#Morning Warm Up Exercise | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

trashytracktales · 5 months ago

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Hiii, I’m not sure if your requests are open, but if they are, could you write something with Lando and Reader where they have been dating for just a few weeks, haven’t had sex yet. One day they’re working out together at Lando’s house in Monaco (the room with the mirror from the video I Ate and Trained Like Lando Norris for 24 hours). Reader is doing squats with her back towards the mirror and Lando can’t help but stare at her ass and he gets hard / flustered so he stops from doing his exercise and reader asks him what’s wrong and before he answers she realises he’s horny so she teases him - this time on purpose- and then they fuck in that room on the floor

In the heat of it | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── Thank you for trusting me enough to bring this to life, it was... something 🥵

🌸 summary ──── They’ve been dating for a few weeks now, but the time was never right for them to get intimate. During a playful workout together, Lando gets caught staring, sparking a moment that leaves them both realizing just how deep their connection actually goes.

🌸 pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

🌸 rating ──── explicit

🌸 category ──── F/M

🌸 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, fluff & smut, explicit language, unprotected sex, swearing, established relationship, suggestive/flirty behavior.

🌸 word count ──── 3.6k

🌸 date ──── Nov. 12, 2024

IT DOESN’T TAKE long before Lando starts to regret his decision. It would have been much easier to invite his girlfriend to have lunch together. That would have saved him from a constant dry mouth and irregular heartbeat every time he feels her eyes accidentally landing on him.

The smooth floor and sophisticated equipment in his personal gym are softly bathed in the morning sun that seeps through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Monaco’s streets are still peaceful at this hour, considering it’s the middle of the week, and the port is sparkling in the sunlight.

The room usually has a subtle scent of cedar and rubber, fresh and energized, but now it carries a sweet honey scent, borrowed from her presence.

They are already halfway through their warm-up. She’s pulling a resistance band around her thighs, stretching before they dive into the heavier part of their routine, her focus completely on the exercises he’s walked her through. But, of course, a huge part of her focuses on how Lando touches her, purposely, to guide her when her posture doesn’t match the exercise.

Even in simple gym shorts and a T-shirt, Lando somehow manages to look so effortlessly attractive, with his curly hair a little messy, face flushed just enough from their recent sets, and his labored breathing after putting in the effort. He’s all energy, fluid in his movements, though he’s clearly trying to keep his pace casual.

“Lookin’ strong,” he teases, flashing a grin as she adjusts her stance.

The girl shrugs, “I’m just that good at following instructions. Although, I think having one of the best trainers in the area helps, too.”

Lando lets a chuckle out, “I won’t go easy on you just because you kiss-ass. But it’s cute to see you trying.”

Even though they have only been dating for a few weeks, there is an undeniable spark between them two, especially in a setting where every glance and skin-to-skin contact feels amplified by the intensity of their exercises. Her sports outfit leaves no room for interpretations, hugging her curves and defining her lines, and Lando’s imagination is stimulated every time he turns his gaze towards her.

He’s now down on the floor, holding a plank, his core engaged and muscles taut as he fights to hold his body up and spine straight. She’s supposed to be timing him, but the second he shoots her a cheeky grin, she decides she can’t resist a bit of fun; in her defense, he started it. With a simple touch, the seconds freeze on the screen of his phone, then she places it on one of the boxes stored in the corner of the room.

“Hi there,” says the girl in a mellow tone once she sits down in front of him just inches apart, propping herself up on her elbows so her face is level with his.

Lando raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh as his shoulders shake slightly from the effort of holding his body weight. “Don’t,” he warns her, breath coming in controlled puffs.

“I’m not doing anything,” she smiles innocently, kicking her feet in the air while inching a little closer until her nose almost brushes his.

He laughs at her bad acting, his arms starting to shake a bit more. “Outrageous is what you are.”

She pouts just as Lando dips his head down, managing to steal a playful kiss. Their lips meet briefly, soft and warm, before he pulls back up to maintain his form. It makes her sigh in frustration, the ghost of a kiss not nearly enough for her. If anything, it only leaves her wanting more.

Luckily, he doesn’t pull back when she cups his cheek in her palm, pressing her mouth on his once more, his giggles mixing with hers as he tries to keep his balance. Savoring the feel of his lips and the way Lando grunts softly into the kiss, she can feel that this one is more deeper and slower — much real — making her shiver. It seems as though everything else disappears, the feel of each other reminding them both why they decided to give the relationship a shot in the first place.

“And you are so fun to corrupt,” she admits, finally getting up to give Lando time to recover.

After a few sets, she finally moves on to squats, and Lando follows her positioning herself in front of the mirror. It wasn’t even supposed to be there, but he sometimes uses the gym as a storage room for random packages. This one, specifically, came in the mail a few weeks ago and he didn’t have time to hang it in the hallway, where he initially planned. So, he simply let it rest against the wall in his gym room, and it’s been there ever since, forgotten.

Giving the circumstances, he is seriously thinking of leaving it there for good.

Conveniently, Lando decides that now is the perfect time to start his Russian twists, so he bends over to collect a dumbbell off the floor, then sits down on the yoga mat. Right in front of her.

Unaware of the effect she’s having on him, he watches her go through each squat with his eyes trailing down on the reflection of her ass in the mirror, an intense warmth spreading over him as he tries to focus on his own exercise. It is quite innocent, he’s just respectfully looking, until it isn’t.

Until he feels it in his boxers.

Until he almost drops the dumbbell, which catches her attention.

Lando tries to ignore it, though, to nonchallantly brush it off, telling himself that it’s natural and that he’s just admiring her physical appearance. Anyone in his shoes would do it. However, his thoughts start to wander, images flashing uninvited as his heart rate quickens for reasons far beyond the exercise.

“Are you okay down there, hotshot? What are you fighting?” she asks curiously, raising her head just enough to catch the dazed look on Lando’s face.

Her voice pulls him back, his breath catching for a moment, “Yeah, never better.”

It’s his husky voice that gives it away. Right after, she notices a lingering gaze, and the soft pink creeping across his features as his eyes are fixed ahead. She stops, fixing her posture and straightening her back as she turns to catch his gaze in the mirror. She realizes exactly what’s going on in a matter of seconds, a little grin forming in the corner of her mouth.

“Am I too dictracting, Lando?” she purrs, her question — and the fact that he knows she caught him in act — not helping at all.

“No,” he lies, “But I think you’re killing it with those squats.”

“And if I turn around to finish my set, what then?” she whispers, a challenge glinting in her eyes as she brushes the tip of her tongue against her lower lip.

His breath is shallow the moment he decides to abandon his exercise. “Then you would be killing me,” he admits with no restraints. “So, by any means, proceed. Please.”

She glances over to see Lando lying flat on his back, one arm draped dramatically over his eyes, as if he’s in serious pain. His other hand is splayed over his stomach, fingers tapping a nervous rhythm. It’s still funny to see him like that, but then she notices the way his chest rises and falls a bit too fast, and her eyes drift lower, catching a glimpse of the growing bulge in his shorts, an unmistakable proof of what she’s actually doing to him.

Suddenly, all the amusement disappears from her face, being replaced by a warmth that wraps around her neck that’s slowly rising to her cheeks. Her heart is starting to race, small impulses between her thighs forcing her to close them together.

Swallowing hard, she crosses the small space to kneel beside him, gently pulling his arm away from his eyes. His lashes flicker open, meeting her gaze with a mix of embarrassment and desire. And so much lust.

“How can I help you?” asks Lando, his voice rougher than usual, trying to keep things light, though the hint of vulnerability shows in his eyes, and it’s not that hard to read.

She chuckles nervously, “The question is how can I help you?”

In response, Lando uses the same hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. She feels his hand squeezing a little, the other one moving to her waist, hesitating before pulling her completely on top of him, without breaking the kiss. His tongue slips firmly into her mouth, just as it has done so many times before, but now it feels somehow different. Somehow, they both know that the kiss is meant to lead to something much more intense, because there’s nothing stopping them anymore.

In the intimacy of his apartment, without interruption, Lando lowers his hands to her waist, rubbing her against him. Slowly. Repeatedly. The pressure forces them to moan in unison, a brief taste of the pleasure they are about to share. His hands then drop lower, roaming over her thighs, then back down to her ass, cupping it in his large palms.

He breaks away just enough to murmur, his voice low and almost reverent, “That enough of an answer?”

“Positive,” she replies, feeling his breath hitch as she shifts on top of him, straddling his hips, her hands splaying over his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

Her lips find his again, sweet and intoxicating, each kiss sending sparks to her core. The new position makes her feel him much more firmly between her legs, taking Lando by surprise when her hand lowers to cover his length, massaging him through the thin material of his shorts.

“Fucking hell,” his lips stutter against hers, while rocking his hips into her touch.

“Yeah…” she agrees, breathing hotly above him, “Did I do this to you?”

Before Lando gets a chance to even think of an answer, she slips her hand under the elastic band of his boxers, taking him in her hand, feeling him in his entirety; deliciously soft skin, warm and ready, and so painfully hard.

It makes her ache for him.

She pumps his cock in her hand a few times, enough for her to feel how he shifts under her. It takes her a lot of self-control to stop herself from taking him in her mouth the second she hears his sweet little panting, her thumb rubbing gently over his swollen tip.

The workout itself had left Lando’s muscles burning, but her touch it’s something else entirely, igniting a heat in him that burns deeper than anything he’s felt before. Five more minutes enjoying the same high and he can give up cardio completely. Guaranteed.

Slowly coming back to his senses, Lando realizes that he has free will, so he slips his hands under her sports bra, palming her hungrily until he feels her nipples hardening under his touch. He breaths heavily as he rolls them between his fingers, managing to make her respond with a soft meowl, her grip on his cock losening.

That’s his cue to take the lead, pulling her bra over her head in a quick move, and flipping their bodies over so that now he’s hovering above her, eyes filled with need while looking down at her.

“Hi there,” Lando copies her tone from earlier, feeling a little fraction of the power she had over him.

She wants to talk back so badly — one of her sarcastic little comments that she knows he loves — but all she can do is let out a pathetic whimper between her lips when his mouth finds home on her bare breast. At that, Lando feels a shiver running down his spine, looking up at how she closes her eyes in pleasure, arching her back more against his mouth.

“Driving me insane with your pretty ass, baby,” he says, breathing heavily, managing to cover her body in a thin layer of goosebumps, “And your pretty fucking nipples.”

“Lando…” she lets another cry slip out, opening her eyes to look at him.

The image that greets her makes her breath catch in her throat. The way he sucks on her nipple while playing with the other one, and the way he looks up at her through his eyelashes. It’s all too much. She ends up wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling him down with her. Then she runs her hands down his back, tugging at the edge of his shirt, tossing the useless material carelessly to the floor before pulling him closer for another kiss.

Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, skin on skin — who says heaven isn’t real?

But if that’s heaven, then what can she name the feeling she gets the moment his hand slips into her gym shorts and his fingers brush against her soaked entrance? Because it feels way too fucking good, much better than she expected, and certainly much better than her own hand whenever she pictured his face while fingering herself.

Lando starts slowly, spreading her wetness around her pussy, then fucking his fingers in and out, while cautiously watching her facial expressions changing. It’s not taking him long before finding that sweet, sweet spot that makes her roll her hips into his hand, desperation painted all over her face.

“Lan…,” she starts panting, “That’s—yes, right there.”

He hums proudly, sealing his mouth to hers, while parting her thighs with his knee so he can spread her more in front of him. Feeling herself open to his touch, so easy and wet, he no longer feels self-conscious about the way she’s so quickly tunring him boneless under her gaze. He realizes that the feeling is mutual, and it makes him want her even more.

If that’s even possible.

The sound of his fingers repeatedly fucking into her is all that anchors her in the present moment, but the second Lando feels her squeezing around them, he stops so he can silently ask for her permission to take the last piece of her clothing off.

She nods in a rush, swallowing the lump in her throat in anticipation.

Every inch of her is now bathed in the soft, golden light streaming through the window. Warm shadows are cast along her curves, the light outlining each delicate contour of her body as though the sun itself is painting her in real time. The image is so powerful yet vulnerable as she stands there, her figure glimmering with an almost unearthly serene confidence. Lando is utterly captivated by how ethereal she looks, like a goddess come to life, the kind he never imagined he would be close enough to even touch, let alone enjoy. He feels like he’s witnessing something sacred, something so incredibly rare, and the awe he feels is mixed with gratitude that she’s here with him, letting him see her in a such perfect lighting.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” Lando finally manages to say, hoping that he hasn’t started drooling all over her in the meantime. “All of you.”

“Your turn,” she says in a muffled voice, slightly bashful at the way he stares at her like he wants to devour her. Which is not far from the truth.

He agrees that it’s a fair request, realizing that the only thing separating them now are his own shorts. Without protesting — because that would be so fucking dumb considering how hard he is — Lando gets rid of them with the speed of a perfect qualifying lap.

Matching the same pace, Lando’s hands slide around her waist, his fingers pressing gently into her hips as he guides them both to the side so they can face the window. Or that’s what she thought. Confused at first, she’s frowning at him, then follows his gaze, lost in the direction of their reflection, understanding immediately what he really wants: a show. A show just for them, in which they can lose themselves together, without limits.

She sighs at the sight of their hot, naked bodies, the way he aligns himself with her, and how he’s finally pushing inside, enough to hear her whimper. She watches as he stands above her, his hands gliding slowly over her sides, up her arms, grounding her in his touch. The image of them together, framed in the soft glow of the room, feels surreal, so intimate and vulnerable in a way that’s completely new for both of them.

Lando pauses, pulling out at her little whimper, then pressing back in, but just the tip.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, “You’re so fucking wet it keeps slipping out,” adds Lando in a low tone, so turned on that it makes her clench around him.

To her frustration, the speed at which Lando pushes back inside might as well be negative, causing her to explode with how needy she becomes in the meantime. But just as she’s about to encourage him to sink further, he buries himself to the hilt in one powerful thrust.

“Lando,” she says as she wraps her arms around his shoulders, “You… feels so good, shit,” she takes a moment to breath into his skin, then she turns her head to catch their reflection once again.

Lando is already looking, and when they make eye contact through the mirror, he starts fucking her slowly and gently, as if he could break her.

“See how silly you look for thinking we won’t match?” he sounds so amazed by how easily she opens up for him, over and over again, with each steady thrust of his hips, “See that? Taking all of me so well, baby.”

“Mhm,” she cries out at the way his cock throbs against her walls, because she knows it’s way too slow, even for him.

It’s simply agonizing.

“So perfect around me,” he states, “Can’t believe I lasted that long. Should’ve fucked you from the first night.”

At this point, he’s just rambling, but the thought makes her stomach tie in a knot.

“You would’ve let me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she speaks, already drunk on the way he feels inside her, “I would have let you fuck me in the plane bathroom, on the way to Imola. And back in your driver’s room, when Oscar caught us kissing. And last week, outside the club. Fuck. I wanted you to fuck me there so bad.”

His mind goes blank with all the lost opportunities, causing him to gradually increase his pace, the sound of them connecting so obscene.

“Wh—” he almost chokes on words, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You… stressed about work. I didn’t want to be… distraction,” she tightens her legs around him, keeping him inside her, the words losing their meaning as Lando shifts his position, wrapping his arm around her thigh to open her up even more for him. “Oh. Yes, like that!”

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he swallows hard as he squeezes roughly at her thighs. “I’m so close.”

She knows that will leave marks on her skin, but nothing beats the pleasure of having Lando fucking himself so deep inside her, that her vision starts clouding.

All common sense went out the window the moment she stepped through his door, anyway.

She can feel his breath warm against her neck, hear the soft hitch in his breathing as he leans in, his lips brushing her shoulder, never breaking eye contact with her in the mirror. Lando’s hands are making their way to cup her ass, pulling out all the way, before fucking back in, all over again, until he finds the perfect rhythm between their bodies. He moans loudly, pressing his upper body on her, their scents blending together and sweat transferring from skin to skin. They move so in sync, completely attuned to each other, and the sight of their shared pleasure, reflected back at them, turns everything into fireworks, her mind completely empty. Except for how well she’s being fucked.

“Lan—Lando,” she’s so close to sobbing that she shuts her mouth at the sound of her voice, thinking it’s too pathetic to whine as she cums around him, her release dripping all over between their bodies.

The wet sound her pussy makes gives Lando way to fuck in deeper, taken by surprise that she finished without any warnings whatsoever. He grips her ass one more time before he stills inside her, his cock throbbing, and pulls out right before he starts leaking, resting his cock against her thigh, his entire length coated in her release. His cum drips from his tip to her inner thigh, making him groan while he fixes his gaze on the mirror at the image of them.

She buries her fingers in his curls after he finally collapses on top of her, their heavy breaths echoing throughout the room. With his head on her chest, he can feel her heart racing, gradually slowing down, and lets out a soft laugh as she shifts a little under him.

“We’re so fucking matching, baby. Let’s gooo!” exclaims Lando, exhaust evident in his voice.

She feels her cheeks warm, “I think you’re a little biased right now,” she jokes.

Lando shifts slightly so he can see her face, brushing a thumb tenderly along her side. He smiles softly, the usual spark in his eyes softened by something deeper, so gentle. “I’m just so happy for us.”

Her heart flutters, and she feels him sink even closer to her, threading his fingers through hers.

“And very sweaty,” she adds with a chuckle.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure that’s you,” he teases, letting the moment pass slowly, then calling out her name in a serious voice.

“Mhm?” she hums while turning to look in the mirror, watching him getting comfortable on top of her.

“Where do we go from here?” asks Lando.

“Your bedroom, I hope. The floor is killing my back.”

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Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

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shoumachisblog · 9 days ago

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SORRY NOT SORRY

Male Reader x Chaeryeong ft Ryujin

Tags: Anal, Ass Gaping, Cunnilingus, Noncon(?), Morning Sex.

Prequel

This is such a mess and fucked up lookin fic since I'm in hurry but I'll try to do a better fic next time 😔

The sounds of doorbell ringings wake you up from your slumber and it's getting on your nerves. Whoever stands right in front of your door thinks that ringing someone's doorbell early in the morning was a wise choice, they do really needs a few punches on their face. Ryujin is still deep asleep besides you that you can hear her snoring. You grabbed the blanket and completely covered her naked body to allow her to sleep even more comfortably.

You swing your feet onto the floor and get yourself out of the bed. You put on a short that you took from a pile of clothes that you left on the chair inside your room, and heading out towards the front door. You did some small exercise on your way to get the blood inside your body flowing.

Without looking at the indoor monitor to see who it is, you opened the door with anger that has built inside you for the past few minutes but your anger immediately disappears when you see Chaeryeong, who had pink open-shoulder sweater and blue denim jeans that did a good job at showing her bottom body line.

“Oh! Hi, Chaeryeong." You greeted her with a smile. “What can I do for you this early in the morning?"

“Hi, Oppa...." Chaeryeong greeted you with a somewhat awkward smile. “I'm here to pick up Ryujin. She asked me to pick her up this morning if she didn't come back home last night."

“Oh, come in. She's sleeping inside my room right now." You replied, opening the door wider to let the younger woman in as she walks by, you can smell her pungent yet bubbly perfume on her.

Chaeryeong wasted no time taking her heels off and you must admit that you can't take your eyes off the view right in front of you right now. Her long, shapely legs that looked strong and well-trained, then her ass that betrayed the innocence of a woman who's in her early 20s, perfect for being intensely fuck over and over again for a whole night like there is no tomorrow. You can see why Ryujin is completely obsessed with her.

“Oppa, where is your room???" Chaeryeong asked, looking around your house cluelessly.

“Uh.... Y-yeah. Head this way." You walk towards your room as Chaeryeong follows you from behind.

Once you and Chaeryeong stepped into the bedroom, the younger woman were a bit startled by the sight of your bedroom. The aftermath of you and Ryujin spending the whole night doing nothing but making love were everywhere. She quietly approached the bed, watching her girlfriend sleeping soundly, her face calm and undisturbed. Chaeryeong let out a heavy sigh, she bent over and gently shook Ryujin's shoulder. “Babe, wake up." but Ryujin didn't even stir. “Shin Ryujin, wake up. We need to go or Yeji unnie will get mad at us!" Chaeryeong tried again, shaking the older woman a bit harder and raising her voice slightly which was a useless attempt, but Chaeryeong doesn't seem to give up either.

Meanwhile, you stood behind the younger woman, arms crossed, a smirk playing on your lips as you enjoyed the view in front of you far more than you probably should. Your eyes followed the curve of Chaeryeong's ass as she was completely unaware of the effects of her movements. You felt a familiar stirring in your pants as you drank in the sight. You bit back a groan, closing between you and Chaeryeong quietly.

Chaeryeong, still clueless about the unintended show she was giving, was completely caught off guard when she felt a firm, warm pressure against her ass. She glanced over her shoulder and her eyes completely widened in shock when she saw you already placed your hands on her hips and your crotch slowly grinding against her.

“O-oppa...? What are you...." You brush Chaeryeong's hair with one of your hands, “Shhhhhh.... It's okay. You don't have to wake her up yet." You said, continued the delibrate, teasing movements. “I'm sorry, Chaeryeong ah. I couldn't help myself when your ass looks so damn good when you bend over like this." You purred. Chaeryeong's heart raced as she felt the prominent bulge of your arousal through your short. “Oppa....." Chaeryeong whined breathlessly, squirming in your grasp. “You can't. Ryujin...." You lean down to press a hot kiss on her shoulder, pay her weak protest no mind, your grip on her hips tightening as you ground against her become more insistent. The rough friction already made Chaeryeong's knees become weak. “I know you like this. Ryujin always told me about how easy it is for her to make you become obedient to her and I bet I can do the same too, I guess I'm right." Chaeryeong's cheeks burned at your filthy words.

“She always talks about how delicious you are, Chaeryeong ah. Your lips, your breasts, your pussy, and most importantly, this juicy ass of yours." She could feel herself growing wet with arousal, but she tried to maintain some semblance of propriety. She placed both of her hands beside Ryujin on the bed to act as a support to her weakening body. “Ryujin might wake up anytime soon, so please stop Oppa...." Eventhough she says it like she doesn't want this to happen but she made no move to stop you. “You don't have to worry about that as long as you keep your mouth shut." You smirked.

Her eyes widened with agonizing shock when you did a quick job on the buckle of her belt and pulled her denim and panties down together without any effort. You are finally able to see with your own two eyes the ass that Ryujin is always obsessed with. Her ass is a thing of pure, unadulterated beauty. Two perfect, round globes of succulent flesh that begged to be squeezed and kneaded by eager hands, that not even your hands were enough to encompass such a huge and juicy ass. Your fingers sank into the soft flesh of her buttocks, gently grasping and spreading them before releasing them so they jiggled softly. It was a mesmerizing spectacle flesh that could drive even the most chaste of men wild with lust.

“Stop playing around and eat her ass." Both you and Chaeryeong turned to see Ryujin rubbing her eyes before yawning as loud as possible. “B-babe?? This is not what you th-" before Chaeryeong could say anything, Ryujin changed her position and let Chaeryeong's upper body lay down against the bed with her head completely trapped between Ryujin's legs. “Shut up and put that mouth on work right now." She commanded. Chaeryeong, who was still in shock with her girlfriend's sudden action was greeted with Ryujin's pussy. The older woman's musky flavor exploded across her senses, instantly addictive. Chaeryeong let out a moan as she began to lap up at Ryujin's pussy with increasing enthusiasm, soon lost in a haze as she worshipped her girlfriend's most intimate place.

You, unable to hold yourself back any longer, parted Chaeryeong's cheeks, revealing the tight pink bud of her anus nestled between them while taking your short off with your other hand. You aimed the head of your already eager cock at your target, you made eye contact with Ryujin and she nodded in approval as you started to push it slowly inside. The younger woman let out a muffled yelp of surprise against Ryujin's pussy, trying to squirm away from the unexpected intrusion but Ryujin, being a good girl she is, kept Chaeryeong firmly in place, grinding her dripping pussy against Chaeryeong's face.

Chaeryeong cried out, the vibrations only served to heighten Ryujin's pleasure, making her writhe against the younger woman's mouth. Her hole clenched down on you like a vice, refusing to yield but you are relentless so you applied a bit more pressure, forcing the tight ring of muscle to stretch around your cock. “Fuck, this is amazing...." You groaned, feeling Chaeryeong's incredible tight ass hugging your cock. You pulled back a little and thrust forward with a bit of force, buried yourself to the hilt. “Don't go easy with her, Oppa. I want to see that hole gap as wide as her mouth." Ryujin cooed, palming her own breasts while making sure that she kept the younger woman's face completely buried into her pussy.

A choked sound leaves Chaeryeong's throat when your dick pressed against her most vital spot inside her asshole. You were moving so fast, bombarding her with everything that made the younger woman weak. Her back arched and the obscene sound of your cock churning through her tight heat filled the room. She can't think, speaking has become an issue and the dual sensations of you plowing her ass and Ryujin's pussy grinding against her face are driving her to the edge, pushing her closer and closer to her limits. You could see rapture on Ryujin's face, enjoying the pleasure that she receives from her girlfriend, letting out filthy, encouraging words to Chaeryeong. “Yes! Get your tongue nice and deep inside me, baby...." It didn't take long for Ryujin's pussy to start to quiver and clench around the younger woman's tongue and you can feel Chaeryeong tightening around your cock.

Time lost all meaning as you continued to thrust in and out of Chaeryeong, and the younger woman could do was let herself getting fucked by you in the ass while making sure her mouth keep working on her girlfriend's pussy. Her eyes never left Ryujin's face, who was panting and smiling happily, already reaching her own climax a few times now, but soon went to the back of her head when the cock that was her first ever cock, mercilessly and completely impaling her. Stuffing Chaeryeong to the hilt, but without warning, your cock began to spit out hot, powerful jets of thick cum that easily coating the insides of her asshole into white. It is an orgasm so powerful that your face scrunches up with your mouth still petered open and your hips slowly continue to pump one after another hot jets of your thick potent seed until you pull out of her with a pop noise.

Chaeryeong's asshole now was left gaping open, a slow dribble of your cum oozing out of her abused hole. You let go of her and stepped back a bit, allowing the couple to enjoy their climax. You finally look at Ryujin, “Your girlfriend's ass without a doubt is truly amazing.... and tight....."

Ryujin grins get warm and silly. “I know. That's why she's mine and now yours too." and both of you just laughed.

#chaeryeong smut #ryujin smut #itzy smut #kpop smut #male reader smut #itzy #chaeryeong

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pinkcharmette · 7 months ago

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𝜗𝜚 my extensive morning routine - for the girlies who need their alone time ,, especially before a hectic day ++ free printable !!

drink water

this is an absolute game-changer ! bonus if its warm or room temperature, really gets the metabolism going as well as soothes your throat !!

make your bed

this makes my room look MUCH neater, and gives me peace of mind + incentive not to get back under the covers and doze off again TT

meditation

another thing that calms me down greatly and gets me focused and set for the day, i really recommend lavendaire, her meditations are top-tier and she has several lengths to pick from

morning yoga

debloat yoga or stretching is a must for me, it helps aid my digestion as well as reduce bloating in the morning.

exercise

i like to do either shirlyn kim, april han, chloe ting or momomi workouts in the morning ending with a hinafit's full body stretch that's twenty minutes long. i use chloe ting's workouts as cardio mostly and then a set of targeted hiit from momomi and relaxing pilates from shirlyn kim and april han.

i am also trying to go on walks in the morning as well TT

skincare + dental care

my skincare routine in the morning is cleanser + toner + hydrogel + sunscreen + matte sunstick + lip balm and my dental care routine is herbal toothpaste + fluoride toothpaste + mouthwash. i wash my hands between and before/after steps.

shower routine

i use a pumice stone and sugar scrub in the shower to exfoliate along w baby soap and shower gel to clean up. i apply three layers of moisturizer + coconut oil on getting out !!

reading

in the mornings, i like to either annotate classics or read my weekly self-help book or just read educational nonfiction and take notes in my commonplace journal about them.

journalling

i fill out five affirmations, five things i'm grateful for as well as my intentions for the day. i also write down what would make my day great, as well as habits to focus on (at least three)

planning

i plan w/ my planners, notebook and wall calendar spread as well as notion and a habit app, as well as google sheets.

that wraps up this post, and here is the printable checklist spanning four days

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httpsserene · 6 months ago

Text

𝐬𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬

˖♡ - ̗̀ ⇢ listened to heart to heart by mac demarco on repeat while doing this writing exercise at two a.m. happy reading, loves x

⌕ join taglist | upcoming chapters | table of contents ↻

lando snores when he sleeps on his back.

he doesn’t snore when he’s on his side, when the curve of his body cradles yours.

like this, his face nestles into the nape of your neck, nose and lips brushing the skin tenderly. his chest radiates warmth against your back, spilling through your skin and warming you from head to toe. he sacrifices the arm tucked under your head, knowing it’ll be dull with numbness come morning. his other arm drapes around your waist, his large hand splayed on the softness of your belly, drifting upward at some point in the night to hold the plushness of your chest.

the first morning you woke with his hand resting on your bosom, he murmured a sleepy explanation into your skin, feels nice. and, it was nothing more than that.

like this, the only sounds you hear are the snuffles of his breath, warm and fuzzy on your neck.

lando snores when he’s deeply asleep.

he doesn’t snore when he rests his eyes, when he leans onto any surface to nap.

like this, whether it’s a chair, couch, floor, table, or tire stack—if he can close his eyes for a few seconds, he’ll be unconscious within the minute. by far though, his favorite napping spot has to be you.

lando will seek you out for the pure purpose of shutting his eyes for a moment. he crawls into your arms with his eyes already closed and asks, put me to sleep?

you massage his scalp, nails scraping along his crown gently, untangling the curls that your fingers get caught in. your other hand scratches up and down the length of his back soothingly. you speak to him softly, about anything that comes to mind and if you’re lost for words, you hum.

he’s never down long enough to reach deep sleep. his body twitches with hypnic jerks as his sleep cycle begins.

like this, naps are when lando’s silent. he extends the length of his snooze session by not handing the team a map to his location, the marked path of his snores erased.

lando snores when he’s on his back and deeply asleep.

like this, he lies flat with you curled up to his side. your head rests on his chest, the steady beat of his heart amplified with your ear pressed close. his arm around your back anchors you to him. your arm lays across his torso and your leg hooks around his.

lando is called to sleep first, as always. there was a time where you were jealous of how quickly he drifts away but now, you fight unconsciousness to wait for him to reach a deep slumber.

because if you do, you’re rewarded with a snore. the sound is throaty and nasally, it rumbles through his chest and interrupts your focus on the pumping of his heart. aptly, you’d compare it to an idling engine.

snoring is annoying to most people, for good reason. it’s disruptive, loud, and if the repetitive noises prevented you from getting your own sleep, you’d have lost your mind already.

but to you, it’s proof that lando is resting well. that his sleep is restorative, that his body is recovering, that his immune system is strengthening, and that his worries and stressors are far from mind. so, you listen to him snore for a few minutes.

however, you don’t allow yourself to treasure the rumbles for long—long term snoring can lead to other risks later in life.

you don’t want snores to be the reason you aren’t allowed a lifetime with lando.

so, you slide off of his chest, huffing quietly as you strain to shift the limp weight of his prone body onto his side. it takes effort, eventually trapping him in the embrace of your arms, throwing your leg around his hip, and tucking his head under your chin.

like this, his snores taper off into nothingness and the little strength you had left to keep your eyelids open is diminished.

lando snores when he’s in your dreams. the raspiness of his exhales mimicked by your subconscious mind calms you. you are able to rest well knowing that he’s doing the same.

#lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #lando norris x black!reader #f1 x black!reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x yn #lando norris fluff #lando norris fic #lando norris imagine #lando norris fanfic #f1 fluff #f1 imagine #f1 fic #serene’s chapters.#⋆⭒˚｡⋆. series special: formula 1 #♡ ༘*.ﾟ love interest: ln.

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fitnessmantram · 2 years ago

Video

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Morning Warm Up Exercise #4 #dailyroutine #morningroutine #morningexerci..

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#youtube #morning warm up #Morning Warm Up Exercise #daily warm up exercise #daily routine #exercise #fitness #workout #at home #weight loss #lose weight #yoga #daily yoga #morning yoga

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sleepypanda27 · 28 days ago

Text

Stay

Bucky x reader

Summary: Bucky wants you to stay in bed a little longer

Warnings: fluff, nudity

Words: 679

It was an early morning, you were getting ready for work. A mug of warm half-drinked coffee with an eyebrow pencil that you didn’t even realize you accidentally put in there long forgotten on top of the drawers. Haphazically, clothes were thrown around the room, on the floor, and on the bed, stuck between half-closed drawers. The last twenty minutes you had spent walking around the bedroom in your underwear trying to decide what to wear.

Bucky laid in bed one of his arms behind his head as he enjoyed the show. Usually, he would already be up to go on a run with Steve and Sam. But not this morning. Today he decided to stay in bed a little longer and maybe, somehow convince you to stay with him.

"Do you really have to go?" He asked, getting out of bed and walking towards you.

"Yes." You stood in front of a mirror, focusing on the black mini skirt you had tried on, thinking it would look good with a comfy oversized jumper.

"But if you think about it a little more?" Bucky pouted, meeting your eyes in the mirror, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind you. His eyes hungrily traveled down your body.

"Tony will be angry if I'm late again." You leaned against him, sinking in his heat. "You know how he gets."

"I will write you a note." He gently bit your earlobe, before leaving a trail of sloppy kisses down your neck, his beard leaving a delicious burn on your skin.

"I don't think that will work." You chuckled, placing your hands on top of his, wanting nothing more than to stay in his arms. "Are you naked?" You asked, noticing that you didn't see or feel any fabric on his body.

"I am," A proud, dark hum left his chest, making you tingle in all the right places. "I thought this way-" Bucky slid the strap of your bra down your shoulder placing a kiss there. Once again your eyes met in the mirror, you wished you had closed your eyes because Bucky was giving you his best bedroom eyes. Not to mention his messy hair. The whole combination will be the death of you someday. "-it would be easier to get you back in bed for some exercises." He unzipped the skirt and tugged it down, leaving it pooling around your legs. Without a warning, he picked you up and carried you to bed.

"Bucky!" You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I have to get ready.” He placed you on the bed settling between your legs. Your eyes traveled down south his body seeing him already hard and begging for your attention. Capturing your bottom lip between your teeth. "Maybe I can spare five-" He kissed you needily, it was all tongue and teeth, grinding against your clothed core. "-or ten minutes." You gasped, sliding your hand in his hair and other down his chest and around to his back pulling him closer.

Bucky's phone dinged on the nightstand and he pulled away from you to read the message. You whined at the loss of him. "Hold that thought." He smiled reading it. "Good news, you are free for the day."

"What? Why and how?" You furrowed your brows in confusion. “What did you do Barnes?”

"I said I need your assistance with some work so Tony gave you the day off." Bucky smugly smiled placing the phone away. "He's out of town anyway."

"You're unbelievable." You shook your head. “When did you even do that?”

“While you raised havoc in our bedroom.” He looked over his shoulder at the mess.

“Oh-whoa, what a mess.” Now was your time to pout, only now seeing the mess you had created.

“I’ll help you with that later, and then we can go get something to eat. What do you think?” He said. A big smile spread across your face, but before you could respond, Bucky answered for you. "I know you love me," He said, smiling as he kissed you.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes

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ilium-ilia · 13 days ago

Text

kill me again

john price x fem!reader

when your old life is too much to bear, you decide you ought to kill it and bury it. not knowing who else to turn to, you beg John Price to aid you in your endeavor. he decides he wants to give you much more than just a fresh beginning.

tw: inspired by kill me again (1989), domestic abuse/violence, blood kink, blood eating, smut, dub-con, unhinged john price, retired john price, manhandling, light breeding kink

The dreams start the day your husband first places his hands on you.

Brutal violence completed in a drunken stupor that leaves you with a swollen eye and has your co-workers questioning what you’ve done to yourself—you exercise a rigid equanimity that has them believing the honey coated lies that drip from your tongue. You play this game well—practiced for many years, shrouded beneath quiet smiles and well placed clothing. You keep this composure no matter what falls upon you. Be it his fist, or his lips.

There is no time to crack or fracture, lest your dream slip between your fingers like fine grains of sand. This liberation—your deliverance—grows closer by the day in the form of hidden clothes and a separate bank account. A suitcase wedged in the boot of your car. A full tank of gas. An internet history littered with searches for a new home. Apartments you can rent. Someplace out of the way. Far from the city. Hidden in the depths below lowering skies and thick forests.

Except he finds it. The empty dresser drawers, vacant of your clothes, and the letters from the bank about your new account. How your other one is emptied. You find him sitting in his recliner, stupid fingers choking a beer bottle, breath heavy with liquor and eyes brimming with a virulent desire to teach you a lesson.

And he does. It’s a lesson he teaches well. One that sets every inch of your skin ablaze and leaves snot pooling in the back of your throat as your hands claw at thick forearms.

“Think you can fucking leave me?” he questions. It’s slurred, but you’re not sure if it’s because of the liquor or the squeezing of his fingers on your throat. “The only way you’re leaving me is when you’re dead. Get that through your thick skull you stupid cunt.”

So close. Tender and ripe, seeds waiting to spill into your mouth, gullet waiting to swallow—then, taken. Dumped on the edge of the bed. Shoved into overflowing drawers. Fabric stained with tears, suitcase shredded with the knife meant for your gut, offals ready to taste the sour breath of your malevolent lover.

Your fantasies fade like smoke on warm water. They dissipate into the air, vanishing, utterly forgotten by your mind and soul as you cook for a man who spits at you, dead bed heavy in the evenings, mornings algid enough to leave you shivering.

Until—one day—you finally wake up.

“I need you to kill me.”

It’s been years since John Price has laid eyes on you. Several tours around the world have kept his mind busy with paperwork and his hands occupied with a gun. He’s spent so long wading through the gore of war that he’s not sure he’s gotten the gunpowder to wash free from his skin quite yet.

Maybe that’s why you ask this question of him, trembling on the other side of his desk, nails digging into the bottom of your seat, bottom lip quivering. His wrinkled crows feet deepen in the creases of his eyes as he smiles at you, a chuckle rumbling in his throat.

How strange for the one who got away to find his way back to him under such peculiar circumstances.

“Not really kill me,” you clarify. You’re picking at your cuticles. He notices they’re not painted anymore like you used to when the two of you were younger—before he went off to be a hero and before you were stolen by another man. “I just- John, you’re the only one I can trust with this. I need to vanish.”

“You want me to help you fake your own death?” he asks incredulously.

“Tell me you’ll do it,” you beg.

It’s far-fetched, even for him. Though it’s a set of skills he has honed for many years, that life is behind him now. Idolized in dog tags shoved in the back of the closet and pictures he can hardly stand to look at anymore. These days, he does office work. Paperwork that strains his tired eyes while wearing suits that make his skin crawl.

“I think you’re taking the piss out of me with this one, sweetheart,” he says jocularly, cheeks pinching as he smiles.

“He beats me, John.”

A blink—then, there’s red. Ichor stains his vision, casting you in vermillion light. A glossy sheen coats your eyes, reminding him of the lacquered dolls his grandmother used to collect when he was a child; sitting pretty and pristine on ivory shelves. Hair so delicate and meant for petting, but always just out of his reach.

“I tried to get away, but he caught me. He nearly killed me that night. I was terrified, and I just- I can’t go to the cops. They won’t work fast enough, and I have nowhere else to go, he’s taken everything I have. Please. If you don’t do this, if you don’t kill me, then he will.”

John folds—wet tissue paper caught in the wind. “I’ll take care of it.”

That night, John Price does not sleep.

There’s a cottage that lines the environs of a lake where the bramble is thick and the bushes produce sweet berries in the summertime. Bequeathed to him after the death of his grandfather, it’s been sitting vacant for decades. Rotting from the inside out as time decays the wood and bevels the roof.

His hands dance. Hammer and nails. Saws and axes. Paint drying on walls. Within three weeks it’s fit enough to be a home. A bedroom large enough for two, and a second room to be whatever you wish—a library, an office—

—a nursery.

“How much do you need?”

Your voice is quiet; squeaky like a mouse. The needle pinched between his fingers has your hairline glistening and throat bobbing. There’s swelling on the apex of your cheek, edema bleeding into your eye, but he does not mention it as he pierces your arm, drawing blood into a tube and letting it drip into a bag.

“Only enough to kill you,” he quips.

He does this three times. Spread over aching weeks where you’re riddled with migraines and dizzy spells so violent you find your hands gripping the walls at work. Your co-workers look at you with narrowed eyes as they pass you in hallways despite your gracious smiles and reassuring nods.

Five months after the day you begged John Price to kill you, he finally does it.

Stale bleach stings your nose as you stare at the hotel bed, stiff sheets perfectly creased along the edge of the mattress, pillows fluffed and pristine. John stands behind you, leather gloves stretched over his hands as he toys with the bags of your blood and the knife he intends to leave behind.

Your heart thuds so violently in your chest that you feel it traverse up your throat where it swells, ready to burst. Freedom is so close you can nearly taste it.

“Ready?” John’s voice is even—rough like steel. You shouldn’t be surprised. You doubt the blood scares him anymore.

Nodding, you glance over your shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

There are several steps to John’s plan—ones he stresses the importance of following perfectly. Obeying, you knock the lamp over at his command, letting it topple to the floor where the lampshade bends and the bulb flickers. When he shoves you onto the mattress, leaving you to stare up at him with wide eyes, he only chuckles. Tells you that he has to make it look believable. There’s no murder without a struggle.

Gloved fingers rustle the blankets up around you as he manhandles you into different positions along the bed. Despite his firm touch, there’s no pain that lingers or blood that pools in your arms like when your husband touches you. You giggle. Anxiety and relief coalesces into a raging river in your stomach, frying your nerves until there’s nothing left but adrenaline.

Quirking a thick brow, John looks down at you, leather gloves tracing your ankle as he straightens himself. “Having fun?”

“Sorry, I’m just… so nervous.” But you’re smiling wider than he’s ever seen you before.

When it comes to the blood, John spills it on top of you. Legs caging the side of your hips, he pierces the bag with his knife and lets it drip over your chest, your stomach, the mattress—when it stains his pants he tells himself he has nothing to worry about. Soon enough, your DNA and his will be used to mingling. It’ll be natural. Necessary.

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” you breathe. The blood is cold against your skin but it spills as if it were warm. Pooling in your neck, sticking to your palms, John tells you to paw at the duvet, and you do. “You said there’s a cottage I can stay at? We’ll be heading there next, right?”

“Mhm. Fixed it up nice and pretty for you, sweetheart,” he confirms.

You beam, skin illuminated with your own blood, clothes sticking to every curve of your body. John tosses the first bag to the side before adding another one, this time making sure to wet his knife and fling it, high impact splatters staining the wall, the ceiling, your own face.

Then, he grabs you again, leather pressing into your wrists as he pins you. He assures you that he’s just making the scene more realistic, an act well done, but the whimper that leaves your lips is very much real. He stares down at you, and the way your eyes trace the way his beard lines his mouth, and he thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than this—on the precipice of escape.

“John…” His name bleeds off of your tongue.

He’s done for.

You keen pretty for him when his knife slices through your shirt, exposing your breasts, torso gleaming with ichor like wine. When he decides to have a taste for himself, you can hardly wiggle against the flat of his tongue on your stomach. He smothers your protest with a kiss. You’re rigid against him, lips like cement left out to dry in the sun, but then, you melt. You deliquesce beneath his touch, gloved hands raking down your body, yanking your pants off before your mind can fully make sense of it.

When he feeds his cock into your aching cunt, he tells you this is how he seals the agreement—a proper bond, an unbreakable promise. This is how he kills you, with thrust after reaming thrust, nestling into the deepest parts of you that your husband has yet to destroy. And when you clasp your hand over your mouth to stifle the moans that leave your mouth, and he catches the glint on your ring finger, he snatches it. Metal free from your skin, he tosses it; lets it topple along the musty carpet before interlacing your fingers with his.

Then, you’re a corpse. Lifeless beneath him, chest heaving with heavy gasps as your eyelids flutter shut, thoroughly fucked until your brain is mush. He spills the final bag and drowns the room in it before he wraps you up in the blankets and moves you to his car. Bridal style. White linens like a dress. Red blood like the breaking of a hymen—this is your union.

This is your fateful conjugality.

Three weeks go by in the blink of an eye. The hours feel like mere minutes when your husband is no longer breathing down your neck, huffing his hate and vitriol into the shape of your spine. John brings you fresh groceries every few days before leaving you on your own to wander the edge of the lake and collect flowers to place in your windowsill. Every morning you wake up and the bed is warm. You can cook without the television blaring or a man grumbling. Your fridge is not marred with alcohol.

On the morning of the third week, there is a forearm around your waist.

You startle until you feel John’s voice purr against your ear as he wishes you good morning. His comfort fuzzies your mind to the point you don’t even bother to ask him why he’s here, or why his chest is pressed against your back. Instead, your muscles relax, body morphing to the shape of him.

“Is everything okay?” you ask.

John nuzzles his nose into the back of your neck. “Of course they are.”

Truly, they are. He’s here in this bed with you, half naked and lazy, enjoying the way the daybreak gleams across your form. Everything is just as it ought to be—

—at least where you’re concerned.

You have yet to notice the reports of your fictitious murder, or how the police found your diary where you recounted the events of your abuse. You have yet to notice the news of your husband’s arrest, or how he’s being charged with second degree murder.

You have yet to notice the fresh flowers resting on your nightstand, or the new ring on your left hand.

But John tells himself you’ll learn all about this in due time.

“How long are you here for?” you question, voice thick with your lingering slumber.

John’s grin sticks to the back of your neck.

“For the rest of my life.”

#ilium writing #jp ilia #john price x reader #price x reader #captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #female reader #wrote this in one sitting after a night at the bar and half awake so #if this is bad don't look at me

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killerplink · 14 days ago

Text

TRAINING

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Plot: A training session with Dick gets out of hand. He's sweaty, you're desperate, and the Batcave's gym mat ends up being put to much better use.

Words: way too many because I'm a horny bitch who can't help herself ✋🏻

CW: established relationship, playful banter, teasing, nipple play, (semi??) public sex, overstimulation, creampie, aftercare, Dick just being Dick lmao

A/N: Kept reading and rereading @neontiger 's version of Jason (link here, because missing out on this hotness should be illegal) like a woman possessed, and naturally, my brain went, "But what if... Dick?" So here we are. Thank you for the delicious inspo, bestie!! 🏃🏻‍♀️

You groan as the blanket is rudely yanked away, making you shiver at the loss of warmth. But before you can even think about grabbing it back, Dick wraps himself around you like a human blanket instead. Bare chest warm against your back, one strong arm hooking around your waist, pulling you snug against him. And then come the kisses. Soft, sweet, pressing along your temple, your cheek, your jaw, everywhere he can reach, like he's trying to butter you up.

"Baby," you mutter, burrowing deeper into the mattress. "Too early."

"Too early?" he echoes, his voice all mock offense as he shifts. "Sweet girl, it's nine-thirty."

You groan again, wiggling, trying to get away, but he just holds you tighter, one leg slinging over yours, caging you in.

"Mmm, nope," he hums against your skin, lips moving lower, trailing down the side of your throat. "No escape."

"Dick," you whine, blindly reaching for the blanket he stole, but he just laughs, keeping it out of reach.

You regret everything. Mostly, you regret what you said yesterday. Because yesterday, you were feeling good, work stress melting away after finally getting some time off, and you let yourself be tricked into agreeing to this.

To be fair, it's not unusual for you and Dick to train together. Sometimes you'll join him at the gym, sometimes you'll go on a morning run, and sometimes, when he's sparring in the Batcave, you'll do your own exercises off to the side, watching him work up a sweat as you pretend to stretch.

But this week? This week has been long. You're exhausted. And all you want is to relax, to sleep in, to take it easy, to enjoy your weekend without any training, sweating, or being tackled to the mat by your six foot menace of a boyfriend.

And yet, here you are.

"Too damn early," you whine in protest, rolling onto your stomach and dragging a pillow over your head like it might protect you from your relentless man.

Dick laughs, completely unfazed by your dramatics. Instead of backing off, he steals the pillow too, tossing it to the floor before wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his bare chest.

"Nine-thirty is early, huh?" he teases, fingers slipping under your sleep shirt, brushing absent-minded circles against your stomach. "You were all talk yesterday, my love."

"I was delusional yesterday."

He laughs, warm and fond, his lips trailing over your shoulder, lingering before he presses another soft, lazy kiss.

"C'mon," he murmurs, his voice dropping just slightly, smooth as honey. "The Batcave's empty. Begging for us to use it."

You groan, curling up tighter.

"Oh, baby," he coos, teasing, mouth moving up to the shell of your ear. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

You try to squirm away, but he won't let you, just laughs against your skin, one arm keeping you firmly pinned while his lips wander, pressing to that one spot on your neck, the one that always makes you shiver.

"Dick," you whine, smacking at his arm, voice still drowsy. "I just got time off work. I don't wanna train, I wanna relax."

"Hmmm," he pretends to consider it, but you know he's not done yet. He never gives up easy. And sure enough—

"Come with me and I'll take you somewhere nice for dinner tonight."

That makes you pause. Not that it's unusual for Dick to take you on weekly dates even after all this time, but still, you turn your head just enough to glare at him, squinting.

"Somewhere nice nice?"

The corners of his lips twitch, like he knows exactly where your mind went. He leans in, brushing his nose against yours, grinning when you don't pull away.

"Promise," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose.

You think about it for a second, your fingers absentmindedly tracing along his bicep. You've been dying to try that one new restaurant—the one with the ridiculous waiting list that stretches out for months—but unless you get insanely lucky, there's no way you're getting in anytime soon.

Your eyes narrow slightly. "Okay. But only if you get us into that new restaurant I want."

His grin turns downright smug. "Consider it done."

But you squint at him, already suspicious. "...you're making Bruce pull the strings, aren't you?"

He laughs, tipping your chin up and kissing you, soft and sweet, his breath warm against your lips. "Bet. It's the least he can do sometimes."

And, well... you just know you're gonna eat good tonight.

You lie there for a few more minutes, basking in the warmth of the bed, but you know if you don't get up soon, Dick's gonna manhandle you out of it himself. So with a deep, suffering sigh, you finally drag yourself upright, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before you shuffle to the bathroom.

The bright light makes you grimace—ugh, too early. But you push through, reaching for your toothbrush, going through the motions as you blink groggily at your reflection.

Next comes skincare, your hands moving on autopilot. A splash of water, a gentle cleanser, a bit of moisturizer. Then, concealer, just enough to hide how tired you look, and your brows, brushing them into place because, yeah, you might be about to get your ass handed to you in the Batcave, but that's no excuse to look messy. Except... your hair.

You groan, tilting your head, staring at it in frustration.

You washed it last night, and because you were too lazy to dry it properly, now it's sticking out in, like, twenty different directions—half of it flattened weirdly, the other half frizzy as hell.

You glare at it, fingers raking through the strands, debating whether to just throw it up in a ponytail and hope for the best. But no. No, you can do better. Braids. Two cute little braids.

You part your hair quickly, fingers working on autopilot as you twist the strands together, securing them into two neat tails, way more presentable than the disaster from earlier.

You admire yourself for a second, pleased, before you leave the bathroom and head back to the bedroom, only to come to a dead stop. Because Dick?

Dick is already getting dressed, sitting on the edge of the bed as he puts on his socks. And he looks so good.

The kind of good that makes your stomach flip, that makes you forget why you're even leaving the house, that makes you think maybe you could convince him to just... stay home. Because God.

He's in a fitted compression shirt—black, short-sleeved, clinging to his chest and arms, the fabric molding perfectly over muscle. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, sitting just right, loose and comfortable but still showing enough that your brain immediately starts short circuiting.

He pushes a hand through his hair, his biceps flexing, and... yeah. Yeah, maybe training can wait. You could definitely stay home. You could definitely pull him back into bed, climb into his lap, and—

Before you can finish the thought, he glances up, lips twitching in amusement, like he knows exactly what's going through your pretty little mind.

Then he steps forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before murmuring, "I'm gonna go put my shoes on and wait for you in the living room, baby."

And just like that, the moment is gone. You sigh as he walks off, leaving you alone in the bedroom, your brain still running through every way you could possibly lure him back.

But no. You promised. So, with a grumble, you shuffle to your side of the closet, fishing out a pair of leggings—high waisted, snatching you up perfectly—a matching sports bra, and a fitted t-shirt.

After slipping them on, you pause in front of the mirror, smoothing a hand over your stomach, turning slightly to check yourself out. Yep. You look good. And if you're going to get thrown around today, you might as well look hot doing it.

Before heading out, you detour to Dick's side of the closet, grabbing one of his hoodies, a habit you've never bothered breaking, because why would you? His hoodies are big, soft, and they smell like him—a mix of clean laundry, soap, and something distinctly him.

By the time you make it to the living room, he's already sprawled on the couch, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, scrolling through his phone with that effortless kind of ease that makes your stomach flip. He looks so good, all relaxed and stupidly hot in that fitted shirt, and for a second, you almost forget what you were about to do.

But you recover quickly, stepping up to him and tossing the hoodie onto his lap before leaning down to kiss him.

"Hold my hoodie for me a little, yeah?"

He chuckles, his lips curling into a smirk against yours as his hand slides down to your ass, giving it a playful slap.

"You mean my hoodie," he corrects.

"Same thing," you murmur, pulling away before he can deepen the kiss, just to be annoying.

He watches you as you turn away, amusement flickering in his bright blue eyes, but you don't miss the way they drift, the way his gaze naturally follows the curve of your ass as you move toward the hallway.

And that's when you decide, why not push him a little further? Just a little. Just to see how much self control he really has. So, when you reach for your shoes, you do it slowly, deliberately bending over, giving him the full view of your ass, the tight stretch of your leggings leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

And oh, you know he's watching. You can feel his gaze burning into you, can practically hear the way his breath hitches, the second he makes the mistake of looking.

Because holy fucking shit, you're not playing fair. He knows you're doing it on purpose, knows you're teasing him, but God, it doesn't matter, because the second his eyes land on you, his brain short circuits.

Your leggings are so fucking tight, hugging every curve of your ass, accentuating the dip of your waist, the length of your legs, the way your muscles flex as you adjust your stance. And worse? The position you're in, it's like you're presenting yourself to him, back arched just enough, like you're asking for him to come up behind you, press his hands to your hips, and—

No. Nope. He needs to stop thinking like that. Needs to think about anything else before his dick gets the wrong idea.

So he clenches his jaw, forces his gaze upward, tries to focus on literally anything that isn't the fact that you are perfectly bent over in front of him, wearing the tightest fucking leggings known to man.

Taxes. The Gotham Knights losing. The last time Jason ate a chili dog in the Batmobile and nearly got murdered for it.

But none of it works, because you are right there, your ass right there, and he suddenly regrets everything. And you? You know exactly what you're doing, taking your sweet time tying your laces, shifting your weight just enough to make the fabric pull tighter.

Fuck. Dick shifts, jaw tight, exhaling slowly through his nose as he wills his body to calm the fuck down. This is fine. He can handle this.

He's a grown ass man, he's trained his body to withstand pain, he can absolutely resist the urge to grab your hips and grind against you until you're both panting. Probably.

When you finally straighten up, you glance at him over your shoulder, lips twitching like you know exactly what you just did. And all he can do is swallow down the heat rising in his chest, exhaling sharply as he leans back against the couch, feigning casual indifference.

Except he's not casual. He is fighting for his life.

But you don't give him a second to recover. Because next, you're grabbing your little backpack, stuffing it with water bottles and a few granola bars from the pantry.

And Dick? Dick takes the opportunity to get a little revenge. Because if you're gonna tease him, then he's gonna return the favor.

Every time you reach for something, he finds a reason to move behind you, brushing against your ass, his touch just light enough to be accidental.

But you know it's not. You know exactly what he's doing. And you refuse to acknowledge it. Because this is his fault.

He wanted to train instead of staying home and fucking you? Well, he's in for a treat.

A few minutes later, you're perched on the back of Dick's bike, adjusting the new helmet he got for you. Custom made, of course, because he never does things halfway. This one is sleek, perfectly fitted to your head, and worst—or best—of all, it has cat ears.

"Really?" you deadpan as you poke at them.

He grins, sliding his own helmet on. "You love it."

You huff, but yeah. Yeah, you do love it, even if you won't admit it out loud.

With one smooth motion, he swings his leg over the bike, settling into the front seat. The second he's in place, you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing yourself against his back.

"Ready, baby?"

You nod, giving him a squeeze, and the bike rumbles to life beneath you, and oh, God, that sound is so hot.

The streets of Gotham are uncharacteristically light on traffic today, which means one thing: Dick is putting on a show. He leans into every turn effortlessly, weaving through the roads with a confidence that makes your stomach flip, the sheer control in his movements making you hold tighter onto him.

And he knows it.

He knows exactly what he's doing, showing off just to feel the way your fingers tighten around his torso, the way your breath catches when he accelerates, taking full advantage of Gotham's rare lack of traffic.

By the time you finally reach the Batcave, your grip on him is ironclad, and he's grinning under his helmet. He pulls smoothly into the luxurious underground lair, parking the bike with a level of ease that makes you want to roll your eyes.

The second he cuts the engine, he shifts, tugging off his helmet before turning to you.

"Alright, sweet girl, c'mere," he murmurs, reaching for you.

You let him help you off, rolling your shoulders as he gently unclasps your helmet, pulling it from your head with so much care, as if it's some delicate thing. Then, without missing a beat, he cups your face and presses a soft kiss to your lips.

You hum against him, then pull back just enough to narrow your eyes at him.

"Showing off much?" you ask, raising a brow.

His lips curl, not even pretending to deny it. "Did it work?"

You huff, fighting back a smile. Yeah. Yeah, it worked. It always works. He grins, taking your hand and tugging you toward the sparring room.

Now, despite being called a sparring room, the space itself is borderline excessive, but then again, Bruce built it, so of course it is.

Half of it is a high tech training area—sleek mats, an entire section dedicated to weapons, a reinforced wall for target practice, and state-of-the-art tech monitoring every possible performance metric.

The other half?

A fully equipped gym, the kind of setup that would make even professional athletes jealous. There's a ridiculous range of equipment, a custom built treadmill that can handle inhuman speeds, racks of weights, punching bags, and even a climbing wall.

It's the epitome of form meets function—practical as hell but still exuding the kind of wealth only someone like Bruce Wayne could casually throw at a training room.

And right now? It's completely empty, just as Dick promised.

He leads you to the gym side, fingers laced with yours, guiding you toward a nearby bench. The second you sit down, you immediately pull out a granola bar from your backpack, peeling the wrapper with zero hesitation.

Dick snorts, crossing his arms as he watches you take the first bite. "Really?"

"What?" you mumble around your mouthful. "You dragged me here. Least I can do is have a snack first."

He chuckles, shaking his head as he kneels to retie one of his sneakers. "Fine, fine. Get your pre-workout in."

You roll your eyes, finishing off the bar while he straightens up, reaching for his arms to gently tug him closer. He hums, allowing it, and you press your forehead against his stomach for a moment, breathing him in, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It's comforting, being here with him, wrapped in the familiarity of his warmth. His hand comes up, fingers brushing gently over your braids before resting against the back of your head.

"You good, baby?"

You nod against him. "Yeah. Just stealing some energy before you kick my ass."

That makes him laugh, a soft, throaty sound that vibrates through his core. "C'mon, sweet girl," he murmurs, tilting your chin up with his fingers. "Let's start with some stretches."

You groan, but let him pull you up, following him onto one of the mats. And that's where the real trouble starts.

Because yeah, stretching is important, but why the fuck does he have to look like that while doing it? You drop into a lunge, arms reaching over your head, but your eyes immediately flick to him, to the way his muscles shift so fluidly as he raises his arms, tilting to one side, then the other. The dip of his waist, the flex of his biceps, the subtle little furrow in his brow as he concentrates. You swallow, quickly averting your gaze before he catches you.

Dick, however, is having a similar problem.

Because he knows—knows—you look good in tight clothes. He's been with you long enough to have that fact permanently ingrained in his brain.

But something about you in gym clothes, stretched out on the mat, moving so effortlessly as you go through your routine... it's really fucking distracting. He wants to focus, but every time you reach for your toes, your leggings pull just a little tighter around your thighs. Every time you twist your torso, the curve of your waist becomes painfully obvious.

And when you drop into a seated stretch, legs spread apart as you reach forward, touching your hands to the mat—

He looks away, running a hand through his hair, forcing his mind onto something else.

Training. Right. That's why you're here. Training, not staring at you like a teenager seeing their first pair of tits.

He thinks for a moment, considering their options. "Let's start easy. Some bodyweight exercises."

You shrug. "Sounds good, baby."

And so, the real workout begins, simple at first. A few rounds of squats, lunges, and push ups. Some core work. Even a bit of light shadowboxing.

But the problem?

Neither of you can stop stealing glances at the other. Because yeah, the Batcave's gym is nice. Top tier, expensive as hell, better than the majority of Gotham's gyms. But it's nothing compared to the view.

By the time you and Dick make it to the sparring mats, you're already sweaty, your body warm from the workout. Your muscles are loose, and honestly? You're feeling pretty damn good. That is, until you realize what exactly he's suggesting.

"Sparring?" you echo, eyeing him skeptically as he stretches his arms over his head. "With you?"

He grins. "Scared, my love?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes even as your pulse kicks up. "Oh, please."

But internally? Yeah, you're feeling the slightest flutter of nerves, not because you think he'd hurt you—he'd rather die—but because you know exactly what sparring with him means.

It means his hands all over you, gripping, steady, possessive. It means bodies tangling together, muscles flexing and straining, sweat slicked skin brushing in ways that are not at all good for self control.

And after an entire morning of watching him, of feeling him, of listening to every low groan and quiet grunt he makes while working out, his jaw tight with concentration, his shirt clinging to his chest in a way that should be illegal—yeah, you're in trouble. But you refuse to back down.

"Alright," you say, shaking out your arms, rolling your shoulders. "Let's do it."

His grin widens, eyes darkening just a fraction. "That's my girl."

The first round starts off easy—a warm up more than anything. He lets you get used to the rhythm, lets you test the give and take of each strike, each block. You counter, dodge, try to anticipate his movements, but he's so damn quick, it's like trying to fight a shadow.

He doesn't just react, he predicts. Every time you move, he's already a step ahead, his body fluid and controlled, striking with the kind of effortless precision that makes you realize just how out of your depth you are.

Or maybe it's just the fact that your boyfriend is also a vigilante and has years of circus acrobatics behind him, his body trained for this in ways yours never could be. He moves like it's second nature, like he was made for this—because, in a way, he was.

Still, you're holding your own. For the first few minutes, at least. But then? Then he grabs you.

It happens fast. One second, you're slipping out of the way of a jab, the next, he's got you pinned. Your back slams onto the mat, wrists trapped above your head in a solid grip, his weight hot and heavy between your thighs.

A soft sigh escapes you, and you blink up at him, dazed.

He's smirking. "Got you, baby."

Your pulse spikes. Because he's right there, hovering over you, breath warm against your lips, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths. His body is solid, pressing into yours, his grip firm enough to make your fingers twitch.

You swallow, eyes flicking over his face. He's sweaty, his hair sticking to his forehead, the curve of his biceps glistening, and you feel a deep, slow heat curl in your stomach.

But before you can dwell on it, he clears his throat, shifting slightly, the tiniest flicker of something unreadable crossing his face.

"Again," he says, his voice just a touch rougher than before.

You barely get to catch your breath before he's helping you up, stepping back, giving you space. And then you do it again.

This time, you push harder, trying to be unpredictable, trying to get the upper hand, but it's useless. No matter how fast you move, how hard you strike, he's always just a fraction ahead.

And once again, he gets you pinned. Your breath catches as your back meets the mat, your arms above your head, his body covering yours.

He smirks down at you. "Damn, baby. Thought you were tougher than this."

Your stomach tightens. Your fingers flex against his hold, your skin burning from the way he's pressed into you. He's so warm, his shirt damp with sweat, clinging to his torso, and it's honestly not fair how good he looks like this.

He releases you, pulling away with a smirk as he stands, offering you a hand.

"Again," he says, that same rough edge to his voice.

And this time? Yeah, you're not sure if you want to win or if you just want to keep letting him pin you down.

"Let me take this off," you murmur, voice light, casual, as if you don't know exactly what you're doing.

And then you strip. It's nothing dramatic, you just grip the hem of your shirt and pull it up over your head, letting it fall to the floor beside you. But to him? It's like slow motion. His breath hitches, his eyes locking onto you like he's been starved for weeks. Because that sports bra? The one you picked for function, for support?

Yeah. It's doing things to him. The snug fabric cups your tits perfectly, lifting them just right, leaving nothing to the imagination except the parts he already knows by heart. The curve of your cleavage is glistening with sweat, and the way the material stretches across your chest has his hands itching to touch, to grab, to pull.

His thoughts derail before he can stop them. Because he's seen them, felt them, tasted them. He knows exactly how sensitive your nipples are, how you arch when he flicks his tongue just right.

He remembers the way your back curves when he palms them, the way you gasp when he squeezes a little rougher than necessary. And his body? It reacts before his brain can catch up.

Heat pools low in his stomach, a sharp, throbbing ache settling between his legs as blood rushes south. His cock twitches in his sweats, already thickening, and he knows he needs to stop looking, needs to breathe, needs to think about literally anything else before this gets too obvious.

But then your voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, light and teasing. "Ready, or are you stalling?"

His gaze snaps up to your face just in time to catch your smirk—that playful, mischievous little curve of your lips, the one that always means trouble.

His throat works as he swallows hard, his voice a little breathless when he says, "Yeah. Ready."

And then, because he refuses to let you have the upper hand, he reaches for the hem of his own shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion. The reaction is instant. You bite your lip, hard. Because your man? He's unreal.

Broad shoulders, thick arms, sculpted chest, all of it glistening with sweat, his abs flexing slightly with every breath. And then there's the happy trail, that perfect dusting of hair leading down, disappearing beneath his waistband, teasing at something you know way too well.

Something you know every ridge and vein of. Heat pulses through you, pooling low, making your thighs press together instinctively.

But then he is the one pulling you out of your thoughts, tilting his head, smirking just a little too knowingly as he murmurs, "You good, baby?"

It takes a second for you to process the question. "Yeah," you say quickly, shaking yourself out of it. "Just—yeah. Ready."

You try again. You really do. You focus on the fight, on strategy, on winning, but it doesn't even matter. Because it's the same as before—no matter what you do, no matter how fast or clever you are, he's just better.

And this time? This time when he gets you pinned, you moan. Because the second your back hits the mat, you feel it. The solid weight of him pressing you down, his thighs bracketing yours, his hands wrapped around your wrists, his cock—

Hard. Thick. Pressing right against your pussy through the layers of fabric between you.

A slow, drowning heat spreads through you, your breath hitching as you shift, and yep, it's worse. The friction, the pressure, the sheer heat of him against you, and your body reacts before you can stop it, hips tilting up the tiniest bit, just enough to grind.

His grip tightens. His breath shudders. And when you dare to glance up at his face? His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched, his expression caught somewhere between control and absolute wreckage.

"D-Dick, we—"

Your voice breaks, barely more than a breathless stammer, but he doesn't let you finish. Doesn't let you think. Doesn't give you a single second to process what's happening before his mouth is on yours, swallowing the rest of your words in a kiss so deep, so hungry, it knocks the air from your lungs.

And you don't even hesitate.

Your lips part for him the second he pushes in, a soft, desperate moan spilling from your throat as his tongue licks into your mouth, hot and claiming. There's no teasing, no testing, just need, pure and consuming, his mouth moving against yours in a rhythm that's all too familiar, all too dangerous.

Because it's him. Because he knows exactly how to kiss you, exactly how to angle his head, exactly how to steal the breath from your lungs and make you crave more, chase more.

And you do.

Your fingers twitch against his grip, your body arching instinctively, your thighs clenching as you feel it again. Him, grinding against you, his cock pressing right where you need it, rubbing so perfectly, the friction sending little shocks of heat straight to your core.

And he doesn't stop. Doesn't hesitate, doesn't hold back. He just rocks into you, slow and purposeful, letting you feel every inch of him, letting you squirm beneath him, letting the heat between you build with every slow, teasing thrust.

And God, you're getting so wet. You can feel it, the way your slick soaks through your leggings, the way it makes every drag of his cock feel hotter, messier, more desperate. And he notices. Of course he notices.

Because suddenly, his grip shifts—one hand still pinning your wrists above your head, the other palm pressing firm against your tits. Fingers squeeze through the thin fabric of your bra, teasing over your hardened nipples, making you gasp into his mouth.

And he groans, low and gravelly, his hips jerking forward, grinding against you just a little harder, a little faster, dragging another moan from your lips as your head tilts back against the mat.

He follows. Doesn't even give you time to catch your breath before his mouth is on you again, lips tracing the curve of your jaw, teeth nipping at the soft skin beneath your ear, tongue soothing over the sting before moving lower. Down, down, to your neck, where he sucks, hot and wet, marking you in a way that sends a sharp thrill straight through you.

And you whimper, hips rolling up against him, thighs trembling as he works his way lower, as his mouth devours every inch of skin it finds. Your collarbone, your chest, his breath hot against your sweat slicked skin as he licks a slow, teasing stripe across the swell of your tits.

And then? Then he yanks your bra up. Not off, just high enough to free your tits, high enough to leave them bare, to leave them at his mercy. And he doesn't hesitate.

His mouth is on you in seconds, lips wrapping around one stiffened peak, tongue swirling, teasing, before he sucks, slow and deep, and the sensation shoots straight down your spine, leaving your head spinning, your body burning.

And then? Then he bites.

Just the tiniest scrape of his teeth, just enough to make you gasp, to make you arch, to make heat flood between your thighs as you moan his name. And he smirks against your skin. You're so wet.

You feel it—feel the way your slick soaks through your leggings, the way every slow, teasing drag of his cock against your clit leaves a damp, sticky patch against his sweats. And from the way his breathing shudders, from the way his hips jerk, just a little, every time he rubs against you, you know he can feel it too.

But does he stop? Of course not.

If anything, he doubles down, rolling his hips in slow, torturous circles, just to hear those little gasps you can't hold back, just to see the way your lashes flutter, your lips parting as another soft, desperate moan slips free.

God, you're a mess. Flushed and panting, chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale, your nipples stiff and aching as he blows a teasing breath over them, the cool air making you whimper.

"Baby..."

It's barely a sound, more of a breathy little whine, but he hears it. Feels it. The desperation, the plea. And it drives him insane.

He hums, mouth pressing to your skin again, sucking a deep, dark mark right above your breast before he pulls back, before his lips hover just over yours, warm and teasing, taunting.

"Yeah, my love?"

His voice is low, rough, but you barely register it, barely even hear him over the way his cock keeps grinding against your swollen clit, rubbing just right, just enough.

You moan, hips rolling instinctively, chasing more, chasing him, your hands trembling where he still has them pinned.

"I need you."

His mind goes blank. Because usually? He has a little more self control. He thinks things through, considers where he's about to fuck you before he actually does it. But now? Now, that part of his brain shuts off completely. Because he needs you. Now.

He groans, low and wrecked, his entire body tensing before he moves—fast, determined, not even giving you time to think before his grip shifts, before he releases your hands and grabs you instead, folding you up so easily it makes your breath catch.

And then? Then he tugs. Your leggings, your panties—down, just enough to bare you, just enough to give him what he wants.

Jesus, your pussy is so wet. So fucking pretty, so needy, glistening in the dim lighting, slick already dripping through your lips, and the sight alone has his cock aching, has his hands shaking with the effort it takes not to just shove his sweats down and fuck you right now.

But he needs access.

So he yanks one sneaker off your foot, quick and practiced, and then your leggings and panties follow, just from that leg, just enough to let him spread you open, just enough to let him fuck you properly.

His sweats and boxers follow, tugging them down just enough to free his dick, and shit, he's so hard.

Thick and flushed, his cock standing heavy between you both, the tip leaking, smearing precum against the soft skin of your thigh as he moves, as he presses back over you.

Then he grinds. Slow, teasing, dragging his cock through your soaked folds, parting them with his shaft, slick and warm and so fucking wet that it leaves a shining trail along his length.

You whimper, hips rolling up, chasing it, your clit throbbing every time the thick, swollen head of his cock catches against it, sending little sparks of pleasure jolting up your spine.

But then he kisses you, and you just fucking melt.

It's messy, hot and needy, his lips slanting over yours, swallowing down every soft little sound you make. His hands grip you, one curled around your thigh, the other tangled into your hair, keeping you in place as he deepens it, as he drinks you in.

You moan, mouth parting for him, letting him lick inside, letting him taste the desperation on your tongue. Your hands slide up, burying into his dark hair, tugging, pulling, making him groan into your mouth, making his hips stutter against yours, his cock pressing harder into your soaked cunt.

And fuck, it's filthy.

The slick, messy sounds of his cock grinding through your folds, his precum clinging to you in strings, mixing with your own arousal, warm and sticky, coating every inch of him.

But it's not enough. You need more. You need his dick.

So you reach between your bodies, fingers curling around the thick, solid weight of him, and he shudders. "Shit—"

You guide him down, aligning him with your entrance, so slick, so ready, so fucking desperate to be filled. And he doesn't hesitate, doesn't even think twice before he starts to push in.

And holy fuck, the stretch—

Thick, hot, bare, his cock splitting you open, inch by inch, making you feel every vein, every ridge, every perfect, blissful drag as your walls squeeze around him, sucking him in.

Your breath catches, a long, broken moan spilling from your lips, your hands tangling into his hair, clutching at him as he sinks deeper. He presses his forehead to yours, panting, groaning, trying not to lose his mind completely at the way you clench around him.

But then he's bottoming out, buried to the hilt, so deep, so fucking deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

He hisses when you move, when your hips lift just the slightest bit, when your walls clench around him, tight and wet and hot, making his cock throb, making his muscles tighten, making him feel like he's seconds away from losing it.

"Dick," you murmur, breathless, wrecked, your voice all soft and needy, your nails digging into his scalp as you shift beneath him. "M-Move, baby. Fuck—"

That's all he needs. He pulls out almost entirely, the thick head of his cock dragging along your walls, slick and hot and messy, making you gasp as the stretch flares up all over again.

Then he slams back in. Hard. Deep. Filling you completely, stretching your cunt so fucking perfectly that you arch against him, that you whine, that your thighs tremble as he buries himself to the hilt.

And then? Then he fucks you.

No teasing, no hesitation, just pure, desperate need. His hand grips your thigh, lifting it, keeping it up so he can sink deeper. So he can fuck you just the way he knows you love, making you feel every thick, throbbing inch as his cock drags in and out of your soaked cunt.

And God, you're so wet. It's filthy—the slick, messy sounds of your pussy taking him, of your arousal coating his cock, dripping down his length, smearing over his thighs, soaking the mat beneath you.

Every thrust is perfect, the thick, flushed head of his cock hitting all the right spots, grinding against that sweet, sensitive place inside you, making your walls flutter, making your stomach tighten, making your clit throb every time his skin slaps against it.

You gasp a moan, and before you know it, his lips crash against yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate. His lips slant over yours, his tongue licking into your mouth, claiming, devouring, drinking down every moan, every whimper, every broken little sound he pulls from your throat.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling into his damp hair, clutching at the dark strands as he pounds into you. His dick splits you open as he fucks you deeper, harder, faster, like he needs it, like he can't breathe without it. Like he can't breathe without you.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, his voice rough, almost wrecked, panting against your lips.

He keeps fucking into you, deep and steady, each thrust perfect, each grind of his hips sending sparks down your spine, making your whole body burn.

"Taking me so well, you feel so fucking good... so tight, so warm, so wet for me."

His words make your cunt clench, gripping him harder, and he feels it. You know he does, because he groans, his head tipping back for a second before he leans in again, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged as he keeps going.

"You love this, don't you?" he pants, voice laced with pure hunger, punctuated by the deep, wet slap of his cock sinking into you again and again. "Love how deep I am?"

You can't even answer. Your mouth is open, lips trembling, but the only thing coming out are these breathy, helpless little moans. You're too overwhelmed to form words, too caught up in the way he's fucking you—fast, deep, needy, like he has to, like he's got no choice but to ruin you.

And you're so close, you can taste it. And he knows.

"Cum for me, baby," he urges, voice thick with lust, with want, his cock grinding against that sweet, sensitive spot inside you, each thrust dragging his skin along your swollen, throbbing clit. "C'mon, love, let me feel you—let me feel you cum on my dick."

And fuck, it hits almost instantly.

A sharp, hot, blinding pleasure that shatters you, rips through your whole body. It makes your back arch and your nails dig into his skin as your walls tighten hard around him, squeezing his cock, sucking him in, milking him as your orgasm crashes over you.

Your cunt spasms, pulsing, clenching, and you swear you black out for a second, pleasure surging through every nerve ending. The intensity makes your thighs tremble, your mouth falling open in a silent scream before it finally turns into a choked moan.

And he doesn't stop. He fucks you through it, praising you, whispering soft, filthy things against your skin. "That's it, baby, fuck—so good, so tight—you're so fucking perfect for me, you feel so good—"

And it's too much.

You're still shaking, still clenching around him, and he's right there. His thrusts get rougher, his hips snapping against you faster, deeper, sloppier, chasing his own high because God, you're still gripping him so tight, still soaking his cock, your slick smeared all over his thighs, his abs, dripping down onto the mat.

"Baby," he groans, his voice shaking now, "fuck—I'm—fuck—"

And then he loses it.

His hips slam into you one last time, burying himself deep, his cock twitching, pulsing before he spills. Hot. Thick. So much.

His cum floods your pussy, filling you completely, coating your walls, his whole body tensing as he groans deep into your mouth, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you still as he fucks you through it, grinding into you, pushing his release deeper.

And you're just babbling, pleasure still wracking your body, your arms wrapped tight around him as you murmur, "Baby, I love you, I love you so much—"

"I love you too, doll," he groans, his voice hoarse, raw, thick with need.

His hips moving slower, dragging his dick through your still clenching walls, letting you feel every inch as he gives you every last drop of his cum.

Then his lips are back on yours. Messy. Desperate. Like he's starving for you, like he can't breathe without your lips on his, without the taste of you, without the heat of your body pressed so tightly against his own.

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, he's moving, flipping you over in one smooth motion, pulling you on top of him, his cock slipping out just a little before you sink back down, making you both gasp.

Your chest rises and falls against his as you try to catch your breath, but the way he feels inside you—hot, thick, still pulsing—makes it impossible to focus on anything but him. Your hands smooth over his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your fingertips, the way his muscles twitch when you shift, rotating your hips in a slow, teasing grind.

"Fuck," he groans, voice low, almost wrecked, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, gripping like he can't help it.

You smirk, leaning down until your lips barely graze his, your tits pressing against his sweat dampened chest, nipples brushing against his warm skin as your elbows hit the mat on either side of his head.

"That good, baby?"

His only response is a sharp inhale through his nose, a needy, helpless little whimper that shoots straight through you, settling deep in your cunt.

You start to move again, rolling your hips, letting his cock drag slowly out of you before sinking right back in, stretching you all over again. His cum makes it so messy, so slick, letting him slide in and out so easily. But the stretch is still so good, the fullness so perfect that you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning too loud.

He feels everything.

Your tight, fluttering walls squeezing around him, your wetness coating his dick, dripping down over his balls, making a sticky mess between your thighs. And he's sensitive, overstimulated from his orgasm, every slow, deliberate roll of your hips sending jolts of pleasure straight up his spine, but he doesn't care.

Not when you feel like this. Not when your body is wrapped around him, soft and hot and wet, moving with that perfect, lazy rhythm, dragging out his pleasure, making it last.

"Baby," he pants, voice breathless, desperate, his fingers flexing on your ass, squeezing, guiding your movements even though you don't need it, because he just needs to touch you. "Fuck, you're gonna kill me."

You hum, amusement curling at the edges of your pleasure as you rock your hips again, deeper this time, pressing your clit against his pelvis with each slow grind.

"You're still so hard," you murmur, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue. "Gonna give me another one?"

His whole body shudders.

"Fuck, baby—"

But you swallow the rest of his words with a kiss, slow and wet, all tongue and heat and need. He groans into your mouth, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, pressing you tighter against him as his cock twitches inside you, so fucking deep, so perfectly snug in the grip of your soft, soaked pussy.

His mind is a mess.

You're everywhere—wrapped around him, squeezing him, your scent flooding his lungs, your body moving so fucking perfectly against his.

He needs more.

His hands slide up your back, over your ribs, before grabbing your tits, squeezing as he thumbs your nipples, making you gasp into his mouth, your hips stuttering as another slow grind makes his cock rub against that perfect, swollen spot inside you.

"Baby," you whimper, your voice breathy, needy, your fingers tangling into his hair as your hips pick up the pace.

He groans, his lips dragging from your mouth to your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse before he whispers, "That's it, my love—fuck, ride me, just like that."

"Shit—baby—fuck, your dick—so deep, so good—"

The words spill out between gasps, between moans, barely coherent, your voice high and breathy as you fuck yourself down onto him, taking every thick, pulsing inch of his cock.

Dick is losing it. His hands are all over you—gripping your waist, squeezing your ass, cupping your tits, anything to ground himself. Because the way you're riding him, the way your tight, soaked cunt is squeezing around him, making those obscene, wet sounds every time you sink down? Yeah, he's barely holding it together.

And then you straighten up. Your hands plant on his abs, and you lean back just a little, just enough to let him see.

His stomach tightens, his dick throbs, because the sight of your pussy swallowing his cock, stretching around him, your soft, slick folds parting every time you take him to the hilt—fuck, it's perfect.

"Jesus Christ," he groans, his fingers digging into your skin, his hips bucking up on their own, because he can't help it. He needs more, he needs to feel more.

His gaze drags up, and your tits are bouncing with every roll of your hips, your nipples tight and flushed, practically begging for his mouth, his hands, his teeth.

But it's your pussy that ruins him.

The way your pussy is slick, coated in your arousal and his cum, stretched so perfectly around him, your creamy wetness making a mess of his cock, dripping down onto his pelvis, smearing over his abs as you keep fucking yourself on him, taking him so deep, so fucking good.

He moves without thinking. One hand presses against your belly, feeling himself inside you, feeling how deep he is, how your pussy is gripping him so tight he swears he can barely breathe.

"Baby—" he pants, his voice wrecked, his thumb slipping lower, lazily rubbing over your swollen, soaked clit.

You whimper, your head falling back, your back arching, your pace stuttering for just a second before you grind deeper, chasing that feeling, chasing that pressure as you keep taking all of his dick, every inch, until the thick, sensitive tip kisses your womb.

"That's it, baby," Dick groans, his voice thick with heat, "fuck yourself on me—just like that, my perfect girl—"

Your moan is high and needy, your body trembling as you ride him, each grind of your hips making your clit drag against his thumb, slick and swollen, sending little shocks of pleasure through your body. His cock is so deep, filling you up so perfectly, every thick inch stretching you, splitting you open, fucking you into bliss.

"Look at you, love," he pants, his free hand gripping your hip, fingers pressing into your heated skin as he watches you, eyes dark and hazy. "So fucking pretty—so wet for me—taking my dick so fucking well—"

His words sink into you, hot and filthy, curling deep in your gut, making your walls flutter around him. He can feel it, can feel how close you are, how your pussy keeps clenching, getting tighter, slicker, dripping down his length, leaving a mess of arousal and cum between your thighs.

"You gonna cum, baby?" he murmurs, his fingers pressing firmer against your clit, rubbing tight, slow circles, making your whole body jolt, "gonna cum on my dick like a good girl?"

You sob out a gasp, your hips jerking, grinding down harder, chasing the release that's right there, coiling deep, burning hot.

"Dick—fuck—I'm—"

It hits you, slamming into you all at once, pleasure bursting through your body as you clench down around him, your cunt spasming, pulsing tight as you cum, soaking him, dripping down his cock, your whole body shuddering as the pleasure wracks through you.

"Oh, fuck," he groans, watching you come apart, feeling you come apart around him. "That's my girl—so good—so fucking good—"

You're panting, your body still trembling, your head light, and then he moves.

A strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you down, pressing your chest against his, pinning you tight against his body as his other hand grips the back of your head, tilting your face, slamming his mouth against yours.

You whimper into the kiss, your lips parting instantly, letting him devour you, tongue deep, filthy, claiming your mouth as his hips snap up, thrusting into you, deep and hard.

You gasp, the stretch overwhelming, still so sensitive, still fluttering around his cock as he starts fucking into you. His body grinds against yours, keeping you trapped against him, his cock splitting you open, every stroke pushing him deeper into your needy, messy cunt.

"More, baby—" you're moaning, panting against his lips, "moremoremore—"

Dick's mind is a fucking mess.

Because he loves you. Loves you so much it makes his chest tight, makes his head spin, makes his cock throb inside you every time you gasp, every time you moan his name, every time you take him like this, like you were fucking made for him.

And it's not just the sex, it's everything.

It's the way you kiss him, the way you look at him, the way you laugh, the way you love him. The way you know him, every inch of him, inside and out. The way you drive him crazy, make him weak, make him want to give you everything.

And he can't deny you. So he doesn't.

His hips snap up, harder, faster, driving his cock so deep inside your cunt he feels you twitch around him. Feels the way your tight, wet walls suck him back in every time he pulls out, making it so hard to think, so hard to focus on anything except the heat of your body, the desperate way you grind down on him, meeting him halfway, fucking yourself onto his dick as fast as he's fucking into you.

The gym echoes with it, loud and filthy, the wet slap of skin on skin, your breathless moans, his guttural groans, your gasps, his whimpers. His balls slap against your ass every time you drop down onto his cock, his sweat-slicked abs grinding against your swollen clit, making you jolt, making you tremble, your cunt drenched, dripping, so warm, so fucking wet.

"Fuck—" he gasps, "you're so—baby, I'm gonna—"

He's so close, and he knows you feel it too. The way his thrusts get sloppy, the way his cock twitches inside you, how his abs tighten with every desperate snap of his hips. And fuck, the way you're squeezing him, milking him, dragging him deeper.

"Baby—"

His voice is hoarse, breaking on your name as his fingers dig into your waist, grip tightening like he needs to hold onto you, needs to ground himself, because he's about to fucking lose it.

And then he does.

His head tips back, a strangled, wrecked moan leaving his lips as his cock buries itself inside you one last time—throbbing, pulsing, his cum spilling, filling you up so deep you swear you can feel the heat of it in your belly.

And that does it.

The moment you feel him pump you full, it sends you spiraling, your whole body shuddering above him as your cunt clenches around his cock, squeezing every last drop from him, pulling him deeper, holding him tight.

Your orgasm washes over you, hot and blinding, making you tremble, making you whimper, making your back arch as your hips rock, fucking him through it, dragging out every last jolt of pleasure, every last spurt of cum inside you.

You finally collapse onto his heaving chest, panting, shaking, wrecked, you feel the warmth of it seeping out, thick and sticky, trickling down your thighs, making a mess between your legs. You both feel spent, your bodies burning, slick with sweat, soaked in each other.

His breath is uneven, his chest rising and falling beneath you as his hand finds your back, rubbing slow, soothing circles, his touch gentle after how desperate he just was.

You whimper softly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, melting against him. He smiles, exhausted, dazed, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple before he exhales, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

He lets you come back to yourself slowly, his hands soothing, gentle, as they rub slow, lazy circles into your skin. His chest rises and falls beneath you, the steady rhythm lulling you, and at some point, you realize that your heartbeat is synced to his.

You sigh, content, lifting your head just enough to press a soft kiss to his jaw, and he turns, looking down at you. His gaze is warm, fond, and when he leans in to kiss your forehead, it makes your chest flutter.

"Good, my love?"

A hum leaves your lips, soft, sleepy, your body still boneless on top of him. "Mhmm."

But then your eyes drift down to where you're still connected, where his cock rests inside you, where the mess you made together is seeping out, sticky between your thighs, and reality hits.

"But now we have to clean up here... and ourselves, if we're at that."

You groan, dreading it, and he chuckles, amused, voice husky when he murmurs, "Lucky for us, the showers are just next door."

That makes you tense, your eyes widening slightly as the thought hits you.

"But what if someone comes down and sees us?"

He grins, teasing, smug as he tilts his head. "If I remember correctly, you were the one who wanted to fuck—"

Your hand flies up, slapping his chest with a scandalized gasp as you pout, "That's not true! Don't be mean, baby."

His smile softens, lips twitching as he concedes, "Alright, maybe I wanted it a bit too..."

Your eyes narrow, lips curling into something mischievous, and before he realizes it, you squeeze your walls around him.

His breath catches, his hips jerk, and he hisses, his grip on you tightening. "Okay, okay, fine, yeah. I wanted to fuck you badly."

A soft giggle escapes your lips, satisfaction swelling in your chest as you murmur, "That's better."

His hand cups the back of your head, pulling you in, and when your lips meet, it's slow, lazy, deep. Your tongues tangle, your moans swallowed, your bodies still pressed so close, his cock still inside you, still hard.

And God, it'd be so easy to move again, to rock your hips, to keep going, to fuck him one more time, to feel him fill you up again. But you can't.

Because the last thing you want is for Alfred, or Bruce, or literally anyone else to walk in and see you like this. And from the way Dick moves the moment the kiss breaks, you know he's thinking the exact same thing.

He grabs your ass, keeping you tight against him as he pushes himself up from the mat—his cock still buried inside you, still stretching you, holding you open, making sure not a single drop of his cum is wasted just yet.

And he carries you straight to the showers.

It's only when he finally steps inside that he lets you go, slowly pulling out, his cock leaving you aching, empty, and the moment he does, his cum spills out of you.

It drips, slick, sticky, warm, sliding down your thighs, clinging to your swollen folds, coating your skin, And he watches, ravenous, his throat bobbing, his jaw tightening as his fingers twitch at his sides. Like he's tempted, so tempted, to shove his fingers inside you, to push it all back in, but he forces himself to look away.

Instead, he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead as he murmurs, "I'll get you a towel in a sec. Go on, start without me, love. I'll clean there and join you, okay?"

And by the way his voice dips, the way his fingers trail along your hips, the way his eyes darken as they flicker back down to your messy pussy... you already know he won't last long before he's back on you.

You move quickly, unpeeling yourself from your clothes with practiced ease, trying not to make a mess on the fabric. Or at the very least, not a big one.

Dick's cum is still slick between your thighs, thick and warm, and the last thing you want is to ruin something you actually like, so you're careful, rolling down your leggings, stepping out of them with a sigh, before making your way to the nearest stall.

The moment you step inside, you turn on the water, the warm spray soothing as it cascades down your body, washing away the sweat, the heat, the lingering haze of your orgasm. But as you predicted, Dick is back in less than a few minutes.

You feel him before you see him, his presence enveloping you as he steps in behind you, his chest pressing to your bare back, his arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you in.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?" you tease, your voice soft, playful, a smile tugging at your lips as you lean into him.

His lips find your shoulder, his kisses slow, lazy, trailing along your damp skin as he murmurs, smug, "Didn't even try, sweet girl."

A breathless laugh leaves you, and you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes, warm, fond, filled with something deeper, something softer. And he leans in, kissing you gently, lips lingering, hands exploring, touching, holding.

You sigh into it, melting, your fingers tangling into his wet hair as his arms tighten around you, and for a while, you just stand there, pressed together beneath the warm spray, soaking in each other.

When you finally pull away, he reaches for the soap, lathering up his hands before running them over your shoulders, your arms, down to your hips, his fingers gliding over every curve, every dip of your body.

And you do the same, smoothing your hands over his chest, down his abs, over his sides, mapping him out, washing him slowly, lazily, as his lips keep finding yours, over and over, soft, tender, like he can't help himself.

And honestly? You don't mind.

By the time you're drying off, your body feels loose, content, your muscles relaxed, and you're just about to slip back into your sweaty clothes when he clears his throat.

"Here."

You blink as he hands you something. A clean set of clothes. Sweatpants. A t-shirt. Panties. All your size. All new.

Your brows furrow, and you look at him, confused, voice soft as you ask, "Baby, what's with these?"

He shrugs, rubbing a towel through his wet hair, his expression casual, like it's nothing, like it's not a big deal, even though it is.

"I bought those a while ago, just in case you ever need a change."

Your chest tightens, your breath catches, and you stare at him, stunned, warmth swelling, spreading, something tender and sweet blooming inside you.

Because of course he did.

Of course he thought of you, of course he made sure you'd have something here, something comfortable, something yours.

Because that's who he is.

He's thoughtful, attentive, he loves you in a way that's so effortless, so genuine, so all-encompassing, that sometimes it catches you off guard, makes you feel so lucky, so cherished, you don't know how to handle it.

And as you keep staring, he finally notices, his towel lowering, his lips quirking as he raises a brow.

"What?"

You just shake your head, a soft, disbelieving smile on your lips as you murmur, "Nothing... just can't believe how perfect my man is."

And when he grins, bright, boyish, so in love, you swear your heart skips a beat.

You both finish getting dressed, the soft fabric of your new clothes making you feel more comfortable, and as Dick pulls on his shirt, you take a last look around the gym, making sure everything's in the same state you found it.

Not a single piece of equipment out of place. Not a single sign that you just spent the last half an hour getting fucked stupid on the mats.

Though, if anyone actually stepped in, you're pretty sure the scent of sweat, sex, and Dick's desperation is still hanging in the air.

But otherwise, perfectly fine. Dick stretches, rolling his shoulders before grabbing his helmet, and you follow him out, stepping into the cool air of the Batcave as he swings a leg over his bike.

He glances at you, tilting his head toward the seat behind him, smirking as he says, "C'mon, baby. Let's go home."

And you do, sliding in behind him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, cheek pressing to his back as the engine purrs beneath you.

The ride is smooth, the city lights blurring past as he weaves through the streets, taking the longer route, letting the wind rush over you, cool and invigorating, as you just hold on, completely content, completely at ease.

By the time you get home, your body is spent, your muscles loose, and you barely make it to the bed before collapsing onto it, melting into the sheets with a happy sigh.

Later, after a much needed nap, you stir against his chest, stretching slightly as a deep, content sigh escapes you, only to freeze when you hear his voice, low, warm, pressing against your ear.

"Still up for tonight?"

You blink, sleepy, your brain lagging, trying to catch up, until it clicks. Your eyes snap open, and you gasp, breath catching as you lift your head, grabbing his arm.

"No way... We're going to that restaurant?"

His grin is instant, his hand sliding down your waist as he murmurs, smug, affectionate, "Yeah, my love, we're going to the restaurant."

And just like that, you perk up, excitement sparking through you, and you don't even hesitate before grabbing your phone and firing off a quick message to Bruce:

thank you thank you thank you!!!

And you make sure to thank Dick, too.

The moment you put your phone down, you don't even hesitate. You tackle him back onto the bed, giggling, covering his face with kisses, your heart bursting with love.

And he laughs, warm and fond, holding you close, soaking in your affection, right up until your kisses start drifting lower.

Your lips brush along his jaw, then his throat, slow, purposeful, your hands sliding down his chest, nails scratching lightly over his abs as you shift, slipping between his legs.

"Baby..." he breathes, voice already deep, already knowing, his cock hardening beneath his sweats.

But you just smirk, settling yourself comfortably, pressing a kiss just above his waistband, eyes flicking up to meet his as you murmur, "Gotta thank you properly, don't I?"

His jaw clenches, his fingers digging into the sheets, but he doesn't stop you when you tug his sweats down, freeing his thick, heavy cock, already leaking at the tip.

And you waste no time. You lick up the length, slow, teasing, swirling your tongue around the head before closing your lips around it, sucking lightly, making him curse, his hand fisting into your hair.

"Fuck, my love..."

You hum, taking him deeper, your mouth hot, wet, your tongue lapping against the sensitive vein running along his cock as you bob your head, taking him inch by inch.

He's panting, groaning, his hips jerking, and when you hollow your cheeks, sucking him down until he hits the back of your throat, his head drops back, a low, desperate moan leaving him.

"Shit, baby—fuck, just like that."

You whimper, arousal pulsing through you, thighs clenching, and you know he feels it too. Knows you're already soaked, already needy just from sucking his dick.

But you keep going, keep swirling your tongue, keep fucking your mouth onto him until he grits out a warning, his grip tightening, his abs tensing beneath your hands.

"Gonna cum, baby—gonna—"

And you take it. Swallowing him down, drinking every drop, his groans filling the room as he twitches, his cock pulsing against your tongue.

But you're not done yet. Because the moment he catches his breath, he flips you over, pinning you beneath him, and within seconds, his cock is sliding back into your soaking cunt, stretching you wide, filling you deep, fucking you the way he knows you need.

"Gonna keep you full all day, my love—fuck, you feel so good."

And you thank him with every moan, every whimper, every orgasm he pulls from you.

And after dinner?

Let's just say you thank him again. Bent over the dining table, his cock slamming into you from behind, tits pressed into the wood, his hand fisted in your hair, his groans hot against your neck as he fills you up.

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