#Sacred heat of Jesus

[portraitsofsaints]

Saint Margaret Mary Alacoque

1647-1690

Feast Day: October 16 (New), October 17 (Trad)

Patronage: those suffering from polio, devotees of the Sacred Heart, loss of parents

A nun of the Visitation order, St. Margaret Mary was most notably known for her visions of Our Lord and devotion to His Sacred Heart.

"And He [Christ] showed me that it was His great desire of being loved by men and of withdrawing them from the path of ruin that made Him form the design of manifesting His Heart to men, with all the treasures of love, of mercy, of grace, of sanctification and salvation which it contains, in order that those who desire to render Him and procure Him all the honour and love possible, might themselves be abundantly enriched with those divine treasures of which His heart is the source." — from Revelations of Our Lord to St. Mary Margaret Alacoque

Prints, plaques & holy cards available for purchase here: (website)

[whor3ing]

ᥫ᭡. 𓍯𓂃𓏧 "𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑺𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅" | 𝑴.𝑺

༉‧₊˚. CUTS AND BRUISES BY INHALER — A WRITING MARATHON . . . fic #1

matt sturniolo! x f!reader

WARNINGS : smut, angst, pussy eating, raw, mentions of breakup, passionate sex

word count : 1.5k ♡

—The hotel room is quiet. Too quiet.

Just the soft hum of the air conditioner and the heavy thud of your heartbeat echoing in your chest.

You don’t speak when Matt closes the door behind him. Don’t even turn around. You just stare out the window, watching the rain smear against the glass like it’s trying to wash everything clean.

Like that’s even possible.

His voice is low, tired. “You’re really gonna leave, huh?”

You shut your eyes. His words shouldn’t hurt—not after all the arguing, the distance, the nights you spent curled on opposite sides of the bed. But fuck, they do.

“I don’t know what else to do, Matt.” Your voice cracks, just barely. “We keep hurting each other.”

Matt steps closer. You can feel him behind you—can feel the heat of his body, the weight of his stare. “Then hurt me,” he says, almost desperate. “Just—just don’t go. Not yet.”

You turn, finally looking at him—and god, he looks wrecked. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Eyes red-rimmed, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together with sheer will.

Your throat tightens. “What are we even doing anymore?”

He doesn’t answer. He just surges forward and kisses you—hard. Like he’s trying to drown in you. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget all the reasons you’re not working.

You kiss him back just as desperately. Fingertips digging into his hair, his jaw, trying to memorize the way his mouth moves over yours. How he tastes. How he feels.

His hands are everywhere—under your shirt, on your hips, tugging at the waistband of your jeans. “Let me have you,” he breathes against your mouth. “One more time.”

Your heart cracks a little more.

But you nod. Because of course you do. Because you’re both so fucking good at pretending. At holding on, even when there’s nothing left.

Matt doesn’t waste time. He backs you toward the bed, hands shaking as he pushes your jeans down, his lips dragging down your neck. “Fuck, I missed you,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Missed this. Missed us.”

You bite back a sob as he sinks to his knees.

“Matt—”

“I know,” he whispers, pressing kisses to the inside of your thighs. “I know we’re fucked. But let me make you feel good, yeah? Let me do this right. Just once.”

You nod, and he pulls your underwear down slowly—almost reverently. Like he’s unwrapping something sacred.

He spreads your legs and buries his face between them like he’s starving. Like the only thing keeping him alive is your taste.

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, tongue dragging up your slit, sucking your clit into his mouth. “Pussy s' fuckin’ wet for me.”

You whimper, head tipping back as your thighs tremble around his head. “Matt…”

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He licks into you like he’s trying to memorize it—every flick, every glide, every little gasp he can pull from your lips.

“God, I missed this,” he murmurs against your pussy, voice thick and wrecked. “You taste the same. Just like I fuckin’ remember.”

His breath is hot against your soaked skin, lips parting as he flattens his tongue and licks a long, slow stripe from your dripping entrance all the way up to your clit, savoring every inch like he’s been dreaming about this.

Your hand curls into his hair, anchoring yourself to the way he moans against you, like your body alone is enough to undo him. His tongue circles your clit, lazy and deliberate, then flicks it with practiced precision, making your hips jerk up off the bed.

He groans again, gripping your thighs tighter, holding you open like you’re something sacred. He buries his face deeper, his nose nudging against your soaking pussy while his tongue works you over, slipping between your folds with messy, wet strokes, slow at first—tasting you, teasing you—then faster, more focused, when he feels you start to tremble.

“Fuck,” he pants, lips slick with you, chin shiny. “Missed how sweet you fuckin’ taste f' me.”

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks—hard—just once, just enough to pull a strangled gasp from your throat before he backs off, tongue flicking gently now against your folds, easing the sting with softness.

You’re squirming beneath him, overwhelmed and strung out, and he fuckin’ loves it.

His fingers slide between your folds, two of them slipping inside with no resistance at all, curling just right to find that spot that makes your toes curl. He fucks them into you slowly, curling and pumping, his mouth never leaving your clit.

He moans again—moans—like he’s the one getting off, like the slick heat of your cunt is enough to make him come untouched.

“Been thinkin’ about this for weeks,” he mutters, dragging his tongue in slow circles. “Thinkin’ about how you fall apart on my fuckin’ mouth.”

He flattens his tongue and shakes his head side to side, fast, relentless pressure that sends sparks shooting up your spine. Your back arches, breath hitching as you cry out his name, and he just keeps going, like he’s determined to drown in you.

Every flick of his tongue, every drag of his fingers—it’s all perfectly timed, perfectly tuned to your body. He’s not rushing it. No—he’s worshipping you. Devouring you like he’s starving and you’re his last meal.

You’re still shaking when he pulls his mouth from you, lips shiny, the stubble on his chin soaked from your wetness, breath ragged like he’s been holding it the entire time.

And for a second—just a second—he pauses.

Eyes flick up to yours, dark and heavy with something that makes your chest ache. Like he’s memorizing you. Like he knows the moment he lets go, you might just disappear.

“Matt,” you whisper, barely able to breathe, voice already thick with emotion. You reach for him like you’re afraid he might not come back.

But he does.

He rises over you in one smooth motion, his body heat sinking into yours, the thick head of his cock brushing against your entrance.

He doesn’t tease, doesn’t waste a second. Just lines himself and pushes in—slow and deep, filling your dripping pussy in one long, shaking thrust.

Your breath catches, tears prickling at your lashes from how full it feels—how good. How right.

Matt groans low in your ear, forehead pressed to yours, hands fisting in the sheets on either side of your head like if he doesn’t hold on, he’ll fall apart.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice cracking. “You feel like heaven. You always fuckin’ did.”

He starts to move, slow at first, each thrust steady and deep, grinding his hips down so you feel every inch of him, dragging along every nerve inside of you.

It’s not fast. It’s not frenzied. It’s deliberate—like he’s carving the shape of himself into you one last time.

“Why’s it gotta be like this?” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek as he thrusts into you, cock so deep it makes your stomach tighten, so deep you can feel him brush against your cervix with every passing second. “Why’s the only time we get it right… when we’re sayin’ goodbye?”

Your chest clenches. You can’t answer him. You don’t know how.

So you kiss him instead—messy, wet, teeth knocking—fingers digging into his back, trying to pull him deeper, closer. Trying to stay.

Matt fucks into you harder, but still not fast. Not rough. It’s aching, the kind of slow that burns.

His hips roll into you with purpose, the drag of his cock hitting that perfect spot over and over until your thighs are trembling around his waist.

“I’d give you everything,” he groans, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, your mouth. “My fuckin’ heart, my name, my future—just to keep you satisfied.”

You choke on a gasp, nails raking down his back. “You already have all of me, Matt.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m losin’ you?” His voice is hoarse, raw. He’s falling apart inside you, every thrust more desperate than the last, like he’s trying to leave pieces of himself behind in your body.

You clench around him, thighs shaking, pleasure building like a wave you can’t stop. “You’re not,” you whisper, breath catching. “Not yet.”

And that’s all it takes.

He lets out a sound—half-growl, half-moan—before his hand slips under your knee, hiking your leg higher around his waist, changing the angle just enough to fuck even deeper into you. His thick cock pushes against your cervix, pounding your pussy to the hilt, enough to make you see stars.

He fucks into you deeper now, harder, like he’s trying to chase down the edge of something he knows he’ll never catch.

“Come for me,” he pants, breath hot against your skin. “Come on, baby. Wanna feel you one more time—just like this. Just like we used to be.”

You fall apart around him with a cry, body trembling, clenching down on him so hard it pulls a broken fuck from his throat. He thrusts once, twice more, then buries himself deep and spills inside you, his whole body tensing, shaking with it.

It’s silent, the way he comes. His forehead pressed to yours. His eyes closed. His lips parted in a breathless gasp as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up, his come spilling out against your walls as his his hands grip your hips so tight it hurts.

It’s not just sex. It’s goodbye—and you both know it.

alexa play lover, you should've come over by jeff rn, posting everyday this week soooo !! also pls consider reblogging i hate to be that gorl but my fics have been flopping recently 💔

as always any & all inspo from this marathon is from the beautiful @delilahsturniolo <3

𖧧 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

🖇 - @chriss-slutt @55sturn @chrysiie @il0vey0um0st @trustinsturniolos @v4lsturn @shitttttypoet @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pip4444chris @whore4mattsturniolo @sweetshuga @courta13 @divinesturn @aaliyahsturniolo @chris-hallelujah @mi-co-uk @ivysturnss @sweetpeabreezyree @christophersgf @bluestriips @angelic-sturniolos111 @shadowthesim237 @bee-43 @eeyoresturnz @ellssturn @fratbrochrisgf @teddystvrns @pvssychicken @ribbonlovergirl

[bratscave]

　𓈒 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ birthday boy! bucky ( nsfw )

thinking about birthday boy! bucky barnes. like he even gives a fuck. thinking about how he doesn’t even fucking like celebrating it. the whole “another year, another number” bullshit. what’s there to be excited about? but you—oh, you—pretty little thing that you are, batting your lashes and telling him it’s a special day, his special day, and that you wanna make it good for him. real good. hell, you didn't consider that you'd be the one getting overstimulated, wasn't it supposed to be something sweet, slow — yearning?

“jesus—fuck,” he groans, his breath hot against your throat, his metal hand is splayed across your stomach, pressing down, feeling himself moving inside you. it’s not enough. never enough.

his brain is syrupy, thick with pleasure as thick as honey, substance like the cum that was spilling out of you, creating the sweetest little squeaks when he slammed back into you. he can feel it—hot and slick, pooling between your thighs, smearing over his skin as he fucks it right back into you, dragging it deep with every sloppy, desperate thrust.

he moans something about it being his birthday, something about him knowing you 'still have one in you', don't you? just as your legs tremble while he shifts his weight, pressing you further into the mattress, his metal fingers curling under your knee to spread you wider. he watches— fuck, he watches —his cock sliding in and out of you, watches the way your cunt sucks him back in, clenching so tight he swears he could lose his mind right then and there.

he grits out a string of curses, hips stuttering, pace growing frantic. “that’s it, baby," it's sounds so sugary spilling from his lips, like a sacred prayer of sorts, when the words are anything but such, dare to say sinful, "—c’mon, give me another one. one more. you can do that for me, yeah?”

he burries his neck into your shoulder, leaving open-mouthed kisses while there and you can firmly feel the little bits of sweat on his forehead. though he fucks you right through it, his flesh hand dig into your thigh, sticky with a mix of slick and sweat, holding you open while he leaves even more kisses, as if to calm you down. mumbles something against your skin, you can't quite hear or understand, sweet nothings.

his thrusts grow sloppier, lazier like his own body was giving him signs. he hiccups what a 'pretty girl' you are, pulling back just enough to see your face, your fucked-out expression making his stomach drop, heat sparking at the base of his spine.

and god his name, the little string of slurred barerly audible 'j's spilling from your tired lips, you can't quite say his name, but it's the effor that counts.

buckys grip on your thigh tightens as he slams in deep, spilling inside you with a guttural moan, his whole body tensing before he slumps against you, breath hot and spent. his hips twitch, his cock still throbbing inside your soaked, fluttering cunt, and he can feel it—again—his own cum leaking out around him, making a mess.

then he shifts— pulls back, watches his cum drip from you, watches the way you twitch when he thumbs at your clit just to see what you’ll do.

"s' best birthday ever" he slurs, practically whines, his mind just as hazy as yours. he leans down to seal the deal with a soft kiss on the lips as your arms wrap around him, pulling him onto you.

ignore the way this is technically a day late, IT'S THE THOUGHT THAT COUNTSS 😵‍💫😵‍💫 also the post (and whole overstimulation premise) is inspired by the lovely @yemmuis (this post) please check her out (especially if you are into jjk (⸝⸝ ♡﹏♡⸝⸝) !

[lay-z]

tw: fem!Reader; penetrative sex; oral; cussing; edging; explicit GIF

John MacTavish makes it his sacred mission to make you cum on his dick.

There is no secret between you and him. You'd laid your cards open from the beginning, even before you started dating: "Hey, I can't come with penetrative sex, so don't feel bad when I don't climax like that, okay? I'll still enjoy having sex with you, Johnny."

Sure, Johnny eats you out like a rabid dog, fingerfucks your cunt until your essence dribbles down his hairy wrist, until he's made you orgasm several times, turning you all dumb and pliant, but still

There's an itch in the back of his brain; poking his male pride and agitating his competitive side.

He wants to make you cum on his cock, wants to feel your pussy walls squeeze and flutter around him, milking his balls dry. However, it's more than a want, it's a need. The urgent need to make you feel good, make you his, and his only.

And, Steamin' Jesus, if he can defuse a bloody bomb, he can defuse you!

So, he goes on to study you like some mad scientist, your mind, your body; learns it better than you know yourself, and figures out what turns you on, what off. When are you horniest? What position that he manhandles you in unravels you the most?

He almost becomes obsessed with it, the need to get you off with his cock, and you notice, of course you do. Johnny isn't subtle about it, and goes as far as trying to coax your pussy, tries to talk her through it.

"C'mon, m'bonnie cunt," he coos against your clit before dragging his flat tongue over it, two thick fingers stretching your hole open, pumping lazily. "Fairest of 'em all... ye gonna cum f'me tonight, eh?" He peppers kisses along your slick, glistening folds while you breathe harder, unable to squirm on the mattress in his tight grip.

"Gonna be a good girl and take my cock, let him make ye feel s'good, aye? S'ye 'n him."

"Johnny "

"Shhh, hen," he hushes you gently, glancing up from between your thighs. "Think am finally makin' progress here."

Meanwhile, your legs are shaking, your mind spinning with pleasure and arousal while Johnny continues to edge you for another hour before finally sinking his fat cock inside your sensitive cunt.

He keeps you in missionary. Your legs hiked high up around his waist while he grinds his hips slowly and deeply, building up the pleasure in your core as he talks you through it this time, making sure you're relaxed and focused on him and the feeling of his cock massaging your sopping, gummy walls.

And when he does manage to make you come on his cock, buried deep inside your cunt like two pieces of an unique puzzle, he's sure it's the most beautiful sight and the most wonderful sounds he's ever witnessed, and now it just needs to become a new routine for him.

"Alrighty, hen," he pants against your neck, biting down at your pulse point briefly and tasting your sweat; rough hands roaming over your heated skin while you shudder and mewl underneath him. "Now ye gonna give me one more, aye?"

[wncestnoir]

KISS CAM. the drabble no one asked for but here you go.

Dean loved baseball. The crack of the bat, the smell of overpriced stadium food, the cold beer in his hand—it was all part of the experience. Sam, predictably, was being a little bitch about it, sulking in his seat like he had something better to do.

Which, okay, maybe they did have actual work to focus on. The possible demon three rows down wasn’t going anywhere, but Dean had argued that keeping a low profile meant blending in. What better way to do that than kicking back and enjoying a game?

Then the music changed. The crowd cheered. Dean looked up—and froze.

Right there, on the stadium’s massive screen, were their own stupid faces, framed by a blinding pink heart with KISS CAM stamped over it like a goddamn brand.

Dean choked on his beer. “Oh, hell no.”

Sam’s groan was pure agony. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The crowd was loving this. People were whistling, laughing, egging them on. Someone behind them hollered, “Come on, fellas! Don’t leave us hanging!”

Dean shifted uncomfortably. This was bad. Not because of the kiss itself—hell, he’d done worse things for a case—but because this was Sam.

His brother.

And yet, when he glanced at Sam, all wide-eyed and pink-cheeked, the only thing worse than the sheer wrongness of the situation was the way his stomach did a weird little flip.

"Just shake your head," Sam muttered. "They’ll move on."

The crowd was already booing. People were pissed. Like they’d just insulted the sacred ritual of public make-outs or something. Dean could feel dozens of eyes on them. If they kept refusing, they’d stand out even more.

And, well… if there was one thing Dean Winchester hated, it was being the centre of attention when he didn’t wanna be.

“It’s one kiss,” he said, mostly to himself. “We walk outta here without a target on our backs. No big deal.”

Sam looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that had led him to this moment. Dean wasn’t exactly thrilled either, but screw it—sometimes you had to take one for the team.

So he leaned in.

The second their lips met, the crowd erupted. It was supposed to be quick—just enough to get people off their backs. But then Sam’s mouth softened against his, his breath warm, and for some insane reason, Dean lingered.

His fingers bunched in Sam’s shirt before he could think better of it.

Sam didn’t pull away.

In fact, he—Jesus Christ—tilted his head, deepening it.

A bolt of heat shot through Dean’s spine, something too raw and too unexpected. He barely registered the roar of the crowd, the distant “Holy shit!” from someone too close. His focus narrowed to the way Sam tasted—familiar, but not, and why the hell did this feel good?

He made a noise before he could stop himself. Low, almost surprised. Sam gripped his arm, his fingers warm through Dean’s jacket, and shit.

Dean yanked himself back first.

His breath was coming too fast. His heart was doing something stupid in his chest. Sam looked just as wrecked—flushed, lips red and wet, staring at Dean like he was waiting for something else.

Dean swallowed hard.

“Well,” he said, his voice rough, “guess we’re committed now.”

And then, before his brain could catch up, he was pulling Sam in again.

To hell with the case.

______________________________________________________________

because i couldn't get the idea out of my head 😌 just a silly little something ig 😂

[lrithill]

NSFW ARTphabet Headcanon: The Sacred Clown Porn Manuscript (A-I)

Welcome, faithful deviant, to the Sacred Manuscript of Underground Clown Porn.

This isn’t just any alphabet.

This is a ritual.

A love letter to the character.

A deep, filthy, sensual, and brutal exploration of the soul—and body—of Art the Clown.

Letter by letter, orgasm by orgasm, cumshot by cumshot.

In this chapter, you'll find tenderness, obsessions, bed monsters, cum (lots of it), dirty little secrets, dumb luck, emotional damage, genital torture, period blood, clown-level goofiness, Christmas lights… and yes—even Jesus makes a guest appearance.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

Enjoy, my doomed and blessed soul.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Sometimes, after the act, he just lies there—completely still, watching you. With those empty eyes that somehow, still say too much. You’re never sure if he’s processing what just happened… or deciding whether he should smother you with the pillow. After all, he’s deeply antisocial, and the idea of affection is something he doesn’t quite get.

But instead of leaving, he clumsily moves closer to you. The only thing he understands is that he likes the warmth of your body next to his, the feeling of skin against skin… it’s something entirely new to him.

It’s not a learned gesture, not romantic: it’s instinctual. Like an animal who doesn’t understand what he feels, but lets it guide him anyway.

All of this confuses and overwhelms him. Since he has no idea how to express emotion, he simply does what his body tells him to do—which is usually to bask in this strange sensation that makes him feel something, close to... peace?

In those moments, you might notice a slight tremble in his hands. Not out of fear, but from sheer sensory overload. It’s all too much. Too much heat. Too much closeness. Too much you. And yet, he stays.

And somehow, he’s warm. Shockingly so. He curls up beside you and pulls you tight against him, like he’s trying to fit two puzzle pieces together—pieces that don’t seem like they should fit, and yet… they do.

Until one day… he just doesn’t stay. Those emotions frighten him, wound him—like an arrow straight to the heart. It hits too hard, and all he wants is to flee back to the cold safety of his solitude (for his sake, and for yours).

But he always comes back—with heart still beating in his hands. As if to say:

“I don’t know how to love… but the idea of losing you scares me more than love ever could”.

B = Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Your hands. No doubt about it.

He adores your hands. Since he’s mute, he needs to interact with you in the most physical way possible—and that leads him to constantly reach for your hands.

He kisses them like a gentleman kisses a lady, in a gesture heavy with intention.

He takes your hand to lead you places; he likes walking hand in hand with you everywhere.

Even when you sleep together, his fingers search for yours in the dark—especially when you’re spooning.

Before you shared a bed, he used to sleep in the most unexpected places.

One of his favorites: under your bed.

Many times, you’d see his hand timidly crawling up to the edge of the mattress, climbing like a snake... just so you’d grab it.

Even if he was down there.

And you were up here.

(Art: the monster under your bed who just wants to hold your hand.)

And when you make love... feeling your hands clawing down his back while he loses himself in your body, your nails leaving red trails on his pale skin—that melts him.

And don’t even get started on when you go down on him: your hands take him straight to heaven. Stroking his length up and down, massaging his balls, touching his abdomen, pressing into him, squeezing— his eyes roll back in ecstasy. 

He can’t help but close them and moan, mouth hanging open in wordless pleasure, submissive under your touch.

(Bonus points if your nails are painted.)

As for the part of his own body he likes the most: His smile—or better yet, his whole mouth.

He’s fascinated by how many emotions he can express with it without saying a single word: cruelty, mockery, satisfaction, sarcasm, affection...

He has a blast doing his makeup. He’s an artist, and when he sees his masterpiece take shape in the mirror—in the worst way possible—he can’t help but grin even wider. He’s a simple, happy man. Just eager to go out and spread some fear.

He loves pulling faces at you, watching your every reaction. Most of the time it’s to make you laugh, but sometimes... he likes to scare you.

He doesn’t want you to get too comfortable—he likes reminding you who he is… and that you’re never completely safe around him.

But above all, he loves playing with his victims: laughing maniacally as they bleed out on the floor, begging for help in vain. Watching them freeze when he opens his eyes wide and shows all his teeth… He knows exactly what kind of nightmare his face is.

Though to you, it’s a dream.

(And needless to say… he’s very skilled with it. Every inch of your body can confirm.)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Hot, thick, and absolutely obscene in volume.

He cums with force—shooting white ribbons of pleasure with abandon throughout his orgasm —which, by the way, is far from brief—, painting the walls of your pussy as you milk him dry.

He loves cumming deep inside you. At the height of climax, he presses his body against yours with desperate intensity, like he wants to fuse with you—like he wants to slam through your cervix and spill straight into your womb.

It’s his way of claiming you—because he’s going to be the first and last man you ever fuck—and he’ll make damn sure to own you in every possible way.

Of course, cumming inside isn’t the only way he marks you.

When you’re going down on him, he’s not letting you off easy. You’re going to swallow everything.

He’ll hold your head in place, press your face against his pelvis, savoring the way your throat tightens and gags around his throbbing cock as he unloads down your throat.

He’ll fuck you until you say stop.

Until his balls ache.

Until his cum turns almost clear…

And eventually, the only thing coming out of his cock sounds like a cry for help—if you listened closely, you might hear it whisper: “Help me…”

The only reason you’re not pregnant is because his sperm are so violent, they probably kill each other while still inside his balls.

But beware: if one of them does reach your egg… it’s only because it murdered all the others.

And whatever creature you give birth to… will definitely be worse than its father.

D = Dirty Secret (pretty self-explanatory—a dirty secret of theirs)

Total submission.

Art is dominant. Possessive. Aggressive.

Sometimes he acts submissive—like when you ride him or suck him off—but he’s always in control. He can put you in your place at any moment, and you know it.

But there’s a part of him—buried deep inside—that craves losing control. Completely.

He fantasizes about you tying him up. Wrists and ankles, bound and helpless. His mouth gagged. His eyes blindfolded. Whether it’s in bed or strapped to a chair—handcuffs, duct tape, rope… whatever it takes to keep him from touching you—or touching himself.

So obedient.

He’s obsessed with the idea of ruined orgasm:

You riding him, stroking him, sucking him—bringing him to the very edge and then… stopping.

Leaving him panting.

Twitching.

Desperate for a friction that never comes.

Dragging him back down from climax, again and again, for hours, until he’s nothing more than a trembling mess of nerves, aching for release.

And when you finally let him cum… it doesn’t end there.

You keep going.

Jerking him off without a second of rest. Not letting him breathe, not giving him his refractory period.

You punish him past the orgasm—milking him to the limit.

Chasing as many orgasms as his body can take, one after another, until he doesn’t know whether it’s pain or pleasure anymore.

And just to top it off: a Venus 2000 locked tightly onto his limp cock—sucking him relentlessly, with no mercy, no rest, no purpose but to break him.

Not for pleasure.

But simply to ruin him.

He imagines you using all kinds of toys on him.

Because that’s the other thing: secretly, he wants you to fuck him.

He wants you to peg him.

You, in a strap-on, setting the rhythm—pounding his prostate—while you jerk him off… or maybe not even that.

A chastity cage would be perfect too. Tight. Uncomfortable.

Making him feel… nothing.

His skin bristles just thinking about it. His cock leaks precum, twitching with each forbidden fantasy, trembling for a touch that never comes.

Sometimes, when you’re asleep, he watches you.

And he imagines what it would be like if you tied him to the bed.

If you said: “I’m going to turn you into a slut.”

And he hates it.

And he loves it.

And he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with any of it.

Just once… to be the tortured, instead of the torturer.

But then he gets up. Frustrated.

And digs his nails into his skin—punishing himself for having such weak thoughts.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He has no experience at all—at least, not with living human beings.

He was taught not to see people as potential partners.

Literally, when he saw an “attractive” woman—say, one with big tits—his first thought wasn’t “I’d fuck her.”

It was: “I want to rip those off and hang them on a clothesline.”

Like someone might hang a bra.

He’s always seen people as meat. As toys for his amusement. As prey.

“Can a wolf feel sexual attraction toward a rabbit?” That’s what it felt like for him.

But then you came along.

And no—it wasn’t love at first sight.

There was no miraculous, romantic awakening. Not even close.

You just had the dumb luck to cross paths with him at a moment when he was too weak to kill you.

Normally, he wouldn’t have hesitated: He would’ve sliced you open and eaten your body from the inside out.

But you got lucky.

And that, combined with the fact that you never asked questions, never challenged him… meant he started to tolerate you.

To use you for his own benefit.

And yet…

Turns out he did eat you after all—face buried between your thighs, not your organs.

F = Favorite Position (this goes without saying)

Art is very flexible when it comes to positions.

Literally—he can do them all.

He even invents new ones, like the inverted scarecrow (see under 'O'), his personal signature.

But he has a favorite.

Fucking you from behind.

(And no—we’re not necessarily talking about anal… though that’s certainly on the table.)

Whether it’s in bed, standing, bent over a counter, on all fours, against the wall— he doesn’t care, as long as he gets you like that.

And if there’s a mirror in front of you? Even better—watching your whole body as he takes you is an art form.

And if you’re on your period…

That’s the cherry on top.

Seeing your blood drip down your thighs, smearing it across your body like he’s painting his favorite canvas… it drives him insane.

From this position, he can do everything that unhinges him:

—Bite your neck, your shoulders, your back…

—Yank your hair back to expose your throat, watching your veins pulse beneath your skin.

—Grab you wherever he wants: hips, tits, neck, ass…

—Pin your wrists behind your back—or chain them above your head, anchored to the ceiling.

—Spread your legs open, sometimes with a spreader-bar.

—Stimulate your clit with his fingers and your G-spot with his cock at the same time.

—Kiss you and swallow the way your moans break against his mouth.

Sometimes it’s brutal.

Sometimes it’s slow and devastating.

And sometimes… he just wraps around you.

Like he doesn’t want anything in the world to touch you—except him.

It’s a simple position. Primal. Possessive. Intimate…

Because from behind, he can hold you. Push into you. Devour you.

And make you feel that—even when you can’t see him— he’s always there.

And that’s the most revealing part.

You can’t see his face.

You can’t witness the kind of pleasure that undoes him. The kind that shakes him from the inside out.

The kind that leaves him trembling.

The kind that doesn’t match the image of the irredeemable monster he wants you to believe in.

Because if you did see him— If you really saw his face when he moans, when he cums, when he softens with love he didn’t ask for…

He might lose some of his power.

Or worse: You might actually love him.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Art is a clown.

And not just a clown. A professional one—he never breaks character.

So yes… expect him to be goofy in bed.

The horn is coming into the bedroom—whether you want it or not.

Since he can’t moan out loud, he uses it to simulate moans, perfectly timed to his thrusts.

Honk! Honk! Honk!

He’ll also bring in every kind of toy imaginable to recreate every sound possible—Art will make you question if stepping into that pet store was ever a good idea.

And of course, it always makes you laugh.

When he strips for you, he gives you a full-blown striptease.

He encourages you to play music—just don’t let him pick the playlist, unless you want a bizarre remix of crying babies and static noises.

He’s shameless when it comes to playing with “sexy outfits.”

“Is that a wig, Art?” you ask, barely able to breathe from laughing.

He shakes his finger at you, pops it in his mouth, then winks— while still doing the helicopter (with full sound effects).

Let’s just say: Art’s not a fan of synthetic hair. He likes it… natural.

He’s obsessed with roleplay.

So get ready for full theatrical productions between the sheets.

Since he got that Santa suit, you’ve already played an elf, a reindeer, a snowman, an angel, a bow-wrapped gift, a cookie (remember that scene with Lord Farquaard?), even Jesus (he literally wanted Jesus to suck his dick.)

And who knows what comes next…

Of course, you love every second of it.

You two joke about going to Broadway someday— maybe you’ll win a Tony… or kidnap one.

Either way works.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He has no body hair at all. Just a fine layer of pale fuzz, almost imperceptible—after all, his body is still human.

(He used to have hair on his head, too… until he died.)

Any other man might feel insecure about that. Might think it makes him look too feminine.

But he doesn’t care.

In fact, he likes it that way.

Hair would itch. It would get in the way. He’d have to shave constantly, and that would be a pain in the ass.

He doesn’t have time to worry about things like that.

He has more important things to do…

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

There’s an invisible line Art never crosses.

And while he loves pushing you to the edge—making you tremble, cry, scream his name like you’re about to shatter—he never actually breaks you.

He’s the kind of man who can drag you to the cliff’s edge… but he never pushes.

Not because he couldn’t.

But because he won’t.

Art wants you in a way he wants no one else: vibrant, happy, alive.

He wants you laughing between moans, begging him to stop and not stop at the same time.

He’s obsessed with watching you suffer from pleasure—and he knows that for every rough moment, he’ll make up for it with the best orgasms of your life.

But if the suffering stops being pleasure—if it ever becomes true pain—he stops.

He watches you with a terrifying level of focus.

Even when he seems distracted.

Even when he’s laughing.

Even when he’s completely absorbed in stuffing a 1000-watt string of Christmas lights up your ass so he can light you from the inside and turn you into a disco ball possessed by the spirit of holiday cheer…

He knows.

Your breath.

Your eyes.

Your pulse.

Your voice.

And when something changes—when the spark in your pupils flickers for even a second (yes, even with the lights inside you—it’s hard to see, but he sees it)—he stops.

He caresses you.

He kisses you.

He holds his personal holiday decoration abomination like it’s something sacred.

And he looks at you, with sincere tenderness and a crooked smile, as if asking:

“Am I still your worst best decision?”

If you say yes, he finishes decorating you with a star on top of your head.

If you say no, he takes the lights out.

He makes you laugh.

He makes you a post-sex milkshake.

Or he cleans you with a damp cloth, absurdly gentle—like you’re a marble statue.

Because at the end of the day, beyond the chaos, the sadism, the prop addiction… Art adores you.

And everything he does is to watch you enjoy yourself.

To hear you laugh.

To make you shine (literally).

Like you’re his favorite performance.

His light.

And when it comes to sex, there are days when Art gets unexpectedly soft—so sweet it takes you off guard.

You never know if he’s about to ask you to do something deplorable—like kidnapping children, fattening them up, and cooking them for next Thanksgiving—or if, by some miracle, he’s become the most romantic, domestic man on Earth.

He takes you in missionary.

Because he loves your mouth.

Because he loves kissing you while he fucks you like a desperate lover.

His arms wrap around you completely.

Your bodies melt together.

There’s no telling where one ends and the other begins.

You can hear him panting in your ear, breath wild—a faint whisper, almost imperceptible, that still says so much.

You can’t help but touch him the whole time—his scarred back, his soft arms, his beautiful face…

And you look into his eyes.

And he looks back.

And he doesn’t need words to tell you he loves you—in his way—but he does.

He doesn’t need words to thank you.

Thank you for surviving him.

Thank you for surviving his love.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end. I hope I made you blush, laugh, horny, suffer, or scream to the sky.

I'd love to know if you'd like to see any of these letters developed into future fanfics.

Would you like to see Santa Art spanking someone dressed as a reindeer, as if urging his sleigh forward?

Would you like to live out Art’s total submission fantasy?

Would you like Art to shove Christmas lights up your ass and turn you into his human Christmas tree?

I'm open to all kinds of requests, of course. Though I seriously doubt anything you suggest will top what’s already here… (and we still have a whopping 17 letters to go).

For those who just can’t wait, the full alphabet is already up on AO3. You’ll recognize it when you see it.

Here you got the second part (J-Q):

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/780916090799783936/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

And the third part (R-Z)

https://www.tumblr.com/lrithill/781563844942249984/nsfw-artphabet-headcanon-the-sacred-clown-porn?source=share

[rhyrhy]

Something softer, simpler

⋆. ࿔ Warnings: smut(?), no plot lol, L- word bombs. Pet names used. Random Drabble , lowkey apart of this

Everytime I remember how gentle her voice is, I think about soft intimacy with her….

✧ “Tell me if it hurts, yeah?” always looking out for you even when she was losing herself in the moment.

✧ “You look so—fuck,” she exhaled, her breath shaky as she watched you, as if she couldn’t believe you were real. “So goddamn beautiful.”

✧ A groan would ring out in her chest, deep “Mngh—yes. Holy shit, princess,” she breathed, her grip tightening like she was grounding herself in you.

✧ She shuddered when you moaned her name, like it did something to her. “I love when you say my name like that,” she rasped, fingers flexing against your thigh.

✧ When you reached for her, she was already there. “I’m right here. I got you,” she murmured, lacing her fingers through yours, squeezing like a silent promise.

✧ She dipped down, her lips trailing over your neck, slow and deliberate, pressing soft kisses down to your collarbone. “Feel good, baby?” A pause, her breath warm against your skin. “Still okay?”

✧ She let out a soft chuckle, hands steadying your hips when you got ahead of yourself. “Mm—wait, wait. Slow down, gorgeous.” She smirked, voice teasing but firm. “We’ve got all night.”

✧ If you ever forgot to breathe, lost in the moment, she always noticed. “Hey, breathe,” she murmured, thumb brushing under your chin to tilt your face up to hers. “There you go. Can’t have you passing out on me now, can I?”

✧ Her head tipped back slightly, a pant slipping past her lips. “Jesus—who taught you that?” She let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head as her hands roamed your skin. “No—no, definitely not a complaint.”

✧ Her voice was softer then, almost in awe. “You look so pretty laid out for me.” Her fingers traced the length of your body, slow and reverent, like she was committing every inch of you to memory.

The heat between you, the weight of her body, the sound of her breath mixing with yours. it was almost too much. Just two women tangled together in something sacred, something undeniably real, And then, the words slipped out. not higher than a whisper. Your cheek pressed against hers. All moments stopped, she Pulled back just enough to see your face, ‘I love you’. Those three words rung out into the space. Nothing else filled it until her lips parted. “You do?” Her voice was so quiet, so bare. Then, a breathless laugh, laced with disbelief. “Oh my god, please—say it again.”

And when you did, she kissed you like she was memorizing you, like she needed you closer than skin, closer than breath. Like those words had just undone something inside her.

“I love you too.”

Dividers

[keeryhours]

new year’s magic - eddie munson

Eddie Munson x female! reader

Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

You and Eddie meet up at Steve’s annual New Year’s party

Warnings:

Drinking, kissing

Word Count: 1.2k

A/N:

Happy New Year to all of you!! I hope 2025 is the best yet! This is just a short little oneshot I wrote to celebrate. I hope you like it! And thank you again @punkrockmlchael for my banner ily!

—

Steve Harrington’s New Year’s party was in full swing, living up to its reputation for another year. The music was loud, the alcohol was flowing, and it was nearing midnight.

You stood awkwardly to the side, a mixed drink in a red solo cup clutched tightly in your hand. This wasn’t really your scene, but Steve insisted on your presence. You had rolled your eyes when he first brought it up, but as you always did when it came to Steve, you eventually gave in.

Now he had effectively abandoned you, which you couldn’t really blame him for because it was his party after all. But you weren’t close with these people, you didn’t know how to talk to them. You were debating heading out early, before the countdown even happened - because who was going to kiss you at midnight? No one yet again, that’s who.

You were brought out of your thoughts by a hand on your lower back. You jumped, some of your drink splashing over the rim of your cup and onto your dress. “Shit!”

“Jesus, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You looked up and immediately softened when you saw those brown doe eyes looking back down at you, wild curls framing his smiling face.

“It’s okay, it’s not that bad,” you said, face flushing red as you reached for some paper towels on the kitchen counter.

“Here, let me help you,” Eddie said, quickly taking the paper towels from your hands and dabbing at your dress with them. Thankfully not much had spilled - your outfit certainly wasn’t ruined. You stood there as Eddie wiped at the fabric over your boobs for an awkwardly long time. Once he was satisfied, he shoved the wet towels into the trash can. “Good as new!”

You looked down at your little black dress - you couldn’t tell anything had been spilled on it at all. You smiled back up at Eddie. “Thanks. My hero.”

Eddie chuckled, a hand on the back of his neck. “I don’t know if I can qualify as your hero when I was the one who scared you in the first place.”

“Oh, no,” you said, not wanting your friend to feel bad. “I just wasn’t expecting anyone to come talk to me.”

Eddie looked around at the crowd. “Not exactly your scene, eh?”

“Definitely not,” you admitted, taking a sip of your drink. “I didn’t think it was yours, either.”

Eddie shrugged, giving you a sheepish grin. “It’s not. But Harrington wouldn’t leave me alone about it, and I figured, could be fun?”

“Are you having fun?” You asked, eyebrows raised at him over the rim of your cup.

“I am now that I’m talking to you,” he smiled. Your cheeks heated even more, looking away from him and into the contents of your drink.

“I’m not exactly the most fun person at this party,” you mumbled. Honestly, you still weren’t even sure how you and Steve Harrington had become friends in the first place. He never even noticed you all through high school, but when you started working at Family Video with him and your best friend Robin (who insisted he was a changed man and wasn’t King Steve anymore), you just hit it off. You had been close friends ever since.

You met Eddie when your close friend insisted you meet her new boyfriend, Gareth, and his D&D buddies. You were shy and dreaded meeting new people, but you were also into fantasy and games, so you agreed.

Eddie became one of your best friends immediately. He invited you into Hellfire - something that was sacred and rare, as your friend and Gareth filled you in - and you became a regular in their campaigns. Eddie was even in the process of helping you come up with your own campaign to DM for the club, which again, was sacred and rare and shocked the rest of the group to their core.

But Eddie had a soft spot for you.

Maybe there was something else there, too.

You had had a crush on Eddie since you first met him. How could you not? He was just cool, liked fantasy, liked D&D, loved metal music and could play guitar (which was so, so hot). He even played guitar for you a few times, which had your heart melting.

Just like it was now with him standing so close to you.

“It’s time for the countdown!” Steve called loudly from wherever he was, and the whole party cheered. Everyone shuffled into the living room where the large TV was on. You and Eddie stayed back in the corner, away from most of the chaos.

The Times Square ball filled the screen. As it began its descent, the whole party cheered along with the countdown.

“10! 9!”

Eddie shuffled a little closer to you, but you were sure it was just because of the crowd.

“8! 7!”

You took the last sip of your drink, sitting it on the table to the side of you. You’d clean it up later.

“6! 5!”

You felt Eddie place a hand on your hip. It sent an electrical current through your body, making you shiver. His calloused fingertips were pressed against the bare skin peeking through your sheer dress. He smelled like beer and cheap cologne. It was nice.

“4! 3!”

Eddie turned you to face him with his hands on your hips. You looked up at him wide eyed. Your body was humming with excitement and nerves as you looked into his eyes, searching for what he was planning behind that smirk.

“2!”

He pulled your body flush against his. You gasped.

“1! Happy New Year!”

Eddie leaned down and pressed his lips against yours as cheers and noise makers went off around the room. You think your heart might have stopped for a moment. His lips captured yours with a confidence you didn’t fully expect from him. You wrapped your arms around his neck as your knees went weak and you shared the tender yet heated kiss. You tangled your fingers in the hair at the base of his neck as he pressed his body impossibly closer to yours. His tongue slipped into your mouth and you happily let him in.

“Get a room, you two!” Steve yelled jokingly, laughing from across the room. “But also, about time!”

Eddie pulled away and you knew you were red as a tomato with how hard you were blushing. Eddie pushed a strand of hair behind your ear as he grinned down at you. “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that.”

“Me too,” you admitted, which made Eddie chuckle.

“You know, they say that whatever you’re doing when the clock strikes midnight, that’s what you’ll be doing all year.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leaned in, placing a kiss to your cheek before his lips reached your ear. “Be my girlfriend, maybe? So we can do this all year?”

You giggled, the biggest smile covering your whole face. “I would love that.”

Steve erupted into cheers and claps again, waving his noisemaker in the air. “That’s what I love to see! Magic always happens at the Harrington New Year’s party!”

[littlesoulshine]

he stood stiff in the doorway like the shower might bite him. arms crossed, jaw tight, shoulders bunching under layers of dried blood, dirt, and god-knows-what. he hadn’t said much since you, butcher, and the others, found him—just grunted, cursed under his breath, and flinched when the water hissed from the faucet.

you stepped in close, steam curling around you and ran your hands over his thick forearms. “c’mon, ben,” you whispered. “just hot water....not a torture chamber.”

he snorted, half amused, half bitter. “feels the fuckin’ same.”

still, he let you remove his shirt, peel the sleeves off his bruised arms, fingers skimming over scars and marks. his dog tags clinked softly against his chest, silver dulled by years of hell.

“jesus,” you muttered, voice caught in your throat as you traced a jagged scar over his ribs. “they really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

he didn’t answer you, just stepped into the shower with a grunt, water cascading down over him, hair slicking back, that broad chest rising with every breath like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

you followed him in, warm hands grabbing the soap, lathering it between your palms. “lemme take care of you,” you said, rubbing the suds into his chest, across thick pecs, down the trail of hair leading to his stomach. “you don’t gotta say anything, just…let me.”

he closed his eyes, letting the water hit his face, lips parting in a silent exhale when your fingers dragged down his abs. his cock, heavy and half-hard already, twitched when your soapy hand ghosted over it.

you smiled, “missed this part, huh?” you teased, pecking the curve of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. he didn’t kiss you back, too proud. but he let you keep going, hand wrapping around him now, slow strokes under the rain of heat and steam.

“fuckin’ tease,” he muttered, but there was no venom in it—just hunger and vulnerability.

“you say that like you’re not already half hard for me, soldier,” you whispered, lips trailing down to the side of his neck, biting gently before soothing the mark with a kiss. his pulse jumped under your tongue.

you tugged him again, firmer this time, thumb brushing the tip where his precum was already mixing with soap and water.

he growled low, hand bracing against the tile behind you, chest heaving. “fuck, poppet…”

“yeah?” you murmured, kissing down his collarbone, biting his shoulder. “you like when i take care of you like this? after they left you in that box?”

his hips twitched while your fist tightened just a little more, rhythm smooth, wrist twisting just right. he groaned, deep and broken, like he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

“you’re safe now,” you said against his skin. “mine now.”

his hand grabbed your ass, hard, dragging you against him, cock twitching in your grip. “then don’t stop,” he rasped, voice hot in your ear. “make me feel good.”

and you did. you stroked him in a slow, teasing rhythm while water poured down your bodies as you kissed his every scar, every wound, every brutalized piece of him like it was sacred. and when he came, grunting through clenched teeth, spilling over your fist and down your thighs, he finally kissed you, hard—like he needed to remember he was alive and you made sure he didn’t forget.

tags below ❤︎

@soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @cherrygirlfriend @bittersweetfig @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @zepskies @liiiilsss

[twistedheartsclub]

Pinned Beneath Him Male Mechanic X Reader

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of obsession, stalking, kidnapping, non-consensual sexual situations, psychological manipulation, physical violence, and dubious consent. Reader discretion is strongly advised. Please do not read if these topics may be triggering or distressing.

It was the kind of town where dust clung to your ankles and everybody knew your business before you did. Quiet, sun-bleached, always humming with cicadas and the low growl of trucks. Y/N didn’t plan to stay long. Just long enough to settle her late aunt’s affairs and figure out where the hell she was supposed to go next.

But the old truck had other ideas.

It gave out on a backroad just shy of town—shuddered, hissed, and died in the heat like a wounded animal. She coaxed it down the road in neutral, heart in her throat, until she spotted the garage: Walker’s Auto, paint peeling off the sign, metal doors thrown open to let the heat spill in.

Inside, a man was working on a car that looked older than sin but ran like it was sacred. He had his back to her, bent over the open hood—broad shoulders glinting with sweat, tan skin streaked with oil and grease. Shirt tied around his waist, black tank top hugging every line of his muscled frame. He looked like he belonged to the heat—mean and golden, all hard edges and rough hands.

She stepped closer, heart thudding.

“Excuse me?” she said softly.

He didn’t look up.

“Closed.”

“I—I know. I’m sorry. But my truck just died and I—”

“I said we’re closed.” He straightened finally, tossing a wrench into a tray. His eyes met hers—and she felt like she’d been struck. Dark eyes, sharp jaw, days-old scruff, and a mouth that looked like it only ever smirked or scowled.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said, quietly, trying not to flinch. “Everything else is shut down.”

He stared at her for a long beat. Then looked past her at the steaming mess of her truck outside. He huffed a sigh, muttering something under his breath.

“Jesus. Fine. Pop the hood before it melts into the damn asphalt.”

She blinked. “Really?”

“Don’t make me change my mind, sweetheart.”

And that was how she met Cal Walker—grumpy, grease-stained, absolutely carved out of stone. He barely spoke to her while he worked, just grunted and cursed under his breath, sweat dripping down his temples.

But she saw it—the way he glanced at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his jaw clenched when she smiled at him.

He got the truck running, barely. Told her she’d need to come back. Told her not to drive it more than five miles or she’d blow it to hell.

Then he walked back into the garage without another word.

She brought him a pie the next day. Just to say thank you.

And that’s when it started.

The town was called Cedar Rock, but there weren’t many trees. Just dry hills, winding roads, and one main street lined with fading brick buildings that looked like they hadn’t changed since the 1950s. A diner. A barber shop. A bait-and-tackle store no one really needed anymore. And of course, Walker’s Auto—right on the edge of town like it was daring anyone to bother it.

Y/N had only ever been there once before, years ago. Her aunt Miriam had moved there for “peace and quiet” after a messy divorce, dragging her younger sister with her. Y/N remembered visiting in the summers, always itching to leave by day three. Too hot. Too slow. Too many eyes.

Now she was back for the worst reason—Miriam had passed suddenly. No warning. No goodbye. She’d left behind a modest home at the edge of town, a mountain of books, some old records, and a town full of people who acted like they’d known Y/N her whole life.

They didn’t.

But that didn’t stop them from butting in.

There was Mrs. Callahan, the nosy neighbor who brought over dry cookies and even drier gossip.

“So sorry about Miriam, honey. But between you and me, she was never quite right after that man left her. Maybe it’s good you’re here now. You can clean things up.”

And Rhett, the flirty cashier at the general store, who asked if she needed “a strong pair of hands” to help move furniture. His breath smelled like chewing tobacco and desperation.

Everywhere she went, people smiled too wide, asked too many questions, and called her “sweetheart” like it was her name.

“You stickin’ around?”

“What do you do again?”

“You seeing anyone?”

She lied. Often.

Y/N wasn’t planning to stay. She worked remotely as a digital illustrator—did book covers and concept art for indie authors. It paid the bills, gave her freedom. She could work from anywhere… but God, she missed the noise of the city. The coffee shops. The trains. The strangers who didn’t look at her like they already knew who she was.

Her sister, Ava, was supposed to arrive the next day. Loud, sharp-tongued, city to the core. Y/N was counting the hours. Until then, she stayed low, tried to keep to herself.

But the truck was acting up again.

So back she went to Walker’s Auto, fingers crossed, jaw tight.

This time, Cal was sitting outside the garage in a folding chair, smoking a cigarette like it owed him money. Boots planted wide, tank top soaked with sweat. He saw her pulling up and didn’t move. Just watched.

She parked. Stepped out.

“It’s doing that thing again.”

“No shit,” he said, flicking ash to the ground. “I told you not to drive it.”

“I had to pick up a delivery from the post office. It’s kind of important.”

He stood. Slowly. Walked over, looking her up and down like he was checking for damage.

“That pie you brought yesterday,” he said, squinting at her. “Was it supposed to taste like soap or was that a mistake?”

Her mouth dropped open. “What?!”

His mouth twitched. Almost a smile.

“I’m kidding. It was good. Real good.”

She blinked, caught between offense and shock. “You’re an ass.”

“Yeah,” he said, opening the hood. “I’ve been told.”

He’s under the hood again, hands deep in her engine, grumbling like he’s arguing with it. Y/N leans against the fender, arms crossed, trying not to stare too long at the way his back flexes every time he moves.

“So what now?” she asks after a beat. “You fixing it, or giving it last rites?”

Cal pulls his head out from under the hood, wiping his hands on a rag. “Needs a part I don’t have in stock. Gotta order it. You’ll be outta wheels for a couple days, maybe more.”

She sighs. “Of course.”

He eyes her. Then, after a long pause, says, “You got places you need to be?”

“…Why?”

“I can drive you.”

She blinks. “You don’t even know my name.”

“Didn’t stop me from eating your pie,” he shoots back, that same flicker of a grin threatening the corner of his mouth.

“…Y/N,” she finally says, slowly. “Y/N L/N.”

He nods once. “Cal Walker.”

A handshake might be too formal, too stiff for the heat between them. But he pulls out a phone, taps it once, then holds it out. “Put your number in. I’ll text when the part gets here. And if you need a ride—”

“I’ll owe you,” she finishes, narrowing her eyes a little.

“Damn right you will.”

But there’s no menace in it. Just something… curious. Interested. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of storm just blew into his shop.

She hesitates, then takes the phone and types her number in. A moment later, hers vibrates with a text: “Cal – grumpy mechanic, don’t block me.”

She smirks, despite herself. “Grumpy is an understatement.”

“You city girls always this mouthy?”

“Only when we’re right.”

He watches her, the smile ghosting again across his face. “You said city—where from?”

“Chicago.”

He whistles low. “Your aunt ever tell you she made the best damn cornbread in this state?”

Y/N pauses. “You knew her?”

Cal nods, leaning against the truck beside her. “Yeah. Miriam was a hell of a woman. Smart. Tough. Didn’t take shit from anybody. She helped me out when I first started this place.” A pause. “Sorry she’s gone.”

The air softens between them.

“…Thanks,” Y/N says quietly.

He nods once more, eyes back on the engine like he’s hiding from something.

Two days later,

A blue car kicks up dust in the driveway. Y/N’s on the porch in cutoffs and a loose tee, hair up, sketchbook balanced on her knees.

Ava steps out of the car like she’s arriving for a magazine shoot—sunglasses, iced coffee, and attitude.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, shielding her eyes. “It’s hotter than Satan’s ass.”

Y/N laughs and runs down to hug her. Ava hugs back, then pulls away to eye her up and down.

“You look like a local. What the hell happened to you?”

Y/N grins. “I met a mechanic.”

Ava pauses, takes off her glasses. “You slept with a mechanic?”

“No!”

“…Yet.”

Y/N rolls her eyes, but her cheeks warm.

Ava arches a brow. “What, is he hot or something?”

Y/N tries not to smile. “He’s—he’s rude. And weird. But yeah. He’s also built like sin and has forearms that could bench press a car.”

Ava whistles low. “And here I thought this was gonna be boring.”

Y/N laughs. “Oh, it’s still boring. But it’s getting…interesting.”

The next afternoon.

It’s early evening when Cal pulls up to the house in a beat-up black pickup that growls more than it drives. He doesn’t text first. Doesn’t call. Just shows up like he owns the dirt under his tires.

Y/N’s on the porch with Ava, drinking lemonade and sketching. Ava’s wearing sunglasses and a smirk, scrolling on her phone.

The truck crunches to a stop. The engine shuts off.

Y/N’s heart skips. “That’s him.”

Ava lowers her glasses, eyes narrowing as she watches him climb out—tight jeans, oil-stained shirt, rolled sleeves, sun-kissed skin, and those arms. He looks like trouble in human form. And he’s walking toward them with that slow, heavy step that says he’s not used to being interrupted.

“You weren’t kidding,” Ava murmurs. “He looks like a one-man demolition team.”

Cal stops at the foot of the porch, eyes flicking between them. “Truck’s ready,” he says simply. Then nods to Ava. “You the sister?”

Ava flashes a practiced smile. “That’s me. Ava. And you’re the mechanic with the bad attitude?”

Cal lifts a brow. “Guess I am.”

Y/N gives her a look. “Ava…��

“What? I’m just being friendly.”

Cal’s eyes stay on Ava for a second longer—measuring, unamused—but then they shift back to Y/N, and something softens. “Brought the keys,” he says, holding them out. “Did a little more than I said I would.”

“Oh?” Y/N asks, standing to take them.

“Figured if you’re gonna be stuck here, you should at least be able to leave when you want.”

Ava raises a brow. “Romantic. In a caveman kind of way.”

Cal doesn’t look at her. His eyes stay locked on Y/N. “I’ll swing by next week, make sure it’s still running smooth. And your brakes—don’t trust ‘em just yet.”

Y/N nods. “Thanks. Really.”

For a second, the air gets heavier—like something wants to be said but neither of them says it.

Ava fans herself. “This is cute. You two got a whole Jane Austen-in-a-garage thing going on.”

Cal finally glances at her again. “You always talk this much?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“I don’t do entertainment,” Cal says coolly, turning back to the truck.

“Oh, honey,” Ava calls after him, “I wasn’t talking about you.”

The driver’s door slams. The engine roars to life. But before he pulls away, he gives Y/N one last look through the open window—something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he’s gone, dust rising behind his wheels.

Y/N lets out a breath. Ava sips her lemonade, looking smug.

“God, I love watching men squirm.”

“You’re going to scare him off,” Y/N mutters, cheeks warm.

Ava grins. “If that man gets scared, I’ll buy a church hat and call myself polite.”

The days pass slow. Hot sun. Lazy fans. The house creaks like it remembers more than it should.

Y/N and Ava spend their afternoons sorting through their aunt’s things—dusty records, yellowed books, notes scribbled in the margins of cookbooks. Every drawer holds something sentimental or strange. Miriam had been a little witchy, a little wild. She wrote letters she never sent. Kept love poems in a tin under her bed.

The girls laugh, cry, and argue through it all. But there’s an ache under the surface—waiting for the lawyer’s call to read the will. Waiting to know what their aunt really left behind.

And everywhere they go, the town has something to say.

At the diner, waitresses whisper when the girls walk in. At the gas station, old men tip their hats too slow. At the general store, Rhett smirks when he says, “Heard you’ve been spending time at Walker’s. He’s not the friendly type, y’know.”

Y/N ignores most of it, but Ava eats it up. She teases Y/N constantly.

“You’re a hot topic now,” she says one afternoon, tossing another stack of papers into a donation box. “The city girl who came back with legs, lips, and an oil-stained guardian angel.”

Y/N throws a sock at her.

Then the invitation comes.

The Cedar Rock Summer Social. A town dance held in the square, string lights, barbecue, live music, cold beer.

“Your aunt went every year,” Mrs. Callahan chirps when she drops off another pie. “She was always the best dancer. Real heartbreaker in her day.”

Ava’s already pulling up outfit ideas on her phone. “We’re going,” she says firmly. “You need to wear something soft and accidental. Like you just rolled out of a dream.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone,” Y/N lies.

Ava smirks. “You already are.”

That night, the square glows like magic.

Y/N wears a simple sundress—dusty blue, soft and fluttery at the edges. Her hair’s pinned half-up. Lip gloss catching the light. She feels nervous for reasons she refuses to name.

Ava looks like she walked off a runway—red dress, cowboy boots, daring grin.

They walk through the crowd, greeted by too many hellos, and then—

Y/N sees him.

Cal.

In a clean, fitted button-down. Dark jeans. Boots polished. Beard trimmed just enough. Still rough around the edges, but God, he cleans up good. Like someone took all that smolder and gave it shine.

He doesn’t see her at first—he’s leaning against a light post, watching the music quietly, sipping from a cold beer. But when he does see her—his eyes track her like he’s bracing for impact.

And he doesn’t look away.

Y/N’s stomach flips.

Ava leans in and murmurs, “You’re welcome.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Yet.”

Later, when the band kicks into a slow, swaying rhythm, Ava nudges Y/N toward Cal.

“I’m not doing that.”

“Oh yes, you are. Either you walk over there, or I will.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I will. And I’ll ask him to dance myself, in that low sexy voice that always works.”

Y/N glares, red creeping up her neck. But Ava’s already pushing her forward.

She stumbles a little, stops a few feet from him. Cal’s brow raises slightly.

“You look different,” he says.

“So do you,” she fires back. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the grease and attitude.”

His mouth twitches. “Still got the attitude. Just left it in the truck.”

The music swells. People are dancing. The moment hovers.

Y/N hesitates, then blurts, “Do you… wanna dance?”

A beat.

Then, slowly, Cal sets his drink aside. Takes a step closer.

“I don’t really dance,” he murmurs.

She starts to nod, backing off—“It’s okay—”

But then he reaches for her hand.

“Didn’t say I wouldn’t try.”

When he touches her, it’s not like anything she expected. His hand is warm, rough, but his grip is gentle. Protective. They sway under the lights, surrounded by murmurs and soft fiddles.

And somewhere between his arm around her waist and the sound of his breath near her ear— Y/N realizes she’s in trouble.

Because her heart is beating too fast. Because she doesn’t want to pull away. Because Cal Walker smells like smoke and cedar and something else she could get addicted to.

And when their eyes meet—his gaze steady, unreadable—

She realizes she might not just like him.

She might really like him.

The song is slow. Soft. The kind of old tune you only hear at small-town dances or on your grandparents’ radio. The crowd sways, some couples close and lazy, others just barely moving.

Y/N’s heart pounds in her chest, her free hand lightly resting on Cal’s shoulder—but it’s his hand on her waist that does her in. It’s firm. Possessive. Like he wants to pull her closer, but he’s holding back.

And their hands—God—he didn’t just take her hand politely like a gentleman. He intertwined their fingers. Like it meant something. Like he wasn’t planning to let go.

His thumb brushes the side of her hand in slow, unconscious strokes, sending heat racing up her arm.

“You’re not from around here,” he says, voice low. “That obvious?”

“You stick out,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to her mouth, then back up. “Not in a bad way.”

She swallows. “You… been here your whole life?”

“Most of it,” he says. “Left for a while. Came back. This town’s a pain in the ass, but it’s mine.”

A moment passes. The music hums on. His gaze stays locked to hers.

Then he says, “How old are you?”

The question catches her off guard. “What?”

“Your age,” he repeats, not letting her go. “You look young. Not a kid. But young.”

She hesitates. “Twenty-five.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Yeah. That tracks.”

“What about you?”

He smirks. “Older.”

“Cryptic.”

“Thirty-four.”

Y/N raises a brow. “That’s not bad.”

“You were expecting worse?”

“I don’t know. You give off serious grumpy-old-man energy.”

That pulls a low chuckle from his chest. It’s the first time she’s heard him laugh like that—real, unguarded. It does things to her.

Then his voice drops, a little rougher.

“You got a boyfriend back in the city?”

She blinks. “No. Why?”

“No reason,” he says, eyes dipping again, thumb still stroking her fingers. “Just wondered what kind of idiot would let someone like you go.”

The words hit like a punch wrapped in silk. Warm. Intimate. Dangerous.

She doesn’t know what to say. Can’t look away from him.

“You ask all the girls you dance with questions like that?” she tries to joke, her voice a little shakier than she wants it to be.

“I don’t dance with girls,” he says. “Just you.”

The space between them gets smaller. His hand slides just a little lower on her waist. Not indecent—but just enough to make her breath catch. Just enough to make her feel it.

“You cold?” he asks, voice like smoke.

“No,” she whispers.

“Good.”

Because he’s not planning to let go yet.

The song winds down, soft chords fading into the clatter of applause and laughter. Couples begin to drift apart, breaking to get drinks, cool off, or sneak kisses behind food trucks.

Y/N steps back, just a little. “Thanks for the dance,” she says, voice quiet, a little breathless.

But Cal doesn’t let go right away.

His hand lingers on her waist, rough palm warm through the thin fabric of her dress. His other hand still holds hers, fingers still locked, and when he leans in—just a little—he brushes his lips against her cheek.

Not too close to the mouth. Not too far either.

Just dangerously in-between.

“Anytime,” he murmurs. And then he lets go.

The absence of him is immediate.

Y/N turns just in time to see Ava materialize, practically buzzing. She shoves a plastic cup into Y/N’s hand. Something cold and fruity.

“I could see the heat from across the square,” Ava grins. “You were practically glowing.”

“It was just a dance,” Y/N mutters, cheeks burning.

“Mmhmm. And I’m just your sister,” Ava says, sipping from her own drink. “You gonna pretend you didn’t like that?”

Y/N doesn’t answer. She just takes a long sip. Her lips still feel warm.

Then someone else approaches.

He’s cute in that polished, local, “still lives with his mom but has a good smile” kind of way. Button-up shirt. Fresh haircut. Hands in his pockets like he’s trying to play cool.

“Hey,” he says, looking straight at Y/N. “You wanna dance?”

Y/N blinks. She wasn’t expecting that. She opens her mouth to say no, gently, politely—

And then her eyes flick toward Cal.

He’s across the square again, leaning against a post, beer in hand. His head is turned toward a friend who’s talking to him—but his eyes?

Locked on her.

There’s no smirk. No playfulness. Just that deep, unreadable stare. His eyes say: I dare you.

And suddenly Y/N’s heart is in her throat.

It would be so easy to say no.

But then Ava nudges her hard in the side. “Go,” she whispers. “Don’t be weird. He’s cute.”

“I don’t—”

“Y/N. It’s one dance. Move your feet, Juliet.”

Y/N gives one last glance to Cal. Still watching. Still unreadable.

So she forces a smile, nods at the new guy, and lets him lead her back to the dance floor.

His hand is light on her back. He talks a lot. His cologne is too strong. His rhythm’s a little awkward. But none of that registers.

Because the whole time, she’s looking for Cal.

And when she finds him again, leaning back now, one boot crossed over the other, beer to his lips—he’s not smiling.

There’s a shadow in his expression now. A chill behind those hot dark eyes. Something possessive.

Something that says: You think I won’t take you back the second I want to?

And Y/N?

She feels it. All the way down.

The song drags on, too slow for how stiff the guy’s hands feel. Y/N shifts, trying to stay polite, but she’s hyper-aware—of his grip inching lower, of how he leans in a little too close to talk over the music.

And she can feel it.

Cal’s eyes. Somewhere behind her. Watching.

The guy chuckles nervously. “You uh… you new in town or just visiting?”

“Just here for my aunt,” she says softly, trying to shift her body without making it obvious. “She passed recently.”

“Oh. Damn. Sorry. That’s rough…”

His voice trails off because suddenly—Cal is there.

Standing just behind her dance partner. Silent. Still. And too close.

The guy turns mid-sentence, and freezes.

Cal’s not saying a word. He’s not even frowning. His expression is neutral—casual, even. But the energy is suffocating. He’s taller. Broader. And he’s looking at the guy like he already knows where to bury the body.

“Everything good?” Cal asks, voice calm. Smooth.

The guy swallows. “Y-Yeah. I was just—uh—just saying hi.”

Cal tilts his head. “That so?”

Y/N can feel the tension bleeding into her skin. It’s quiet, but deadly. Her partner takes a step back.

Then, as he’s turning to walk away, Cal does something only she sees:

A hand—flat, fast—pressed hard against the guy’s lower back. Not friendly. Not visible to the crowd. But the guy stumbles a little as he walks away, eyes wide. He doesn’t look back.

Y/N just stares.

Cal turns to her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just threaten someone with a touch.

“You looked uncomfortable,” he says. No apology in it.

“I was fine.”

He raises a brow. “No. You weren’t.”

Before she can say anything else, Ava reappears—laughing too loud, flushed from dancing, holding a cup in each hand.

“Ohhh my God,” she slurs lightly. “Y/N, this DJ is playing Backstreet Boys. Get your ass over there, we’re time-traveling.”

She hands her a drink, clearly her second or third. Maybe fourth.

Y/N pulls it away. “Are you kidding me? I drove.”

“Pfft, so? I’ll crash at the house. You can stay for a bit—loosen up.”

“You’ve had way too much—”

“I’m fiiiiiine,” Ava purrs, then promptly disappears into the crowd again, drink sloshing.

Y/N stands there, tense, annoyed, her hand still holding a sweating plastic cup she didn’t ask for.

Then Cal leans in.

“Come on. Let me take you home.”

She looks at him. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His tone dips lower. “You shouldn’t be out here by yourself tonight. Especially not with her like that.”

Y/N glances around—people laughing, drinking, dancing like they’ve got nowhere to be. She could stay. Could walk home. But her body’s already leaning toward him.

“Okay,” she says, voice quiet.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods once. Leads her to the truck.

Only… he doesn’t take her to her aunt’s house.

They pull out of town, passing familiar turns. Y/N watches the road, confused.

“This isn’t the way back,” she says.

“Nope.”

She tenses. “Where are we going?”

“My place,” he says, casually. “Closer. Safer.”

She turns to him. “You could’ve told me that.”

“I figured if you didn’t trust me, you wouldn’t’ve gotten in the truck.”

And the worst part is—he’s right

The truck rumbles to a stop outside a modest, one-story house set back from the road. Wood-paneled, metal roof, gravel driveway. A garage off to the side, lights off now. Everything is quiet, too quiet—except for the buzz of crickets and the hum of electricity in the air.

Y/N steps out and follows Cal up the porch steps, her shoes crunching against the old wood. He unlocks the door with a heavy keyring, pushing it open without ceremony.

“Come in,” he says over his shoulder, already walking in like she belongs there.

She steps inside slowly. The air smells like cedar, motor oil, something masculine and woodsy. Not dirty—but lived in. The living room is all worn leather, flannel throws, a couple old records scattered near a player. Tools on the counter. A knife on the coffee table.

Y/N slips off her shoes at the door, barefoot against cool wood floors. She tucks her arms around herself.

It feels too quiet. Too intimate.

But Cal?

Cool as ice.

He tosses his keys into a bowl, heads into the kitchen like this is routine. Opens the fridge. “Want a beer?”

She hesitates. “…Sure.”

He tosses her one underhanded. She barely catches it.

He leans back against the counter, popping his own open. She cracks hers with a soft hiss and takes a small sip. Cold. Bitter.

“You always bring girls home this easy?” she asks, trying to mask her nerves.

He smirks. “You’re not easy.”

That shuts her up.

He watches her over the rim of his bottle. Eyes sharp. Curious.

“So,” he says slowly, “you ever been in love?”

The question punches the air out of her lungs.

She looks away. “What kind of question is that?”

“An honest one.”

“…Once. Maybe.”

He takes another drink. “You ever get your heart broken?”

She nods, slowly.

“Ever break someone else’s?”

“Probably,” she says. “But I didn’t mean to.”

He steps closer. Casual. Still holding his drink.

“You with anyone now?”

“No.”

He tilts his head. “How many people you been with?”

She bristles. “That’s private.”

“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I’m asking.”

She exhales. “Three. That matter?”

His eyes flicker. Something dark. “No.”

A beat.

“…Fewer than me,” he admits. “But I haven’t touched anyone in a long time.”

She meets his eyes again. Something tight and breathless coils in her chest.

And then he’s closer. Inches.

He reaches up—slowly—and brushes a strand of hair from her face. His fingers trail down her jaw, calloused but gentle. Her breath hitches.

Their eyes lock.

Then his gaze drops—to her lips.

And he leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Testing. Tasting. He’s careful. She’s frozen.

But then she exhales—and kisses him back. Her beer forgotten, she sets it down blindly on the counter, arms wrapping around his shoulders as if something inside her cracked open.

His hands slide down to her waist, grip tightening.

And in one smooth motion—he lifts her.

She gasps against his mouth, legs instinctively wrapping around his hips, arms around his neck. He walks, steady and sure, past the couch, down the short hall.

To the bedroom.

The door shuts behind them.

The door clicks shut behind him, soft but final. The room is dark except for a lamp in the corner, casting a golden glow across worn wood, thick sheets, and shadows dancing on the walls.

He doesn’t set her down.

He just presses her back against the door, their mouths crashing together again, hotter now. Less careful. His hands roam—strong, calloused palms dragging down her sides, gripping her thighs, squeezing her like he’s memorizing the shape of her.

Y/N whimpers when his teeth catch her bottom lip, tugging just enough to make her feel it. Her hips rock forward instinctively, and he groans against her mouth—low, rough, like he’s holding back something wild.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he mutters against her neck, “since you walked into my garage in that damn sundress.”

His teeth find her throat—bite, not just a kiss—and she gasps, clinging tighter.

“You smell sweet,” he growls. “Soft little thing… I knew you’d melt in my hands.”

He walks them to the bed, tossing her down onto it like she weighs nothing. She hits the mattress with a soft gasp, hair spread around her like a halo—but her eyes? Glazed. Wanting. His.

Cal peels off his shirt, slow and deliberate, muscles rippling. She watches him like he’s carved from heat and sweat and sin.

Then he climbs over her, straddling her hips, fingers finding the hem of her dress.

“This pretty thing,” he murmurs, pushing it up inch by inch, “how wet are you in it right now, sweetheart?”

She squirms. Breathless. Embarrassed. Turned on.

His palm slides between her thighs—and when he presses his fingers to her panties, he growls low in his throat.

“Fuck. You’re soaked.”

Y/N whines as he rubs slow, steady circles over the fabric—teasing, never enough. His other hand slides under the dress, up her belly, to her bra.

“Can I mark you?” he asks, voice dark velvet. “Can I make you mine?”

She nods—barely a breath.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” she whispers.

He leans down—mouth hot on her collarbone, then her shoulder—then her breast. He bites. Sucks. Leaves a dark mark just above the lace edge. And another. And another.

She’s panting now, writhing beneath him.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls against her skin. “No one else gets to touch you. Look at you. Think about you.”

His fingers slip beneath the soaked cotton of her panties—and she moans as he finally touches bare skin.

His fingers slide beneath her panties, slow and deliberate, until they find the slick heat between her thighs.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice thick. “You’re dripping, baby.”

Y/N arches against him, mouth open, breath coming fast as his fingers stroke her—teasing, circling, dipping inside just to pull back out again. It’s maddening.

“Cal—” she gasps.

He cuts her off with another kiss—deep, hot, tongue sliding against hers while his thumb finds her clit and presses. She cries out into his mouth, and he grins against her lips.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me hear it.”

He pulls her panties off with one strong tug, rips the bra from under her dress with barely a flick of his wrist. She’s laid bare beneath him—flushed, panting, legs spread—and he just watches her for a beat, eyes drinking her in like he’s memorizing every inch.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters.

Then he’s on her again—mouth everywhere. Kissing down her chest, biting her soft skin, leaving dark bruises on her breasts, her ribs, her thighs. She writhes beneath him, hands tangled in his hair, moaning his name like a prayer.

When he slides two thick fingers inside her, she gasps—hips lifting off the mattress.

“Cal—oh my God—”

“You’re gonna come for me first,” he says roughly. “I’m not even getting inside you until you fall apart on my hand.”

He curls his fingers just right, rubbing deep, his thumb rolling over her clit with perfect pressure.

It doesn’t take long.

Y/N shatters with a cry, her back arching, her thighs clamping around his wrist. He keeps going, slow and steady, dragging it out, watching her tremble beneath him.

When she finally sags back against the bed, boneless and whimpering, he leans down and licks her slick off his fingers.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he growls.

Then he strips the rest of the way—jeans, boxers—and she sees him.

Big. Thick. Hard. Veins running down his shaft like sin carved into flesh.

Her breath catches. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He smirks. “Not tonight.”

He spreads her legs again, crawling between them, lining himself up. He pauses—just a moment—pressing the tip of his cock against her soaked entrance.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

“Please,” she whispers.

He thrusts into her in one slow, thick push—and they both moan. Deep, guttural. She clutches at his shoulders, gasping as he stretches her wide, fills her completely.

“Jesus, you feel good,” he groans into her neck. “Tight little pussy—fuck.”

He starts to move. Deep, slow strokes at first. His hips grind against hers, dragging delicious friction over her clit. Her nails dig into his back. She’s already close again.

Cal gets rougher. His hand wraps under her knee, pushing it up toward her chest. He drives into her harder, deeper, his breath hot against her ear.

“You’re mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“Yours,” she gasps.

He slams into her.

“Louder.”

“Yours, Cal—yours!”

That snaps something in him.

He fucks her like he’s claiming her—biting her shoulder, sucking marks into her throat, holding her down with one big hand against her belly while the other grips her throat just enough to make her feel it.

She comes again. Harder this time. Screaming his name.

He follows with a groan, hips stuttering, holding deep inside her as he spills hot and thick. His teeth sink into her collarbone as he rides out his orgasm, growling her name like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Morning.

The sun’s peeking through dusty blinds. Y/N stirs beneath heavy covers, skin sore, marked, and still humming from the night before.

She’s in his shirt—massive, soft, hanging off one shoulder. She stretches, her thighs aching deliciously.

Cal’s already up. Shirtless, jeans half-buttoned, tugging on boots by the door.

He looks back when he hears her move—and grins.

“Sleep alright, sunshine?” His voice is low, teasing—but there’s a glint of something darker behind it. Possession.

She sits up, rubbing her eyes. “Barely. You didn’t exactly let me rest.”

He chuckles. “You didn’t complain.”

She blushes and looks away. “Where’s my dress?”

He walks over, leans down, one hand cupping the back of her head as he kisses her—slow, lingering, deep. Like he’s reminding her who put her in his bed.

Then he pulls back, eyes locked on hers.

“I’m takin’ you home,” he says. “But don’t think for a second you’re done with me.”

Y/N’s aunt’s house. Late morning. The sun is way too bright for someone who got absolutely destroyed the night before. Y/N slips through the front door barefoot, wearing her wrinkled sundress and Cal’s flannel jacket thrown over her shoulders.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

She tries to creep past the living room, but Ava’s voice cuts through like a knife.

“Well, well, well,” Ava drawls from the couch, still in pajama shorts and an oversized tee, coffee mug in hand. “Look what the cat dragged home.”

Y/N groans. “Not now.”

“Oh no, we are absolutely doing this now.” Ava grins, propping her feet up. “Is that his flannel?”

Y/N glares. “I wasn’t gonna walk barefoot in my dress like a walk-of-shame fairytale character.”

“So you admit it was a walk of shame.”

She sighs, collapsing into the chair across from her. “Can you just—don’t make this worse.”

Ava sips her coffee with a sparkle in her eye. “Alright, alright, I’ll be chill… after one very important question.”

Y/N lifts a brow. “…What?”

Ava leans in, eyes wide, voice stage-whispers: “Please tell me you used a condom.”

Y/N covers her face with both hands. “Oh my God.”

A beat of silence.

Ava gasps. “Y/N.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“You didn’t?!”

“He was—ugh, I don’t know, it just—happened!”

“Girl,” Ava groans, flopping back dramatically, “these small-town men are always raw-dogging. That’s why Mrs. Kellerman has seven kids and looks like she hasn’t slept since 1992.”

Y/N groans into her hands. “This is the worst day of my life.”

“Oh, it is not. You got absolutely ruined by a hot mechanic. You’re glowing. I’m just making sure you’re not glowing with twins.”

“I’m going to scream.”

Ava smirks, clearly living for it. “You should at least get brunch out of it. Maybe a ring.”

Y/N throws a cushion at her. Ava catches it like a pro.

“Okay, okay, I’m done… for now.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Then Y/N, still curled up in flannel, mutters, “…Wanna do dinner tonight?”

Ava’s head tilts. “You cooking, or are we being classy with gas station wine and frozen pizza?”

“I’ll cook,” Y/N says, “if you promise not to bring up the phrase ‘raw dog’ ever again.”

“No promises,” Ava says with a smirk, “but I will bring dessert.”

That evening, dinner at the house.

Y/N cooks something simple but good—pasta, garlic bread, salad, wine. Ava "helps" by dancing around the kitchen to 2000s pop and drinking more wine than she pours into the glasses.

The front door creaks open. Y/N looks up—heart skipping—just in time to see Cal step inside. Clean jeans. Fitted henley. Beard freshly trimmed. His usual brooding energy wrapped up in something just charming enough to survive dinner with Ava.

Y/N hadn’t invited him.

Ava did.

He walks over, gives Y/N a once-over that makes her glow, and says, “Smells good.”

She mumbles a flustered thanks.

At the table, things are... chaotic.

Ava’s halfway through her second glass, going off about town gossip, weird neighbors, and Cal’s “grumpy hotness.” Y/N hides her face while Cal just eats like none of it phases him.

Then Ava leans in, wine-drunk and grinning. “So, Cal… you got a hot brother too, or are you the whole damn bloodline?”

Y/N nearly chokes on her drink.

Cal lifts a brow, lips twitching into the smallest smirk. “No brothers. But you couldn’t handle two of me.”

Ava cackles. “I don’t know, I’m pretty strong.”

He glances at Y/N, eyes sharp with heat. “You’d be surprised what you can or can’t handle.”

Y/N kicks him under the table. He doesn’t flinch.

Later, the dishes are stacked high in the sink. Y/N’s washing, humming quietly, trying to calm the storm still simmering in her chest. She hears Ava turn on the TV in the next room, half-tipsy and stretched out on the couch.

Cal moves beside her, grabbing a towel to dry.

“I could’ve done this tomorrow,” she murmurs, trying to focus on the water and not him. “You didn’t have to help.”

“You cook, I clean. Fair trade.”

She hands him a wet plate. He brushes her hand on purpose.

It happens again. And again.

Then—a shift.

She’s leaned slightly forward, reaching for a dish, when she feels it—

His cock.

Hard. Pressed right against her bottom. Just enough to feel the shape, the size, the intent. Not by accident.

Her body stiffens.

“Cal,” she says softly, warning in her voice.

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, his hand slides around her waist. Slow. Sure. Then the other comes next, still damp from the towel.

He leans in close, breath hot against her ear.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about last night,” he murmurs.

Then, in one quick movement, he turns her—hands on her hips—and lifts her up onto the edge of the counter. Her legs fall open around him instinctively.

“Wait—” she gasps.

But his mouth is already on hers—hot, hungry, filthy. His hands slide under her dress, gripping her thighs, thumbs brushing the soft crease where her hips meet her core.

She moans, head tilting back, fingers tangled in his shirt.

His cock grinds against her through his jeans, slow and heavy.

“Cal,” she breathes, “we can’t—Ava’s right there.”

“She’s out,” he growls. “TV’s up. She won’t hear.”

He pulls his jeans down just enough—hard cock springing free—and pushes her panties aside.

He thrusts into her in one smooth stroke, hand clamped over her mouth to muffle the moan that rips from her throat.

“You missed this, didn’t you,” he grits out. “This pussy’s still fuckin’ wet for me.”

He pounds into her—rough, deep, making the whole counter shake. She claws at his back, biting her lip to stay silent.

When she comes, her body jerks—tight, shaking—clamping around him until he growls and follows, burying himself deep.

They breathe hard in the dark kitchen, the smell of soap and sex thick in the air.

She finally whispers, dazed and wrecked, “…Next time, wear a condom.”

He leans in, kisses the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then her lips.

“Sure,” he murmurs. “But I won’t promise I’ll stick to it.”

Time Skip: One Week Later

The lawyer is still dragging his feet.

Some "delay in the estate paperwork," whatever that means. Ava called it "small-town disorganization with a hint of secret conspiracy." Y/N didn’t laugh. Not really.

The house is half-packed now. The girls have boxes stacked in every room, bubble wrap everywhere, and half-finished coffee cups forgotten on windowsills. They’re ready to leave—ready to go back to the noise, the smog, the chaos of the city. Somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar.

But something keeps tugging at Y/N. A weight she can’t explain.

Maybe it’s the way Cal’s been showing up every day, like clockwork—dropping by with food, touching her lower back when Ava’s not looking, whispering things that keep her up at night. Or maybe it’s the silence in her aunt’s room—the room she’s been avoiding.

That Afternoon

Ava’s digging through the old cedar trunk at the end of Miriam’s bed, tossing out scarves, dusty photo albums, ancient candles.

Y/N’s in the hallway, boxing up books, when she hears:

“Uh… Y/N?”

Her sister’s voice sounds… weird.

Y/N walks into the room, wiping her hands on her shirt. “What?”

Ava’s holding something. A small leather-bound notebook, worn soft with age, and an envelope tucked inside.

The envelope says Y/N’s name. In her aunt’s handwriting.

“Where’d you find that?”

“Stuffed inside one of her old cookbooks,” Ava murmurs. “The one you were obsessed with when we were kids.”

Y/N takes the letter slowly. Her fingers tremble as she unfolds it.

The Letter

My sweet girl,

If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. I hope you’re okay. I hope you came with Ava, that you didn’t come back here alone. And I hope you’re safe.

There’s something you should know about Cal Walker.

He helped me fix this house after the divorce. He was kind. Quiet. A little too quiet. But I didn’t think anything of it at first. Until I started noticing… things.

Photos going missing. Your name coming up too often. Questions about your life in the city. About your job. Your routines. Your looks. At first, I thought it was protective.

But then I found the letters.

Old ones. From when you were still a teenager. Letters to me… about you. I kept them. They're in the trunk.

Y/N… he’s been watching you longer than you realize. I didn’t say anything before because I didn’t want to scare you. I thought maybe he’d moved on.

But if he hasn’t—if he’s still around—you need to be careful. He doesn’t just want to protect you. He wants to own you.

Y/N’s hands are shaking. Her chest feels tight. Ava is staring at her, pale.

Y/N whispers, “Where are the letters?”

Ava opens the notebook.

Inside are three folded pages. Yellowed. Creased. And written in Cal’s handwriting.

Y/N's vision blurred with unshed tears. The weight of her aunt's words pressed heavily on her chest. Ava, sensing the gravity of the moment, placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder.

"We need to get out of here," Ava murmured, her voice laced with urgency. "Pack our things, leave tonight."

Y/N nodded slowly, the reality of the situation sinking in. "But what about the lawyer? The estate?"

"Screw the lawyer," Ava snapped. "Our safety comes first. My car's in good shape; we'll manage without the truck."

Determined, the sisters moved swiftly, gathering their belongings with a newfound urgency. As they packed, Y/N's mind raced, piecing together moments and interactions with Cal that now took on a more sinister hue.

Evening

The horizon was painted in shades of crimson and gold as Ava loaded the last of their bags into the trunk. Y/N took one final look at the house that had once been a sanctuary of childhood summers and family gatherings. Now, it felt like a cage, its walls whispering secrets she wished she'd never uncovered.

Sliding into the passenger seat, Y/N fastened her seatbelt, her hands clenched into fists. Ava started the engine, the car humming to life, ready to put miles between them and the shadows of the past.

As they pulled away, Y/N couldn't shake the feeling of unseen eyes watching, a chill crawling down her spine. The road ahead was uncertain, but one thing was clear: they were leaving Dodge, and there was no looking back.

Later That Night – Somewhere on the Road

The highway stretches out before them, long and dark, flanked by open fields and flickering street lamps. Ava drives with one hand on the wheel, music low. Her other hand holds a gas station coffee like it’s a lifeline.

Y/N is silent in the passenger seat, curled up with her knees drawn close. Her phone’s screen glows faintly in her lap—silent. Waiting.

She’s holding one of the letters.

The paper is soft, yellowed with age. The handwriting is unmistakably Cal’s—strong, deliberate, just a little rough around the edges.

The First Letter

Miriam, She came to visit again today. Y/N. She’s older now. Grown into herself. Beautiful. Not just in the way she looks, but the way she moves—like she doesn’t know how the world leans toward her without realizing it. Like the gravity around her is different.

She asked about my truck. Smiled when I showed her the rebuilt engine. That smile stuck in my head all night. It’s still there.

You said not to write about her. That I should let her be. But I can’t.

I’m not going to hurt her. I just want to protect her. Keep her safe. Keep her mine. And if she ever comes back here for good… I’ll be ready.

She doesn’t belong in the city. She belongs here. With me.

— Cal

Y/N’s stomach twists.

She flips to the next page.

The Second Letter

I saw a photo of her on your fridge. She cut her hair. She looked tired.

Does she know how beautiful she is when she’s tired? Does she know how much she needs someone to take care of her?

I don’t like the men she dates. I looked one of them up. Banker. Pretty boy. He wouldn’t know what to do with her. Wouldn’t know how to touch her, or how to make her feel safe. She needs someone strong. Someone who’s not afraid to take what’s his.

I’ve been fixing the spare room. Just in case.

She’d be happier here. Eventually, she’d see that.

Y/N’s hands shake.

There’s a third letter.

She doesn’t read it right away.

Because—her phone starts to buzz.

She looks down. CAL WALKER.

She lets it ring. Ignores it.

It rings again. And again. And again.

Her hand hovers. Ava glances over. “Is that him?”

Y/N nods silently.

“You better not answer that.”

“I won’t.”

The phone goes quiet.

Then—a text.

Where are you?

Then another.

Y/N.

Then another.

Answer me.

She doesn’t move.

But something inside her feels like it just snapped.

Highway. Still dark. Still nowhere.

The dashboard glows dimly. The hum of the road is the only sound until Ava speaks—sharp, low.

"He's not stopping, Y/N."

Y/N’s staring at the phone. More texts flood in:

You shouldn’t have left.

Come home.

It’s not safe out there.

Answer me or I’ll come find you.

Her breath shakes as she clutches the last letter—still unopened, folded tightly in her hand like it might bite her. Ava glances at it, then back to the road.

“That the worst one?” she asks.

Y/N nods, barely.

Ava jerks the wheel and pulls off the road into a gravel turnout, dust kicking up as the car rolls to a stop under a blinking gas station sign long out of service.

“We’re reading it,” she says. “Right now. You need to see what else he’s hiding before he shows up on the fucking road.”

Y/N hesitates.

Then unfolds the letter with trembling fingers.

The Third Letter

I watched her from across the street today.

Not close. Just... enough.

She had no idea I was there. But I know her patterns. How she walks. When she stops to tie her shoe. When she takes that dumb little sketchbook out at the café. People walk right past her like she’s just another girl.

They don’t see her. Not like I do.

She belongs to me, Miriam.

And if she ever comes back here, I won’t make the mistake of letting her go again. I’ll be gentle. At first. She’ll understand, eventually. She’ll be grateful.

Because no one will ever love her like I do.

Y/N covers her mouth with a shaking hand.

Ava’s face goes pale.

“Oh my God. He’s been stalking you for years.”

Y/N nods, heart hammering.

Her phone buzzes again.

A new message.

You really think you can leave?

She drops the phone like it burned her.

Another buzz.

You’re mine, sweetheart. You don’t walk away from me.

“Fuck this,” Ava mutters, throwing the car into drive. “We’re going straight to the city. No stops. We’ll find a motel later, lock ourselves in, get new phones, whatever it takes.”

“Do you think he’s following us?” Y/N whispers.

“I don’t know,” Ava says tightly. “But if he is, we’re gonna make it real hard for him to catch up.”

Y/N stares out the window, heart pounding, letters clutched to her chest.

But in her gut?

She feels it.

That cold, crawling certainty.

Cal knows exactly where they are.

3:02 AM – Ava’s Apartment, Chicago

The city’s quiet in that eerie way it only gets when the night is almost over. When everything’s still except the occasional whoosh of a late cab or the hum of the fridge.

Y/N stands in the doorway of Ava’s guest room, arms wrapped tight around herself, still wearing the same clothes from the road. Her hair’s messy. Skin clammy. Her eyes look hollow under the yellow streetlight pouring through the blinds.

Ava’s already sprawled across her bed, phone on the nightstand, shoes kicked off. She hasn’t said a word in twenty minutes. Just… breathing, watching the ceiling. One hand still gripping her keys.

Neither of them really slept on the way back. They took turns behind the wheel, taking corners like they were being followed. Because maybe they were. Or maybe fear just made it feel that way.

Y/N lowers herself onto the bed slowly, like her bones aren’t hers anymore. She curls up in one of Ava’s oversized hoodies, but she’s cold.

She closes her eyes.

And he’s there.

Not in the room. In her mind.

Cal. Between her legs. Whispering in her ear. Biting her skin like it was his. The way he looked at her like he already owned her. That first slow kiss in the kitchen. His hands gripping her thighs, her throat, her hips. The sound of him growling her name when he came inside her—raw, deep, and shameless.

The way she wanted it.

The way she let him.

Y/N sits up suddenly, choking on her own breath.

Ava stirs. “Hey—hey. You okay?”

“No.” Her voice is barely there. “He touched me like he knew me. Like he always had. And I let him. I let him take me like I was already his.”

Ava’s eyes soften. She sits up too, wrapping an arm around her.

“You didn’t know,” she says firmly. “You didn’t have all the pieces. He played you, Y/N.”

“I liked it,” Y/N whispers, tears building. “That’s the worst part.”

“Liking something doesn’t make you responsible for someone else’s manipulation. He hid this from you. He hunted you.”

Y/N shudders, curling into Ava’s side.

“But what if he comes here?”

Ava tightens her grip. “Then we call the cops. We change your number. We tell everyone. We don’t let him take another inch.”

Silence.

Then Y/N, barely audible: “I don’t think he wants just inches. I think he wants all of me.”

Her phone buzzes.

She forgot to silence it. The name on the screen?

No Caller ID.

Y/N doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move.

But the screen stays lit until the glow fades to black.

A Few Days Later 

Ava didn’t waste time. By noon the next day, she was on the phone with a detective friend—Detective Reyna Cruz. Blunt, sharp, all business. Within hours, Cruz was at the apartment, taking statements, reading the letters, staring at Cal’s name like she already knew trouble when she saw it.

“He’s got no criminal record,” Cruz said as she flipped through her notepad. “But that doesn’t mean he’s clean. Men like him—quiet, helpful, devoted—they know how to hide obsession in plain sight.”

They filed a restraining order. It wouldn’t hold forever, not if he stayed quiet, not unless he did something big. But it was a start.

Ava changed the locks.

Y/N changed her number.

They bought cameras, set up alerts, and even took turns sleeping on the couch.

But no knocks. No shadow in the hall. No Cal.

Not yet.

Weeks Pass

The days stretch out soft and uneventful.

Y/N returns to her art, to her job, to the comforting noise of the city. She drinks her old coffee. Takes the train again. Falls back into the rhythm of anonymity—where strangers don’t stare too long, and no one looks at her like they know what she looks like when she cries.

She even begins going out alone. Not far. Just enough to breathe.

She’s working again. She’s smiling again. She goes to lunch with Ava, texts old friends, reorganizes her kitchen, listens to music too loud.

The nightmares come less often.

The bruises faded.

Sometimes, she thinks about the way Cal kissed her, and she hates herself for remembering it fondly. Sometimes she wonders if it was all fake—or if part of him really thought it was love.

But Then…

The first weird text comes at 1:47 AM.

No number. Just a message:

Still taste you on my tongue.

She blocks it.

Two days later, a call from a random number. No voicemail. Just silence when she answers. Like someone breathing too softly.

She brushes it off.

Then a text, later that week:

You looked pretty in that sweater. The gray one.

She hasn’t worn that sweater since yesterday.

Her throat tightens.

She wants to believe it’s just paranoia. That she’s overreacting.

But when she turns her head at the coffee shop window, just for a second, she sees a man across the street.

He’s leaning against a post. Not moving. Not on his phone.

Just watching.

And when she blinks, he’s gone.

The Next Morning

Y/N stares at the message on her phone again:

You looked pretty in that sweater.

She hadn’t worn it in a photo. Not recently. Not publicly.

But she scrolls through her old posts anyway. Tries to find one where maybe—maybe—she had the same one on. Months ago. Years ago. Something to explain it.

She finds one. Over a year old. Same sweater. Her face is barely visible in the selfie, mostly coffee and a croissant. But it’s enough.

“That’s it,” she tells herself. “He’s just online. He’s not here.”

But she doesn’t believe it.

Still, she says nothing to Ava.

That Afternoon – The “Date”

It’s not even a real date.

Just coffee with Jordan—a coworker from her freelance team. Friendly, harmless, a little flirty, but nothing serious. He’d been helping her on a project, and this was just their first time meeting in person.

They laugh over overpriced lattes. Jordan leans in when he talks. Compliments her hair. Offers to walk her home after.

Y/N says no. Politely.

But her smile lingers longer than it should.

She doesn't know across the street, under the shadows of an old alley awning, Cal is watching.

Cal, in the Dark

He sees her laugh. He sees the way she touches her necklace when she’s nervous. He sees the man—sitting too close, saying too much, looking at her like he has the right.

That’s his girl.

He fed her. Held her. Fucked her. He marked her body with his teeth and name. She was soft in his bed. She moaned for him.

Now she’s pretending none of that happened?

Worse—she’s replacing him?

His fists clench in his jacket pockets. His jaw ticks. His chest feels like it’s going to split open.

She needs reminding. She’s not free. She never was.

That Night – 1:11 AM

Y/N’s apartment is quiet. Ava’s out of town for a weekend conference. Y/N double-checked the locks. She lit a candle. Turned on soft music. Her favorite movie plays low in the background as she lays on the couch, trying to unwind.

She feels proud. Confident again. Even… maybe ready.

She doesn’t notice the unlocked window. The one in the bathroom, barely cracked from earlier when she aired it out after a shower.

She brushes her teeth. Rinses her face. Slips into an old tee and cotton shorts. Her phone is already charging.

She turns off the light.

She climbs into bed.

Pulls the blankets over herself and exhales.

Then— a hand. Over her mouth. From behind.

She screams, but it’s muffled. Her body is dragged back, strong arms locking around her, one around her waist, the other pressing tight to her mouth.

“Shhh,” a voice growls into her ear. Low. Familiar. Final.

Cal.

“You’ve been very, very bad, sweetheart.”

Her scream dies under his hand—rough, calloused, clamped over her mouth with the same hands that once stroked her hair and held her waist during slow dances. Only now they don’t feel safe.

They feel like iron.

Y/N thrashes wildly, kicking, scratching, bucking—but his body doesn’t move. He’s solid. A wall of muscle and heat. She can feel his thigh pinning her down—hard, heavy, and wide as her hips. His breath fans over her ear, hungry and dark.

“Did you miss me?” he whispers, lips brushing her cheek. “’Cause I missed everything about you.”

She writhes harder, screams again, but he only tightens his grip—arm clamped around her middle like a belt.

“Shhh,” he growls, lowering them both to the bed, pinning her beneath his weight. “You’ve been out there pretending. Playing house. Laughing with other men. But that’s not you, is it?”

He nuzzles against her neck, inhaling her like a memory.

“No,” he murmurs, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw. “That’s not my girl.”

Y/N spits under his hand, jerks her head violently, but he catches her chin and forces her still.

“God, you’re so difficult when you’re scared,” he growls, his body pressing tighter to hers—hips locking hers in place. “But I like that. I do. Makes it more fun when you give in.”

His thigh grinds between hers and she sobs into his hand, trying to twist out from under him. Her nails rake his skin. Her legs kick, desperate.

He grunts when she lands a hit, but it only fuels him.

“You’re still soft under all that fight,” he mutters, his hand sliding low over her stomach. “Still mine. Still mine.”

She shakes her head violently, tears spilling.

His lips ghost her ear. “Shhh. I’ll be gentle, baby. I’ll remind you how good I make you feel. You remember, don’t you? You remember how I stretched you open and made you beg. You’re already wet for me—”

“NO!” she screams under his hand, thrashing so hard she almost breaks free—

But he snaps.

Suddenly his palm leaves her mouth, and she gets half a cry out before his hand slams down again—across her face.

Her vision flares.

She gasps—shock, pain—and then—

Darkness.

Later – Somewhere Else

She comes to slowly.

The air is colder. Rougher. It smells like sawdust and oil.

She’s lying on something soft but unfamiliar.

Blankets. A cot?

Her wrists are tied in front of her with something thick—shop rags. Her legs are free. For now.

And when her eyes finally adjust—

She sees him.

Cal. Sitting in a chair across from her, watching.

His elbows rest on his knees, forearms flexed, hands still streaked faintly with grease. His eyes are calm—but underneath? Something wild.

He smiles, almost tenderly.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “Home.”

[higher-water]

sirs I am UNWELL what do you MEAN

mostly for my own reference, the songs whose titles reference something specific are:

Look to Windward A line from The Waste Land, a poem by T.S. Eliot: "Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead / forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell / and the profit and loss.....O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, / consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you". There are lots of elements of the poem that have pretty clearly influenced all of Even in Arcadia, particularly the imagery in the opening of II. A Game of Chess and the aesthetics of the whole poem.

"breeding lilacs out of the dead land" -> Even in Arcadia and its pink flower motif

"the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief / and the dry stone no sound of water" -> Atlantic, "crumble like a temple / built of future daughters / to wasteland when the ocean recedes"

"where the walls of Magnus Martyr hold / inexplicable splendor of Ionian white and gold" -> Emergence, "are you carbide to my nano? / red glass on my lightbulb? / dark light on my culture? / sapphire in my white gold?"

"a current under sea / picked his bones in whispers. as he rose and fell / he passed the stages of his age and youth / entering the whirlpool." -> the liner notes of the TPWBYT vinyl follow a similar progression from whirlpool to sea floor

"after the frosty silence in the gardens" -> The Offering, "you are a garden / entwined with all / you are the silence / on sacred shores"

Past Self Possibly connected to Ascensionism:

tell me you met me in past lives, past life past what might be eating me from the inside, darling

and Dark Signs:

and I miss the man I was the moment we left off and I hate who I have become every time I wake up

Damocles In the story of the Sword of Damocles, he praised his king, Dionysius. The king offered to switch places with Damocles for one day, so long as Damocles stayed seated on the throne; he agreed, and Dionysius had a sword suspended by a single horsehair above the throne to "evoke the sense of what it is like to be king": that fortune, power, and influence comes at the cost of safety and security, because enemies could be waiting at every turn. This, of course, reflects the theme of Caramel:

can I get a mirror side-stage? looking sideways at my own visage getting worse every time they try to shout my real name just to get a rise from me acting like I'm never stressed out by the hearsay guess that's what I get for tryin'a hide in the limelight guess that's what I get for having 20/20 hindsight

and:

tell me, did I give you what you came for? terrified to answer my own front door missing my wings in the realm of angels so I'll keep dancing alone to the rhythm the stage is a prison, a beautiful nightmare a war of attrition, I'll take what I'm given the deepest incisions, I thought I got better but maybe I didn't

Gethsemane Agony in the Garden of Gethsemane is an episode in Jesus' life when he goes to Gethsemane to contemplate and make peace with God in regards to the imminent betrayal of Judas. As Jesus prays, "His sweat was, as it were, great drops of blood falling down upon the ground" (Luke 22:44), which is imagery present in Say That You Will:

in this light, you are mine 'til the sweat turns to blood won't you say that you will even if you won't?

and, potentially, When the Bough Breaks:

don't lie to me everything we touch turns water into blood

This could also be connected to the "garden" referenced in multiple other songs, like Caramel:

they ask me, "is it going good in the garden?" say I'm lost, but I beg no pardon

Fall For Me:

won't you fall for me? with my love as your garden won't you fall for me?

and The Offering:

you are a garden entwined with all you are the silence on sacred shores

Infinite Baths: In thermodynamics, "heat baths" are thermodynamic systems whose heat capacity is so large that the overall temperature of the reservoir hardly changes even when a significant amount of heat is added to or extracted from it. Lakes, rivers, and oceans all serve as natural thermal baths, linking back to songs like Atlantic:

call me when they bury bodies underwater it's blue light over murder for me

High Water:

and it seems my hell is your high water wash me clean again before I pull myself beneath the waves

The Summoning:

I've got a river running right into you I've got a blood trail, red in the blue

and Rain:

and just like the rain you cast the dust into nothing and wash out the salt from my hands so touch me again I feel my shadow dissolving will you cleanse me with pleasure?

Infinite baths come into play in quantum mechanics. They are used to model the irreversible dissipation of energy from a quantum system. Think of it like a set of (frictionless!) pendulums connected together: when one swings, it slowly transfers energy to the other, which begins swinging and transferring the energy back. If more pendulums are connected, it takes longer for the energy to come back, but it will eventually (because energy, like matter, can't be destroyed, only changed). In order to ensure that the energy never returns to the first set of pendulums, one must assume an infinite number of pendulums that carry the energy away into infinity. Hence, infinite baths, dissipating the energy of a quantum system endlessly, irrevocably, forever.

So, we get two sides of the same coin: thermal baths, massive reservoirs of constant temperature that freely give and take without fundamentally changing; and infinite quantum baths, subatomic environments that take and take and take from the systems they're coupled to, never giving back.

Given the subject matter of Caramel (and, likely, Damocles), I think that's pretty solid confirmation that the final track on this album is gonna be fucking devastating.

[waywardsummoner46]

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ Sink Into the Darkness, My Light | Three | ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

"Join us, my Light."

Two centuries ago, the ruler of the Light disappeared, plunging the universe into chaos and disrupting the sacred, unspoken balance of the universe.

The eight rulers of the Darkness never stopped looking for her; their obsession never once waning since she vanished.

Recently, they've sensed something. Never around long enough to pinpoint but so euphoric that it sings within their veins. And since meeting you, well... slowly they begin to understand why.

"Sink into the darkness with us."

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

「✦」 PAIRING - yandere ot8!ateez x (?)reader

「✦」 GENRE - ancient gods!au, fantasy!au, magical powers!au

「✦」 WARNINGS - mind control, gaslighting, dom/sub, subspace (of a sort), temporary amnesia, manipulation, YANDERE AND DARK THEMES

「✦」 WORD COUNT - 2,024

「✦」 A/N - Sorry it took so long to get this one out, it is shorter than usual but after a couple of weeks I'll be able to write more frequently :)

「✦」 TAGLIST - @yandere-stories - @adorawritesalot

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

• one • two • three • four • five •

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

You hadn’t said a word since you left Seonghwa’s house.

  The entire experience had left a queasy feeling in your stomach and regardless of how immaculately styled your hair was, it seemed nothing could quell your unease. Ji-Ah had noticed your unusual silence when departing the old house but hadn’t caused a scene until after Seonghwa had waved you off.

  “I hope you have a good night, (Y/N).” He’d grinned at you, a glint in his eyes that seemed completely alien to his distraught visage earlier. You’d suppressed a shudder at his wink, feeling distinctly off until Seonghwa’s manor was but a speck in the rear view mirror.

  Ji-Ah turned to you, hair curled to frame her face and layers only accentuating her features. “Okay-”   “Seonghwa was so handsome, wasn’t he?” At Jiwon’s exclamation, both you and your soon-to-be interrogator winced violently.

  “Jesus fuck, Jiwon-ah. Tone down the volume a little bit.”

  A mildly sheepish look crossed her face but the heat in her eyes didn’t diminish. A headache began to form at your temples and you were growing increasingly agitated at her persistence, “You can’t deny it. He was like an angel! I’ve never seen anyone look like that before.”

  Regrettably, you whispered, “I have.” Perhaps a little too loudly, for Jiwon’s starstruck eyes grew brighter and the fire in Ji-Ah’s eyes was replaced by a mischievous twinkle.

  “Who-?”

  “Why, you little-” 

  Yeosang and Yunho’s faces flashed in your mind, a private smile gracing your lips. That feeling of lingering anxiety also melted away. 

  How strange. 

  You weren’t ready to discuss that so readily after your emotional roller coaster so… “What? I didn’t say anything,” and just like that the car erupted into madness.

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

“Hey, ladies. What can I get ya?”

  After ordering your drinks, the three of you scoped out a table tucked into a corner but still with a good view of the stage. 

  There were still residual nerves fluttering about inside your chest; this nightclub in particular was a last minute decision on Jiwon’s behalf. The club you regulared was full, according to the bouncers, so, determined not to have a failed birthday, your two friends had dragged your half-hearted and highly reluctant self to ‘Siren’s Den’. 

  Apparently, this nightclub had only recently been built and the owners were as elusive as the sun in a lightning storm.

   In other words, good luck finding them. 

  Despite your mild discomfort at being in such an unfamiliar environment on top of (being so far out of your comfort zone) the unexpected turn of events… the nightclub wasn’t half bad. 

  The stage was very evidently the main attraction; expensive-looking stage lights were attached to the ceiling and what you assumed were smoke machines of some kind were concealed by the intricate, crimson velvet curtains on the stage. In the darkish lighting of the club, you couldn’t really make out the floor of the stage but it was evident that it was top quality just from the taintless reflection of what little lighting illuminated the space.

  And… were those fire machines?

  “It isn’t too bad here, is it?” Ji-Ah commented passively, taking a sip of her rum and coke. She grimaced immediately at it, staring at it as though it had personally wronged her.

  You laughed at her expense. “Not too bad, huh?”

  “Har har, you’re hilarious,” she said, sticking her tongue out at you. “It’s not even that it tastes bad, there’s just something about it I don’t like.”

  Silence for all of two seconds swept over the table before Jiwon grabbed her glass of whatever cocktail she’d decided, picked it up and chugged the entire thing down in one go. She let out the most ungodly shriek you’d ever heard and all you could do was stare with a dumb half-smile on your face. 

  Because just what on earth was that.

  “I don’t know why you two are looking at me like that, I displayed perfectly acceptable behaviour for a nightcl- oh, Wooyoung! Hi!” 

  Following her gaze with a raised eyebrow you turned to look behind you, 

jaw dropped at the sight of a young man practically waltzing up to your table - he didn’t look like he’d just be hovering either. The table was circular so the only way for him to sit down was either by Jiwon or by… oh, no.

  Luckily for you, he sat down quite energetically next to Jiwon who looked completely thrilled to see whoever this Wooyoung guy was. So thrilled that, instead of simply moving over, she grabbed his smooth cheeks and brought him in for a kiss. (A kiss is generous, it looked more like they were trying to eat each others’ faces off.) A quick glance at Ji-Ah showed she shared similar sentiments to you. 

  “Jiwon, care to introduce us to your… uh, friend?” Ji-Ah questioned, a disapproving twinge to her facial features. 

  You’d like to know the answer to that yourself. Jiwon had always been the more extroverted and flirtatious of the three of you, but never had she treated someone with so much passion. To your knowledge, there had never been any further progression than incredibly suggestive flirtation so to see her basically eating this man’s face off was, to say the least, a bit of a shock. 

  Ultimately, it was Wooyoung who pulled away first, looking down at Jiwon with a devilish grin on his face. That wasn’t entirely inaccurate either; you’d compare him to the devil, dangerous because he was so beautiful. In return, she looked up through dazed eyes and you thought you saw something a black mist or pigment fading from her eyes. 

  Your eyes lingered on her own for a little while longer, convinced you’d seen something.

  She noticed you staring, “Everything okay, (Y/N)-ah? You’re looking at me like you want to kill me.” 

  Giving her what you hoped was a natural smile, you assured her lightly that you were fine, simply mildly shocked. “Yeah, sorry about that.” She then turns to Wooyoung with a glint in her eyes that made every hair on your body stand on edge, for a reason you couldn’t quite put your finger on. “So, this,” she gestures to him. “Is Wooyoung.” 

  A faint itch began at your jugular and you raised an absentminded hand to scratch at it.  

  “Yeah, Wooyoung… it’s, uh, nice to meet you?” Ji-Ah phrased it as a question, probably still recovering from the emotional whiplash of the entire day.

  Wooyoung turned to Ji-Ah and gave her a polite bow from across the table, “Nice to meet you as well, Jiwon’s told me a lot about you.”

  You listened to him speak, picking up on something in his tone that made your eyes narrow subtly. The itching grew worse and you tried to be conspicuous with your scratches, the sound drowned by the low hum of the nightclub around you.

  “And you must be (Y/N).” The words to respond got stuck in your throat, as though something was causing your trachea to swell and your voicebox to break. You tried to smile politely, really you did, but your jugular grew to a point of pain where controlling your facial features was becoming difficult. 

  Clearing your throat, you struggled past the pain and brought your hands into clenched fists under the table. “That’s me.” And that was all you could manage. Jiwon began a conversation that you couldn’t focus on at all but the sound of her voice was comforting.

 God, what was wrong with you today?

 You closed your eyes tightly, letting the low droning of your friends' voices ground your senses. You were becoming mildly overwhelmed, to say the least, and you just needed a few seconds to come back to yourself before maintaining a facade of sociability. 

  The night had only just begun, and yet… you really just wanted to sleep.

  A light touch to the hand clutching your drink caused you to open your eyes, turning to meet the concerned eyes of Ji-Ah. Communicating silently, you assured her through your eyes that you were okay. Having known each other for so long, reading each others’ facial expressions was like being fluent in another language.

  “- and then, this guy, Hongjoong I think his name was-” 

  You couldn’t help it; the hairs that were already on end seemed to stand impossibly straight and goosebumps erupted all across your skin. The nauseous feeling in your stomach that you’d tried so desperately to ignore returned tenfold and you emptied everything you’d consumed on the floor.

  You coughed violently. Ji-Ah stroked your back with a soothing hand and encouraging words, reaching for a water someone must’ve brought to the table. 

  Accepting it gracefully, you took a sip and washed your mouth out of the taste of your own vomit. After a while of sitting keeled over at a table, you assumed it was some cleaners that had to come to clean up your mess. You would’ve apologised profusely but you were hit with a wave of exhaustion so powerful Ji-Ah had to actually wrench you back upright from your clothes. 

  “Alright, that’s it. I’m taking you home.”

  “No, Ji-Ah, I’m okay. I swear-”

  “Tell that to the cleaners who just swiped away your stomach acid. For fuck sake, you’re green in the face! You aren’t well. Now. Let’s. Go.” Once Ji-Ah had her mind set on something, there was no use in disputing against her. You wouldn’t win. 

  Before even turning to look at Jiwon and Wooyoung, you knew Jiwon was sitting there with an expression of utter devastation and regret. She’d blame herself, even if nothing was her fault. “Jiwon-ah, I know exactly what you’re thinking. I’ve had a wonderful day and this does not erase the fact that this has been the best birthday I’ve had in a while.”

  Ji-Ah wrapped your arm around her shoulders and grabbed your bag from the seat. “It was lovely to meet you, Wooyoung. Sorry to cut it so short.” 

  He’d rested his head on top of Jiwon’s. His arms wrapped around her, evoking a sharp spike in your heart rate and the final reawakening of that damn itch on your neck. He smirked, tilting his head as though considering your entire being. Eventually, he must’ve found what he was looking for. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing each other a lot more often.”

  Ji-Ah’s hand tightening from its place supporting your waist made you realise just how ominous that sounded. “Now that we’ve officially met, I’d love to get to know my… girlfriend’s friends a bit more, wouldn’t you agree?”

  You laughed awkwardly, and nodded. “See you around, then.”

  “Goodnight, (Y/N). Happy Birthday.” 

  Then, bidding final goodbyes, you and Ji-Ah walked out of that nightclub but not without a final glance back at the couple. Something compelled you to look and you saw, with appallment, that Wooyoung was actively biting Jiwon on the neck. She seemed to be enjoying it. Thoroughly. So you turned around and tried to rid your mind of that sight.

  What you didn’t see were the black veins spreading from where he’d bitten, Jiwon collapsing against him like a puppet with no strings and a euphoric breath leaving his mouth. 

──•~❉ ᯽ ❉~•──

  Ji-Ah drove you home and the first thing you did was collapse onto your bed and sleep. The day had taken its toll on you and you were more than prepared for the comforts of Dreamland.

  As you snored away, the book on your nightstand grew alive. The cover was thrown open and pages were being flipped of their own will. ‘The Hidden War Within’ began to glow in the dim light of your bedroom, a white light emitting from its pages and the faint heat made you burrow into your pillow, subconsciously comforted by the warm aura. 

  Eventually, the pages ceased their movements but the book remained open; it was the first dated entry. 

A plague punctures mine heart,

Mine soul forever tainted by thine words,

For false promises and careless lies are such sweet sins,

And I pray, I may drown in the Light,

Than sink into the Darkness.

~ Anonymous

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

Quick question.

I don't know if you answered this before, but how do you think any of the boys would react if the reader was.... big?

Like I'm chubby and I need some reassurance :'D

okay first of all? come here. big hug. (for reassurance purposes and because i'm a hugger.)

i have never answered this, but i was a bigger girl a couple years back (i had a whole damn baby, and went up like six dress sizes AND stayed there until last year because my metabolism decided to become a sloth) so i have THOUGHTS!

the way these fictional, emotionally unwell men would never recover when they laid eyes on a bigger girl. let’s talk about it. because i promise, the boys would lose their entire minds over it.

with all this in mind? (alexa: play "big girl" by mika) let's begin.

SAM WINCHESTER sam’s hands were made to hold you. he’s so fucking big and gentle and he loves softness—adores how plush and warm and real you are. he wraps his arms around you and it’s not just affection—it’s relief. he’s whispering: “perfect. just like this. i love how you feel in my arms.”

he’s the type to trace your curves while you sleep. kiss your tummy like it’s sacred. fuck you slow with one hand on your hip and the other holding yours tight like he’s scared to let go.

and if you ever say something self-deprecating? he stops everything. cups your face and tells you: “don’t talk about yourself like that. not when you’re everything to me.” and he means it.

DEAN WINCHESTER dean is a fucking fiend for curves. he lives to grab, grope, bite, mark. “look at all this, sweetheart,” he murmurs as he drags his hands over your thighs, your hips, your stomach, everywhere. “gonna lose my mind over you.” and he does. he’s moaning into your skin, fucking you face-first into the mattress, obsessed with the way your body takes him.

and dean's a foodie. so he loves watching you eat. he’ll sneak up behind you in the kitchen, grip your hips and growl in your ear: “don’t stop, baby. i like feeding my girl. keep lookin’ this good and i might have to bend you over the damn counter.”

if you ever doubt yourself? he’s lifting your chin and saying: “you think i’d be this obsessed with you if you weren’t the hottest thing i’ve ever seen?”

BEN/SOLDIER BOY ben sees softness and immediately goes feral. he’s from an era where curves were the standard—and he’s still living there. he calls you “soft girl,” “my sweetheart,” or “cushion” (affectionately) of course. he adores how you feel under him. presses his whole body weight into you like it’s home. grips your thighs and mutters, “fuckin’ love how soft you are. i'm gonna make you bigger.” (breeding kink implied.)

he’ll kiss your belly and smack your ass and wrap you in his arms like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. and if you ever express insecurity? he growls, “don’t you ever talk shit about my girl. you hear me? i’ll fuckin’ fight the mirror myself.”

ben doesn’t tolerate self-hate. you’re his. you’re perfect. end of discussion.

WILLIAM BUTCHER butcher is so into it. he’s all about softness, body heat, plush thighs he can bite and grab and wrap around his head. he’ll slap your ass in public. pull you into his lap and say shit like: “fuckin’ love my curvy girl. you got any idea how much you do for me?”

and then ruin you in bed. because yes, he’s a menace, but he’s also a worshipper. he’ll say the filthiest, most reverent shit right into your skin: “you were built for me. all this softness—jesus. i’m gonna live here.”

if you ever call yourself fat or criticise your body? he’s immediately up in arms. “oi. none of that. not on my fuckin’ watch.” and then he’s reminding you with his hands and his mouth just how much he loves it.

BEAU ARLEN beau is that slow, southern kind of worship. he loves every inch of you like it’s part of a holy ritual. holds your hips when you’re on top, eyes locked, voice low: “that’s it, darlin’. ride me just like that. god, you’re beautiful.”

he calls you “sugar,” and “peach,” AND “my soft thing.” kisses your stretch marks. lays his head on your belly while he rubs your thighs and says, “i could stay here all damn day.”

he loves how you feel in his arms. how you fit against him. how you look in the morning, wearing nothing but his shirt and a sleepy smile.

and if you’re ever down on yourself? he tips your chin up, serious and tender, and says: “you think too small of yourself. i see everything—and i’d still choose you every time.”

in conclusion: they don’t just accept your body. they adore it. they crave it. they worship it. they touch you like you’re a miracle. and they never want you any other way.

you deserve that. always. <3

i went heavy on this one because the way i just LOVE women is obscene. hope this was a good answer. thank you for the ask! <3

[sparrowofthedawnsworld]

For everyone’s entertainment (because according to my friend, it’s hilarious that I’ve fucked to nearly every gvf song) -

Greta Songs that I have done the deed to and how I rank them:

Age Of Machine, 10/10 - this one hit. I can’t even begin to explain it. If you haven’t put this song on your filthy playlist, it should be on there. Go do it.

The Archer, 10/10 - Gah damn. That’s all I can even say about this one.

The Barbarians, 10/10 - Obviously. I mean, come on. Good shit.

Frozen Light, 10/10 - That bass line? She’s sexy, so therefore… it fits a sexy environment.

Fate Of The Faithful, 9.5/10 - This one is down right NASTY. Like holy fuck I’d let this song put a baby in me. DAYUM when I tell y’all this one just hits different. Jesus christ.

Stardust Chords, 9/10 - I know what y’all are probably thinking… but it’s so good.

The Falling Sky, 9/10 - Was definitely adding to the intensity. In the right situation, this shit will get you railed.

Built By Nations, 9/10 - Once again… if the vibes are right, shit will get you railed. It’s heavenly, really.

The Weight Of Dreams, 9/10 - This shit was almost like an otherworldly experience. The guitar solo??? Yeah. Mhm. Orgasmic.

Meeting The Master, 8.5/10 - The change in intensity throughout this song is really what makes it so good to me.

Sacred The Thread, 8/10 - This shit… whew. The drums sell it. The rhythm is immaculate, tbh.

Brave New World, 8/10 - would have NEVER truly expected this one to hit as hard as it did. Good god.

My Way Soon, 8/10 - This one is solid. If it played again while I was doing it, I wouldn’t be mad at all.

Watching Over, 7.5/10 - I can’t say it let me down. It didn’t. It doesn’t always fit the vibes, though.

Lover, Leaver (Taker, Believer), 7/10 - Again, could absolutely dig it in the right situation, otherwise I would deem it a little much.

The Indigo Streak, 6.5/10 - While the solo is sooo fuckinggg sexy, the song overall would not be my first choice, but I don’t dislike it, either.

Safari Song, 6.5/10 - this one was pretty fun after you get beyond Josh’s scream at the beginning 💀

Age Of Man, 6.5/10 - This one would genuinely be sooo much higher on the list, if it didn’t make me so damn emotional.

The Cold Wind, 6/10 - this one’s crazy but… on the occasion I like it.

Light My Love, 6/10 - Unless you’re trying to be all sweet and sappy, I’d stay away from this one… but it was lovely. I won’t lie. I liked it.

Trip The Light Fantastic, 5.5/10 - I loved it and also felt weird about it all at once???

Caravel, 5/10 - I… As sexy as the bass line is, for some reason it just didn’t quite scratch the itch in my brain all the way.

Talk On The Street, 5/10 - Before actually fucking to it, I would have said, “hell yeah, I bet this one would be great!” But it’s just mid.

Heat Above, 5/10 - So sweet… but i’d rather not have flashbacks to my greta show and suddenly be on the verge of tears.

Highway Tune, 4.5/10 - I tried it simply because Jake said it was in a sex scene…

Tears Of Rain, 4/10 - Lowkey… could have put this higher, but also I have to mentally prepare for this song or I will cry. Sooo… idk.

Broken Bells, 3/10 - Great if you like choking on sobs while having sex.

Flower Power 2/10 - This one played on accident… And i did lay there contemplating leaning over and skipping it.

You’re The One, 1/10 - I just… I can’t. It’s TOO sweet, like in a little highschool crush kind of way.

Farewell For Now, 0/10 - This one couldn’t have played at a worse time and I hated every second of it. Love the song, but not for THAT.

[pupmkincake2000]

I had more ideas, ha-ha.

Part 2

When they stepped out of the bathtub, Hank was the first to reach for a towel, but he never got the chance—Connor intercepted his hand and stepped closer.

“Allow me,” his voice was low, rich, in a way Hank had never heard it before.

Warm fabric glided over Hank’s shoulders, chest, stomach—Connor dried him with care, as if he were memorizing every inch, as if he were studying him anew. He moved unhurriedly, as though it were something sacred, savoring every touch. Hank felt each stroke of the towel, every careful press of Connor’s fingers, which lingered just a little too long on his skin.

Then Connor sank to his knees, his hands framing Hank’s thighs. Hank clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the sink for support. The android was so close Hank could count all the freckles on his face. Connor ran the towel along Hank legs, the inside of his thighs, and lingered there just a moment too long. Heat pooled low in Hank’s stomach, and the thoughts that filled his head were far from decent.

“You’re driving me insane, Connor,” Hank muttered, voice rough with tension.

Connor tilted his head up, eyes gleaming with curiosity, with something almost analytical. He wasn’t just drying Hank—he was exploring him. The android traced a slow path up man's thigh, fingers brushing a little higher than necessary, and Hank tensed, swallowing hard.

“You are… fascinating,” Connor murmured, gaze flickering lower. “The warmth, the way your skin reacts, the way your blood pulses… especially here.”

He let his fingers ghost over the heat between Hank’s legs—light, fleeting touch, but unmistakable. Hank barely held back a groan.

“Enough,” he rasped, before he lost what little control he had left.

The next second, he was dragging Connor toward the bedroom, leaving wet footprints in their wake, but hell, none of that mattered now.

They collapsed onto the bed, Connor on top, bodies pressed together, heat radiating between them, and for a split second, everything stilled—before it ignited into something reckless and raw. Hank’s hands roamed over Connor’s back, drinking in the firm lines of his body, while the android hovered above him, taking in every detail, every reaction.

Connor’s hands glided over Hank’s chest, mapping out every ridge, every contour. He wasn’t in a hurry. Every movement was deliberate, infused with meaning. He wanted to experience it all—the heat of man's skin, the tension in his muscles, the way Hank shuddered under his touch. Especially down below.

“Interesting,” Connor murmured, his fingers slipping lower, pausing. “Human arousal… it’s so absolute. You feel it throughout your entire body, don’t you?”

“Connor…” Hank groaned, struggling against the flood of sensation.

Then, suddenly, a thought struck him, and he hesitated.

“I don’t even know… how to do this with you,” he admitted. “You’re an android. You probably don’t even feel this the same way a human does.”

Connor tilted his head, considering that, then offered a small smile.

“You’re right. Androids don’t require sex the way humans do. Physically, I don’t need it, and my sensory inputs work differently.” He traced his fingers along Hank’s lips, as if testing the doubt lingering in his expression. “But you’re forgetting the most important thing.”

“And what’s that?” Hank swallowed thickly, staring into those unflinching eyes.

“I want you. And that is more than enough.”

He leaned down, lips grazing the curve of Hank’s neck, trailing lower, still discovering, still wanting.

“Jesus…” Hank whispered as Connor slid down, lips and fingers exploring, learning, memorizing. “You’re gonna be the death of me, kid.”

“I’m right here,” the android’s voice was steady, assured.

And tonight, he wasn’t just here.

He was his.

[moreapples]

“Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible. To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law. To those not having the law I became like one not having the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law), so as to win those not having the law. To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some. I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings.” — 1 Corinthians 9:19–23

~~~~~

"All Things to All People"

By Jennifer Kane

To serve the call of Christ, I yield,

Becoming all things, unafraid to bend,

For His love crosses all boundaries, revealed

In every face, each stranger, a friend.

In every culture, hue, and tongue,

God’s love spans ages, far and wide.

With open arms and praises sung,

In Him, our differences abide.

I meet each heart on sacred ground,

Where customs speak and voices rise.

In learning, I am newly found—

A vessel shaped for His surprise.

Where weakness dwells, I join in grace,

Embracing those whose burdens weigh.

Through empathy, I find my place,

In humbleness, Christ leads the way.

This path demands I lay down pride,

And trade my comforts for His call.

Yet joy abounds, deepened, amplified,

In sharing Christ, I find my all.

Oh, blessed work to share the news,

Where souls unite, a family formed.

In bonds of faith, we can’t refuse,

A love by sacred fire warmed.

With tender heart, I strive to be

In step with sorrows, dreams, and fears,

For empathy becomes the key

To join in laughter, dry the tears.

In giving up, I gain much more—

A harvest greater than my own.

For Christ, who walked through Heaven’s door,

Rewards each seed of love I’ve sown.

~~~~~

Paul’s dedication to spreading the gospel shines in his words to the Corinthians. He relinquished personal comforts and even his rights so that others might come to know Jesus. Paul’s ministry was marked by adaptability—not compromise of God’s truth, but a willingness to meet people where they were. When he was with the Jews, he respected their customs; with Gentiles, he adapted to their culture without straying from Christ’s teachings.

This adaptability wasn’t a strategy to fit in; it was an act of sacrificial love. Paul was willing to “become all things to all people” so that he could reach them effectively for Christ. His approach models how we, too, can build relationships across diverse backgrounds and perspectives to share the gospel.

In order to apply Paul’s approach of being “all things to all people” today, we must start by listening first. Listening is often the most effective way to show love and respect. When we truly listen, we see people as individuals and value their unique stories. This makes them more open to hearing the message of Jesus.

We must be kind. Our words and actions should reflect Christ’s love. Even when discussions become heated or we face hostility, kindness can open doors that defensiveness might close. James 1:19–20 reminds us to be “quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger."

We should understand culture without compromising the gospel. Paul knew that sharing the gospel sometimes meant understanding cultural nuances. Like him, we can learn about people’s backgrounds and perspectives to connect on common ground, as long as we stay rooted in God’s truth.

We must acknowledge and confront prejudice. Recognize and surrender any biases we may hold. Paul had to release his own prejudices as a former Pharisee to embrace his mission to the Gentiles. We can pray for humility to lay aside judgmental attitudes and instead show Christ’s love to everyone.

The gospel is a challenging message—it’s offensive to human pride and contradicts the sin nature. But as Christians, our goal is to ensure that it’s only the cross that offends, not our attitudes or behaviors. Our example in the world should be a reflection of Christ’s compassion, as we humbly give up our “rights” and meet people where they are for the sake of the gospel.

Consider someone in your life who might need a gentle, understanding approach to hearing the gospel. Pray for the opportunity to connect with them in a meaningful way, and be willing to listen to their story. Remember that Christ has called us to love others as He does, with grace and compassion.

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Lord, help me to become all things to all people for Your glory. Give me the courage to let go of my comforts and preferences so that I can reach others with Your love. May I listen with compassion, act with kindness, and stand firm in Your truth. Teach me to see people as You see them and to meet them where they are, just as You met me.

Grant me the wisdom to understand without judgment, and to speak with words that lift others up and point them toward Your heart. When I am with those who feel lost or rejected, may I offer Your hope; when with those burdened by shame or guilt, let me bring them to Your grace. Guide me to build bridges across divides, and to break down walls of prejudice and pride within me.

Help me surrender my fears, my pride, and my desire for comfort. Instead, let Your Spirit fill me with courage, humility, and love that knows no bounds. Give me the strength to embrace each person I encounter as a child of God, with their own struggles, dreams, and value. May I bear Your light in every situation, making space for Your Spirit to move in the lives of those around me.

Lord, use me as a vessel of Your mercy and truth, and make my heart tender to the needs of those I seek to reach. Let my life be a living example of Your love and grace, drawing others not to myself but to You. For Your glory and the sake of Your gospel, Lord, I give my life into Your hands. In Jesus' name, Amen.