forehead. “Tasting you? Fingering you? Fucking you?” He stops in his tracks, waiting for your answer. 

The words coming out of his mouth have your mind reeling, a pit of pleasure settling in your belly. You let your cardigan fall from your shoulder, suddenly aware of how his hungry eyes are raking over your body. 

“Fucking me,” you barely recognize the sound of your voice, breathless and desperate, “you were fucking me,” 

“Mmm,” his deep voice sounds like honey, “and how was it, hm? Did I let you come?” He creeps closer to you, only a few steps away. 

“I-I woke up, before I could,” you start, trying to hide your embarrassment. 

“Oh, jagiya,” he finally closes the distance between the two of you, slowly wrapping one arm around your body, his hand snaking down to cup your ass. “You must be so pent up, my love.” His other hand comes up to your neck, brushing your hair away to ghost his lips over your bare shoulder. He trails featherlight kisses up your shoulder, to your neck, settling right by your ear. “Do you want me to help you with that?” His deep voice whispering over your sensitive skin… he knows what that does to you. 

You’re nodding before your voice catches up. “Yes, Sangie, please,” you whisper, bracing yourself on Yeosang’s shoulders as he nips at your neck. He nods at your pleading, willing as always to take care of you.  

“Should I bring you to bed, or take you here first?” He bites down on your shoulder, growling into your skin. 

You whimper at the sensation, “now, Yeo please, I need you to touch me now,” your hands float up to his hair, lacing through his dark locks. 

“Mm,” he tuts, “what if I want to do both?” He pulls away from you to look into your eyes, pupils blown wide with desire. He brings a hand to your chin, thumbing your bottom lip. You open your mouth for him instinctively, and he hooks his thumb on your bottom teeth, tilting your head up at him. “Why don’t I make you come once here, and then I’ll take you to bed and fuck you back to sleep.” 

You nod as you close your lips around his thumb, swirling your tongue around it, drawing a deep groan up his throat. 

He moves quickly, popping his thumb out of your mouth to plant his hands on your hips. The room around you spins, and suddenly your back is pressed up against him. He wraps an arm around your stomach and brings his other hand to your throat, caging you in his grip. You feel his hardness pressing into your ass as he rolls his hips into you. You whimper, leaning into him, chasing every little touch he’s willing to give you. 

“What does my baby want?” He whispers in your ear, tightening his hand on your throat and sliding his other down to ghost his fingers under the band of your shorts, “should I bend you over the counter and have you come around my fingers? Or should I put you on the counter and fuck you with my tongue?” He squeezes the sides of your neck gently, just enough to make your head spin. 

“F-fingers,” you choke out, rolling your ass over him. 

He shoves you forward, into the counter, the hard marble digging into your hips as he moves his hand from your stomach to the middle of your back to push your torso over the countertop. You brace yourself, planting your hands on either side of your head, and he releases your throat to grip your hair, tipping your head to the side and squishing your cheek into the cold surface. 

“Don’t tell me you’re so fucking cock hungry that you forgot your manners,” he scolds you, ripping your sleep shorts down with one hand and smacking your ass with a loud crack. 

“Ah-! Fuck,” you cry out, the pain warming you from the inside out, a rush of arousal flooding your center. “Please, I want your fingers Sangie, please,”

”Good fucking girl,” he coos, “and no panties, huh?” He pulls his hands from you and takes a step back, leaving you bent over the counter with an angry red handprint blooming on your naked ass. “I’ll never get tired of seeing you like this, fucking hell,” he runs a hand through his hair as he admires you. 

You know he’s teasing you by not touching you right away, so you take it upon yourself to kick your shorts to the side and prop one shaking leg up on the counter, presenting yourself to him. 

“Mmm, you’re practically dripping, jagi,” he zeroes in on your center, “you must’ve been really close in that little dream of yours, hm?” 

Before you can formulate a snarky reply, he’s behind you, plunging two fingers deep inside of you, using his free hand to grip your hip and hold you in place. You stammer out a curse at the sensation, your mouth hanging open against the cold countertop as he stretches you out. He immediately finds that tender spot inside of you, pressing the pads of his fingers against it over and over and over. 

“Yeo, oh my god,” you whimper, that familiar pit of warmth settling in your stomach. 

“Already squeezing around my fingers like you’re gonna come? I’ve barely touched you,” he teases you, his mean, dominant facade slipping into place. 

“F-feels so good Sangie, can’t help it, mmhn,” you’re practically drooling on the counter as he pistons his fingers in and out, reaching deep inside of you. 

He pulls his fingers from your center, bringing his hand down hard on your ass again. You cry out against the marble, tears blurring your vision as his fingers find your swollen clit. Your knee almost buckles underneath you as he expertly swirls around it, so familiar with your body, but he holds you up with a firm hand on your hip. 

“You wanna come, baby? Hm?” He quickens his pace, dipping his fingers inside of you to gather more of your arousal. 

“Yes, please,” you whimper. 

“Then come.” He almost sounds bored as he applies just the right amount of pressure to make you crumble in his hold, holding you steady as your body shakes. 

“T-thank you,” you cry out, your climax washing over you, wiping out all your strength. 

“So good for me,” Yeosang whispers, holding you in place, letting your body go limp over the countertop. He rubs both thumbs into the small of your back, letting you come down for a few quiet beats before bringing you back to the moment. 

“Color?” He quietly asks, the tone of his voice softening for a moment as he turns his attention to your hips, softly massaging your joints. 

“Green, very much green,” you sigh between breaths.

“Then come on, pretty girl,” he growls from behind you, pulling his hands from your body and taking a few slow steps backwards, “you want me to fuck you, don’t you?” 

You push yourself up on the counter, slowly lowering your trembling leg to the floor. 

“Yes, please Yeo,” you turn to face him, leaning back on the sturdy surface behind you, your brain still fuzzy and your hearing a bit muffled. His fingers are glistening with your arousal, the outline of his cock pressing against the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Your core pulses at the sight. 

“Then let’s go,” he beckons you, taking a few more steps backwards toward your shared bedroom, fire simmering behind his eyes.

You follow his lead, your unsteady legs carrying you a few steps before your boyfriend raises a hand up to stop you. 

“Nuh-uh,” he scolds you, shaking his head. 

You tilt your head at him in question, the teasing lilt in his voice making you dizzy as you realize what you’re in for. So he’s in this kind of mood. 

“Crawl.” 

Dropping to your knees without a second thought, a gasp leaves your lips as you hit the floor, the deep growl in his command making your body react instantly. 

“Good girl.“ His cock twitches in his sweatpants. “Now, you can follow me.” He smirks at you as you lower your hands to the floor, and you feel thankful that the warm sun flooding through your kitchen windows has heated the floorboards. 

You keep your eyes locked on his while you follow him on all fours, making sure to exaggerate the sway of your hips and the arch of your back as you crawl.

“Well, don’t you look so pretty on your hands and knees for me, hm? Obedient little slut.” 

Heat spreads across your cheeks at the emphasis on his last word, knowing he’s only saying it because he knows how much you love it.

He walks backwards the whole way to your shared bedroom, power radiating from him in the way he carries himself, his dark eyes trained on you as you crawl for him. His mouth hangs open as he watches you, and you can tell he’s testing his own self control. You follow him over the threshold, watching him as the backs of his knees hit the mattress, dropping down onto the edge of your bed. He spreads his legs wide, leaning back as he tilts his head to the side while he contemplates his next move. 

“Come,” he pats the mattress between his thighs, and you crawl forward to the edge of the bed, kneeling between his legs, looking up at him through your lashes. He grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tipping your head back. 

“As much as I’d love to have you falling apart around my cock in the next few minutes, I haven’t gotten a taste of you yet.” 

“O-oh,” his words warm your center, the way he’s looking down at you only making you feel more desperate for his touch. 

“Normally I’d make you earn it, but after listening to your slutty fucking moans all morning I don’t think I can wait any longer,” he wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing firmly before guiding you up to your feet, standing along with you. He flicks at the shoulder of your cardigan with his free hand. “Off,” he demands. You shimmy out of it instantly, letting it drop to the floor and pool around your feet. 

“Give me your color,” he whispers, his grip on your throat loosening.

“Still very green, my love,” you smirk at him as he nods, squeezing tighter again. 

“So pretty with my hand around your neck,”  he praises you, your head spinning as you work to inhale. “I can’t, fuck,” he lets his resolve crack, crashing his lips into yours.

He kisses you hard, fingers carding through your hair as he parts your lips with his tongue. “I’ll take my time with you later,” he mumbles against your mouth, swiping his tongue over yours. You kiss each other like you’ve been apart for weeks; desperate pawing, panting, whining. 

“Lay down,” he orders you, groaning at the string of saliva connecting your mouths as he pulls away from you. He holds your waist as he spins the both of you around, putting you at the foot of the bed before pushing you onto the mattress. You catch yourself on your elbows, scooting back as he crawls on top of you, sloppily kissing you the whole way, moving together until you’re settled in the pillows against the headboard. 

He kisses you from your lips, up to the hinge of your jaw, down the column of your neck. You lay back against the pillows, so familiar with the way he loves to map your body with his mouth. He spreads your legs with his knees, splaying you open wide for him, your bare cunt clenching around nothing at the sudden exposure. 

He kisses down to your chest as his hands run up your thighs, bypassing your aching core to run up your stomach, one hand dipping beneath your tank top to palm your breast. You gasp at the sensation of his calloused hand kneading your supple flesh, a whine escaping as he runs a thumb over your nipple. He pulls your tank top up with his free hand, exposing your breasts to the cool air. 

“Sangie,” you thread your fingers through his hair as he kisses down the valley between your breasts, tightening your grip when he catches one of your nipples between his teeth. “Fuck,” you whisper, looking down at him as he flicks his tongue over it. His eyes meet yours briefly before they roll back as he sucks your nipple into his mouth. 

“Baby,” you whine, the feeling of his mouth on you making your head spin. “I need you,” 

“Mhm,” his mouth pops off of you briefly before his teeth graze over the top of one of your breasts, the sensation dissolving into pleasurable pain as he bites down. 

“Ah!” You yelp as his teeth scrape over your skin, panting as he soothes the bite with his tongue, sucking with the intention to leave a mark. 

“You forgot your manners again, pretty girl,” he bites you again, on your stomach this time, and you glance down to see the first mark blooming with shades of red and purple as he paints another. 

“Fuck, I—“ your voice catches in your throat at the third bite, lower on your stomach, inching closer to where you need him. ”Please Yeo, I need it,” 

“Need what, hm? Use your words,” the next bite is harder than the last, and it has you squirming, desperately pushing your hips into him as his teeth dig into the inside of your thigh. 

“Your mouth, please, please,” you rock your hips against nothing, your boyfriend keeping his distance to encourage more of your delicious whining. 

“You sound so pretty when you beg, my little whore,” he spreads your legs wide, fingers splayed across the insides of your thighs. He watches your cunt clench at the word, smirking to himself before spitting directly on your heat. 

“Oh,” you feel his warm saliva slide from your clit to your entrance, the sensation making you squirm underneath him. “Sangie, please,” 

“Mhm,” he finally settles between your legs, threading his arms under your thighs, pulling you closer to his waiting mouth. 

He licks the blooming purple bite on your thigh, trailing wet kisses up, closer and closer, pressing one last kiss before finally spreading you open with his tongue. Your back arches instantly, leaning into his mouth. He licks you from your entrance up to your clit, groaning at the taste of you. 

“Fuck,” you whine, gripping his hair, holding him against you. He laps at you, flicking the firm point of his tongue over your swollen clit over and over. 

“Mmm,” he growls against you, the vibrations drawing a whimper up your throat. He eats you like a man starved, as he always does, digging his fingers into your hips and caging you in against his mouth. 

“So good, Sangie, ah–” you yelp as his teeth scrape against your clit, a low chuckle vibrating through you at your reaction. He sucks your sensitive bud into his mouth, one hand loosening its grip on your hip to weave around to your throbbing entrance. 

You feel two fingers inching up the inside of your thigh, the light touch prickling goosebumps across your skin. The moment you look down at him, he pops his mouth off of you, briefly sucking his fingers into his mouth, your arousal shining on his chin. His dark eyes don’t leave yours as he guides his fingers to your center, teasingly running them through your wetness before plunging them deep inside you. 

“Ah!” You cry out at the sudden sensation, deep arousal coursing through your body as you watch your boyfriend rut against the mattress in time with the thrust of his fingers. He finds that tender spot inside of you easily, hitting it with each pump.

“So tight, are you sure you’ll be able to take me? Hm?” He scissors his fingers inside of you, the sound of how wet you are making his cock twitch in his sweatpants. “Gonna stretch you open so I can stuff you fucking full,” you whine at his words, his dirty mouth driving you mad. “My pretty little cocksleeve, made for me,” 

“I can take you,” you nod, watching him add a third finger, the stretch stinging at first but quickly dissolving into pleasure. “I can, I can,” you repeat, “m-made for you Sangie, I was–” your words evaporate into thin air as he sucks your clit into his mouth again, rolling his tongue over and over. 

You feel your orgasm quickly approaching, warmth rushing to your center. You roll your hips on his mouth, holding him against you, hoping he’ll let you get there. He must sense you trying to take control, slowing his fingers slightly. Feeling your orgasm fading away, you whine, struggling to push your hips harder onto his fingers. He chuckles against you before pulling away completely. 

“Fuck!” You cry out in frustration, “what the fuck,” 

“Watch your fucking mouth,” he scolds you, pushing up onto his knees between your legs, a dark patch spreading on his sweatpants where the head of his leaking cock presses against the fabric. “Trying to come without my permission, and you think you can speak to me like that?” You feel your cheeks reddening as you realize what you did, your eyes widening at the hard set of his jaw. He’s pissed. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tilting his head to one side until his neck cracks. 

“Flip over.” 

You’re frozen, propped up on your elbows staring at him, mouth hanging open. “W-what? I–” 

“Did I stutter? Flip the fuck over. Ass up. Now.” 

You scramble to roll onto your stomach, pushing up onto your hands and knees. “I didn’t mean to, Yeo, I’m s-sorry,” your cunt is throbbing in anticipation as you spread your thighs wide, dropping onto your elbows just how you know he wants you. 

“I’m sure you didn’t, greedy girl,” you hear shuffling behind you, feeling him getting closer to you, but not yet touching you. “How many, hm? Five?” You feel fingers ghosting across the middle of your back, trailing slowly down your spine. “Ten?” You shiver, knowing you can take ten but desperately wanting him inside of you sooner than that. 

“You’re lucky my cock is fucking aching right now or I’d do fifteen,” he growls, “how about five, hm?” His hand glides over the swell of your ass, and you have to stop yourself from leaning into his touch.

“Five,” you confirm, settling into the pillows beneath you.

“Five it is.” His hand disappears and your breath hitches in your throat. “Count.” A crack rings through the room as he spanks you hard, the warmth of the sting rushing straight to your core. 

“One,” you cry out, breath heaving. 

“Good.” Another spank, a little harder than the last. 

“Two,” your pussy clenches at the burn, and you can already feel the skin of your ass turning red. 

He doesn’t warn you before spanking you a third time, but he lets his hand linger to soothe your angry skin for a moment. 

“Three,” 

Another. 

“Four,” your voice cracks, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. 

“Color?” Your boyfriend asks from behind you, a hint of worry in his voice. 

“Green, I can do it, one more,” your words rush out, wanting to let him know you’re okay. 

“One more,” he confirms, bringing his hand down one last time, keeping it there to massage your sore skin. 

“Five,” you sob into the pillow, finally leaning into his touch, letting him guide your hips down to the mattress. 

“You did so well, pretty,” he leans over you, kissing you behind your ear as he brushes your hair to the side. “My good girl,” 

“Please, baby, I want you,” each hard smack on your ass only made you more and more desperate for your boyfriend. You know he wants to take care of you, check in, make sure you’re okay, but you need him badly. You roll over onto your back, and he hovers over you, only softness and concern in his eyes now. You open your legs, pulling him between them, his hardness resting against your core through his sweatpants.

“I’m okay, please Sangie,” you reach for him, cupping his cheek in your palm, wrapping your fingers around the back of his neck, tugging him closer. 

“Jagi,” he whispers, “are you sure?” He kisses your forehead, letting his lips linger a moment before pulling back to look at you.

“Mhm,” you nod, your hand trailing down to the hem of his tank top. He lets you pull it up slightly before helping you take it off completely. His skin glows under the sunlight streaming through your windows, casting gentle shadows to emphasize each one of his muscles. You pull your own top off over your head too, fully bare for him. You roll your hips against his clothed cock, drawing a groan up his throat.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he drinks you in, admiring your soft form. All dominance has faded from his mannerisms, loving and sheer want taking over. 

“Kiss me,” you reach for him, and he meets you halfway to press his lips to yours. His need for you takes over, and he licks into your mouth as he rushes to pull his sweatpants and boxer briefs down. His length bumps against your heat, Yeosang hissing at the feeling, rocking against you as he kicks his pants off completely. 

He breaks the kiss to kneel between your legs, fisting his angry, leaking cock. He pumps himself twice as he adjusts his positioning, running the tip of his cock through your arousal. “Ready?” He asks, nudging at your aching entrance. 

You nod, reaching for him. He leans over you, letting out a shuddering breath as he pushes into you, filling you in one swift thrust. You moan at the feeling, the sound swallowed by his mouth against yours. He pulls out to the tip as he glides his tongue over your bottom lip, then slams into you.

“Shit,” you mumble against his lips, licking into his mouth. He meets your kisses hungrily, tangling his tongue with yours as he moves his hips, slowly at first, then pumping into you with a slow and steady rhythm. 

You wrap your legs around him, locking your ankles behind his back as he picks up the pace, hitting deeper with each thrust, but not quite deep enough. 

“Harder, Yeo,” you break the kiss to ask, “need you deeper,” 

He chuckles darkly, knowing just how to get the angle you need. He straightens, staying inside of you as he lifts your hips with ease, keeping you suspended in a solid grip as he guides your hips to meet his thrusts, instantly hitting your g-spot. 

“Fuck, yes,” you cry out, letting him masterfully handle your body, bumping against that sensitive spot over and over. 

“So pretty taking my cock,” he praises you, fucking into you impossibly hard, your breasts bouncing with each thrust. “I love you so fucking much, my good girl,” 

“I love you,” you pant, getting closer and closer to the edge as he fucks into you, but you want to take care of him first. “W-wanna ride you, Sangie,” he slows down at your proposal. 

“You sure?” He knows your body must be spent, but you’re determined. 

“Wanna make you feel good,” you whine, “please?”

“I can’t say no to those eyes,” he grins.

He pulls out of you to roll you on top of him, easily maneuvering your body until you’re straddling him, his head nestled in the pillows. He lays back, eyes twinkling as he waits for you to take over. 

You reach for his cock, wrapping your fingers around it, his eyes rolling back as you slowly pump him. “Mm,” he moans at the feeling, resting his hands on your thighs as you adjust to line him up with your entrance. His fingers dig into your thighs as you slowly lower yourself onto him, gasping as your clit grazes his skin once he’s fully seated inside of you. 

“Fuck, jagiya,” he runs his hands up your thighs and around your hips to hold you still for a moment. “Be gentle with me, I don’t want this to be over too soon,” he chuckles. 

“We have all day, baby,” you lift your hips slightly despite his firm grip on you, but he doesn’t stop you. You drop back down, drawing another beautiful moan from his lips. His grip loosens as he gives in to you, and you start bouncing your hips, his cock reaching deep inside you. You plant your hands in the middle of his chest as you find your rhythm. 

He watches you with lidded eyes, his jaw hanging open as you take what you need. He reaches a hand up to palm your breast, your head falling back as he thumbs your nipple. It doesn’t take long for your climax to start building, his thumb on your nipple and your clit rocking against him bringing you right back to the precipice. 

You know he’s close too, his breathing turning shallow and his grip tightening on your hips. 

“Come here,” he wraps a hand around the back of your neck, pulling you down to kiss him. 

The new angle gives him space to plant his feet on the mattress and roll his hips up into you, matching your rhythm. 

“Need to fill you up,” he pants, 

“Yes, please,” you squeeze around him, feeling him twitch inside of you. Warmth spreads throughout your body as you inch closer and closer to release, each rock of your clit against him pushing you there. 

“Come with me,” he commands you, your body tensing in his grasp as it washes over you. He fucks up into you twice more before he stills, spilling hot inside of you, groaning into your mouth. He lowers his hips slowly, guiding yours with him, staying inside of you, letting you collapse against his chest. 

You both struggle to catch your breath, holding each other close while you come down. He strokes your hair, and you let your eyes flutter closed at the feeling, listening to the slowing beat of his heart.

“Wanna get more comfortable?” He asks, and you laugh, suddenly aware of how sore your hips are feeling, and the stinging lingering on your ass from your earlier punishments.

“Mhm,” you let him lift you off of him, guiding your pliant form onto your bed. He rolls you onto your belly, settling behind you to massage your hips. He rubs gentle circles into your skin, the soreness and tension in your tired muscles melting away under his skilled hands. 

“I’ll be right back, my love,” he softly says as he hops up to wiggle back into his sweatpants, “I want to get something to clean you up, I’ll just be a minute.” He kisses your forehead before padding out of the room. You stretch your tired limbs, listening to the rustling and sounds of running water from down the hallway. 

A moment later, Yeosang comes back into the room, his arms full of various things for you. He plugs in your heating pad, letting it warm up as he wipes his release from your inner thighs with a warm towel. You watch him as he bustles around the room, setting water and Tylenol on your nightstand and fluffing up your pillow for you. He grabs you a clean pair of underwear and one of your big sleep shirts, gently helping you dress, peppering you with kisses all the while. 

You snuggle up facing his side of the bed, letting him cover you with a blanket and lay your heating pad over your lower back. He finally slides under the blanket with you, and you lay your head on his chest, throwing one leg over him, effectively caging him in. He chuckles at your clinginess. 

“How’re you feeling?” He whispers, peppering kisses along your hairline. 

“Perfect,” you nuzzle into him, and he rests his chin on top of your head. 

“That wasn’t too much?” 

“Of course not,” you assure him. “If it was, I would’ve told you to stop.” 

He nods, accepting your response, wrapping an arm around your waist. You lay together in comfortable silence for a moment. You feel yourself starting to drift off, until his voice cuts through.

“Baby?” Yeosang says, a note of hesitance in his tone. 

“Hm?” 

“Can I tell you a secret?” He whispers, squeezing your waist. 

“Of course,” you respond, rubbing a finger over a freckle on his chest. 

“I dropped that pan on purpose.” You can hear the smile in his voice as he confesses to you. 

“Kang Yeosang!” You scold him through your laughter, lightly smacking his chest. You prop yourself up to look at him, and he sheepishly smiles back at you.

“Sorry!” He apologizes half-heartedly, “I didn’t want you having all the fun without me.” 

“Well next time,” you inch closer to him, “why don’t you wake me up with your mouth instead,” you brush your lips over his as his arm tightens around your waist. 

”You don’t have to ask me twice,” he kicks the blanket off of you to roll you onto your back, crawling on top of you, swallowing your giddy giggles as he kisses you. He spreads your legs with his knees, dropping gentle kisses down your jawline. You quickly pull your heating pad out from under you and toss it on the floor. 

“Quick,” he whispers, “pretend to be asleep.” You close your eyes as he slides down your body, settling between your legs once again, and you realize you’ll definitely be in bed for the rest of the day. 

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

hope u enjoyed (: xo

[joeyfranchise]

cuz you know that it’s delicate

joe burrow x fem!reader

summary: what happens when joe’s teammate slips a joke about your size difference and it sends you spiraling? being in love with joe since college has been tough but what happens when he starts figuring it out and trying to unravel you more?

warnings: SMUT, 18+ ONLY, MDNI. heaaaavy size kink, joe being a smartass should be it’s own warning, language, p in v, fingering, oral (f. receiving), roughness. probably more? this one was so much fun, plzzz stick around til the end. 🤭

word count: 3.1k!

note: heyyy everyone! my first joey smut 🤭 i hope y’all love it and again MDNI!! (shoutout to my boo @slimshiesty, hate me later and that stray ball part is rotting in my brain, so i snuck a lil of it in here as an ode to you. ily bbg. 💗) (also another taylor swift title bc i fr couldn’t think of anything else plus i used it a bit.. i swear i’m not trying to steal anyones thing i love all the joey swifties)

tags: @slimshiesty @starsinthesky5 (plz message me or send an ask to be added!) part 2

sexual frustration has to be one of the worst things in the world. sexual frustration at the hands of your best friend, however, takes the cake.

it started at a party two weeks ago when you were invited out by joe, the star nfl quarterback, certified dweeb, and your very best friend all wrapped into one.

flashback

you were sitting around with joe and some of his teammates, listening in on their conversations and people watching the rest of the time. it was easiest for you to hang out with joe and ja’marr since you knew them from college, but the rest of their teammates and their teammates partners were really cool too, and all so welcoming to you.

everyone was laughing and joking, having a laid back time, picking on each other for random things. that was, until, someone mentioned how funny it was to see you standing next to joe, being that he was well over a foot taller than you.

“what? how’s it funny?” joe asked, glancing between you and his teammate. “because you make her look so tiny! like a little doll. get up and stand next to each other.”

you were reluctant to move from your seat, hating where this was leading. it was already hard enough having feelings for your best friend over the span of a few years, but this was crossing dangerous territory. kink territory.

for you, there was something about how much bigger than you joe was. he towered over you. his body was lean but built with thick muscles. he could quite literally pick you up and sling you around like a rag-doll. (and honestly if he did, you’d thank him.)

you hoped his teammate pointing out your size difference wouldn’t be turned into a big deal, but once joe pulled you out of your chair to stand next to him, it was like the gates of hell opened.

you stood side by side, your head barely even reaching his armpit. everyone around the table laughed, including joe. “damn, i guess i never really focused on how little you are, y/n.” joe laughed, and placed his forearm on top of your head like an armrest.

alarms went off in your head. ABORT MISSION. ABORT MISSION.

you cleared your throat quickly, and came to your senses, shoving joe off before getting back into your seat. “maybe i’m not small, maybe you’re just a freakishly large man.” you remark, trying to keep your voice even.

“nah,” he replied, sitting down next to you again, “you’re sooooo tiny.” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. you flipped him the finger. “fuck you big bird.” you snarked before downing the rest of your drink. god knows you need it. you hoped that your pink cheeks would be chalked up to the alcohol and that nobody else had caught on.

the next instance came a few days later, on a sunday, and it was much worse than the first. so, so much worse.

flashback to sunday

you came to the bengals’ home stadium to watch their game, and since it was early you figured you’d go down to the field to say hi to joe and some of your other friends on the team.

you made it down and waved hi to ja’marr, tee and sam before making your way to joe. he spotted you and smiled, walking in your direction to meet you halfway.

you decided on wearing one of his jerseys and a pair of jeans, something simple and comfortable. as soon as he made it to you, the first thing he did was look you up and down and then pick up the sleeve of the jersey before chuckling.

“damn, this thing is swallowing you!” he comments. you playfully smack at his arm. “shut up, joey.”

“it’s cute, though. you look nice. are you excited for the game?”

you don’t give yourself much time to process that “cute” comment. wtf does that even mean? who cares. ABORT MISSION.

“of course i’m excited! i can’t wait to watch you guys kick some ass today—“

your sentence is cut off abruptly as joe grabs you and lifts you, turning your bodies so his back is now facing the opposite direction on the field. his grip on you is so tight that your chest is pressed into his stomach. you look up at his face, his expression a mix between anger and concern. you can feel your cheeks heat up and your eyes widen in disbelief.

“um, joe, you’re bear hugging the hell out of me right now. wanna put me down and explain what happened?”

he lets you down gently, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. “stray ball was coming right at you. i didn’t want it to hit you, it would’ve hurt you pretty bad.”

you reach a hand up and pat his chest, feeling the thick muscles. “thank you!” you respond, once again monitoring your tone. “i’m gonna head up and talk to everyone, ok?” you ask, already moving to leave. “yeah, ok.” joe says, focusing his attention on the ground. you can tell he’s contemplating something, but you don’t want to ask. you want to get out of there as quickly as possible.

the final instance came a few days later when you went to joe’s house just to hang out and have dinner.

flashback to wednesday night

you park your car in joe’s garage and step out, tucking your phone and keys in your pocket before heading up the stairs. before you make it to the door, joe’s already opening it and waiting in the doorway.

“hi bub!” you call, pushing past him and stepping inside, kicking off your shoes by the door. he greets you back sweetly and the two of you go sit on barstools in the kitchen, just catching up on things that have gone on this week. you rant to joe about your job and he listens intently, offering what advice he can.

he rants back to you about things going on with the team, and frustrations he’s having on the field. you try to return the favor and offer him some advice, but you know you aren’t of too much help. joe appreciates it regardless.

soon after your food arrives, you find yourselves in the living room, sitting on the couch side by side as a movie plays. you and joe always loved just being around each other, you had so deep of a connection that oftentimes words didn’t need to be shared at all.

you both enjoyed those moments.

you felt yourself starting to doze off until joe laughed at something in the movie, the sound waking you a bit.

“oh, sorry. you can go to sleep.” he whispers, pulling you into his side and wrapping his arm around your shoulder. you appreciate his warmth and you rub your head on his shoulder as you get comfy. you hear joe chuckle.

“what’s funny?” you mumble, your eyes still closed. “it’s like i’m hyper-aware now of how small you are next to me. it’s so cute.”

you make no outward moves or sounds, but inside you are screaming. yelling. this is the worst one yet.

you don’t know it yet, but joe’s figured it out. he’s seen you get flustered three times now over these comments, and he knows something is going on in your brain when they’re said. he isn’t aware if you have feelings for him like he does for you, but he knows you liked when he picked you up so easily on the field the other day.

it was effortless to him, despite what you might think of yourself.

you sit next to him in silence, eyes still closed, trying to control your breathing. just try to fall asleep again you tell yourself, hoping that joe has no idea. if you only knew.

when you wake in the morning, you’re still snuggled on the couch with him as the soft morning light shines gold around the living room. you shake him awake.

“joey, i gotta get going. i need to go home and get ready for work and you have thursday practice.”

he pulls you in closer for a moment, hugging you bye, and then wishes you a good day at work. you bolt out the door and to your car as fast as you can, heading home to wash the previous day away in the shower.

end of flashbacks

so, this is where you are now.

it’s been almost a week since you’ve talked to joe, avoiding him because you aren’t sure what to say or do. part of you knows he has something figured out, but you don’t know what or how much.

you’re terrified to let him in on your feelings, what’s going on in your head, because you’re delicate and you don’t want to ruin something that has always been there for you.

the other part of you knows you have to tell him, you need to tell him. you love him, you lust after him. the comments that keep being made about your sizes are driving you to the point of insanity that nothing will fix it unless joe manhandles you as rough as you can take it and he fucks it out of you.

you’re pretty sure your vibrator is gonna be on its last leg soon.

alright, i gotta call him. i gotta get this over with.

you grab your phone off the kitchen counter and dial his number, listening to it ring for a few moments.

“hello?” he finally answers, sounding a bit upset.

“hey joey. sorry i haven’t been talking to you this week. i just— i think i need to talk to you about some stuff and.. would you mind coming over later?”

he says nothing for a moment, but you hear him blow out a long breath. “yeah, of course, y/n.” he finally says. “i can be over around 7?”

you check the clock on the stove, it reads 4:34pm.

“7 sounds great! see you then!” you say, hanging up quickly. now you play the waiting game.

all your chores are done, and you take a lovely everything shower to help calm your nerves, and you make sure to drink plenty of water and have a snack as you tell yourself affirmations.

it’s going to be okay, he’s my best friend. he will understand. he will still be my friend regardless, he’s always been there for me. if he rejects me, nothing will change that.

you sit on the couch and scroll your phone as you wait. there’s still just a bit over an hour before joey will arrive, so you waste time scrolling tiktok, cozy on the couch.

soon enough you hear the doorbell, and you jump off the couch to answer it, stepping aside to let joe in.

he sits on your couch, waiting for you to join him and start speaking. “joe, i, um.. i hav-“

he cuts you off. “you have feelings for me? you like it when people compare our sizes because it turns you on?” he smirks, leaning back on the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. he’s manspreading now, his thick thighs on full display. your mouth falls open for a moment.

“yeah. essentially exactly that.” you finally reply.

“so what are we gonna do about that?” he questions, pulling you into his lap. you place your hands on his chest instinctively, and before you know what’s happening he‘s pulling you in for a heated kiss.

his lips are soft against yours and he gently prods at your bottom lip, sliding his tongue past as you open it. he tastes like mint, it’s intoxicating you. one minute his large hands are splayed over your back holding you to him, the next he’s lifting you off the couch by grabbing underneath your armpits and carrying you down the hall, roughly body-slamming you on the bed.

“dude, save the UFC moves for ja’marr!” you groan, sucking in a large breath. joe jumps on the bed, caging you in by placing his knees on either side of your hips and his hands next to your head.

“no, i don’t think so.” he smirks, leaning in closer until your noses are nearly touching. you felt your cheeks heating up at his close proximity, and his eye-contact with you was starting to feel intimidating, even though you had just been sharing such a passionate kiss. you hated that you could feel your wetness soaking through your panties just from him trying to wrestle you.

he blows gently on your face and you shove at him. he laughs you off and leans even closer, pressing the tip of his nose to yours before moving away and leaning down to whisper in your ear.

“this would be a lot easier if you’d just admit that you want me to manhandle you. you want me to go rough, right?” he teases. you’ve had enough of his smugness. you grab the back of his neck and pull him in for another kiss, tugging at his hair and nipping his bottom lip. he groans into you. he stands from the bed, picking you up again, carrying you across the room before roughly slamming your body against the wall.

you let out a strangled moan, loving the feeling of him using all his strength on you.

“can i take your shorts off?” he asks, looking into your eyes.

“fuck yes, please.” you breathe out, exhilarated.

joe yanks your shorts and panties down your legs in one swift motion, kneeling down in front of you. he’s able to keep your body held up and pressed against the wall. he looks up at you with questioning eyes, making sure this is okay. you give him a soft nod in response.

he leans in and throws one of your legs over his shoulder. he starts by pressing the smallest kiss to your clit, and then licks a slow, languid stripe up your core. you hiss, your body arching off the wall at the new sensation. when you look down, you find him looking up at you, his beautiful blue eyes trained on your face.

your eyes roll back in your head as he continues his ministrations. you feel the hand that isn’t holding you against the wall rubbing circles on your inner thigh before joe slowly slips a finger into you.

you quickly approach your orgasm, your stomach tight with anticipation. joe doesn’t let up, working you there until your body feels like it’s being dunked into warm bath water, the feeling covering you from head to toe. it takes you a minute to regain your sense of self. joe pulls his fingers from your core and removes your leg from his shoulder, standing back up before lifting you so your legs are around his waist.

you waste no time pulling him in for a kiss. “holy shit, joey!” you moan, baffled at what just happened. he smirks into your kiss.

for the second time, you’re thrown onto the bed. you sit up, propped on your elbows as you watch joe stalk closer, his erection very obvious in his shorts. he pulls his shirt over his head and you do the same, unclasping your bra just after so that you’re completely bare for him.

you chalk your forwardness up to being comfortable with him, normally you wouldn’t have the confidence to act this way. neither would joe, actually, but you shrug it off.

you don’t remember seeing him strip his shorts off or climb on top of you, but you know you’re kissing him again. you can’t get over how good his lips feel. one of his hands traces your curves, he runs his fingers along your body until his large hand is cupping your breast.

he moves his kisses to your neck and you gasp, reveling in the feeling of him kissing and touching you softly and sweetly.

you look down at his throbbing cock and suddenly you feel intimidated. joe hears you gasp. he lets out a soft laugh.

“don’t talk a big game and then act scared of it, baby.” he teases, pressing light kisses to your cheeks. you swallow thickly.

joe reaches down and strokes himself, spitting on his hand to slick himself up. he looks at you once again for confirmation, and you nod to him. he helps you get comfortable beneath him, positioning your legs around his waist as he pushes his tip in. you suck in a harsh breath.

it stings, but it isn’t the worst thing. he moves against you slowly, sliding in inch by inch until he bottoms out. he looks down and you, your faces inches apart, and you giggle.

“what is it bub?” he asks, smiling softly. “they weren’t kidding calling you big dick joe.” you laugh out. joe laughs too.

after giving you a few minutes to adjust, he starts moving hips, rocking into yours slowly. you think this is what the peak of euphoria feels like.

he leans back down to kiss you, his hand finding your throat and squeezing ever so slightly. your back is arched, your chest pressed to his as your hands tangle through his hair. his hands move down, finding your hips and holding them down to the bed. you moan at the rough grip.

he starts going harder, his hips pistoning into yours as you continue kissing, both of you moaning out your pleasure.

“joey, i-i’m close.” you warn, your body covered in a sheen of sweat. you felt it again, you were so close to that warmth once again pulsing over your body.

until.

knock knock knock.

what was that? you thought. you tried to focus on joe but everything seemed to be slipping away.

then, there it was again. the knocking. and the shrill of your phone ringing.

you startled awake, sweat covering your body. you looked at your phone screen. 7:10pm. one missed call from joe.

you threw your throw blanket off, trying to gather your thoughts. what the fuck? what is happening?

you thought you’d just had the best fuck of your life, that everything would be okay with you and joe but… it was just a dream? you dozed off and you didn’t even know it.

“y/n, let me in!” you hear joe yell from the opposite side of the door. you’re panicking, your body is hot, your clothes are stuck to you. still, you get up and almost sprint to the door. you open it, taking in his appearance. just like your dream.

black shorts, black shirt. backwards cap.

“can i come in? are you okay?” he asks. you watch as he takes in your appearance. sweaty hair stuck to your neck, your eyes glazed over.

“um, yeah joe. i’m okay. come in.” you step aside, inviting him in, just like your dream. he sits down.

“so, what did you wanna talk about?” he asks. you sit down next to him, blowing out a long breath. this was gonna be a longggg conversation.

[100vern]

hi. i would like to request seungcheol (obviously). all i request is enemies-to-lovers. you may do with this what you wish. i leave it up to you to decide exactly how you will ruin my life 😌

tysm for the request my beloved !! he is so enemies to lovers coded i had TEWWW many thoughts (and started three separate wips oops), but here we are. i hope u enjoy this !! can't wait to get the collab fics out of the way so i can torture u further with baseball dk. i picked dodgers hat!cheol just for u. ♡

— we need to talk

pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader summary: sometimes the only way to win the game is to not play, but sometimes it's not a game at all—sometimes it's four years of emotional build-up with nowhere left to hide. genre: enemies (kinda) w benefits to lovers; frat/university au; smut, angst?, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: frat boys. gendered language and insults. swearing. mentions of drugs & drug use (vernon is literally a drug dealer 🤷🏻‍♀️) as well as alcohol. possessive, jealous seungcheol who is extremely down bad and kind of an asshole and would be toxic af irl but is fine in fanfiction probably. this is maybe more "people who used to fuck and started disliking each other along the way bc they can't figure out their feelings" to lovers than enemies. there are very slight, very meaningless mingyu x reader undertones here. jeonghan is a bastard. feelings you think are unrequited but alas! this got softer than i intended oops. smut warnings: seungcheol truly is a man driven to the brink of madness bc of pussy idk what to say. kissing. hair pulling. mentions of masturbation. the dynamics shift in this one a lot, but to be overly cautious i will say dom!cheol and slightly dom!reader undertones that are not implicitly stated or defined. seungcheol uses the term "whore" once, sorry. oral sex (f. receiving). pussy slapping. unprotected sex. if i missed any pls lmk. wordcount: 8k. no i do not know what a drabble is, leave me alone. author's note: title from the song of the same name by waterparks but this was actually brought to you by "i'll never stop" by nsync bc it's their best song and fit the vibes perfectly. anyway, i still do not love writing smut but i am insane over this man so whatever, we persevere. everyone go shower mj in lots of love bc she's the best and deserves it. also everyone say thank u @the-boy-meets-evil for looking over this for me. i did not look at this again after she beta'd it so any mistakes are of my own stupidity. <3

Seungcheol is incensed.

What in the fuck are you thinking, showing up here? Ignoring him, walking by him with nothing more than a brush to the elbow and that sultry, electric gaze? A pair of painted-on jeans and a sheer top?

Who the fuck had invited you?

He looks around the room, gaze heavy under his furrowed brow. Bass thumps in his ears, the music so loud he can feel it in his chest. Still, his feet stay planted on the floor, already sticky with spilled alcohol and god knows what else. He needs to find Vernon—just needs something to get through this very unexpected (and very unpleasant) surprise, take the edge off.

But he can’t see through the sea of people. They’re everywhere, occupying every inch of available space in the house, but he just needs a glimpse of that mop of cornflower blue hair. If he could just—

Instead, he sees a streak of white-blond in his peripheral vision. “Soonyoung!” he calls, grabbing the man by the arm. “Hey, have you seen Vernon?”

Soonyoung stares up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes, his breath already stinking of alcohol as he shrugs and says, “Dunno, hyung. Think he’s upstairs.”

Fingers still wrapped around his bicep, Seungcheol heaves a sigh. “Go find Jeonghan. He’s on babysitting duty and you’re already fucked.”

“I’m fine,” Soonyoung argues, slurred words giving him away immediately.

Seungcheol scoffs. “Bro, you can barely stand and you reek of shitty vodka. Go drink some water.”

As he sends Soonyoung away, he can feel eyes boring into him, tension wound tight in the center of his back that refuses to dissipate no matter how many times he rolls his shoulders. He turns slowly, already knowing exactly what he’ll find, but knowing does little to stop the hitch of breath as he takes you in.

And he hates it. Fuck, he hates the effect you have on him more than anything.

Hates that he’s still pining after you. Hates that all you have to do is look at him and he’s putty in your hands. Hates that you’re the first person he looks for in a room, the last person on his mind before he falls asleep. Hates you, hates that all of this is unreciprocated, because if Choi Seungcheol is anything, it’s proud. He’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s pre-law, and the president of this fraternity, for fuck’s sake—he should not be hung up on a girl.

But he’d been doomed from the beginning. Ever since you’d been assigned to him as a challenge to overcome, an impossible task to conquer, he’d been helplessly, pathetically smitten with you.

And fuck if you didn’t know it, too.

So, it’s a game now. A lifetime’s worth of pining for Seungcheol all because his frat was misogynistic and refused to keep up with the times. They’d nodded in your direction and laughed at the confusion on his face, the knot between his brows. Seungcheol couldn’t figure out why his initiation was to fuck a girl, one his brothers wouldn’t even address by name, but when he’d approached you at a party and you’d immediately told him to go fuck himself, he’d figured it out pretty quick.

Call it determination, call it a stubborn streak that refused to quit, but the two of you soon came to a reluctant agreement: you would let Seungcheol lie to his frat, figuring he was attractive enough that people thinking you’d slept together wouldn’t be complete social suicide, and he’d owe you a favor you’d keep in your back pocket for as long as it took to cash in.

Which hadn’t taken long. The stress of finals that first year had gotten to all of you, and it wasn’t long before you were at his door looking for his drug-dealing roommate and a quick fuck.

That was the second time Seungcheol had been doomed to hopeless pining, because once he had you, he knew it’d be impossible to let you go.

Short of outright saying the words, he’d all but told you as much during some alcohol-induced brain shortage junior year. And, in turn, you’d all but laughed in his face.

Right.

Of course.

That was to be expected.

So, you’d continued your… well, whatever this is: quick fucks when both of you were bored or lonely or horny, usually under the influence of something illegal; a mutually tense but beneficial relationship for each of you, because you had been Seungcheol’s initiation and the initiation itself awarded him connections and opportunities. You got a back-up plan. A safe body and warm bed to retreat to when the need arose—one who clearly wanted it to be something more, but was, all things considered, fine with the current arrangement. Didn’t pressure you.

But, as was also to be expected, it was never going to be that simple when feelings got involved. When he started feeling slighted. When he wanted you so bad he ached with it sometimes and it was beneath you to care. Which is why he really, really needs to find Vernon. If he’s going to endure an entire party with you, he’s not going to do it sober.

He takes the steps two at a time, feet stumbling onto the landing as soon as he reaches it. Vernon’s door is the third on the left, and he can hear a separate, distinct bass line from the one booming downstairs that hums louder the closer he gets.

And Vernon knows. Of course he does, because he’s yanking his door open before Seungcheol has even raised a hand to knock, the stench of weed seeping out into the hallway, and all he needs is a quick look at Seungcheol before he pulls the door open wider and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America,” as if he’s speaking into a microphone. When Seungcheol doesn’t react, he awkwardly tacks on, “Hi, hyung. I’m assuming she’s here.”

Seungcheol nods, dumbly, and stands as awkwardly in the center of the room as someone who’s about to ask their roommate for drugs tends to be. “Yeah.” Shoves his hands in the pockets of his overpriced jeans so Vernon can’t see the sheen of sweat.

“You looking for somethin’ specific?” he asks, rifling through the top drawer of a tall dresser. “Like, is this an I’m about to fuck her the rest of the night visit or an I need something to help me forget she doesn’t actually like me visit?”

The words come like a reflex. “Fuck you,” he seethes. Vernon’s not wrong, per se, but he didn’t have to go and just… say it like that.

Vernon just shrugs, one side of his worn-out collar slipping down his shoulder as he does so, and Seungcheol can’t tell if he’s actually dressed for the party or not. “Gonna guess it’s the second one, then.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Well, it’s not,” he insists, knowing damn well he should let it go, that he’s just digging himself a bigger hole, but the truth sits in the pit of his stomach like lead.

And, really, he knows he just needs to accept it. That little strand of hope hasn’t brought him anything but more pain—allowed him to delude himself into thinking it could be something more, something tangible—and it’s time to let it go.

You don’t want more.

You don’t want the label and the relationship.

You don’t want him.

He knows this, but it still tastes sour in his mouth. Still tastes like the chill of autumn when you’d first showed up at his door all that time ago. Tastes like all the blunts you’ve shared and the liquor from all the parties you’d snuck away in the middle of. Tastes like the sharp notes of your perfume, the ones that’d coat his tongue when he’d kiss down your neck—the same notes that stain his bedsheets.

Mostly, it’s the pitying look Vernon’s giving him that hurts the most. He’s above pity. Doesn’t need it, especially not from Vernon Chwe, but it hurts all the same to be on the receiving end of it.

“Give me whatever you’ve got.”

Vernon’s face quickly morphs into surprised concern. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean, I’ve got some pretty heavy shit here.”

Heat flares in his belly. The pity was bad enough—now he wants to be patronizing? “Then give me whatever the fuck you think I need,” he snaps. “I don’t care. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Well, you definitely need to chill,” Vernon mumbles. “You want some dabs?”

“No. Something…” The word feels thick in his mouth. Stronger implies that Seungcheol does heavy drugs, and that’s not true. “Else,” he finally finishes.

Vernon sighs as he continues rifling through the drawer. “Your dad would fucking kill me if I gave you my real heavy shit, so…” He pauses, eyebrows raising in triumph as he finds what he was looking for: a small baggie filled halfway with some nondescript powder. “You want a bump?”

Maybe he should be ashamed at how quickly he agrees, at the urgency and greed with which he grabs the baggie from Vernon’s fingers, but he just needs something. Needs the distraction, the brain fog. He shoves it in his back pocket next to his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Vernon wrinkles his nose. “Nah. Consider that one a freebie. No offense, but you’re a real piece of shit when you’re like this.”

The implication only pisses him off more. Seungcheol is loaded—he can afford to pay his drug dealer, thank you very much—but he’s not like anything. “I’m sorry?”

True to his nature, Vernon barely shrugs. “I’ll put it on your tab, hyung,” he says in a way that implies he’s not at all going to do that and is only saying so to get the fraternity president off his back.

Jeonghan (23:12) Better come get your girl. Kim Mingyu’s dick looks like it’s halfway up her ass by now. Jeonghan (23:12) Uh oh! I think I just saw a testicle

Seungcheol stares down at his phone, hands trembling in anger. Of course it’s Mingyu. That pathetic loser has been taking up residence on the subs bench ever since you’d made out with him months ago in an admittedly successful attempt at payback. Seungcheol had hooked up with some downgrade at a party one time and you’d gone and made out with his friend. It was hardly a fair trade.

Seungcheol (23:14) Good for Mingyu, he can deal with her then Seungcheol (23:14) I’m busy Jeonghan (23:14) Doing what? Jerking off in the upstairs bathroom again? Jeonghan (23:15) Do you know what size condom he wears btw? Looks like I might need to fetch him one if you don’t want to take care of another man’s baby Jeonghan (23:16) Although, to be fair, you might want to sit this one out. He has way better bone structure than you. Might be a blessing in disguise Seungcheol (23:16) Fuck you Jeonghan (23:16) Better be nice to me, Choi Seungcheolie~ that might be the only fuck you get tonight

Seungcheol needs better friends. He needs a lot of things, really, but number one on his to-do list is to never let Jeonghan be on babysitting duty ever again. Somehow he’d forgotten how obnoxious Yoon Jeonghan is when he isn’t stoned and half-asleep on a couch somewhere.

For now, he just stomps down the hallway; locks himself in his room and doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He’s not going to be here long. Just enough time to do this line, change his t-shirt, and come up with a game plan, because he’s not going to let Mingyu even entertain the thought of being able to have you but he also can’t appear desperate. Not just to you, but to everyone else. Choi Seungcheol is not clingy, especially not over a girl.

Especially especially over a girl who doesn’t even want him like that.

But the longer he sits in the dark, the more trouble he has finding his resolve. Can’t bring himself to dig that baggie out of his pocket. Can’t drag his t-shirt over his head. Can’t bring himself to think about anything other than Mingyu’s hands all over you, and fuck, does that image drive him insane.

Does he touch you like Seungcheol does?

Does he coax those same jagged whimpers from your mouth like Seungcheol does?

Does his semi-hard cock feel as good pressed against you?

God, he’s so fucked. Utterly and completely fucked. And he wonders if this would be as bad if he’d just kept his mouth shut, took that secret to his grave instead of fooling himself into thinking it could be more. If it wouldn’t have devolved into… this. You’d always told him not to get attached, that sex was just sex and there was no need to ruin a good thing. But Seungcheol is a selfish man, always has been, and what if? is a dangerous question.

Jeonghan (23:36) Wow, you’re a fucking pussy. Stop hiding in your room like a little bitch. Seungcheol (23:36) Fuck off

He can’t go down there. Not because he’s a coward, but because he’s barely tethered to his sanity as it is. Something about you brings him out of his mind, makes him toss whatever good judgment he has left to the wind. Seungcheol is far too impulsive when it comes to you, reckless in ways that have all twenty years of his social training weeping in a corner; have alarm bells ringing in his brain. So, no, he can’t go downstairs right now because he knows he’ll do something stupid. Stick not only his foot but his entire lower body in it. He should’ve listened, yet here he is, dick pulled halfway out of his jeans because the thought of you alone gets him hard but his pride won’t let him jerk off to the image of anyone touching you that’s not him.

Forget whatever Jeonghan had called him. He’s a fucking fool. A moonstruck, delusional fool who’d tricked himself into thinking he could swim when he can barely tread water.

You (23:41) Something wrong?

Oh, here we fucking go, he thinks. Because this is Seungcheol’s game—one he’d perfected years ago, the one where he’s coy and chilly, never too eager, never committed. Just a little bit of a tease. Barely enough to keep them on the hook, a little needy; still enough to keep them coming back. But you’d taken one look at him all those years ago and had him pegged immediately. Figured out his game and learned the rules, used them against him. Now you watch him flounder with a smile on your face.

Seungcheol (23:42) Never knew you were so needy baby. First you show up uninvited and now youre missing me?

But just because there’s now a player two doesn’t mean he’s doomed to lose. He knows how you look when you’re on your knees for him. Knows how you sound when you’re begging to cum and stuttering out his name like you’re singing hymns. Knows how you look with your eyes rolled back after he’s fucked you dumb. Kim Mingyu doesn’t know shit.

Seungcheol knows he’s the only one fortunate enough to experience you like this.

And god does it kill him.

You (23:44) Don’t act stupid

A pleased exhale of laughter, an equally-smug smirk. Yeah, this is still Seungcheol’s game, the crown still sitting atop his head. You can let Mingyu grind his dick against you all you want, but Seungcheol is still the one you’re seeking out, pouting at the fact he hasn’t come to find you yet.

You (23:44) Mingyu invited me

Oh, you’re good—know just which buttons to press and how much pressure to use. Whatever smug expression Seungcheol had been wearing slides off his face immediately, tongue pressing into his cheek.

Seungcheol (23:46) And yet youre looking for me? You (23:47) Don’t have to look for you to know you’re upstairs sulking in your room because Jeonghan tattled on me like a fucking five year old Seungcheol (23:49) Maybe you should come up here then Seungcheol (23:49) Away from prying eyes

You don’t reply immediately. It’s just long enough for Seungcheol’s brain to conjure up something indecent—the way you’ll straddle him, the way his cock will feel pressed against the apex of your thighs; the goosebumps that’ll raise on his arms when you work your tongue along his neck, that spot near his collarbone you know he likes. His cock throbs against the confines of his jeans when he thinks about the devastated look on Mingyu’s face when you make up some excuse to get away from him, to traipse up the stairs and fall into Seungcheol’s bed, when he realizes he’s not going to have you.

You (23:56) It’d be pretty rude to leave my date, don’t you think? You (23:57) If you want me so bad, come down here and get me yourself

Seungcheol doesn’t play games; doesn’t compete because he has no competition. He’s always been given whatever he wants on a silver platter, no questions asked, so he’s wholly unprepared for this turn of events. What he knows he should do (respond to your text and tell you to fuck off, that you know where he is should you stop being a brat and change your mind) is not what he does (tucks his dick back in his jeans, finally throws on a clean t-shirt, and takes his time descending the stairs so he doesn’t look too eager), because logical thought gets tossed out the window entirely wherever you’re concerned.

“Ah, if it isn’t our resident pissbaby making his grand re-entrance.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw for the nth time and glares. “Fuck off, Jeonghan.”

The man in question laughs—the annoying raspy one that grates on Seungcheol’s nerves—and hands over a cup of something brown and pungent. “Well, judging from your attitude, and the fact you’re barely hiding that boner you’ve got, you clearly didn’t spend your time away jerking off. What finally got you down here, the promise of cheap whiskey I nicked off some freshman or the fact that your girlfriend’s about two seconds from getting a public indecency charge courtesy of Kim Mingyu?”

Well. Jeonghan may be an asshole but he’s not wrong. Even through the crowd of people and the haze of whatever’s in his cup and a contact high, Seungcheol spots you immediately. Your back is pressed against Mingyu’s chest, his fingers gripping tight at your waist as you roll your hips in time with his. Whatever manufactured filth he’s whispering to you draws a smile, causes you to reach up and tug sharply at his hair. Fuck, Seungcheol can almost hear Mingyu’s moan from across the room, and his blood quickly heats to a rapid boil.

Another chuckle from the demon beside him. “Stop fucking laughing,” Seungcheol snaps, still unable to take his eyes off of you. “Fuck this. I’m going back upstairs. Make sure everyone’s out of here by three. I’m not paying for another noise citation.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “I’m absolutely not going to do that.” He shoves a bottle of something in Seungcheol’s hand. “Take this and think of me when you’re crying yourself to sleep because Mingyu stole guaranteed pussy right out of your hands.”

“Why do you do this?” Seungcheol asks, shoving at Jeonghan’s shoulder roughly. “You never know when to fucking quit.”

Another streak of white-blond. “Hey, no fighting!” Soonyoung slurs, trying his best to push Seungcheol to the other side of the kitchen with his useless, limp arms.

This attracts the attention of Joshua, who struts into the room looking straight out of Fashion Week, much like he always does. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. “Aw, are Mom and Dad fighting again?” he asks, his lips tugged into a smirk. He ignores Seungcheol’s scowl as he fixes himself a drink. “You know Mingyu only does it to get a reaction out of you,” Joshua adds, quieter this time, as if he’s telling Seungcheol a secret only meant for the two of them to share.

“What’s her excuse, then?” Seungcheol fires back, because even if he doesn’t like it, Joshua’s right. This is exactly the kind of behavior he’d expect from resident campus whore Kim Mingyu, but he never expected you to go along with it.

Joshua cocks an eyebrow. “She doesn’t need an excuse, Cheol. She’s not your girl.”

Even though it’s a truth he already knows, it somehow hurts worse being spoken in plaintext, a hushed conversation in a crowded kitchen. Being let down gently. Seungcheol knows he needs to make a decision. He needs to let you go and start moving on with his life; can’t be having these quasi-meltdowns during frat parties anymore. Can’t be possessive and spiteful. You don’t want him. Everyone knows you don’t want him, so that’s all there is to it. Maybe you’ll want Mingyu and he can finally wash his hands of this forever, scrape the jealousy off his tongue.

He steels himself. Rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck. Navigates the crowd in the living room until he reaches you and your so-called date. Grabs you by the elbow—gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt but firm enough to send a message—and says the two of you need to talk. Upstairs. Now. Mingyu just smiles like he knew this was coming and presses a pointless, wasted kiss just below your ear. Seungcheol tells him to fuck off, too, and Mingyu grins wider, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

As he guides you to his room, he doesn’t think about the way your hand fits in his. Doesn’t think about how this is going to be the last time he has you. Doesn’t think about who’ll have you after. Doesn’t bother to wonder if you’ve finally changed your mind like he had all those other times he’d walked this same familiar path with you in tow. Because it’s the last time. Whatever happens once it’s over is out of his control.

Perhaps that’s what it’d always been about. Seungcheol has always been spoiled and selfish and so terribly, terribly desperate to prove he’s more than his family name and family money. So, yeah, he’d wanted the control; wanted what was never his for the taking. You’d always been the opposite—his perfect little counterpart. Always so pliant and careless and free: everything Seungcheol tried so hard to be but couldn’t, and that’s where the switch flipped.

Someone like you isn’t meant to be controlled.

What he used to want so badly now tastes rancid in his mouth.

The door locks behind you. Seungcheol doesn’t meet your eye as he says, “You got what you wanted. Are you done being a fucking brat?” It’s not a tone he usually takes. Usually he’s dirty, a little possessive, willing to let you set the pace. He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. “I asked you a question.”

“Seungcheol—”

He clicks his tongue, stalks closer until you’re nearly in his grasp. Your eyes close instinctively as if you’re expecting his mouth on yours. Instead, he threads his long fingers in your hair and pulls. “What’s so hard about answering a simple yes or no question? Did you really want Mingyu’s dick so bad you’ve gone dumb all of a sudden?”

You gasp. “No.”

“No what?” Seungcheol chides. “No, you’re not done being a brat? Or no, you weren’t just downstairs acting desperate and pathetic for mediocre cock?” He runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, follows their movements as you speak.

“I wasn’t—”

A low, mocking chuckle. “You were, baby.” Sounds condescending; speaks to you like you’re a stupid child. He’s so close to you now. Can smell the tang of your skin, the sticky notes of your perfume. Feels your breath fan against his own sweat-slick skin. Still avoids your gaze, because as domineering as he appears, he knows he can unravel just as quickly. “Take your clothes off. This is the last time I’m gonna fuck you and I’m not going to ask twice.”

Now you truly look caught off-guard. “What?” Still he ignores you, expensive silver rings clinking into a dish on his dresser one by one, expensive watch following. “What do you mean the last time?”

Deft fingers play at the buttons on his shirt. Not silk, but just as expensive. “Shit. You’re really testing my patience, you know.” You’re still standing at the edge of his bed, staring dumbly as if he’s just going to start spilling all his secrets, give you some kind of explanation. “I believe I told you to strip.”

Unlike Seungcheol, your fingers tremble as they work at buttons and zippers and hemlines, push down denim and remove heels. It’s clear you’re trying to work out what he’s playing at—if this is some punishment for fucking around with Mingyu or if he really means it—but you’re not going to risk asking. Things between the two of you are already tense as it is. Seungcheol has never been wound this tight, never been so ready to snap.

“That’s it,” he praises once you’re left in nothing but a skimpy underwear set you know he likes. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous. I bet that’s why you think you can get away with embarrassing me, huh?” He grabs your chin, forces you to meet his gaze for the first time since he’d dragged you up here. “Get on your knees. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

It’s not an unfamiliar sight—as it is, you usually leave Seungcheol’s room with bruised knees on a good night—but it settles differently in his gut this time. Because he’d dared a glance at you once and knows he can’t do it again, so he watches the top of your head as you fumble with his belt buckle and looks away whenever he thinks you might risk a glance upwards. Finds some point on the wall to focus on. Hisses through his teeth when you pull his cock from his briefs, your hands cold against his flushed skin.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Draw this out. Give you a memorable last time, maybe mark you up a little. He really wants to savor the feeling of your tongue on his cock, but all he can focus on is the fact that he’ll never be enveloped in that wet heat again. He’s never going to feel your mouth working him over, feel you humming around his length because he knows you love the weight of it, you love wrenching away that little bit of control, turning him into a mess.

But he’s not going to dwell. He’s going to thumb at the hinge of your jaw, force it open just wide enough for his cock to fit inside. Then he’s going to fist your hair into a makeshift ponytail, grip it tight, use it to guide your mouth until there’s only an inch of space between you. He’s going to stare down at you, silently revel in how fucked out you look already even though he hasn’t touched you. He’s going to watch the way your fingers dig into your thighs because they can’t touch him. Then he’s going to say—

“Beg me. Beg me to let you suck my cock.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation. Seungcheol doesn’t talk to you like this. This is not the kind of dynamic the two of you have, and Seungcheol finds himself wondering if things would be different if it was. If he’d never started going so easy on you. Would you want him then? Or would you have left a long time ago?

He’s half-expecting you to do that now. You look ready to bolt, to pull your clothes back on and tell him to go fuck himself on the way out. Probably go straight back to Mingyu, let him fuck you hard but routine, the way Seungcheol usually does, the way he knows you like. He expects you to leave, and this is the last time, anyway, so he figures he has nothing left to lose.

“I’m going soft,” he snaps, the admonishment harsh on his tongue. When you look up at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes narrow. “You have one fucking job and you can’t even do that properly? Who’s going to want a dumb little whore that can’t follow simple instructions?”

He watches your eyes squeeze shut involuntarily. Wonders if he’s gone too far before deciding he doesn’t care if he has. It’s the last time, anyway, so it’s not like it matters. Watches the indents in your thighs grow deeper. Watches you inhale and try to steady your breathing.

Watches your eyes snap open, any trace of hesitation long gone. “Did you make that other girl beg for you?”

Seungcheol snorts, amusement showing all over his face. “Is that what this is about? You’re still mad I hooked up with some other girl so you act like this?” He clicks his tongue at you, fists his cock, slicking it up. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you answer simply, “I’m just trying to figure out why you think you can speak to me however the fuck you want.”

Seungcheol’s hand stutters along his length before it stills, your words sharp and immediate against his skin. He should’ve known. Shouldn’t have thought something like this would work on you, that you’d like it, and he’s halfway to soft and throwing his hands up and tucking his dick back into his briefs when you say, “Answer the question.”

“What?”

You tsk. Move your hands from your thighs to his, nails pressing just deep enough to leave crescent moons behind that match your own. Something for someone else to see. “Did you make her beg for you?”

Seungcheol’s brain power decreases the higher your palms go, when your thumbs press into the dimples of his hips. Can barely choke out a hissed yes, yeah, fu-fuck when your hand covers his, fingers wrapping tightly around his own as you guide it back and forth, up and down the length of his cock. “What did you make her beg for, Cheol?”

“To—to to-touch me.”

You hum. Tighten your grip on Seungcheol’s hand and laugh as his hips roll involuntarily, seeking the friction. “Touch you how? Like this?”

“Yeah—fuck, yes, like this.”

“Did she? Did she listen to you like a good girl?” Your hand leaves Seungcheol’s only to collect the precum at his tip. “Don’t get all shy now, Cheolie.” You suck your thumb into your mouth and he whines. “Was she a good girl for you?”

You sit back on your haunches. Watch him jerk himself off. “Yeah,” he finally says, word cracking in the middle. “Boring, though. Not like—not like you.”

“No one is like me,” you admonish. “I could’ve told you that for free, before you went off and fucked someone else.”

“Not an idiot,” Seungcheol replies, the pace of his hand quickening. He’s playing a dangerous game; approaching the cliff edge at a dangerous pace. “No-nothing comes for free with you.”

All you do is smile, lopsided and smug. “Mm, that’s true. Guess your little dom moment earlier can just be chalked up to momentary stupidity, hm?” Seungcheol wants to nod, wants apologies to tumble from his lips until you shut him up, but his palm is so slick against his dick, fist tight enough to white out his vision. “Did you make her beg to suck your cock?”

Truth be told, Seungcheol can’t remember much of anything right now. He’s perilously close to coming, right at that precipice, and each filthy word that slips from your mouth just pushes him further to the edge. He remembers Chan inviting him to a party. He remembers a few drinks, a few hits from a blunt, compliments of Vernon; he remembers a girl making eyes at him from across the room—eyes that had looked a lot like yours in the haze of his crossfade. He remembers a locked bathroom and the sound of his voice as he told that girl how to touch him so it felt like you. He remembers her doing whatever he told her to, remembers how eager and submissive she was, how she didn’t mouth off to him the way you always do—

Remembers how unsatisfying it’d been when he came.

You’ve ruined him.

Not a revelation. Not even close to one. Seungcheol has known this for a long time, but that doesn’t mean annoyance doesn’t flare in his belly at the reminder. You don’t want him. Being so hung up on you isn’t doing him any favors, just means he’ll have a longer drop when this is all over. God, what the fuck is he doing?

He wants you so badly he’s aflame with it. He wants you so badly he can barely look at you anymore. He wants you so badly it consumes him, drives him insane, has him all fucked up and seething. He wants you, he wants you, he—

Loves.

Reality washes over him like a cold wave. Knocks him backwards, drowning, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. In, out; in, out—and none of it changes a goddamn thing.

Four years of this. Four years of touches exchanged in the dark, behind locked doors. Four years of yearning and trying and failing. Four years of everything getting lost in translation, because it’s hitting him now, but shouldn’t he have felt it before? Shouldn’t all those ‘drive me fuckin’ crazy, can’t fucking stand you’s he spoke into the crook of your neck rang hollow?

“Cheol—” you say, because you asked him something, tried to play along with this whole stupid charade, and he knows he’s frozen, just standing there, hand still wrapped around his cock, and he needs to say something, he needs to fix this—

“I’m a liar,” is what he comes up with. You’re still staring up at him, brows furrowed, pinched in the middle. Move, he wills himself, but nothing happens. “I’m a liar,” he says again, because if he says it enough you’ll believe it. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“What are you talking about?”

He swallows. I’m in love with you, he wants to say. Feels the weight of the words on his tongue, heavy and pressing, and he thinks you should know. Even if you don’t feel the same, he thinks you deserve to know, but the way you’re looking at him—

He can’t bring himself to say it.

But he can—“Can I show you instead?”

Slowly, you nod. Seungcheol nods, too, still feeling off-kilter as he cradles your face in his hands, thumbs in the contours of your cheeks. Moves them down your neck, your shoulders, down the length of your arms. You meet him halfway, twining your fingers together, and he helps you stand, careful and considerate. At full height, he places a hand in the small of your back to tug you closer, kisses you like it’s the end of the world. Whines into your mouth at your familiar taste, and if he lets himself be delusional enough, he can pretend there’s form and substance to those sounds, that their edges are squared-off to form the words he wants to say.

Because it really might be the end of the world. Seungcheol has never known how to play the cards he’s been dealt when it comes to you. Always gets it wrong. Feints one way when he’s meant to go the other, takes the field with two left feet, always playing catch-up. Maybe the mistake was treating it like a game. Maybe the mistake was strategizing, only playing to win, because he lays you gently on his bed, fits his body in the space you create for him between your legs, and realizes he already won a long time ago.

He won the first time your eyes met. He won the first time he’d kissed you, more nerves and teeth than anything else. He won the first time you tucked yourself against his side and stared at his bedroom ceiling, half-smoked joint between your fingers, and made fun of the stupid flag he’d hung up. He won every time you took all the bullshit he threw at you and dished it right back. He won every time he had the privilege of tracing mindless shapes into your soft skin.

Every second of your time you chose to give him—all victories.

He presses in further. Groans when your hands move to his shoulders and grip tight; when your nails dig into the skin of his back. “I’ve been so stupid,” he says, punctuating his words with a nip at your ear. Smirks out of the corner of his mouth at your shuddering breath. “Haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” you answer, rolling your hips upward. He grabs at you desperately, tries to keep you still; hisses when you swat his hands away and redouble your efforts. “You’ve been a fucking asshole for a—for a while.”

You can’t see the way he pouts. Wonders, too, if that would work on you, if it’d earn him one of those rare moments of tenderness. “Well I’m trying to—shit, baby—trying to make it up to you, but you seem pretty determined to make me bust right now.”

He can see the way you roll your eyes. See the way the corners crinkle after as you laugh softly, breathlessly, still trying to chase a high Seungcheol refuses to provide. “You deserve it. You tried to dom me, you dickhead.”

Embarrassment sits obvious on his ruddy cheeks. He hides his face in the crook of your neck so you don’t see it, don’t have something to poke at him with later, but you’re having none of it. You thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, forceful enough to have him pliable, and there it is: there are stars in your eyes as you stare up at him, tender and soft just like he hoped you’d look, and he misses the feeling of your nails on your scalp until you’re tugging at the delicate chain around his neck and pulling him closer. “Just kiss me and we’ll call it even.”

This is how it feels to get struck by lightning, he thinks. Every part of him is on fire, and he’s content to burn as his lips find yours. He sighs happily into your mouth, hikes your thigh higher around his middle, presses in to lay claim to what little space is left between you. Seungcheol is so close he can feel the rapid pace of your heartbeat, because this is not the way you usually kiss. What used to be dirty and quick, a means to an end, now has intent, purpose. He’s kissing you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs to replace it with something better.

Trails those same kisses down the length of your body. Open-mouthed at your neck, your collarbones, the space between your breasts. Teasing and slow in the space between each rib, just to watch the way your skin pebbles. Hungry and insistent at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, because if he’s feeling this unhinged, he wants you right there with him. Can’t bear the thought of still being in this alone. Not anymore.

“Legs over my shoulders.” You listen immediately, and Seungcheol mutters a quiet fuck at the sight before him. “God, you’re so wet.”

“No shit—”

He swats at your clit, delighting in the way your body jolts. “Hush. The only thing I wanna hear out of your smart mouth from now on is my fucking name.” And then he’s diving in.

He eats you out like a man starved; like he could do this every day for the rest of his life and he still wouldn’t be satisfied. Can’t help but rut against the mattress at the way you taste, the way your thighs tighten around his head, the sting as you pull at his hair. Places both hands beneath your ass to lift and drag you closer to his waiting mouth—licks at you wet and feverish, all of this seemingly more for him than it is for you, and you’ll get tired of it soon, just like you always do. You’ll tell him—

“Do it right, Cheol, please—”

And he’ll pull away and tsk, swat at you again. His responding laugh will be cocky and derisive when your body trembles again, frantic with the need for more. “What did I say, baby? Do you not trust me to make you come?” You cock an eyebrow, torn between throwing some sarcastic remark at him and following the rules long enough to get what you want. His voice grows serious as he presses a soft kiss to your core. “I will always take care of you.”

The rest is muscle memory.

The rest has a chorus of Cheol, Cheol, Seungcheol spilling from your lips as he suctions his own around your clit. The rest has you grinding your pussy against his face. The rest has him groaning at the way he’s so wholly consumed by you: the taste of you on his tongue, face soaked, two fingers pressed deep into your cunt. The rest has him saying that’s it, baby, come on my face, I know you can and feeling delirious when he finally pushes you over the edge; when your walls clench around his fingers, breathing fractured, when you grab at him until you’re eye-level and you’re licking into his mouth to taste yourself.

Tastes a lot like I love you.

“Want you to ride me,” he says, gaze half-lidded and pleading. You whine as he moves his thumb back to your clit, tracing slow, slow, slow circles, oversensitive. “Will you do that for me?”

The party seems so far away. Grows even further away when you nod and straddle his lap. Seungcheol sits up, tells you to wrap your legs around him. Can’t stand not touching you; needs every inch of his skin to be covered by you like a bruise—something deep that’ll last for days, weeks, months. The mottled colors will change, but it’ll still be there.

“Need you, Cheol,” you whisper, kissing his eyelids. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes.

“You have me,” he answers, but it sounds foreign to his ears—sounds wretched, like the words have been punched out of him. It sounds like forfeit. “Always have.”

You pull back. Study his face. Run over his plush bottom lip with your thumb. It feels like an eternity of silence before you speak. “No, I haven’t,” you insist, tone insistent but delicate, like you’re trying to convince him of it, too. “Not like this.”

I love you.

You lift your hips just enough to sink down on his cock. Seungcheol’s moan is loud and unabashed, not afraid to let anyone hear the way you make him feel. All he can think is familiar: he knows your blinding white heat; has made countless homes in your tight grip he still holds the keys to; has done this so many goddamn times it’s second nature.

He was an absolute fool to think he could ever walk away.

You roll your hips, taking him deeper like you’ve got something to prove, body moving on its own sinuous accord. Seungcheol loves you like this, when you know exactly what you want and aren’t afraid to take it. When you press sloppy kisses to his neck, the column of his throat. When he grabs at your hips, tries to move you faster along the length of his cock, and you swat his hands away. When your rhythmic up-and-down turns into a slow grind that has you gasping and breathless, pussy spasming around him.

“Goddamn, I love this pussy,” he chokes out, fingers gripping tightly at the sheets since he can’t touch you. He’s mindless with pleasure, feels himself start babbling nonsense he can’t make sense of, and it’s overwhelming, having you like this. Isn’t sure how he’s survived this long, but maybe you were right.

Maybe it was never like this before.

Usually he’d take you from behind, quick and dirty, hands digging into the meat of your ass, palm cracking down on it every now and then, imparting white heat of his own. Usually he’d have you beneath him, knees pressed to your chest, all condescension as you told him, eyes rolled back, that he was too deep, that you couldn’t take it, and he’d rub at your clit and tell you you could as he dragged another orgasm out of you. Usually he’d be so frenzied and worked up he’d take you against the door, sweats pushed to mid-thigh, forearms straining as they held you up.

So, yeah—this is different. This is a patient, sensual dance to the finish line. This is Seungcheol in his rawest form: a live wire, vulnerable, anxious. This is the unknown, because something has to come after but he doesn’t know what it is.

This is Seungcheol throwing caution to the wind, leaning in close enough to taste the salt on your skin, and saying, “I love you.”

This is Seungcheol planting his feet and fucking up into you, unwilling to hear your response. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but sometimes bliss is just bliss, and he’ll willingly take either.

This is you coming undone on his cock, breathing rapid and ragged, pupils blown wide as you stare at him in awe.

“Say it again.”

Someone slams into the wall just outside Seungcheol’s door, and all at once the real world creeps back in: the thrumming bass line of the music downstairs; laughter, shouting, and yelling; fists banging on shut doors—but he hears you loud and clear. Presses each word into your mouth this time and groans when you swallow them. Barely makes a sound as he spills inside of you, feeling like every nerve in his body is aflame.

The two of you are quiet for a time as you try to catch your breath. Seungcheol only moves to grab his duvet and wrap it around your shoulders, smiling fondly at the small thank you you mumble, seemingly still bogged down, well-fucked.

He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Okay?”

You nod, push at him until he lays back and pulls you with him, lets you use his firm chest as a pillow. That flag you’d made fun of before isn’t up there anymore, but Seungcheol feels warm at the memory anyway, almost laughs at the comment he imagines you’d make.

Clears his throat. Tries to find his courage. “I really am sorry,” he tells you again, because it doesn’t matter if he loves you if he doesn’t know how to be good at it.

“I know, Cheol,” comes your easy reply. You’re tracing shapes on his stomach that have his muscles contracting. “I know you love me, too.” You sigh, press your lips to his rib cage. “Who knew it’d only take making out with Mingyu to get you to admit it.”

A wild laugh tumbles out of him. “Fuck off.” He can feel your grin.

“You got a fucked up way of showing it, though.”

He hums, holds onto you a little tighter. “Go easy on me, I only figured it out about an hour ago.”

“An hour?” you faux-gasp, make like you’re about to leave. “I’m outta here. I know my worth. If I’m going to say it back to someone, they need to be in love with me for at least two.”

He chokes at the implication, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest and into yours. He knows he looks exactly like the moonstruck, loved-up loser he is, and he coughs to cover it. “That’s what I said,” he lies. “Two hours. You must’ve heard it wrong.”

No, it was never like this.

[mariasont]

HEAR ME OUT!

post prison Spencer and shy!reader bonding over being total nerds. Books, shows... you name it

Bookstore Physics - S.R

summary: spencer suggests you should compare moral biases more often. you think he's making a philosophical point. he thinks he just asked you on a date

pairings: post!prison spencer reid x shy!medialiaison!reader

warnings: fluff, second hand embarrassment im sure, philosophical debates that are probably wrong bc i had to google and i know hardly knowing about mr kant, existential crisis but make it romantic, post prison reid, shy reader, prolonged eye contact

wc: 1.6k

a/n: thanks for requesting my lovely! happy superbowl to those who celebrate! go birds!

You were so close. Just one more inch, and your fingertips would finally graze the spine of the book that had been taunting you from its impossibly high perch. 

Rising to your tiptoes, you reached with all the reckless confidence of someone who had severely underestimated basic physics. The shelf wobbled under your grip, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor, and in that split second, you were faced with a terrifying possibility that you were about to take out the entire bookshelf, along with your dignity.

Something grabbed ahold of you, steadying you before you could faceplant directly into a pile of literary fiction. 

You went completely rigid. Because that wasn't just something. That was a Spencer Reid hand, long fingers, warm palm, and a freakishly strong grip for a man who treated physical exertion like a concept rather than a practice.

"Oh. Hi, Dr. Reid," you blurted, the words tumbling out clumsy and unpolished, as if your tongue had forgotten how to function. You winced instantly. "What are you doing here?"

Spencer didn't answer right away. His grip on your arm slackened, but he didn't step away, didn't even give you an inch of space, like he had no intention of letting you breathe properly.

Oh, that's fine. Air is overrated anyway.

"What am I doing here?" he repeated as if he were genuinely considering the question, but you knew better.

His expression hovered somewhere between pity and uncontained glee, the corners of his mouth twitching. 

Your lips parted, but your mind refused to cooperate, stuck on an endless loop of oh my god, did you actually just say that?

To Spencer Reid. The same Spencer who had, on multiple occasions, resorted to scribbling entire paragraphs on the back of receipts and once, when truly desperate, his own wrist. Spencer, who physically flinched at the sound of a cracked spine and once spent seventeen uninterrupted minutes explaining the significance of marginalia. Spencer who read like breathing and talked about prose like it was something alive.

And you, a person allegedly with working cognitive abilities, had just asked him what he was doing in a bookstore.

You opened your mouth, whether to correct yourself or just inhale enough oxygen to function again, you weren't sure, but before you could, Spencer, with precisely zero struggle, reached up and plucked the book from the shelf like it had been placed there specifically for him. 

"You should've asked for help," he murmured, and oh, that was definitely amusement in his voice.

"I-I had it under control."

One brow arched, unimpressed.

"Sure you did," he mused, lips twitching like they couldn’t quite decide whether to commit to a smirk. "Although, considering that 20% of bookstore-related injuries stem from ill-advised attempts at reaching high shelves, you were probably just one statistic away from a minor concussion."

You narrowed your eyes. "That's not — there's no way that's a real statistic."

Spencer barely reacted, flipping open the book with the same casual disinterest of someone checking the sky for clouds, except this wasn't a change in barometric pressure, and you were positive your entire nervous system had just gone into meltdown mode.

Your face burned, heat creeping up your spine and flooding through you veins at an alarming speed, and — oh, no — you had officially run out of places to look that weren't him.

And he (unfortunately) made such an easy focal point.

His shirt was rumpled like he'd spent the whole day forgetting to sit properly and a barely-there ink smudge kissed the edge of his palm, the kind only noticeable if you were close. His hair was at war with itself, some strands curling forward rebelliously against the collar of his cardigan, others falling forward, brushing the edge of his cheek.

He didn't glance up as he murmured, "Philosophy?"

The words barely had time to settle before your brain supplied an immediate translation: he was about to analyze you.

You could practically hear the gears turning, the internal mechanisms of his brain whirring at a speed that actually did defy physics. If you concentrated hard enough, you might've been able to hear the faint whir of neurons firing, piecing together a framework of analysis that was surely seconds away from being spoken into existence. He was surely already forming a hypothesis, already constructing some impossibly insightful revelation about what this particular title said about you, your worldview, your subconscious motivations.

"Well, yeah, that one," you said quickly, the words tripping over each other. “I mean, it’s not real philosophy — well, obviously, it is, but not in the way you would define foundational philosophy, but it still presents some really interesting moral dilemmas, and the writing is surprisingly digestible considering the subject matter is so —”

You clamped your mouth shut so fast it was a wonder your teeth didn’t rattle.

What were you even saying?

"Um — yeah. Philosophy. Or... something like that."

Spencer's lips twitched, and then, in a move so profoundly unsettling, he smiled.

Not just any smile, either. A real one. The kind that didn't just curve his mouth but softened him entirely, the corners tugging upward, a barely there dimple surfacing at his cheek. 

It hit you like a perfectly aimed dart —sharp, direct, and entirely crushing. Something fluttered wildly in your chest, light enough to feel stupid, but heavy enough to be a problem.

Then, still smiling, he tilted his head, leaning in just enough to invade your space, his voice dipping like he was handing you something fragile.

"I didn't take you for the existentialist type."

Your first instinct is to argue, to insist that you're far too well-rounded, too multifaceted, too impossible to be pinned down by a single school of thought. But before you can even begin to string words together, Spencer tilts his head just a little more, his eyes sweeping over you in a way that feels dangerously close to that same expression of analyzing once again.

And suddenly, you need to redirect this conversation, desperately, urgently, before your body betrays you, before you start visibly sweating or keel over like a fainting goat. Neither feels like an optimal outcome.

"I — I mean... I could say the same about you."

His lips quirk. "Interesting. And why's that?"

"I don't know. I always assumed you'd be more of a rationalist? Like, Descartes' methodical doubt feels like something you'd respect, and even Kant's categorical imperative, although that's more deontological ethics than strict rationalism, kind of aligns with the way you view morality and decision-making, and —"

You stop. Blink.

Oh no. You’re heavily invested in this man’s philosophical alignment.

You purse your lips, clearing your throat like that’ll erase the absurd level of thought you’ve just admitted to having.

"I mean, I'm probably way off."

Spencer flips the book closed, considering.

"I supposed you could argue I lean toward rationalism," he allows. "But morality is messy. Kant insists on universal law, and let's be real, most people abandon objectivity the second emotions get involved."

He glances at you then, a shift so small it shouldn't feel significant, but somehow, it does.

“For instance, we all make exceptions. We justify things we probably shouldn’t. Sometimes we prioritize people in ways that defy reason.”

His lips twitch. 

"Hypothetically speaking, of course."

“Well, yeah,” you say, caught up in the current of the conversation before you even realize you’ve been swept away. “People make emotional calculations constantly. Even when they claim objectivity, their decisions are shaped by personal attachments.”

The thought unspools too easily, words tumbling forward, carried by momentum.

“And it’s not just morality, it’s cognition in general. Have you read Jonathan Haidt’s work on moral intuitionism? He argues that people make moral judgments first based on instinct, and then rationalize them after the fact.”

You glance up, expecting a rapid-fire counterargument, some impossibly well-structured debate. But Spencer is just watching you.

"So what about you?" he asks suddenly. "Would you say you make exceptions?"

You pause.

"I mean… yeah? I guess I do. Everyone does, right? If someone I care about does something morally questionable, I’d probably be more inclined to defend them than if it were a stranger. I mean, that’s just human nature."

Then shrug. 

"But that doesn’t mean I’m being hypocritical," you add quickly, as if you just realized how that sounded. "I think there’s a difference between conscious favoritism and subconscious moral bias. It’s not like I have a specific person I’d automatically justify no matter what."

Spencer exhales. "I think you're more consistent than you realize."

You blink at him. "What do you mean?"

He shrugs, lifting the book in his hands, fingers drumming idly against the cover. “You try so hard to rationalize your emotions. But I think, if it came down to it, you’d make an exception for someone. Just one.”

Your stomach knots, and it's humiliating how obvious you must be. You can feel your pulse everywhere, in your throat, your wrists, your temples, like your entire body is broadcasting, Hey, Spencer Reid is making you malfunction because he somehow sees right through you, somebody send help.

“I — well, I mean —”

“Relax, it’s just a theory.”

But something about the way he says it makes you not relax at all. And before you can scramble for some kind of coherent response, he nods toward your book.

“You should get that one,” he says lightly, handing you back the book. “I’d love to hear your take on it next time.”

You freeze. Next time?

Oh. Oh no. The words settle over you like an ill-timed realization, and your brain is running the math like you're about to file a report on your own social incompetence. Next time implies... a prior time, a recurring time, a pattern of times. Next time implies he assumes there will be a next time. 

And you assume that he assumes that you are the kind of person who could logically expect another bookstore trip with Spencer Reid as if that's just a thing that happens in your life. Which is absurd.

Your fingers tighten around the book, like holding onto an overpriced paperback will somehow restore balance to your rapidly deteriorating world. Your pulse is a problem and your ability to think critically is a casualty. 

You scramble for something, anything, to say, but before your brain can reboot, Spencer is already moving. 

Then just as he disappears into the next aisle, he tosses one final parting shot of his shoulder —

"See you soon, then."

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[katiascraft]

lando x famous actress!reader pleaseeee

so here it is! I thought it was a cute idea to do it around the oscars so I hope you like it and enjoy it! Thanks for your request anon <3

﹙LN4﹚ ── ❝ and the oscar goes to... ❞

summary: you’re a star rising in the Hollywood scene. Tonight you could be making history. The youngest actress in history to be nominated for best actress in a leading role. And of course, your boyfriend (of 5 years now) had to be there.

warnings: just use your imagination along the ride! smau + written story. It’s a made up movie (I just imagined it). The premiation is also made up (I didn’t follow any real life event at the last oscars). and just pure fluff to be honest <3

blog masterlist

ㅤ¡ tap to continue reading ू♡ ࿔ ۪

f1gossipgirl made a post

f1gossipgirl: BREAKING ‼️ formula one driver Lando Norris has just arrived to the #Oscars red carpet! He is supporting his long time girlfriend y/n who is nominated for best actress in a leading role and the movie she stars in is nominated for best picture of the year. It’s a huge event for y/n because she is the youngest actress to be nominated ever and if she wins she will be the first in history to win an oscar as such a young age! Stay tuned because we will keep you updated #OscarsWithF1GossipGirl. Lando will not take pictures with y/n or walk the carpet together source informed.

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user965: OH MY GOD LOOK AT THAT MAN

user755: god he is hot

user9174: the haters hate y/n bc they can’t have HIM and she can FIGHT ME

⤷ user1: she’s lucky indeed

user185: I find it so perfect he doesn’t want to be on the spotlight. It’s his girlfriend’s day. He is so respectful!

user1854: I need to see y/n I hope she wins she was phenomenal in that movie

user9916: who cares!?

user1854: this account should only update about only f1 sport related stuff

⤷ user175: it is an update account and it’s called “gossip girl” go away

user22: oh to be y/n and have him alone in a hotel room

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

f1gossipgirl made a post

f1gossipgirl: OSCARS UPDATE ‼️ apparently afew of the gird are assisting to the #Oscars tonight in support of actrees y/n! ex formula one driver Daniel Ricciardo has just arrived to the red carpet.source informed he will not walk the carpet for pictures, he will be in through the back door as lando did. it's y/n night! but we're sauspicious on why daniel has a little box in his hands... ??? #OscarsWithF1GossipGirl

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user22: WHAT ??? IS??? GOING?? ON????

user123: Dani is such a good friend I miss him in f1 😭

user965: HE IS PROPOSING TO Y/n!?!? LANDO IS GOING TO PROPOSE?!?!?

user1865: I think that box’s for lando….

user99: I love Danny so much how supportive he is of his friends

user1288: it would have been insane but amazing if y/n would have walked the carpet alone Dani and lan ICONIC

⤷ user1964: that’s bullshit. It’s her day, her movie, her nomination. I see it perfect they didn’t walk the carpet with her plus we all know lando hates that type of exposition and I see it fair y/n respects it

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

f1gossipgirl made a post

f1gossipgirl: OSCARS UPDATE ‼️ y/n has arrived to the #Oscars! she was accompanied with her mom and little sister! along her bodyguards and some crew. lando (her boyfriend) and daniel (her bestfriend) are inside the building already. source informed both are waiting seated in the same table the cast of "ashes on the skin" will be seated. rumors say that a few other drivers are in attendence in the general area of the event.

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user944: omg we will see them live!!! I’m so excited

user23: I would have never thought to see them both at the oscars!!!

user233: would love to know who else is there tbh

user199: on Twitter there’s pictures of oscar and lily and also Charles and Alex, Pierre and kika

⤷ user2299: omg the whole crew is there! So nice they support their friend

user1: so excited for tonight! I hope high hope she will win

user288: she looks gorgeous omg

user975: red hair is her color she looks stunning!

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

f1gossipgirl made a post

f1gossipgirl: OSCARS UPDATE ‼️ finally, actrees y/n has arrived to the red carpet! what do we think about the role? for anyone who doesn't know she is nominated for her role in the movie "ashes on the skin". we leave you the sipnosis down here if you wanna watch it! do you think she's gonna win?

Between the 1920s and 1950s, mental health was a taboo subject. Depression, anxiety, and eating disorders were not understood, nor were they met with compassion. Instead, those who did not fit into societal norms were labeled as insane, locked away in psychiatric asylums, and subjected to cruel treatments disguised as medical care. Electroshock therapy, forced feeding, and isolation were not means of healing—they were punishments for those who suffered in silence.

In this oppressive reality, Elena Moreau, a 25-year-old woman, is institutionalized for feeling too much in a world that demands silence. But inside the asylum, she does not find care—only horror. The treatments meant to “cure” her shatter her instead, stripping away every piece of the woman she once was. She is no longer a patient—she is a prisoner. A shadow of herself.

With every night spent in isolation, with every torment endured, her sanity begins to crumble. Until one day, when nothing remains of the girl who entered, Elena makes a choice. If the world insists on turning her into a monster, she will become one. Fire becomes her voice. Destruction, her final act of defiance. As the asylum burns, so does the life she once knew.

But can one truly escape the ashes when they have already been burned into the skin?

“Ashes on the Skin” is a harrowing and poignant tale of silenced suffering, the brutality of early psychiatric treatments, and one woman’s desperate fight for freedom in a world that fears what it cannot understand.

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user99: CAN LANDO FIGHT

user875: the fact she chose that dress representing the era her movie is in speaks volumes of how committed she is for the project she looks beautiful

⤷ user1855: she is very caring of every work she does

user02: best dressed of the night is miss y/n Norris fight me

user971: I watched the movie a few days ago. What she does is phenomenal. I cried through the whole movie. It’s so raw and she made her job to make you feel all the pain she is through. Excellent performance she is top level no doubts hope she wins

user344: can’t wait to hear her speech im sure she will win what she did jaques the rest of the nominees

user7155: couldn’t finish the movie. It was too much for me. But that speaks for itself of how good the movie is. As cruel and unbearable as our reality is.

user8: her dress it’s a work of art itself. So pretty.

user4: Lando’s a very lucky man

user55: I don’t like her but I can’t say she can’t act. She is really good.

user882: heard they can also win picture of the year

user34: please don’t make this night about lando or Daniel or any driver in attendance. This is the oscars. And it’s y/n’s night for her amazing and phenomenal work. be respectful please.

user99312: y/n’s such a gorgeous girl I wish man

₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Flashes. Pose. smile. Wave. fast heart beat. Repeat. 

You were never a fan of big crowds or events full of people. But this was different.this was an opportunity to convince yourself that you have what it takes. What it takes to be good enough as a professional in this field. 

You have always been your worst enemy. Confidence was certainly not your best friend or best virtue. But this project changed your life. Elena, the character you played, became a part of you as if she was your actual friend in real life… but she only lived in your head and your heart. It was the hardest challenge of your life becoming her. And it was a character that touched that sensitive part of your soul. Your grandmother has suffered from mental health her whole life, and seeing her deteriorating each day that passed by was the hardest part. Back in the day, mental health wasn't a thing and depression took advantage of it. She was diagnosed when she was almost 60 years old and up to that point, there wasn’t anything much to do rather than medication. Your grandmother was convinced therapy was “for the crazy and the crazy only”. It hurts you a lot. And Elena was essentially that. It was your grandmother, trapped in her pain in a world that didn’t understand her. And that made her not understand herself either. 

Going through the pain Elena must have been was a bit traumatic. It was hard not to be in her shoes even out of filming. And that made it hard to go and support Lando at his races. You needed a therapist to try and stay sane in a way. But Lando was so supportive, so gentle with you and so understanding. That made you realize that he was it. He was the love of your life. The way you both manage to make it work even if you didn't see each other for like 2 months straight. 

You still couldn’t believe you were there that night. That you were recognized for your work. It felt surreal while you were entering the building so beautifully decorated and organised. On the far, you saw your boyfriend and best friend chatting and laughing along with the director of your movie and the executive producer. Your smile couldn’t even get bigger. You were so proud of yourself. Every sacrifice you did to get here was worth it. You knew deep down that this was just for the show and didn’t show your real value as professional but it was like a compliment. A real big compliment. A very healing and important one. You came full circle tonight. You were here, the event you used to watch in your mother’s lap and dreamed of receiving a statue. Give a beautiful speech and cry of emotion. It was happening. And having all of your people with you just made your heart explode. 

You walked along your mom holding hands to the table. Both Lando and Daniel stood up so they could give you a hug. First to do so was lando. He was grinning. The biggest smile you have ever seen on his face that even his nose was crunching. You left out a little and nervous laugh.

“Hi baby” you said sweetly. 

“Oh my lord, babe, you look magical,”Lando said a bit out of breath. He only saw you putting on makeup earlier in the evening.. He didn't expect you looking this beautiful. Gold was your color. If you two were in a cartoon movie, he would have hearts for eyes for sure. He held you close and tight into his body kissing your shoulder sweetly. He was as nervous as you were and maybe even more. He knew you had it. He dreamed of you winning. You deserved it. 

What you did in that movie was phenomenal. He was in genuine shock at the premier. Of course, you converted yourself into another person but it was so raw and rough and insane. He knew you gave it your all. He saw you struggling. He saw you in character in the behind the scenes when he could be there to support you and take care of your son, a sausage dog you both adopted three years ago. His name was Rocket (you were a crazy fan of guardians of the galaxy by marvel). He couldn’t be prouder of you. Such a young woman yet your performance to him was one of the most experienced actors on the field. We could say adrien brody level. but maybe he was exaggerating. But one thing he was sure of, is that you were amazing with or without an Oscar in your living room. However, he truly believed you would win it. You had to. 

He let you go of his arms after kissing your cheek gently so he wouldn’t mess your makeup. Seeing your smile so big and excited filled his heart fully. He watched you in the arms of Daniel who was already making jokes and making you laugh. So he hugged your mom who was already tearing a bit. She was a really sensitive being, very emotional and sweet. And your mom loved Lando as if he was her son too. She thanked him for the hug. She was really grateful that her daughter had him next to her (even though she didn't like the fact Lando practiced a dangerous sport and that he could die any weekend. She chose to trust him he will not leave her daughter broken and a widow). He kissed your mom’s head. 

“She will win,” he assured her in a whisper. Your mom looked at him with a little smile. 

“I hope so, she deserves it so much” she said on the brink of crying again and Lando let out a little laugh because he found it so cute. He hugged her again to comfort her. He felt where he belonged. This was his forever family, he just knew it. And he was so happy. And so in love with you.

 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Two hours have passed by. You have watched plenty of your idols on stage. This was like a dream. And you felt dreammy for sure, you didn't want to wake up. You cried when your new friend and co-protagonist won best actress in a supporting role. She cried too. You hugged her as if you wouldn’t see her anymore. You were so proud of her, she was so young as well. You both gave everything in that movie. And it meant the world to both of you. And living this was the best thing that could ever happen to you. There were already two Oscars on the table for your movie, best direction and best supporting role. 

And then, it was your turn. It was the moment you were waiting for the whole night. Maryl Streep, the woman who made you fall in love with acting, your role model, stood there in the middle of the stage ready to say which ones were the nominees for best actress in a leading role. You felt your heart would stop any moment. One hand was on both lando hands, cupping yours, both sweaty because of the anxiety of the moment. The other hand is your mother’s. You were already on the brink of crying. This meant everything to you. The fact that mary was there to say your name was already everything you ever dreamed of. 

Maryl started saying a few words to every actress nominated.

“And we have y/n. The youngest actress ever nominated in this category who did an excellent job in ashes of the skin. The bravery in making such a vulnerable, raw and real character. How the pain could be felt from the screen. So brilliant and also so important. Thank you for elena, y/n, i think we all needed to live through her to know how important mental health is for everyone and how gentle we need to be so we could create a better world” 

When meryl stopped talking you couldn't smile brighter. Everyone applauded you so loud. You applauded her, for her kind words. You mouthed her so many thank yous, your hand on your heart. This was precious, even if you didn't win, this was it. This was the most amazing gift to you. Lando was already tearing, his anxiety and excitement on the roof. He was so proud of you. He knew how much this meant to you. He grabbed your face and gave you a kiss. The camera of the transmission captured it (and of course, it went viral of how cute that gesture was). 

Maryl continued to say a few more words to the rest of the nominees. Your grip on Lando's hand got tighter. Daniel was hugging your mother. 

“And the nominees for best actress in a leading role are…” maryl said and a fragment of every actress in each movie nominated started to appear on the screens. You got so nervous when you saw herself. Everything was a bit dizzy because of how nervous you were.you didn’t realize that people were applauding and cheering. When the images stopped, Maryl smiled and spoke again. 

“And the oscar goes to…” the suspenseful silence she did almost left you deaf. Your heart was on your throat. “y/n” she said grinning, proudly. Everybody stood up. This was it. You made history.

The camera was on your really shocked face. You were shaking. Lando made you stand up and kissed you in tears. 

“Omg” that was the only thing you could say. And grinning. But you could process what you were living. You hugged your mom who was already sobbing and Daniel gave you your phone where you had already prepared something to say because now, it was impossible for you to think straight. 

You grabbed your dress and started walking up to the stage. Everyone was applauding you and you were already tearing up. Ariana grande, also nominated, met you before the stage and gave you a hug. It was so sweet of her, you thanked her and  finally got up on the stage. Ýou only focused on maryl.

“Congratulations, sweetheart. Your the promise of this industry” she said when you hugged her and then she gave you the fucking statue. Holy lord it was heavy and so shiny. 

“Oh my god, thank you so much. This is a dream” you said to her who found it so cute. You grabbed your oscar. You saw everyone at your table crying and with their phones up on you. You were shaking but you tried to collect yourself. 

“Wow… I can't believe this to be honest um… I'll try not to cry.” you started saying looking at the statue in your hands “mom i made it!” you continued excited and made the crowd laugh. “This is such an honour to be here in front of all these amazing professionals that raised me. I can’t believe I'm here to be honest, all the nominees deserved this award. This is for you because you were role models for me and i wouldn’t be here if there hadn't been amazon women like all of you on my tv scream when i was a child. Maryl i love you i love you i love you. Thank you to the academy, to my parents for taking me to every single casting there was even if it was on the other side of the world, thank you to my boyfriend, lando, i love you with my whole heart i wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for your support and gentle love. You are the greatest driver there is and I made a promise to you that if I won an Oscar I would say yes to marriage… So I'll be waiting for the ring!” you said nervously trying to eat your tears. Lando went deep red and laughed so dreamily. “And thank you to my friends and ….” You thank a few of the ones who gave you the opportunity to be in the movie. “And I just really hope, and I really wish, that you, little girl, sat in the living room of your home watching me right now, that you can be whoever you want to be. And I hope to meet you soon here on stage. Dreams do really come true, I'm proof of it. Don’t skip acting class, go to that casting. I promise, it will happen. And I can't wait to see you around! Thank you” you finished your speech as fast as you could and maryl grabbed you to congratulate you once more. And of course, once down the stage you let your sobs take place. But they were happy tears. Proud tears. It is your little self so happy to be alive. 

Your table couldnt stop applauding and cheering you. Your mom was a lake of tears but Lando wasn't that far behind. They hugged each other. This was insane but so precious. You did it. You really did it. You won. You are amazing. When you said that in front of the world about the ring he almost passed away. He couldn’t be more in love with you and there's a reason why Daniel brought the little box. This was it. It was the end game. It was him and you until death do you apart.

You were the love of his life. 

And he couldn’t be happier and prouder of you.

 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

lando made a post

lando: she did it. she is world champion! 😭🥳❤️‍🩹

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yourusername: thank you my love for your endless support. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you forever! Now let’s focus on the championship you have ahead I will go to every race this year ❤️‍🩹🥳 my future champion

⤷ lando: why are you so perfect? I love you my love. You deserve all the love the world can give you ❤️‍🩹

user77: I want what they have 😭😭😭

user975: he took his camara so he can capture every moment of his girl’s night so sweet

user11: lando the man you are

user44: no one will ever make me hate you lando sweet boy

charlesleclerc: I win for the books!! Congrats y/n!!!

alexandrasaintmleux: so proud of you amazing girl

kikacgomes: im still crying for the speech 😭

⤷ pierregasly: you can be whatever you want baby

⤷ kikacgomes: stop 😭😭😭

user723: she looks so happy on the second photo it’s so cute

oscarpiastri: thank you for the invitation guys. What a lovely night. So proud of you y/n!! Let’s celebrate f1 style!!

⤷ georgerussell: hope your night sucks for not inviting me

⤷ lando: limited seats available bro

⤷ georgerussell: go fuck yourself

⤷ alexalbon: i'm with George

⤷ yourusername: guys I’m sorry we will celebrate back in monaco I promise!!!

⤷ yukitsunoda: need to see that award on your living room!!

pierregasly: congrats y/n!! Let’s karaoke the night away!!

⤷ yourusername: I’ll start!!

⤷ lando: please don’t. Im fed up with mamma mia songs.

⤷ yourusername: boring

 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

yourusername made a post

yourusername: the best day of my entire existence. thank you <3

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yourbff: you did it y/n!! You showed the world who you are!! The most amazing person: personally and professionally.

yourmom: so proud!! 🩷

user1987: SO DID HE PROPOSED!!?!?!

maxverstappen: so happy for you

danielricciardo: 👀💍

⤷ user0911: TELL US YOU KNOW THINGS

⤷ user77: HE KNOWS

lando: you did it baby you’re amazing

user815: like can someone say something about the engagement????

⤷ yourusername: he didn’t propose.

⤷ danielricciardo: DISAPPOINTED AND OFFENDED

⤷ lando: I WILL

⤷ maxverstappen: Now no one believes you loser

 ₊˚⊹ ᰔ THE END

don’t forget to like, comment, reblog if you enjoy it! And follow me so we can be friends :3 (and drink mate together)

[choslut]

˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ BLACKOUT. featuring tartaglia.

↻ the 11th of the fatui harbingers has some... questionable kinks.

tags : asphyxiation, choking, dry humping, sparring kink, hate sex, light dirty talk, death threats, semi-public sex, light spanking, clit slapping, squirting, creampie, loss of consciousness // wc. 1k

author's note : another late one.. don't worry, the next one is all lined up n ready in my drafts !! this is most likely the freakiest one yet bc why does tartaglia have a sparring kink... also this is the heaviest one yet too so please mind sharp of the tags !! someone passes out in this one so be warned. i know you alr know the drill, notes n reblogs are ALWAYS appreciated here but can i remind u not to spam (esp w/o a follow) because that can decrease my reach and my stuff won't show up anymore :( i love you all, thank you for 400 followers and see you in the next one!

this work is NSFW. minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

“mmm, fuuuck, you’re a feisty one, aren’tcha, doll?”

you didn’t know what you were signing up for when you decided to spar with the 11th of the fatui harbingers. in fact, you were more forced to spar with him than of your own volition. he thought you were pretty, and he thought you would look even prettier pinned underneath him, panting and begging within an inch of your life. 

what ajax didn’t expect, however, was to be flipped on his back with you straddling atop him, hands closed tightly around his neck. he also didn’t expect that it would feel so good.

blood drips from your forehead and your lip is swollen from one to many punches to the face, but fuck you look so beautiful. “you gonna kill me or what?”

“shut up,” you grunt, squeezing harder. “shut up, shut up, shut up.”

you’re driving him damn near insane. you look angry and feral, and it’s a look that only the most determined of warriors wear during battle. 

as of right now, you’re determined to kill him, or at least make him give up. the thing is, you’ve clearly underestimated the man who calls himself the 11th fatui harbinger. 

“are you… hard?” something big and firm protrudes through his trousers, and he looks up at you, lips cracking into a smile. 

“right on the money, angel.” his hips thrust upwards once, his mind growing hazy at the buzz of adrenaline flowing through his veins. “you gonna squeeze tighter? i’m quite liking this.”

you scowl at him. “you’re disgusting, tartaglia.”

“it’s ajax, baby,” he manages to say through his lack-of-oxygen induced haze. “you gonna call me that while you’re chokin’ me out?”

god, you hate him. god, god god, you want him dead, but you can’t suppress the feeling of victory washing over you. you managed to make a harbinger hard, and all you had to do was threaten to kill him. “why would i give you that pleasure?”

“you seem to be happy enough sittin’ on my dick and trying to kill me, baby, the least you could do is call me by my real name, no?” he has no bargaining chips here, especially since you might actually kill him cold turkey. “move your hips for me.”

“you’re in no position to be making orders.”

“and you’re in a good enough position to get grinding.” when you swivel your hips in the slightest, his hands twitch, trying his hardest not to grip your ass under your skirt desperately. who even wears a skirt to a fight? “hurry it up. i’m starting to get bored.”

this guy. he’s so fucking annoying, but you can’t help but clench around nothing at the way he looks up at you, eyes hooded and lip quirked up in a smirk as he tries to move his hips to no avail, and suddenly, you’re left with two options;

option one: get the fuck off of him and run as far as humanely possible in the hopes that he won’t catch up to you. 

option two: fuck him, and fuck him. 

it’s a good thing that in situations like these, you like to think primarily with your pussy and not your head.

“ajax!”

“that’s it angel, fuck, you’re doin’ such a good job.”

your skirt is abandoned somewhere in the sparring ring and your breasts spill out of your shirt as you bounce in his lap, eyes squeezed shut and hands latched around his neck, nails digging into its supple flesh. 

oh, he’s liking this. you swear he grows two times bigger every time you squeeze on his neck, and your eyes roll into the back of your head as his tip bumps your cervix. this is the deepest position possible, and he’s hitting you just right, despite being delirious from the lack of oxygen flowing to his brain from your hands around his neck. 

when you decided to fuck him, he gave you one order and one order only; hold on tight. and damn did he give you the ride of your life, because you’re twitching atop him, hands attaching and detaching from his neck as you struggle to keep your consciousness afloat. 

whilst your hands stay wound around his bruised neck, his hands are seemingly everywhere. one moment he’s squeezing your tits through your torn shirt and the next he’s spanking your ass, warning you that he’s going to speed up and that you need to hold on tighter unless you want to fall off. 

“ ‘m close-!” you warn him of your impending orgasm, hands trembling around his neck as he starts to deepen his thrusts. you can barely focus on the look of his face, but the bastard is smiling, his own eyes starting to flutter shut as he starts to see dark spots clouding his vision. ajax is about to pass out, but he doesn’t even deserve such a luxury without feeling you cum all over his cock. 

with what little strength he has left in his arms, he slides his hand from your ass to your clit and gives it tight little slaps, eyes urging you to cum as his mouth drops open in ecstasy. this feeling, having you not only squeeze his throat but his cock too, has him delirious, and he totally thinks he could become completely addicted. 

“cum f’me, angel. come on, c’mon, i wanna fucking feel it, baby…” he uses the last of the oxygen in his lungs to give you one final command, and as ajax blacks out, he feels you squirt on it, plastering your juices all over the floor of the sparring ring before collapsing on top of him. 

in his newly (and partially short lived) vegetative state, his cock pumps you full, his seed leaking out of the creases in your cunt. it takes a couple of seconds for you to come to, and when you do, you’re faced with a sprawled out ajax on the floor, eyes just closed and lips parted gently. 

you panic momentarily because you think you’ve actually killed him, until you see those damn lips of his stretch into a smile. “thank you doll.”

you’re definitely not sparring with this freak again.

PREVIOUS : BABY MOMMA ft. k. nanami NEXT : SAY ‘AAH’ ft. wriothesley

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© choslut 2024 — do not copy, repost or translate my works without permission. chain divider by @/cafekitsune

[eicsferrari]

so high school - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x princess!yn

requested: yes♡

a/n: sorry for the delay i had this on my drafts almost finished and then i got sick :( but i hope it's what you had in mind <3 since i'm a political science girlie i had to use the aristotle line but i couldn't find a good picture so...close enough ig

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~ ♕ ~

yourusername sweet elegance

♥︎liked by charlesleclerc & others

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yourusername monaco race

♥︎liked by alex_albon & others

charles_leclerc an honor to have you👑

yourusername thank you! and congrats on your win💘

username the heart !! someone check if he's still breathing

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georgerussell63 hope you enjoyed it!

yourusername i did🎀 thank you georgie boy

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username see how there's no heart with the other drivers,,,, thinking thoughts

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yourusername cheeks pink in the twinkling lights

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yourusername truth dare spin bottles

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username nah maybe they just met her at monaco and became friends, no need to read too much into it

username goddess🛐🛐

username this is gonna sound weird but i never thought about yn dating

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username i mean,,, yes? i watched the princess diaries 2

username i-

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yourusername are you gonna marry kiss or kill me

♥︎liked by lewishamilton & others

username she's getting bolder with these posts

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yourusername you know how to (ball) i know (aristotle)

♥︎liked by maxverstappen1 & others

username reading plato? we love an educated queen

username i know monarchy doesn't rule anymore but it's kinda obvious she would have to read the classics

username real question: do you think the political leaders of some countries have read plato? or any book for that matter?

username ...touche

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charles_leclerc full throttle

tagged yourusername

♥︎liked by francocolapinto & others

username WE GOT A HARD LAUNCH

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yourusername i love youuu

charles_leclerc i love you more❤️

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username i can't with their cuteness

yourusername also, for those of you wondering about that last picture, i asked him to describe in extreme detail the first time he saw me🫶🏼

username me as a girlfriend fr

username this is so real lol good to know that even if you are a princess you are still just a girl, standing in front of a guy, asking him to tell her everything about how he fell in love with her

username can't believe he actually pulled it off ... respect

username i called it💋

yourusername thank you for keeping it quiet babe🫶🏼

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yourusername i wanna find u in a crowd just to hide from you

♥︎liked by olliebearman & others

lando that seems,, pointless

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lando as you wish princess🙇

yourusername 🤦‍♀️

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username princess wag and prince driver oh the wattpad girlies are gonna eat this up

charlesleclerc and i feel like laughing in the middle of practice

georgerussell63 too many so high school references for my taste considering we all played gta at the hotel the other day

yourusername 🙊🙊

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yourusername no one's ever had me not like you

♥︎liked by kimi.antonelli & others

username this called me single in eight different languages

username the concept of her relating to so high school bc all her life was full of responsibilities and she never got to be young and normal but now he's making her feel giddy and like a teenager oh yn in love you are so special to me

username hope you know you made me cry

username this is so cute i wished romantic relationships were real

charles_leclerc i love you marry me❤️

yn love you always yes❤️

iamrebeccad charles you can't ask that by instagram omg

charles_leclerc i didn't!!

yn he did't!! it was at the beach and everything was so romantic🫶🏼

iamrebeccad YOU GUYS ARE ENGAGED AAA A A A AA

carlossainz55 congrats guys! but i'm confused, we had to see every part of your relationship so far yet we hear of this on a comment?????

yn what can i say we are quirky like that☺️

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charlesleclerc posted a story

caption: she said yes💍

yourusername replied to your story

↪ yourusername and i always will🤍

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yourusername you know what you wanted and boy you got her

tagged charlesleclerc

♥︎liked by taylorswift & others

charlesleclerc you already know babe❤️

username @ god when will it be me

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Taglist: @justaf1girl @anamiad00msday @formoola1fan @2bormaybenot @searecs @rana030 @multifantasic70 @yourmommyagone22

[callsign-swan]

Back To You

Valentina finds a way to control Bob and The Sentry: His wife.

Warnings: addiction (bc, yk, Sentry), thunderbolts spoilers, canon divergence

A sense of foreboding filled her as she stepped into the elevator. The message had been cryptic, but the reward was too good to be true.

The lack of elevator music had the bad feeling in her stomach intensifying. As it travelled up, she checked the message on her phone again. It was the right building in the right city, in the right State.

Part of her couldn't believe it was this building. When her husband first went missing, she didn't believe he would end up here.

Months of searching had led to this moment. He had been clean on her wedding day, all thanks to her support. Cooking him healthy, nutritious meals, taking him on walks.

There were good nights and there were bad nights. A lot of bad nights. Nights were he wasn't her husband, he became someone else. Someone she didn't know.

But she was still there, holding his hand, stroking her fingers over his palm. Bringing him back to himself, running her fingers through his hair and kissing his lips.

But then, one day, after what felt like weeks of bad days, he disappeared. No word, nothing. He just... left, giving her no clue as to where he was going.

But she searched. She searched and searched, turning up nothing. Nobody knew where her husband, the man she loved so dearly, was. Nights spent crying herself to sleep, trying not to go down the same path he did. It would have been so easy to slip, to put herself into his mindset, all for the sake of finding him.

The only thing keeping her hope alive all of these months was the fact that a body was never found.

But then she got this message. The address. He's here. There was only one He it could be, only one He she cared about.

The elevator doors didn't ding before they opened. They just slid open. There was nothing remarkable about it.

Funny, she thought this moment would be something... more.

People, laying on the floor. Some had blood, some had bruises. All of them had the shit beaten out of them.

Wide eyed, she looked from person to person. Why had she been brought her, forced to witness the aftermath of all of this violence.

But then, she looked up.

His hair was longer, blonde, too. The suit was flashy, to say the least. But it was him. It was her Bob.

Before she knew what she was doing, she was running towards him. "Bobby," she said through a gasp as he threw someone to the side like they weighed nothing

It was him. It was her Bob. The same eyes, blue as the deepest ocean, lighting up the moment he saw her.

Nothing else in the world seemed to matter to him. He called her name, a quiet desperation in his voice. When she threw herself at him, he caught her easily.

Eyes closed, Bob wrapped both arms around her. He held her as close as he possibly could and breathed in. Her, it was all her. Her ring was still on her finger, a perfect symbol of what their marriage should have been. His was long gone, pawned off for drug money. God, he had been such an idiot back then.

But, fuck, that didn't matter to her.

She pulled away from him, looked at his face. "You've gone blonde, Bobby," she whispered as she took him in.

There was something so sweet about the way he laughed. His eyes searched her face, as if he couldn't believe she was real, she was really there.

"I looked for you," she said as she settled her hand on his chest. "Everywhere, Bobby. Where did you go?"

"'m sorry," he whispered. "I was tryina get better so that I could come home to you. I don't know what happened after that."

Finally, she looked around. The people on the floor, with the shit beaten out of them, were gone, disappeared into the elevator while Bob was distracted with her.

Her hand touched his cheek, just holding. Soft, familiar hands against his cheek were exactly what he needed, a sweet, gentle touch to heal him. "Doesn't matter," she mumbled. "I found you."

She kissed him, the ground disappearing from beneath her feet as Bob lifted her up. He didn't mean to, maybe it was a sign his control was slipping.

When they touched back down and pulled away from each other, Bob frowned. "How did you find me?" He asked.

She scrambled to pull her phone from her pocket. "I got a text telling me where to find you," she said.

His arm dropped to her waist as he pulled her against him. His way of keeping her safe. "You brought her here?" He asked Valentina.

Valentina looked behind the couple, at Mel. Of course this was her doing, her genius plan. What better way to control the power of Sentry than with his wife?

"I did," Valentina said, nodding her head.

Bob reached out for her hand. He gasped it and shook, thanking her over and over again.

But then his attention turned back to his wife. This was where she belonged, by his side. Not in The old avengers tower, but in the apartment they shared.

His job at The chicken place barely paid for anything, and her office job wasn't doing much more. But that was their home.

When Valentina ordered him to kill the others, Bob refused. Why should he, when they were no threat to him? Besides, he had something much more important by his side.

"C'mon, Robert," Valentina said. Her fingers danced across his wife's shoulders before she gripped her arm and pulled her back. She moved too fast for Bob, even with all of the power he had.

But he couldn't risk hurting his wife.

Valentina had found his weak spot and exploited it. For the safety of his wife, Bob would do anything.