#When I've been washing and masking for so long | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dearmini · 18 days ago

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𐔌 방찬 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ stay a little longer

BANG CHAN! ⓘ when you're in the quiet of midnight, tangled in music, moonlight, and a love worth fighting for.

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ idol𝑏f!chan ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff, angst, comfort, emotional ! 6600wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, slight crying, intimacy, family pressure, some jokes, lightly forbidden love? ┆ 🍡 ⋮ drabble, timestamps .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ christopher... my baby, my love, my everything. :[ i love this man so much. i love love so much (2). i genuinely teared the fuck up while drafting this. i feel like this may be one of my favorite fics i've written, ever, honestly. sucker for channie, angst, and love !!!! happy reading <3

skz studio, jype building. 12:41 am. tick, tick, tick..

the room is dim, lit only by the soft amber of the desk lamp and the dull blue glow from two computer screens, their pixels dancing in sound waves. the speakers hum low, a heartbeat of synths and snare, looping a melody that hasn’t been named yet. it’s slow. dreamy. a little unfinished—just like the two of you.

the air smells faintly like fabric softener and coffee from hours ago, now cold in the cup beside his keyboard. you’re curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of chan’s crewnecks that swallows your hands. the cotton is worn soft from too many washes, oversized and comforting, and it still holds the ghost of his cologne—cedar, musk, the kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room.

he’s quiet.

not in the brooding way, not in the overthinking-every-note kind of way either. just… quiet. his fingers tap lightly against the desk as he listens to the loop again and again. his chair is tilted back just enough to see you in his periphery, and you know, because he’s been stealing glances between each pass.

you pretend not to notice.

instead, you let your fingers trace invisible patterns into your thigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you watch him from under your lashes. the way his black hoodie bunches at the elbows. the curve of his jaw when he’s focused. his mouth, slightly parted. the tip of his tongue resting in the corner, a habit. the faintest scruff on his chin from a day he forgot to shave. or didn’t care to.

you sigh, almost smiling. “you’re squinting again.”

chan’s head tilts. “huh?”

you point lazily at him. “your eyes. when you concentrate. you look like a suspicious grandpa decoding secret messages in morse code.”

a laugh bubbles out of him—short, breathy, surprised. “wow. thanks.”

“you’re welcome,” you say, smug, leaning into the armrest. “you should really consider reading glasses.”

he narrows his eyes at you on purpose now, making a dramatic point. “i will literally end this song right now.”

“you won’t.”

“no, but i’ll pretend i did and pout about it for forty-five minutes.”

“pouting’s a great look on you,” you hum.

you expect him to roll his eyes. maybe throw a crumpled napkin at you. but instead, he just leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest—and looks at you.

fully.

the studio is quiet except for the looped track. and chan’s gaze? it softens. like the way light filters through curtains. gentle, warm, and far too much.

“what?” you whisper, feeling your face heat.

he shrugs, lips twitching into a small, sleepy smile. “nothing. you’re just really pretty when you’re bullying me.”

you squint back at him. “you’re not even trying to win this argument.”

“that’s ‘cause i like losing to you.”

your heart stumbles. you mask it by pretending to cough into your sleeve. he sees right through it. smirks wider. turns back to the screen like he didn’t just ruin your entire nervous system.

“asshole,” you mumble.

“mmhm.”

he slides his headphones on again, adjusts a few sliders, then clicks the spacebar. the track starts over. he listens. edits. rewinds. rests his chin on his palm.

you let yourself stare a little longer this time.

there’s something about watching chan work that feels like worship. he’s quiet with it—not boastful, not performative. just intensely focused, endlessly curious. you can see him thinking—layers of intention behind every adjustment, like he’s shaping sound into something that can hold meaning.

you never feel more drawn to him than in moments like this.

“c’mere,” he says suddenly, pulling one side of his headphones off.

you blink. “why?”

“just for a second.”

you raise an eyebrow. “this is how you trap me.”

“yup.” he doesn’t even deny it.

still, you rise, stretching your arms over your head with a small yawn, then pad over to his chair. he grabs your wrist lightly and tugs you down, guiding you gently into his lap like he’s done this a hundred times before. like your body fits there. like it’s second nature.

his arms wrap around your waist automatically.

you settle back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, your legs slotted between his. the sound from the speakers is low now—background music to the quiet closeness you’ve both fallen into.

“this part’s new,” he murmurs near your ear, hitting play again. “i wrote it thinking of you.”

you freeze just a little. then slowly glance up at him.

he’s looking at the screen like he didn’t just casually say that.

“…chan.”

“mhm?”

“you wrote the chorus with me in mind?”

“pre-chorus, actually,” he says, lips twitching. “the chorus is about ramen. but the pre-chorus? that one’s you.”

you lightly smack his chest, laughing. “you suck.”

“do not.”

“you literally labeled the file ‘yn_ver2_emotionsfix.wav,’” you accuse, voice barely hiding your grin.

chan gives a dramatic sigh. “it was either that or ‘track_56_final_final_real_final_edit.wav.’ i went with art.”

you shake your head, settling into him again. he smells like warmth—like cotton, and hours of focus, and something softer beneath it all. his hands splay against your hips. secure. careful.

you close your eyes.

“you tired?” he asks quietly.

you nod against him. “but i don’t want to sleep yet.”

“why?”

“‘cause you’re not done loving me tonight.”

that catches him off guard. you feel it in the pause of his breath.

then—arms tighter around you. his chin tucks into your shoulder, and his voice is low. honest.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be done, y/n.”

the song loops again. a soft echo in the dark.

and neither of you move.

“something like home.” (12:59 am. still just the two of you.)

your feet are bare.

there’s a stray thread at the hem of your sleeve, and chan’s fingers have been absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and forefinger for minutes now. the song plays in soft loops, fading into the walls like wallpaper music. you’ve stopped noticing it. or maybe it’s become a part of this moment.

you’re still in his lap, curled into his chest like the world forgot to pull you apart. he doesn’t seem to mind. his chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands are warm on your sides. his thumb strokes lazy, back-and-forth shapes over the fabric—like a lullaby with no melody.

you yawn. then mumble something.

“what?” he whispers.

“i said… i think i’m starting to melt.”

he chuckles, the sound low against your back. “melt?”

“mhm.” you nudge your nose into his hoodie. “i’m too comfortable. i might dissolve. evaporate. just… become one with the hoodie.”

chan hums, tilting his head to press a small kiss into your hair. “then i’ll carry you in my pocket.”

you pause, smiling into his chest. “you’re such a sap.”

“you love it.”

you twist just enough to look at him. “you say that like you’re not the clingy one.”

“i’m not clingy,” he says, indignant. “i just… like you close.”

you raise an eyebrow.

he holds up a finger, serious. “okay, hear me out. i didn’t ask you to stay over because i’m clingy. i asked because—”

“you missed me,” you cut in, sing-song.

he scoffs. “no—well, yes—but—listen. i knew you’d be annoying about it. that’s the real reason.”

“wow. you invited me over just to be bullied?”

“you’re better than caffeine.”

you blink.

he grins, smug. “and cuter.”

your chest does that thing again—that quiet, involuntary ache. like your ribs are expanding too fast for your heart to keep up.

you try to hide your face in his hoodie. “stop it.”

“no,” he says softly. “not when you look at me like that.”

you glance up. “like what?”

“like i’m the whole night sky.”

there’s a beat. long enough for your throat to close around it. you laugh, a soft, shaky breath. “that was corny.”

he kisses your temple. “did it work?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the way your fingers curl into his sleeve is loud enough.

you eventually slip off his lap, legs stiff, your body slow with sleepiness. but you don’t go far. just settle beside him again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

chan shifts, pulls the blanket from the couch, and drapes it over your legs without a word. then he leans forward and clicks a few keys. the track pauses.

“what happened?” you ask, voice small.

he shrugs, adjusting the volume. “nothing. just wanted to sit here.”

you smile. “is the genius producer taking a break?”

“genius producer,” he echoes, a grin playing at his lips. “i like how that sounds.”

“it’s true,” you say, poking his cheek. “you’re brilliant. even when you forget to eat dinner.”

“someone’s trying to soften me up,” he teases.

you lean closer, your voice a playful whisper. “is it working?”

he turns his face toward you—slow, like the moment stretches around the movement. his eyes flicker between yours, soft and unreadable.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “too well.”

you don’t kiss him yet. but the space between your faces is small enough to feel the promise of it.

“can i tell you something weird?” he asks a little while later.

you nod, half-drowsy, eyes fluttering shut.

“i think…” he hesitates, then laughs under his breath. “god, this sounds stupid.”

you look up at him. “nothing you say to me is stupid.”

he’s quiet for a beat. then-

“i think my heart memorized you before my brain did.”

it’s barely a whisper.

but it slices through the quiet, delicate and sure. your breath catches.

“i don’t even mean that in a romantic movie kind of way,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “just… every time i see you, even if i’m tired, even if the day sucked, something in me just—relaxes. like it knows. like you’re what it was waiting for.”

you don’t respond with words.

you just reach out—touch his face gently, like he’s something precious. your thumb runs along his cheekbone. then down to his lips.

chan closes his eyes under the touch.

“you always say these things like you don’t realize what they do to me,” you murmur.

he opens them again. they’re deeper now. fuller with something unspoken. “what do they do?”

“you make it really hard to breathe.”

“then hold on to me,” he whispers.

so you do.

“in the quiet, i love you” (1:17 am. again, just the two of you.)

it’s late. but that kind of late where the world feels paused. no ringing phones. no outside noise. just the low hum of equipment, a single dim lamp in the corner, and chan’s hand resting over yours like he’s scared the moment will slip away if he lets go.

your head is against his shoulder again. his hoodie sleeve is bunched between your fingers, and you’ve long since stopped trying to pretend you’re not holding on like he’s your anchor.

“wanna know something?” you say softly, tracing small shapes into his palm.

“always.”

“i used to think love would feel loud.”

he doesn’t speak. just waits.

you smile at the ceiling. “like fireworks. or movie kisses in the rain. or fighting, dramatic, over-the-top things. but this—” your hand squeezes his. “this feels like… the space between notes in a song. quiet. but there. and if it were gone, you’d hear the difference.”

chan swallows, his voice a hush. “you’re gonna make me cry in my own studio.”

you giggle, turning toward him, noses almost brushing. “no tears allowed. you’re the genius producer.”

he fake-sobs dramatically. “the genius producer is in shambles.”

you cover his mouth with your hand, laughing now. “stop. you’re gonna ruin the mood.”

he grins under your palm. then kisses it. soft. warm. so soft it makes your throat catch.

“wanna hear a line i wrote today?” he asks, voice lower now, fingers lacing between yours.

you nod.

he glances at the monitor like he’s nervous, then looks back at you. “it’s not for the track, just… a thing i wrote.”

he clears his throat.

“if i could fold myself into your pockets i’d live there quietly, beside your pulse where your heartbeat becomes my soundtrack and time forgets how to hurt.”

your eyes sting.

“chris…”

“it’s dumb,” he says quickly, eyes darting away. “just a line. you don’t have to—”

you cut him off with a kiss. it’s soft. barely there. just the press of lips against lips, the kind of kiss that says, i understand you even when you think you don’t make sense.

when you pull back, you’re both blinking too much.

“was that okay?” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he speaks. “i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.”

the next hour passes in fragments.

you try on his headphones and gasp when you hear how clear the track sounds. he records you saying random phrases to sample your voice—half of them silly, the other half secretly tender.

“say something sexy,” he grins, mic already on.

you squint at him. “like what?”

“i don’t know. just say whatever comes to your mind.”

you lean in close to the mic, lips parted. “christopher, i swear to god, if you don’t drink water within the next ten minutes i’m turning off your computer.”

he throws his head back, laughing so hard it shakes his shoulders.

“you menace,” he wheezes.

“you asked for it.”

“not the hydration threats—oh my god.”

you’re both giggling too much to care what time it is. he turns the mic off, pulls you back to him, and presses his forehead to yours like it’s instinct.

“hey,” he whispers.

“yeah?”

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt like this before.”

you meet his eyes.

“i think…” he pauses. “i think i trust you with parts of me i didn’t even know i had.”

you nod, tears threatening again.

“you can keep them,” you whisper back.

later, he reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it with one hand, still holding you with the other.

“what are you doing?” you murmur, sleepy now, blinking slowly.

“i want a picture.”

“no,” you groan. “my face is puffy. i’m tired.”

“you’re beautiful,” he says immediately, no hesitation.

you glare. “you can’t say things like that so easily.”

“but they’re true.”

“still.”

he snaps one anyway—your face buried in his hoodie, his hand covering half your cheek, both of you in soft shadows. when he looks at it, he smiles like he’s looking at the beginning of something.

“can i post it someday?” he asks gently. “not now. but when it’s not just ours anymore.”

you nod.

but neither of you say when that might be. because for now, the secrecy is sacred. the studio is a sanctuary. and this—this hush, this touch, this late-night wonder—belongs to you both.

right?

“we talk about everything, and nothing, and it all matters.”(01:58 am. the world is asleep, but you’re still here.)

you’re half on the couch, half on chris. the blanket has migrated around both your shoulders now, pooled at your waists like it’s tucking you in on behalf of the moon.

the studio lights are dim. the glow from the monitors is faint and flickering. the music is paused. you aren’t.

chan’s fingers are threaded through yours again, resting on your stomach, your hands fitting like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive. his head is tilted back. yours is on his chest, listening.

every so often, his heartbeat skips. you never point it out.

“do you think,” he says suddenly, voice hushed like he’s afraid to wake the air, “that people always end up where they’re meant to be?”

you pause. “you mean, like fate?”

he nods, slowly. “yeah. or something like it.”

you think for a second.

“i don’t know. i think maybe we end up in the neighborhood of where we’re meant to be,” you say softly. “but the exact house? the one with the red door, or the one with the leaky ceiling? i think we choose those.”

he hums. “i like that.”

“why’d you ask?”

he’s quiet for a moment. “i just keep thinking.. if i hadn’t chosen this path—music, the hours, the pressure—i don’t know if we’d be here. but sometimes i wonder… if it’s too much. if i’ll burn out.”

you lift your head slightly to look at him.

his gaze is on the ceiling. like he’s asking the stars above the insulation to answer for him.

“i think about it too,” you admit.

his eyes flick down to you. “you do?”

you nod. “not just about you. about me. about everything. what i want. what i’m allowed to want.”

the way you say allowed makes him tense just slightly, but you don’t dwell.

you rest your cheek back on his chest. his hand finds your shoulder, slow and soothing. “tell me,” he says gently.

you take a breath.

“i used to think i had to be perfect,” you say, voice low. “or at least harmless. make everything easy for everyone. be sweet. be smart. never ask for too much. never make things complicated.”

chan’s hold on you tightens almost imperceptibly.

you keep going.

“but i’m learning that love… real love… lets you take up space. even the messy parts. even the loud parts. i’m still trying to believe i’m allowed to ask for things. to say ‘i want this.’ even when it’s scary.”

he’s silent, but you can feel the emotion rising in him. his fingers brush your hair back from your temple with a kind of reverence.

“i’m glad you said that,” he whispers. “because i want you to ask. always. for anything.”

you nod, eyes stinging again.

after a pause, you murmur, “what about you?”

he exhales. “i think… i used to believe i had to earn love. like, i had to constantly do something to deserve it. be productive. be valuable. make music. fix things. be strong.”

you shift slightly to see his face. his eyes are unfocused, turned somewhere inward.

“but lately…” he goes on, “with you, i’m starting to believe that maybe i don’t have to prove anything. that maybe i can just be. and that’s enough.”

you press your lips to his jaw, a soft silent thank you for letting you see that part of him.

you stay like that for a while.

just breathing.

just existing.

“i want to grow old with you,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“like—not in a cliché way. not just the cute stuff. i mean i want to still know you when we’re tired and wrinkly and grumpy and our backs hurt when we laugh too hard.”

you smile against his hoodie.

“i want that too.”

he looks down at you. “you do?”

you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze. “i want to see what kind of old man you become. i bet you’ll still wear these black hoodies and cry when the guys bully you for actually being old.”

he groans. “don’t expose me.”

you giggle, tucking back into his chest. “you’re adorable.”

you both fall into a comfortable silence again. the kind where the silence isn’t empty—it’s full. of safety. of things you don’t have to say.

and then…

“hey,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“if we ever get a dog, can we name it something stupid like toast?”

he snorts, nearly choking. “why toast?”

“i don’t know, it’s cute. imagine yelling ‘toast! come back here!’ in the park. it even matches with berry. like.. berry toast.”

he’s laughing now, full and quiet and real. “okay. so berry can bond with a new sibling then. over names. well.. toast it is. but only if i get to name the next one pancake.”

“deal.”

eventually, you both go quiet again.

there’s a weight to the room now—but not heavy. just… full. like the whole place is holding its breath around you, content to let you exist in each other.

you listen to his breathing. he listens to yours.

you both listen to the invisible thing being written between your hearts— soft and slow and definitely.. real.

“the song you weren’t supposed to hear.”(it’s still the middle of the night. and his heart is ready.)

the night has settled into the kind of stillness that only exists between 2 and 3 am—where the world outside is paused, like it’s holding its breath just for you.

you’re both now completely on the studio couch, your legs lazily tangled over his, the blanket from earlier now messily draped across your laps. the air smells faintly like jasmine from his candle stash and whatever conditioner he uses that clings to the collar of his hoodie. you’ve been tracing little nothing shapes on his arm, neither of you talking for a while—not because there’s nothing to say, but because being this close is already saying enough.

chan’s fingers have been fidgeting. not nervously, just… thinking. tapping little beats into the fabric of the couch like he’s composing something in his head he doesn’t want to forget.

you’re the first to break the silence.

“your brain’s loud again,” you murmur, smiling without opening your eyes.

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “always is, when you’re around.”

you lift your head, eyebrow raised. “is that a compliment or are you blaming me for your overworked neurons?”

chan grins. “little bit of both.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and nudge his shoulder. he watches you for a moment—eyes soft, dimple barely showing—and then he shifts. gently untangles himself from you and gets up, barefoot steps soundless on the floor.

you sit up slowly, watching as he walks over to the computer, clicking something open with a hesitance that’s uncharacteristic of him.

he hesitates a second longer, one hand on the mouse, the other in his curly hair.

“can i show you something?” he asks, voice low, unusually careful.

you straighten. “of course.”

he doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “i wasn’t gonna. i wasn’t ever going to, honestly. but i feel like… if i don’t now, i’ll never get the courage again.”

your heart stirs—soft, curious.

he opens a folder.

one you’ve never seen.

the name of it is just a single word: "maybe."

he clicks on a file. the project loads slowly. your eyes flick over the screen. it’s dated from almost two years ago.

the first out of a gazillion track's name? “she’ll never know (demo)”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses play.

the room fills with the sound of chan’s voice. not the polished, practiced version. not the stage-ready delivery. this is raw.

the acoustic guitar is gentle, almost sleepy. like the song was written late one night, maybe one just like this, with him hunched over his desk and the words falling out of him before he could stop them.

and then— the first line.

"she walks in like the sky turned soft just for her—""doesn’t notice the way she makes silence feel warm."

your breath catches. your boyfriend doesn’t turn around. he’s sitting at his chair now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it held answers to his shower thoughts.

the song continues—delicate, bare-boned. there’s a melody that rises like a question and falls like an answer. his voice cracks a little in the second verse. not from poor singing. from too much truth.

"she calls my name like it was made for her mouth—and i swear, i’d give her every version of me she asks for."

you bring your hand to your chest without realizing it.

your throat is dry. your eyes aren’t.

and then— the bridge.

it’s not perfect. the production cuts slightly. but the lyrics?

"if she knew i wrote her into every song i couldn’t finish,would she stay long enough to hear the chorus?"

you don’t breathe.

he lets the track end without speaking. the silence that follows is thick and tender.

and finally, finally, he turns to look at you.

you’re still holding your hand to your chest. you can’t find words.

“i wrote that before,” he says, quietly, “before i knew if you’d ever… look at me like that. before i thought i’d get to call you mine. i wasn’t gonna play it. felt like—it was too much.”

you shake your head, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “no, chris. it’s not too much. it’s—god. it’s beautiful, channie.”

you cross the room slowly and kneel beside his chair, hands reaching for his. “you loved me then, didn’t you?”

he nods. “i think i always did.”

the air feels like it might break from the softness.

you press your forehead to his. close your eyes. he does the same. his hands slide around your back, pulling you into him like he needs to feel you breathing.

“can i ask you something?” you whisper.

“anything.”

“when you wrote it… did you ever think i’d hear it?”

his voice is almost inaudible. “no. but i wanted you to feel it. even if you never knew.”

you kiss him. not rushed. not fiery. just… full. full of every quiet word you’ve ever shared, every moment your bodies spoke before your mouths did. full of everything that’s always been there.

when you pull back, you whispered.

“thank you for writing me into your world.”

he smiles, presses his lips to your hair.

“you are my world.”

“you and me, in a song.” (almost 3am. but none of you seem to care.. because it's just you two.)

your knees are folded up on the studio couch now, hoodie sleeves past your hands, hair a little messy from where he’d had his fingers in it. chan’s laptop is dimming from inactivity. that song—the one he never meant to play for anyone—is still echoing in your chest.

there’s something quiet between you two now, but it’s not tension. it’s the kind of silence that follows honesty. like the air has finally settled after a truth landed and made its home here.

he’s lying on the floor now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other outstretched, hand palm-up like he’s waiting for you to hold it. you do. of course you do.

“you’re still thinking too much,” you say, squeezing his fingers gently.

he gives a tired smile, turning his head toward you. “i know, baby. i can’t help it. my brain doesn’t have an off switch, y'know.”

you glance down at him, at the boy you love who writes heartbreak into bridges and hides confessions in chord progressions.

“wanna distract it?” you ask softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “you got something in mind?”

“let’s write something,” you say, voice picking up in excitement. “together. something stupid and sweet. corny. cheesy. but something that sounds like us.”

he sits up, instantly intrigued. his eyes are sleepy but alive now, warm like melted chocolate in low light. “you sure you’re not tired?”

“i’m very tired,” you say, already reaching for a notebook, “but i’m also in love, and this feels like something we’ll remember.”

he exhales a quiet laugh. “okay,” he murmurs. “let’s make it ours.”

the guitar is perched on his knee now, and you’re tucked beside him, the notebook resting across both your legs. you can barely see the lines under the yellowish desk lamp glow, but that somehow makes it feel even more intimate.

“okay,” he says, strumming a slow, dreamy chord. “tone check. what are we going for?”

“something soft,” you say. “not too polished. something that sounds like—like a sleepy love letter or something?”

he nods, repeating the chord progression, slower this time. “mmm.. like this?”

you hum in approval. “wait, yeah. genius! that feels like us. okay, first line.”

he laughs at the page. “you go.”

you pause, chewing your lip. then, with a grin..

“you looked like a dream at 3 a.m., with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

your boyfriend's pen freezes.

he blinks.

then he gives you the kind of look that belongs in poems—stunned, a little helpless, a lot in love.

“that’s not fair,” he mutters, writing it down. “you’re gonna make me fall harder than i already have.”

you smirk. “your turn, loverboy.”

he strums a chord and speaks more than sings.

“you whispered forever in the way you laughed, and i started believing it might be real.”

your heart flutters.

you grab the pen and underline that line twice. “you’re disgusting,” you whisper with a grin.

“i learned from the best,” he grins back.

you spend the next hour like that—passing the pen, trading verses, scribbling out and rewriting lines until your fingers are smudged with graphite and the paper is creased from how many times you’ve folded it to your chest in giddy disbelief.

at some point, chan turns the mic on. just to catch what you’re doing. just in case.

he doesn’t warn you when he starts singing.

you’re halfway through doodling stars and hearts in the corner of the page when his voice fills the air again, soft and sleepy and devastatingly sweet.

he sings the first verse.

your verse.

you look up at him, startled.

his eyes are on you, and he doesn’t look away when he reaches your line:

“…with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

you smile, caught.

when he finishes the chorus—messy and still incomplete—you exhale slowly. “you made it sound beautiful.”

chan shrugs, pretending to be casual. “t'was already beautiful. i just put a melody on it.”

you reach for his hand again. he lets you take it, always lets you take it.

“is this the first song you’ve written with someone you’re in love with?” you ask quietly.

he pauses.

then smiles, shy and soft. “yeah. and i hope it’s the only one.”

you press your forehead to his shoulder.

“i think we just made a cheesy memory,” you whisper.

he turns slightly to kiss the top of your head. “then let’s keep making them. cheesy and all.”

the clock reads 4:12 a.m. now. the first version of the song is saved in a folder called “us.” it’s not finished. it might never be. but it doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to be yours.

you curl into the corner of the couch again, eyes fluttering shut- not to sleep, but maybe to rest them. chan hums the chorus under his breath beside you, fingers mindlessly playing the chords like he’s serenading the night itself.

before you drift off, you mumble one last thing:

“you’re my favorite song, chris.”

and he whispers back. he always does.

“you’re my reason for every one of them.”

“the part i never said out loud.”(a still hour. 4:41 a.m. the quiet isn’t peaceful anymore—it’s holding its breath.)

he doesn’t notice it at first. the way you’ve gone quiet. maybe you were asleep.

but it was not like before. not sleepily. not wrapped in awe from a new lyric or his voice in your ear. this silence is different. it’s sitting heavy on your chest. and he only realizes when he reaches out to run his thumb gently over your knuckles and you flinch—barely, but enough for him to notice.

he turns to you slowly.

“hey,” he says softly. “hun, you okay?”

you blink at him. you were looking at the studio wall—at the sound panels, the gold record in the frame, the corner where your folded lyric sheet sits untouched. you weren’t really seeing any of it.

“yeah,” you say. but your voice betrays you. too thin. too quiet.

he sets down the guitar and shifts closer. his brows furrow, but not in frustration. it’s concern. that same warm, earnest gaze he’s always given you.

“you can tell me anything,” he says. “you know that, right?”

you nod. and then you nod again. because it’s true. you know it’s true. you believe him with your whole heart.

that’s exactly why it’s so hard.

“i didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whisper, “but i… i think i’ve been avoiding saying something.”

he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t press. just waits. lets the silence expand around you until you’re ready.

you take a breath. and then another.

“it’s my family,” you say finally. “they don’t… they don’t like that i’m with you.”

chan’s head tips slightly, like he didn’t hear right. “what?”

you wince.

“they think it’s unstable. unrealistic. that… that i shouldn’t be dating someone in the industry. that i’m just a phase to you. or that it’ll always be long-distance and lonely and that i’ll be the one waiting while you live a life i can’t be part of.”

you can’t look at him.

“they think loving you is… irresponsible,” you say, voice cracking.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the soft buzz of equipment around you. the hum of the silent studio. the absence of sound.

and then—his voice. low. steady.

“do you think that?” he asks, gentle but serious.

your eyes snap to him.

“no,” you say immediately, like it physically hurts to even have him wonder that. “no, god, never. i love you. i love you more than i even know how to explain. i just—”

you break off, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“i hate that i feel like i’m betraying them just by choosing my own heart.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t get defensive. he doesn’t ask for promises or ask you to pick sides. he just reaches out and cups your face in his hand, thumb resting softly against your cheekbone.

“you’re not betraying anyone by being honest about what you want,” he says. “and if that’s not me, i’ll understand.”

you finally cry.

not hard. not dramatic. but silent tears spill, and you don’t even try to stop them.

“but it is you,” you whisper. “it’s always been you. that’s the whole problem.”

chan pulls you into him then, holds you so close it feels like maybe you can hide there for a while. maybe forever.

his chin rests on top of your head as your hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. you can feel his heart against your cheek.

“then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “whatever it takes. i don’t care what the world says. you’re my home.”

your breath stutters.

“i don’t want to lose you,” you say.

“you won’t,” he replies, like it’s fact. “even if the world ends. even if i’m across the globe and you’re under a hundred rules, i will still be yours.”

you don’t realize how hard you’re clinging until his arms tighten in response.

“i’m so scared, channie,” you whisper.

“i know, baby. i know.”

and then, quieter.

“but i’m not scared. not if i’ve got you.”

somewhere between the crying and the quiet, you fall asleep against him.

your dreams are a blur of chords and warmth, of light through a studio window that doesn’t exist. you dream of melodies that sound like safety.

and even though the world outside might never fully understand it—might never fully approve—you wake up knowing.. this.

your heart knows where it belongs.

and it’s right here, in the quiet thrum of a boy who wrote your name into every note before he ever said it out loud.

“no matter the ending, it’s you.”(the sky is beginning to lighten, barely. that liminal hour between night and morning. somewhere between dream and day, where truth feels soft enough to hold.)

you wake up first.

chan’s head is tilted toward you on the couch, cheek pillowed in the mess of your hair. he’s asleep — properly this time, breath slow, mouth just barely parted, hoodie slightly askew around his collarbone where you clung to him in your sleep.

the studio is still quiet. the monitors are off now, the soft blue light from the mixing board the only thing illuminating the room. your bodies are half-covered by the denim blanket he keeps for emergencies, the air conditioner humming gently in the background.

and your heart — somehow — is steady.

not because the fear is gone. not because the world has changed overnight. but because you’re still here.

and so is he.

you lift your hand and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. his lashes flutter. then, without opening his eyes, he whispers, still half-asleep:

“are you leaving me?”

you smile, sad and sweet, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear.

“never,” you say softly. “even if i have to pretend in front of everyone else. even if i have to keep you a secret just a little longer. i’m not leaving you.”

his brows twitch — a quiet expression of protest even in sleep.

“you shouldn’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “you deserve to be loved out loud.”

you press your forehead against his.

“i am loved out loud,” you reply. “by you.”

that makes him stir. he opens his eyes now, sleepy and glassy and gold in the low light.

“you’re sure?” he says.

you nod, then softly: “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

he sits up slightly, blinking, hair a ruffled halo.

“you don’t have to protect me from your world, y/n,” he says, voice gravelly. “i’m strong. i’ll stand there with you. whatever people say. whatever your family thinks. i’ll wait however long you need. i’ll earn every inch of your life.”

your throat tightens.

“i don’t want you to wait,” you say. “i want you in it. not waiting at the edges. just… just give me time to show them. that it’s you. that it was always you.”

he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your temple.

then, he says the same thing he whispered into your hair the first night you ever stayed this long in the studio, months ago, when he was shy to admit how badly he wanted you to stay:

“i’ve got all the time in the world.”

you let out a breath. a small one. a real one. and for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases.

you end up sitting side by side on the studio floor with mugs of tea he brewed on the tiny electric kettle under his desk. you drink in silence for a few moments, legs pressed together, heads leaning against the wall.

then you speak, softly, barely louder than the hum of the outside wind through the sealed windows.

“do you think this lasts?”

he doesn’t ask what “this” means.

he just looks at you. and smiles.

“i don’t think love ends,” he says. “not the real kind.”

you swallow, slow.

“even if it changes?”

“it might change,” he nods. “it might grow, or shrink, or stretch itself around the seasons of our lives. but it doesn’t disappear. and mine for you… isn’t going anywhere.”

you close your eyes.

“i want forever,” you say, and you mean it. not in the dramatic, fairy tale way. not as a fantasy. but as a promise. as something simple and raw and real.

and he reaches out and takes your hand like it’s instinct. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you have it,” he says.

outside, the world begins to stir. trains groan in the distance. the city starts to wake.

but in here, in the little universe you’ve made with him under dim lights and scattered lyrics and the leftover scent of jasmine tea, everything is still. everything is soft.

and maybe the world still won’t understand.

maybe your family will take time.

maybe you’ll both carry the weight of being two people in love who don’t fit the boxes you were given.

but you’ll carry it together.

and that’s all you need.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3

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sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth · 3 months ago

Text

I don't know why I bite

(Dean Winchester x female reader)

Summary You and Dean can’t stop fighting, so Sam locks you in a room together, literally, to hash it out. CWs Violence. Rough sex. Everyone's pretty dysfunctional. General hurt. Biting. Dean + dog metaphors because it just makes sense. 18+. 6.9k words. AN I don't really know how I feel about posting long fics like this here - it seems a little awkward to read, but I'm gonna let y'all decide whether you like this format.

Dean Winchester masterlist ⏐ SPN masterlist

My friends think I like to fight, but it's just not true. Sometimes I lose my temper and blow off a little steam, but I've never enjoyed it.

I'm not a violent dog.

I don't know why I bite.

- Isle of Dogs

Dean Winchester is driving you crazy.

From the first moment you mouth off to him when you first meet you know you found a good sparring partner.

He’s quick, you’re quicker. You’re clever, he’s more clever. He grins at your teasing and you laugh at some of the jabs he gets in.

It works, because you’re both intensely aware of your own roles, your own pitfalls – you can’t hurt him by making fun of something that’s part of the character he’s created, because it’s not really him you’re making fun of. It’s the same the other way around.

You make fun of how much sex he has with strangers, because it’s part of his bad boy glamour, just another coping mechanism.

He makes fun of your excessive violence towards the less humanoid monsters you fight, because he knows you don’t actually enjoy it, that you do it to look tough in this boy’s club that is hunting, that your hands shake when you wash them later.

You make fun of his love for his car, but never of the fact that it’s one of the few kindnesses his father’s ever given him, because the first is fair game but the second would be like pushing a knife between his ribs.

He makes fun of how jumpy and irritable you are sometimes, but never of how often you wake up screaming, because one has been weaved as a silly trait into your personality and the other he knows too well himself.

How well you have to know each other, how intimate the understanding of that line you don’t cross is, is something neither of you is willing to look at. It’s like surgery, sometimes, how close you have to cut to the line, to give the other one that thrill of being known, of being seen, but never of being known too well, of being watched. That would go too far.

If Dean or you were able to take that, you wouldn’t need those intrinsic personas to shield you from everything that could be painful.

You’ve known each other for about a year when it takes a turn. It doesn’t happen on purpose and, looking back, it’s no one’s fault.

You’re attracted to Dean because, well, you have two eyes and a sex drive. You know he is attracted to you because he checks you out, which, well, Dean would probably check out a wall if it had a nice pair, but he does it with a look in his eyes that’s different, that’s not the mask he uses to bang waitresses and co-eds and unhappy wives, all non-descript shadow people passing through his life.

Potentially something could have come of it. Maybe, if one of you would have been lonely enough or horny enough, you could have let your personas, your life-long starring roles, play with each other. It probably would have been hot, but performative, both of you too busy to prove how much you don’t need to be there.

It doesn’t happen that way, though, because this happens:

Dean and you are hurt, which isn’t unusual. You can’t open your right eye so well and you hear a whistle every time you exhale. Dean’s got blood running down his face from a cut somewhere in his hair and the thing you were hunting speared him with a pen, a pen, because that’s what was in reach when Dean was standing over it, getting ready to beat its head in. It wanted to live, and you can’t think about that too much because if you do you think you’ll be sick.

Essentially, you both look like you’re on death’s door, so you don’t go back to Sam, because you know it will terrify him. Instead, you stop at a gas station, get everything you need to imitate a visit to the emergency room. The guy working at the gas station looks at you two and you must look like Natural Born Killers but neither of you cares. You get a bottle of shitty whiskey as well.

Then you hunker down, in the cheapest pay-by-the-hour motel you’ve ever seen. There’s red neon everywhere and you don’t even want to know what the room would look like under a black light.

“You first,” you say to Dean, and he complains, but you push him down on the chair you’ve moved to the middle of the room. “Stabbed beats carved-in lung,” you say, and Dean scoffs, which makes him cough.

“Anything to get to put your hands on me, huh?” he jokes when he’s recovered. You sort of chuckle, trying to find the cut on his head first. “Been a long time, has it?” he asks, flinching when you find it.

“Winchester,” you say, laying a cotton bud soaked in alcohol against the cut, making Dean buck under you, a deep groan leaving him. “You could be the last man on earth and I’d still prefer celibacy.” Dean chuckles.

“Don’t know what you’re missing out on,” he says. The cut’s mostly stopped bleeding, so you decide to leave it for now.

“Yeah, a bunch of STDs,” you mumble as you kneel down, suppressing a whine at something hurting, you don’t even know what.

The stab wound is next. Dean, in his infinite wisdom, pulled out the pen. It’s a natural instinct, to want something that is hurting you out of your body, but he still should know better.

You push up his shirt, look at the wound, ignore all that skin around it.

Cotton bud. Alcohol.

Dean hisses. “Whiskey?” he says, and you stop what you’re doing for a second to grab the bottle off the table near you, pass it to him. He opens it, takes a deep gulp, while you watch his throat work, swallowing. He drops his head, the bottle leaving his mouth, some of it running down his chin. It shouldn’t make you feel what it makes you feel. He’s a mess, and so are you, but getting to watch him like this is a privilege you know not many are afforded.

Stripped down, broken, fresh off a kill. It’s him at his best, in a way.

He passes the bottle to you, and you don’t wipe the rim. You set it down when you’re done.

“This is gonna need stitches,” you say, motioning to the wound. He nods. “What are you waiting for then?”

He barely makes any sounds while you do it, while you sew him back together. It’s over soon, since you’re quick and practiced and it’s not a huge wound. He sighs when he’s done.

“Good?” you ask.

“Magnificent,” he says, panting a little. You give him a second to recover, then push his arm for him to move. He gets up, and you take his place.

You’re not sure how much he can do for you but you’re not going to skip the chance to have him touch you, to have him try to fix you. He looks at your eye first, cleans it but it’s just a shiner, there’s not much to do. While he does it, his thumb rests on your cheek. You’re intensely aware of it, but you just look ahead.

“Saw you miss that one shot,” he says, when he’s done, and his hands leave your face. “The first one? At the big guy?” He shakes his head as he takes the whiskey and drinks again. “I’ve seen some bad shooting from you, but that was sad. Such a big target, too.”

You chuckle, but something pulls in you. No, you think, but you don’t know why. This should be save terrain.

You flinch when Dean lays his hand on your chest, above your breasts but the inside of his wrist is brushing against you. You think for a second that you can feel his heartbeat through it but then you’re not sure.

“Breathe in”, he says, and you do, while he concentrates on where the wheezing sound you make is coming from. “Throat?” he asks, then frowns. “You got choked? When?”

No, you think again, and this time you know why. You swallow, and it hurts.

“While you were hiding out downstairs,” you say, but your voice is missing the apathy required to deliver the jab, so it falls extra flat. Dean picks it up, though, but he misunderstands.

“Oh, you mean when the big guy decided to chase you after you didn’t shoot him?” He chuckles, his hand not leaving you, but then he stops, thinking. “No, no, he was already dead.”

You need him to stop. You need him to stop trying to figure this out. He’s doing it so he can make fun of you. If he knows which of the freaks hurt you, he can pick out specifically why that one getting to you is embarrassing. It’s fine, normally, but you don’t want him to know.

“Let’s see,” he says, his hand slipping off you. “There was the big guy, the squirrely asshole that stabbed me, and those two in the basement,” he counts off while he reaches for the whiskey again. He shakes his head, concentrating. “Who was upstairs?” he wonders.

He can never shut up. It’s like he was born without the skill, without the knowledge of how to ever just shut the fuck up.

He lowers the bottle, then holds it out for you but you don’t grab it. “Be honest,” he says. “Did you just run into a door at a funny angle and now you’re pretending there was a fifth?” He shakes the bottle a little, because he thinks you didn’t notice it.

You can’t reach for it. You don’t feel your hands.

“It was a child,” you say.

It wasn’t a child, of course, at least not a human one, for whatever that’s worth. It was something that was wearing a child, the kid itself burned out long ago. But it looked like one. It sounded like one. Not when it launched itself at you across the room or when it gave that godawful screech. But later, when it was lying there. That’s when.

You swallow again, and your throat hurts. Little chubby hands did that, the ones with the dimples. You feel a tear roll down your cheek. No no no. This isn’t supposed to happen.

You wipe at it, immediately, but you know Dean’s seen it. Seen you.

He lowers the bottle, slowly, like the strength is going out of his arm. He says your name, and you say: “Don’t.”

He says it again and before you know it you are standing up so quickly that the chair goes flying.

“I said fucking don’t!” you snap at him, because you just need him to stop. You need him to stop sounding like that and you need him to stop looking at you like that, his eyes all soft and his mouth in a straight line. This is worse than anything.

No, you need to get out. Your chest is constricting and you just need to not be here.

You stride towards the door and Dean is stupid enough to come after you, and he’s grabbing you, his hand like a vice around your upper arm. You turn so suddenly that he has to let go, the turning making pain flash through you, and you think good.

“Don’t ever touch me,” you grunt and Dean takes a step back. Then you’re out the door, no idea where you’re going.

You don’t come back for three days.

You left your phone at the motel with Dean so there’s no way for him to contact you. You barely remember the days. You have your wallet on you, so there’s that.

You drink, you know that. You drink and you don’t stop drinking because it’s the only way you can sleep.

You pick someone up, at some point, hoping you can be fucked senseless but it’s disappointing, doesn’t get you anywhere, so you leave. You don’t dare touch yourself, your body and what it can do horrifying and disgusting to you.

It doesn’t feel like three days, but apparently that’s what it is.

When you return to the motel, the one you were originally staying at, not the one you and Dean went to, you expect the brothers to be gone.

You get a room, get cleaned up, sitting in the bath water while it goes from boiling hot to lukewarm. You walked past a second hand shop earlier, picked out some clothes, just jeans and a shirt, carrying them with you in a plastic bag. You also bought some other essentials, and you clean yourself as much as you can, make yourself as presentable as possible.

Not to look good. Just to look not broken. Just so you can pretend nothing happened.

Then you go to the room you shared with Sam and Dean. You knock. They’re probably long gone, but then you hear foot steps behind the door, familiar murmuring and the door opens and Sam’s there, all puppy dog eyes and awkward posture.

He looks immensely relieved when he sees you, and you think for a second that he’s about to pull you in for a hug but something on your face stops him.

“Jesus”, he says, as the door swings open to reveal Dean, farther back in the room, his phone in his hands. “We called every hospital around, we thought you were—”

“I’m fine,” you say, tearing your eyes from Dean. “Your brother didn’t tell you I was going out?”

“Going out?” Sam says, unbelieving and a little bit angry as you push your way past him into the room. “You were gone for three days!”

You ignore him, look at Dean, your eyes daring him. He’s looking at you like he’s expecting your head to explode, but then he says: “She said she was going out, Sammy, leave it alone.” Sam looks bewildered as you turn to him.

“But you said—” Sam starts, but Dean must throw him a look that shuts him up. You don’t turn back in time to see it.

That is how the balance is thrown off. Once it is gone, you cannot reestablish it, no matter how hard you try.

The jokes you make at Dean’s expanse are all missed shots. They don’t cross that invisible line, but they’re… they’re mean. They’re nasty. They’re no fun. They come out of you that way and it makes you cringe at yourself, but you can’t stop.

Dean, on the other hand, overcompensates the other way. His jokes are soft, way too soft, and every single one of them makes your blood almost boil over. Reminds you that he thinks you’re something that needs to be spared, needs to be put in bubble wrap.

That you’re something he can look at the way he looked at you that night.

You two become unbearable to be around, so you don’t really blame Sam for putting his foot down.

It’s another no-name town in another no-name county and you know, and Dean knows and Sam knows that the evening will drag on the way every other evening has dragged on in the last weeks – with tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. With you being mean to Dean and Dean barely defending himself, barely hitting back.

You get to the room, put your bags down and Sam is already by the door again. You and Dean both look at him, wondering where he’s going.

“I’m getting another room,” he says, face serious. “And you two,” he continues, “you two will stay here and figure out what the hell it is that’s going on, because I’m not dealing with it anymore.”

You open your mouth to speak but Sam turns to you and says: “No, figure it out.” Your mouth closes. Who knew. The little guy could actually be imposing.

“Sammy, this is stupid,” Dean says, because of course Dean’s allowed to say something. “You’re grounding us?” Sam nods. “Yeah.”

“Or what?” you ask, before Sam can stop you. He looks at you both, then shrugs, and then he’s pulling the door closed behind him.

There’s silence, and then Dean says: “Well, that was ominous.” He looks at you, maybe hoping you’ll laugh or agree, maybe you can dogpile on Sam for a little while, but you don’t.

You feel terror sitting in your jaw and in your hands. You don’t want to talk to Dean. You don’t want to figure anything out. You want to shed your skin and start your life over and go to sleep and never wake up, but none of these seem to be realistic options.

So you sigh, instead, sitting on the bed nearest to you. There’s not even any alcohol in the room, since you’re in a dry county, and of course Dean’s thinking the same thing.

“He couldn’t have done this when we were in Vegas?” he mumbles. Still no reaction from you as you hear him sit down on the other bed behind you. You hate this. You feel like an animal in a cage. You feel itchy.

“Okay, should we do this?” you hear Dean behind you, and you think you hear him slap his thighs.

You finally turn around to him, slowly, your face unbelieving. He’s sitting there, looking prettier than ever.

“What?” he says.

“Just... you,” you reply. “I can’t believe you’re being so gung-ho about this.” Dean inclines his head. “If Sam thinks—”

“No offense,” you say, fully intending offense, “but screw your brother, okay? I’m not a child. I’m not getting sent to my room without dinner.”

And of course, at that you see it, that child, that child-thing, sprawled out, little eyes looking at the ceiling but seeing nothing. You almost shake yourself.

Unsure if Dean notices, you stand up, but instead of walking outside, you pace.

“He’s not wrong, you know?” Dean finally says, but you don’t stop moving.

“About what?” you ask, without looking at him.

“You’ve been a real asshole the last couple of weeks,” Dean answers.

And God, why does it feel so good that he calls you that?

You stop pacing, turn to him, a grin that’s probably a little psychotic-looking forming on your face.

“Now was that so hard?” you ask.

“What?” Dean asks.

“Not treating me like a little porcelain figure?” you say. “Calling me an asshole?” Dean shrugs. “Well, don’t act like one if you don’t wanna be called it.”

He doesn’t get it, doesn’t get that this is exactly what you want, but it doesn’t matter because even that little bit of disrespect makes the itch in your flesh feel a little less overwhelming.

“I know I have,” you say. You nod at him. “And you’ve been acting like a wuss.” Distantly you realize that you are actually doing what Sam told you to do. You’re talking about it, or at least you’re acknowledging that there is something to talk about, which is more than you’ve done in this whole time. So, good for Sam, you think. And you keep going.

“What happened, Dean?” you ask, your arms going wide. “You saw me upset once and now you’re too much of a bitch to joke around?” You feel yourself teetering at the edge. This could go so horribly wrong but you can’t stop tap-dancing at the edge of that volcano.

“You’re gonna protect my feelings?” you ask in a mocking tone, and you think your voice sounds shrill. “Dean Winchester always saving everyone but himself, huh?”

Dean’s looking down, his face tense and you can’t help but keep pushing.

“I’m an asshole?” you say, and for some reason there are tears burning in your eyes and you don’t know why. “Well, you’re a pussy,” you spit.

“That’s enough,” Dean says, and his voice is cold as steel. He looks up at you, still sitting on he bed, and he terrifies you for a second. But the terror is a thrill.

You scoff at him. “Fuck you if you think you can tell me what to do.”

He gets up faster than you can react. You gasp in fear when he’s suddenly in front of you and then he’s pushing you against the wall behind you. It’s only a foot or two, but the impact hurts beautifully, making clearness and focus rush through you for a second, but it’s over before you can even really enjoy it.

You want to whine at the loss of it, at the sudden lack, everything turmoil again, like a family of rats has nested in your chest. You need it back, that focus.

“Fuck you, Dean,” you say, too joyous by half about your words. “Gonna show me what a man you are? You’re pathetic.”

You see his hand raise and form a fist out of the corner of your eye, and something goes through you, something horrible and you think he’s going to hit you.

You look at his hand and something like a yes comes out of you. It sounds almost sexual, and maybe it is.

Dean’s threatening demeanor drops immediately. It takes him a second to understand what caused your outburst, and he looks at his own hand and then he looks at you.

He wasn’t going to hit you, you suddenly realize. He’s balling his fist because he’s mad, and you see it from the angle he’s holding it. You’ve seen Dean throw a million punches, and this isn’t how he would do it, even if he was mad with anger.

But Dean understands, understands that that’s what you thought he was doing and that that’s what you wanted him to do.

He takes a step away from you immediately and your stomach drops. His face is as open as it’s ever been. He finds your gaze and you’re not sure what he sees in yours but you know what you see in his.

You’ve gone too far, you can feel it in your blood. You can see it on his pretty features. This is his weak spot. The holy part you’re not allowed to touch just like there’s parts of you he’s not supposed to touch. His own fear of himself, of his clever and precise violence. The one that’s been cultivated in him from the time he was four to however old he is now. The one he keeps at bay, no matter what, for those he loves and wreaks on those he doesn’t.

There’s that clear line that neither you and Dean are supposed to cross, and everything beyond that is below the belt. And you just went for it.

He’s fought so hard to bury that part of himself, so that the people he cares about never need to be scared of him like he was scared of the people that were supposed to care about him. It’s cost him everything. And you just came for his throat.

This is so far beyond your usual arguing. This just hurts.

“I’m—” you start, but Dean’s never been good at listening, so you falter immediately. You feel tears burning in your eyes. God, he looks so sad. You blink, run the back of your hand over your nose. It’s deadly silent in the room.

Dean looks, and you don’t know how else to describe it, like a dog whose owner is holding a news paper. He knows what’s coming and he can’t stop it. He’s fear and shame and disgust in himself. You don’t want to give a shit. He’s not your mess to clean up.

But you do. Of course you do. Just like he did. He cared enough to let you verbally pummel him for weeks, barely keeping his fists up to deflect.

You say his name, or you think you do, and then suddenly he’s moving. He’s walking towards the door and you don’t know why and you don’t know how but you know you need to stop him. If he walks out that door you don’t think you’ll ever see him again.

So you rush forward, manage to get yourself between him and the door.

“Dean, don’t,” you say and he says: “Get out of my way.” His voice is deep and he's not yelling and in a way that is way scarier. But you can’t move. You can’t let him leave.

“Please don’t go,” you say, hoping you can simply convince him. You lean your back against the door, and you’re pretty sure he won’t grab you and simply pull you out of the way, because you can see his hands are trembling.

“I’m sorry,” you say, because your stupid pride has been stopping you, but now it’s the least important thing in the world. “I shouldn’t have pushed you,” you say, but you’re not sure he can hear you. “I shouldn’t have said those things. I just wanted to make you mad.” His head shoots up.

“Why?” he pushes out through gritted teeth.

“Because I couldn’t stand that you pitied me,” you say. God, Sam would love this. A real heart-to-heart. How precious.

Dean frowns. “I don’t pity you,” he says, disdain in his voice.

“Yes, you do,” you insist. “You’ve been pulling your punches for weeks. And it made me… it just made me so angry.” Dean shakes his head.

“You’re insane,” he says, and then he goes for the door, reaching around you to open it.

“No!” you say, and you push him back. He stumbles, just a little bit, but it makes him look so angry that you press yourself harder against the door. Just like you thought, he’s not going to move you out of the way, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try to get around you.

“Move,” he says, and then: “Get out of the fucking way.”

“Make me,” you bark back. Dean stands there for a second, and you think he will. You think you have completely misjudged the situation and he will make you move. But he just goes for the door knob again, reaching around you. You push your arms against him. Now that he knows you’ll try to shove him, he plants his feet and there is no way you can move him.

He’s so close to you and so angry and you don’t know what to do, you don’t know how to get yourself back and you don’t know how to get him back.

Your mouth lands on his before you even know you’re going to do it. Dean flinches and immediately moves back. He looks shocked, and you try to congratulate yourself because it worked. Even though that wasn’t what you were doing. You weren’t trying to stop him, you were just trying to kiss him.

It’s fucked up to do it like this, in the situation you’re in. But then you’re both pretty fucked up.

Dean swallows, and looks unsure. Both of you are breathing hard and for a second he seems to just listen to that, so you do too. It’s erotic, and you don’t know how but you feel it do something to you. Dean’s gaze meets yours. He’s either about to kill you or fuck you.

He moves forward and presses you against the door. You think for a second that he’ll try for the door again, but he doesn’t. His lips find yours, but what you do can barely be called kissing. It’s a battle, like everything between you is, but you manage to get your hands into his hair, grabbing it, making him grunt. He pushes you harder against the door and you find it difficult to breathe and it’s perfect.

You lean your head back at the feeling of containment, and Dean goes for your throat. He runs his teeth over a sensitive spot, making you buck and then he’s sucking against the skin so much it hurts. Your grip tightens in his hair and he makes a noise.

Before you know it you’re pushing his jacket off his shoulders, his hands barely leaving you to let you, and then his flannel goes next. When he’s free of it, he grabs your wrists and pins them over your head, attacking your neck again. You moan, you can’t help it and he ruts himself against you.

You move your head to catch something of him, anything, and you manage to get at his jaw, nipping at him. Dean flinches, but he lets you do it. Then his hands let go of your wrists and travel down your arms, down and down, until they are at your chest and he roughly squeezes your breasts. Another moan escapes you and then you’re dropping your hands and he’s dropping your tits, moving on to your hips instead.

You find his crotch first, press your hand against it, agitating what you find there. Dean hisses, and his mouth slams against yours again, but this time you force your tongue past his lips, keeping him there as you battle again, open-mouthed and breathing hard.

Dean’s hands wander from your hips to your ass, squeezing and then he’s pushing one of his legs between yours. You grind yourself down on him, but it’s not enough, it’s not nearly enough to dispel any of the energy you need to dispel. He’s pushing you against his leg by grabbing your ass but again, it’s not enough.

You tear one of his hands from your ass and maneuver it to your front, push it between the waistband of your jeans and your skin, shove him down. Dean doesn’t stop mouthing at you when you do it, except to groan into your mouth when he fingers make contact with your underwear.

He takes control, shoving his hand deeper until he finds you there. Both you and him are surprised by how wet you are. You’re not sure when that started but neither of you cares for much longer, when you feel Dean push two fingers into you.

You almost sob and with just enough wherewithal you unbutton your jeans to give him room to move, before you grab his hair again and lean your head back against the door. He feels good, and even though his thrusts are rough, they hit the right spots within you, forcing you to close your eyes at what feels like electricity running through your body.

“Fuck, yes, just like that,” you pant and feel Dean’s plush lips against your jaw. He’s not kissing you, not exactly, just making contact, just getting as close to you as he can. You pull his hair a little and feel the air come out of him when he moans.

You don’t know how it’s possible, but he's getting you to the edge fast, and you have high-pitched, desperate moans leaving you soon. Then you’re pushing him away.

His head snaps up, and he looks worried for a second, but all you want is more of him. His hands leaves you, and you’re pulling at his t-shirt, trying to get it off him. You manage, and then he’s tugging at your shirt.

“Get that off,” he says, and his voice is rough and deep, the timber of it running through you. You do, pull it over your head and he goes for your bra before you have even pulled it off your arms. He nearly tears it off you, and then he reaches around you, bringing you close, as he pushes his hands into the back of your pants to push them down.

You use the closeness to open his jeans but then you have to step out of your pants and underwear and shoes as Dean makes them fall to the ground, to avoid stumbling.

Dean manages to turn the two of you, so that you are with your back to the bed and he pushes you towards it. When you get close you let go of him and crawl onto the bed, but you kneel on it, facing Dean. The two seconds it takes you are enough for him to unbuckle his jeans the rest of the way and drop them, along with his underwear, step out of them and his shoes and socks and kick them to the side.

He’s there in front of you, all glorious nakedness, but neither of you wants to lose a second to thinking, to wondering what it is you’re doing, so instead you collect some spit in your mouth, then run your hand along your tongue to collect the moisture and a moment later you have him in your hand.

Dean inhales sharply but you don’t hurt him, only stroke him until he’s fully standing. He’s beautiful, all of him, and if you took a second to admire him, you would see just how beautiful, but you can’t. You don’t want to break the spell.

He grabs you by the ass again, pulls you close to him, and you can hear him breathing hard, grunting at what you’re doing to him. One hand goes to the back of your head and he kisses you, really kisses you this time, roughly, yes, desperately, yes, but it’s still a kiss.

You stroke him faster until he grabs your shoulders and shoves you down on the bed. You land on your back, hair flying into your face and an insane chuckle leaves you. Maybe you’re losing your mind. Or maybe this is what you’ve been craving all along.

Then Dean’s over you, and he’s kissing you again, his hand running from your breast to your neck where he holds you tight, pulls you roughly against him. His erection is pressing against your stomach and you want him.

You get your mouth off his, and then you’re turning around under him. Dean barely leaves you room to do it, but you manage, and then you’re pushing your ass against him. He grabs your hip, strokes it.

And then he kisses your back and you freeze. He does it again, leaning over you, kisses, and then bites you there, but gently.

You gasp and you need him suddenly, need him so bad. Need him to make you feel anything else.

You push your ass up again and this time he does it, does what you want him to do. He lines himself up and then he’s pushing into you. A whine leaves you as you work yourself down on him and his hands are grabbing you everywhere, touching you everywhere and it makes you almost believe that you can be free of all this anger if only Dean keeps touching you.

He starts driving into you and for a second it’s overwhelming, so much, too much and too fast. Your breathing stutters and you need to concentrate on regulating it. But then Dean finds a rhythm and suddenly you can breathe. One hand of yours wanders back, grabs his underarm where he’s holding you and he grabs your elbow, holding onto you.

“Dean—” is all you can say, and his thumb strokes your arm.

“It’s okay,” he says and he’s driving into you, making you gasp again, which quickly turns into a moan.

“Yes,” you pant, “yes, don’t stop.” He doesn’t. He keeps up the pace, his thighs meeting the backs of yours with loud slaps until you think you're going to pass out.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and then suddenly he’s pulling out of you. You turn around to see what’s wrong but then he’s turning you around and your back meets the mattress again. Dean leans over you, pushing your leg higher.

“I want to see you,” he says, and your next inhale lets you feel the spiral again, brings tears into your eyes. Don’t be kind to me, you think, but at the same time you crave it. You want to see him gentle, want him to see his own gentleness.

He kisses you again, and you return it, wrap your arms around him and pull him close. He sighs against you, and then he’s pushing into you again. Your head falls back, you almost whimper and as Dean enters you, pushing your leg up against your torso, his hand cupping your cheek and his thumb running over your lips, you wonder when this turned from a hate fuck into whatever it is now. You find his thumb with your mouth, kiss it.

Dean leans closer to you and your hands go into his hair again. You still pull it, still make him grunt, but in response he lays his face against yours. What is this? you just have time to wonder when the movement of his hips makes you see starts.

He keeps going and going and going and you whimper and come and he holds you through it while tears run down the side of your face from the intensity, but still he keeps going.

“Fuck, I—” he mutters and you feel him throb inside of you, so you pull him close, bring your mouth to his shoulder and bite. Dean grunts, and then you kiss the place you just bit and he comes inside of you.

For a second you’re terrified he’ll roll off you immediately, so you wrap your arms around him. Dean moves into you once or twice more, but it’s just a reflex. His forehead is against your shoulder.

You find you’re stroking his back and just as you wonder if you should stop, Dean flexes his back, his shoulder blades moving under your fingers and he says: “Keep doing that.” So you do. Because you’re not ready to look at his face yet. You don’t know if you ever will be. But eventually you have to.

Eventually Dean needs to move, pulls out of you and rolls himself to the side. Your breathing has quieted down. For a moment, he’s not looking at you, but staring up at the ceiling.

Little eyes staring up at the ceiling.

A sob goes through you and Dean turns to you. He rolls himself towards you and then, after a moment of hesitation, pets your cheek.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks. You shake your head.

“No,” you say, your voice quiet. “You made it not hurt for a while though.”

He nods, and you’re pretty sure he understands exactly what you mean.

“I’m sorry,” you say then.

“You don’t have to—” Dean starts, but you interrupt him.

“I know what I made you feel. What I made you think. I’m sorry.” He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. “I will never do it again,” you add. He runs his thumb over your chin.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like you needed to be pitied,” he says. “I’m sorry I…” he sighs. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

You nod. “I know,” and then: “I knew you weren’t going to hurt me. I knew but I wanted you to.” He nods again.

“Why? I mean why did you want me to?” You shake your head. “You know, Dean.”

And you see it in his eyes, because of course he knows. It’s the reason he sometimes drinks until he passes out. The reason he takes more punches than he needs to. Because it’s better than feeling the other thing.

He tugs some hair behind your ear and you lean into the touch. Suddenly the gentleness doesn’t hurt. Suddenly it’s everything you want.

You both lie like that for a while, just touching, just looking at each other.

“So what now?” you say. “We just go back to how it was before?” Dean thinks for a second.

“I don’t think that would work,” he says finally, and you have to agree. “Maybe,” he says, “we can both turn it down a few notches?”

You nod. “Probably a good idea.”

“And this,” he says motioning to nothing, but you know he’s talking about what you just did. “We can see where this leads?”

That one you have to think about for a moment. You feel that old thing roar its head in you, the one that wants to destroy any possibility of anything good possibly coming out of something gentle, something sweet. You fight it, and nod.

“That sounds good,” you say. Then you take a deep breath. “Do you think this is what Sam imagined when he told us to sort things out”

Dean huffs. “I really hope not.”

You smile a little, and then you do something daring.

Moving your shoulders, you scoot closer to Dean. He wraps his arm around you, holds you close.

You still look at each other, like two skittish animals but eventually, the warmth and comfort of another body so close overtakes you.

You can’t fight the need to be close so you stop, stop fighting it.

Dean’s hand rests on your chest and this time you’re sure you can feel his heartbeat. You listen to it, try to focus on it.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’re too tired to fight. You always thought you’d need to be strong to stop, but it turns out tired works too.

Ba-dum-dum, ba-dum-dum.

You’ve never enjoyed it anyway.

#sorry's fics #dean winchester #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #spn #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #spn smut #spn fanfic

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kurokawaia · 9 months ago

Text

❛ It's your first !! Gotta be soft !! ❜

Iguro Obanai X Fem!Reader

WC; 3.4k+ (somehow)| !MDNI! | TW/CW :: nervous!reader, virgin!reader, lovesick!obanai, virgin!obanai, cherry popping, soft sex, gentle sex, oba is rlly soft and love you sm, piv, smut with plot? set in season 5 but no spoilers, kaburamaru slithers away smw when it gets heated dw

⋆·˚ ༘ *𝑅𝐸𝒬𝒰𝐸𝒮𝒯 :: (filled request) I was wondering if you could do reader’s first time with him, and I just head cannon Iguro to be absolutely lovesick with his partner and gentle like how he is with Mitsuri in canon so could you do it with like a nervous!reader x lovesick!Iguro’s first time doing it - ANON

this ended up being over 3k words, dont ask me how

m.list | demon slayer m.list

You had to take a break from training today, so you found yourself watching Obanai beating up the children who trained under him. However, you found yourself nervously fidgeting on the sidelines, watching Obanai as he demonstrated a particularly complex technique through the wood structures.

Your heart pounded in your chest, both from the intensity of the training and the way Obanai's gaze lingered on you whenever he thought no one was watching. Despite his stern exterior and sharp words for others, he had always been different from you—gentle, kind, and unbelievably patient.

He does love you after all.

Obanai's eyes flickered to you again, his concentration momentarily broken. The sight of you, nervously playing with the hem of your haori, made his heart ache with a longing he struggled to contain. He was lovesick for you, utterly devoted, and the thought of you consumed his mind.

As he guided the other Hashira through the rigorous exercises, his thoughts drifted to the times you spent together. The quiet moments when he could hold you close, feeling the warmth of your body against his, and the soft, timid whispers of your voice that soothed his troubled soul. He yearned for more of those moments, but there was a deeper, more primal desire that had begun to take root.

His mind wandered to the idea of having you in a more intimate way, a way you had not yet explored together. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, and he had to force himself to focus back on the training.

He wanted you, in every sense of the word, but he was determined to be patient, knowing your timid nature. He didn't want to rush you or make you feel uncomfortable.

The day dragged on, and the training ended. Obanai immediately sought you out, his expression softening the moment he saw you waiting for him.

"How was your day?" he asked, his voice gentle as he approached you.

"It was alright," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. "Watching you was... impressive, as always."

He smiled beneath his mask, he only smiled for you. "Thank you. Let's go somewhere quiet. I want to spend some time with you."

You nodded, your heart racing as he led you away from the training grounds of his estate to the room the two of you shared. Well, you weren't currently living with him yet, but you hoped to in the future.

It was peaceful as the two of you sat outside on the edge of the path that trailed around the house, your legs dangling off of the edge, accompanied by the soft rustle of trees.

Obanai sat down, pulling you gently to sit closer beside him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "I've missed you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I missed you too," you replied, leaning into his embrace. The warmth of his body against yours was comforting, and you felt a sense of peace wash over you.

He tilted your chin up, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours. "I think about you all the time," he confessed, his voice aching with longing. "I want you, in every way possible. But I don't want to rush you. I want you to be comfortable, to feel safe with me."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words, and you could see the sincerity in his eyes. "I... I feel safe with you, Obanai," you whispered, your cheeks flushing. "I'm just... nervous."

He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "That's okay. We can take things slow. I just want you to know how much I care about you, how much I love you."

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. "I love you too, Obanai. I'm just not used to feeling this way, but I want to be with you."

He pulled you closer, unravelling the bandages around his mouth, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss. "We'll take it one step at a time," he murmured against your lips. "As long as we're together, that's all that matters."

But the kiss wasn't tender for too long. Obanai had slipped his tongue into your mouth and a gasp fell out of your lips. You dripped his haori in surprise, eyes momentarily widening before closing them in contentment.

Obanai's tongue was entangling with your own and you almost didn't know what to do. It obviously wasn't the first time that the two of you had made out but it still made you nervous under his touch. He was towering over you, his hand entangled in your hair as he tilted your face up and an arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

You felt as if you were going to faint when he was getting into it, more than usual, your heart was beating so fast you thought you were going to pass out. You didn't even know what to do, Obanai was dominating you in such a loving way it made your tummy swell with butterflies and an unfamiliar throbbing fall to your clit.

You were beginning to not be able to intake any breaths and you tense underneath Obanai's touch. You truly were getting more and more flustered by the minute. Leaning into Obanai's hold, you tapped quickly on his shoulder and he pulled away from the kiss alarmed, not even realising your flustered and breathless state causing his eyes to widen in worry.

He leaned back slightly to see if you were okay, mentally cursing himself for being too intense with you. Your forehead was leaning on his shoulder while your hands trembled, clenching his black and white striped haori.

"I'm so sorry," Obanai hastily uttered and in reply, you nodded your head against his shoulder.

"It's okay," you reassured quietly.

What Obanai didn't see was how red your cheeks were and how hot your body felt on the inside, this sensation was absolutely overwhelming and you didn't know what to do.

"Are you-"

You lifted your head up after a few seconds, hoping that you had calmed yourself down but it didn't really work.

"I am!" you replied, interrupting him.

Obanai's eyes widened when he saw the state of you. Your cheeks were flushed in a deep shade of a pinkish red and your hands were trembling on his shoulders. What he felt just then, what he is realising is that he can feel how hot your body is heating up.

You didn't know what this need was so you hesitantly asked Obanai, "could I... kiss you again?" you asked with a quiet voice, looking down, not wanting to meet his gaze in fear he said no.

Oh, how silly you were, you could kiss Obanai whenever you wanted, with or without asking and he would just fall even more in love with you.

Obanai's eyes softened, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against mine. "You don't need to ask," he whispered against your mouth, his voice filled with warmth and longing.

You hesitantly wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as our lips met once more. This time, the kiss was deeper, more intense. You could feel the electricity between us, a magnetic pull that made it impossible to resist each other.

your hands explored the contours of his back, feeling the strength and warmth of his muscles. Obanai's hands moved with a gentle but insistent touch, tracing the lines of your body, and making you shiver with anticipation.

As our bodies pressed closer, you could feel Obanai's heartbeat against mine, a steady rhythm that matched the intensity of our emotions. You wanted to memorize every sensation, every touch, knowing that this moment was a testament to the depth of our relationship.

Obanai's lips left mine, trailing a path of kisses down your neck, making you gasp with pleasure. His hands moved with a tender urgency, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that made you feel cherished and loved.

You pulled him back up to you, our eyes locking as we paused for a breath. "I love you," You whispered, your voice filled with sincerity.

"I love you too," he replied. "{Y/n}," he asked breathless

Obanai's hand gently cupped your cheek, lifting your chin until your eyes met. His touch was reassuring, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. "Yes?" You asked softly, swallowing a lump in your throat.

"I... I want to take things further," he said, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability of your words hanging in the air.

Your body froze, your mind pausing whatever it was thinking about. "You... can," you whisper, gazing into his eyes, realising that what he wanted to engage with you was sex.

After walking over to the futon, Obanai laid you down carefully, as if you would break and you were a nervous wreck but Obanai soothed that. Obanai was straddling your lower abdomen and you could feel the large bulge in his hakama pants as he leaned down to kiss you.

Your tongues danced with each other before he pressed a kiss to the side of your lips and then trailed down slowly, the kisses reassuring you that you would be okay. He trailed down your collarbone and chest, making sure to leave soft, faint red marks in its wake. Throughout the entire procedure, you let out panting breaths and strengthened your grip on his body.

Your reactions only send continuous flushes of butterflies to Obanai's dick. The need that Obanai had for you was restless as he tried so hard to contain himself and be as soft with you, he didn't want to hurt you.

"Oba," you said breathlessly and he could've melted right there and then, the way you said his name sounded so much more intimate than how you would sound when it was just a simple make-out session.

Obanai lets out a hum of approval against your skin and tension ripples through your body at the vibrations as Obanai continues leaving the same soft red marks down your jaw and on your neck.

Obanai pulled away, giving you a soft kiss. "Can I... take your...." Obanai trailed off slowly and you nodded, knowing what he was referring to, your core uniform.

"Yes," you replied nervously.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Obanai reassured, placing a kiss on your lips. "I'm not forcing you."

"No! I want to," you replied almost too quickly that an embarrassed flush came to your cheeks.

You tensed when Obanai's hands trailed down to your waist, your body arching slightly into his touch. He hesitantly unbuttoned the rest of the buttons to the top and slid your pants off. You watched his eyes widen at the sight of the fabric slipping to the side of your chest and stomach. "Can I-?"

"You can," you say, cutting him off.

A breathless sigh leaves your mouth when his hot hand trailed up your lower stomach to experimentally squeeze the mounds of flesh. You let out a moan when Obanai's lips began to press and suck gently on the top of your breast. You covered your mouth embarrassed while you looked away from Obanai. "Sorry," you mumbled.

"You sound so pretty," he whispers in your ear, causing your cheeks to heat up. Obanai's free hand pulled the hand away from your mouth. He leaned up a bit, pulling you gently with him and slipped the black nemaki off your shoulders, placing the material somewhere near us before he lay you down on the mattress again.

Obanai's lips pressed against mine once more while a hand skimmed slowly down your body. you felt the tip of his finger tug only slightly at your underwear and you grasped his wrist, the kiss breaking.

"Do you want to stop? You don't have to do this if you don't want to," Obanai's reassures but you shake your head, signalling that I wasn't implying that.

"It's not that, I really want to," you replied breathlessly before an embarrassed flush rose onto your cheeks. "Could you take off your..."

"Huh? Oh, of course," Obanai hummed, his lips pressing the side of your jaw. you watched him slip himself out of sweats, you see the imprint of his dick press painfully against his underwear and you swallowed deeply before he straddled you once you. Obanai did that without any complaint, he must really love you all that much.

Obanai pressed a reassuring kiss on your jaw before the tips of his fingers pulled the cotton down your legs, the cool air of the room causing chills to tingle down your pale skin. "You're so pretty," Obanai says breathlessly causing butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

His fingers venture further down, tracing a path along your slick slit. The touch is electrifying, causing you to tremble in his hold, your body responding to his every movement. A helpless whimper escapes your lips, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that courses through you.

"So wet," Obanai mumbles before looking back up to you. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you replied quietly, opening your eyes down to Obanai. "Please, can you... touch me more."

"I'll do whatever you want me do to," Obanai replied and you let a small smile grace your lips.

At your reply, Obanai's fingers experimentally push past v slick folds, his fingers pressing past your clit, and a surge of pleasure courses through you, leaving you breathless and desperate for more. A moan left your mouth as your back arched at his touch. your reaction caused Obanai to press down slightly more and your legs squeezed around his waist, moans stringing out your mouth.

you felt his fingers slide down and he found your seeping hols, drenched with arousal. I felt a finger slowly slide inside your heat, a whimper leaving your mouth. "Does this feel good?" Obanai asked and you nodded frantically.

"So good," you whimpered as he slowly pumped in and out your soaked walls. "Making me feel so good, Obanai."

"Really?" He asked and you moaned as he inserted another finger into your walls.

"Yeah, so so good," you whimper. "So good for me, Obanai."

The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intensity that leaves you unable to contain your moans. you press your lips against his shoulder, muffling the sounds that escape from deep within you. His fingers explore the depths of your core, igniting a fire that consumes your every thought. Each movement, each curl, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.

you surrender to the intoxicating rhythm of his touch, the combination of his skilled fingers and the intensity of our connection pushes you closer to the edge, teetering on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure bliss, where time stands still, and you are consumed by the overwhelming pleasure that courses through your veins.

As Obanai fingers continued their relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of your seeping hole, there was an unfamiliar tightness growing in your lower abdomen, pleasure tightened inside your stomach. you wrap your shaky legs around him, seeking to anchor yourself to him amidst the overwhelming pleasure. your body quivers with anticipation, responding to his every touch, every movement.

you chant his name into his neck as praises leave your mouth, your voice filled with desire and need. The tears welling in your eyes are not from pain but from the overwhelming pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely.

In response to your plea, sucks the skin around your neck once more, groaning against your neck, his voice laced with desire. He begins to press your clit with the pad of his thumb, adding another layer of pleasure to the already intense sensations. The touch is electrifying, causing you to arch your back in response.

"Please, Obanai," you sob. "I need to... So good, Obanai."

"I've got you," Obanai reassured, intertwining our mouths together, his mouth swallowing the moans that slipped out your mouth.

The pleasure builds, the tension mounting with each passing second until you are on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure surrender, where pleasure reigns supreme, and you are consumed by the overwhelming ecstasy that engulfs me.

Waves of ecstasy wash over you, leaving your legs trembling and weak from the intensity of the sensations. He slips his fingers from your hole and you continue to tremble from the aftermath of the orgasm. you managed to release yourself from Obanai's neck and move away from his hold.

"How are you feeling?" Obanai asks cupping your cheeks.

"Good," you breathe out slowly while looking into his eyes. "But, I want to make you feel good too."

"You don't need-"

"Please," you beg and you watch him swallow deeply, tension showing on his body.

Obanai asked once more. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "Please."

"Alright," He smiled gently moving off you to get himself out of his underwear and your eyes widened as you saw the size of his length. Obanai moves over you, you place your hands on his chest.

He delicately bites the shell of your ear making you let out a quiet whimper. you could feel him smile against your ear at your reaction. Obanai's touch caused you to dig your nails slightly into his chest leaving light crescent marks causing more deep exhales of breaths to get caught in your ear.

Obanai moved his head and his body suddenly firmly pressed against mine and I whimpered at the feeling of his dick pressing up against your stomach. His lips mingled with mine his minty taste and smell overflowed your senses making it a complete euphoria for you. you cupped the back of his neck to create a deeper angle for him to explore deeper into your mouth with our tongues continuing to entangle with each other.

Obanai groans into your mouth, the hand that was trailing down your thigh moved swiftly back to your waist and the other intertwined with your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you closer to him. you let out breathy sighs into him as your own hand interlaced with his black and your other wrapped around behind his neck.

His other hand moved its way down to tightly lift your thigh up which made his body mould closer to mine making you feel his dick press up against your soaked core. The kiss slows down and turns soft and almost desperate it's as if he wants to take his time with you, savouring every inch of your taste, to take his sweet time to memorise you.

"You're doing so good," Obanai pants agasint your lips and I didn't have time to reply as he pressed them against you once more. "I'm going to do it now. If it hurts, please tell me, I don't want to hurt you."

"Okay," you reply.

He presses his lips against mine to take your mind off the pain that's probably soon to come. you feel a hard tip get lubricated at your entrance making your back arch into him as you let out a strangled moan of pleasure into his mouth. He continues to push further into you making your eyebrows furrow together in pain but the pleasure is still overwhelming your senses making tears prick at your eyes.

"Oh, you feel so good," Obanai whimpers into your neck. "You're so perfect."

"You feel so good," you moan. The feeling of pure ecstasy of him fully entered you, the pain gone.

you feel his dick scraping across your plush walls in all the right places as he slowly exited your cunt, but not fully. Our moans and whimpers get swallowed by each other. you feel his thrusts speed up and you moan in response, your walls clenching around him causing the grip Obanai held on your thigh and waist to tighten.

The coil in your stomach getting tighter and your moans slightly became higher. Obanai continued to groan into your neck after he pulled away from the heated kiss.

"You make- me feel so goo- d," you say moaning throughout your sentence, "Feels so good-"

"I'm close-," He groans.

"Me too," you choke out.

you felt the coil in your stomach snap as your back arched painfully into Obanai's bare chest causing Obanai to groan and his arms moved to wrap tightly around you. After a few more pumps Obanai came, letting a few more rolls of his hips into you to help ride out both our highs before he pulled out slowly, making sure not to hurt you.

Obanai slumped down beside you before he slipped the condom off his length and walked over to the bathroom with a warm, damp wash cloth to clean you up and after he did so, you did the same.

"I love you so much," you tell him as we lay down together, our legs and arms entangling, bare bodies pressed against each other.

"I love you more," Obanai replies, holding you tighter.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

m.list | demon slayer m.list

#obanai x reader smut #obanai iguro smut #iguro obanai smut #iguro obanai x reader smut #obanai iguro x reader #iguro obanai x reader #obanai smut #obanai x reader #demon slayer x reader #demon slayer smut

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michelle-is-writing · 10 months ago

Text

Unsuspecting Suspect, Spencer Reid

Word Count: 2.2k~

In movies, the "pregnant women always have to go to the bathroom" is a popular joke to use. However, what most people don't realize is that the joke is highly played down. What you see in movies is nothing compared to what really occurs.

What really occurs is getting up from bed after only five minutes of getting comfortable to go to the bathroom for the fiftieth time that day. Not to mention you've become so used to the bathroom that you don't even have to turn the lights on or anything - you already know where everything is. Plus, if you're me, then that also means picking up your husbands lazily discarded pants that are crumpled up on the floor with his gun and all of his badges still hooked on there just so you can wash your hands.

"Spencer, I know you've worked long and hard," I start, picking up his wrinkled slacks from the bathroom floor. "But if your pregnant wife has to continue bending over and picking up your pants every time she has to use the bathroom because your daughter seems to think my bladder is a punching bag," I begin taking everything off of his belt. "Then I might just have to use you as a punching bag."

"I'm sorry!" I hear him apologize from the bedroom, an ounce of laughter behind his voice. "I forget and just leave them there - I'm sorry!" Spencer repeats himself, making me bite my lip from laughter. He has eidetic memory, and yet, he still 'forgets' his pants when he takes them off everyday he comes home from work.

Taking his badge off his belt and placing it on the counter, I begin dismantling everything else as well. The last thing to remove is his gun and holster, and with this clunky thing, I try as hard as I can to not let it make a sound as I put it on the countertop. Spencer has been very quiet for the past few minutes, and if he's fallen asleep, I don't want to accidentally wake him up.

I just hope he's not quiet because he's worrying himself sick. As of lately, he's had a stalker that the BAU can't seem to figure out who they are. They know they're male, going by the style of handwriting, and they know he has a pattern. Every Tuesday, a letter is sent to Spencer's desk at the BAU, and yet, there's never a return address or fingerprints to go off of. Today was Tuesday, and for some reason, Spencer didn't receive anything. It worried Spencer a lot, but I'm just hoping the stalker has given up; however, his previous letters show no sign of him doing this which makes this all more worrisome.

"No, no, please," I hear Spencer's voice from the bedroom once more, making my eyes go wide as I quickly catch onto the fright and panic in his tone. Who is he talking to? Especially when I've been in this bathroom no longer than five minutes, and I didn't hear a phone ring or anything.

"You are Spencer Reid," My ears catch a very unfamiliar voice, causing me to fully come to a halt with Spencer's revolver still in my hand. Who the hell is in my house? And how the hell did they get in?

Silently padding over to the bathroom doorway, I try as hard as I can to crack open the door enough to see who's in our house. As I do so, I feel my heart beat a mile a minute, and the little girl in my stomach still hasn't given up on her kicking assault. "Your birthday is October of nineteen-eighty-one. Your mother,"

The man pauses to laugh, appearing as if he were trying to mock Spencer; I take this chance to open the doorway as much as I can without alerting the man, and thankfully, it seems to be a success. "The poor old broad can't decipher through her own mind - never has been able to," The man continues. "Finally, you turn eighteen, you send her away, and you go on to live your own life in college and, soon enough, the BAU,"

Slowly peeking around the corner, I see the man talking to a very wide-awake Spencer with his gun raised at him, no mask concealing his face. Instead, his entire body is covered in black material spanning from a dark turtleneck all the way down to pitch black slacks and charcoal boots. Yet, his head and face are completely visible to anyone who sees him, and going by the fact that he's doing such a thing, he thinks he's going to get away with it and not get caught. Not on my watch.

"You've spent- no, wasted! Wasted nearly eleven years of your life on a job that prevents you from actually having a life!" At the mans words, I squint my eyes while readying Spencer's gun in my hands. "Face it, doctor Reid - you are nothing! I am smart - we are smart! But you have married yourself to your job that doesn't need you; it needs me," with that, the man pauses once again, but this time, he begins to pant, obviously worked up over what he's been saying. This guy has to be one of the most conceited guys to walk the earth.

"Now," The man states, leveling his eyesight with the gun once again. "Was there anything I missed?"

At this point, I come around the bathroom corner with Spencer's gun raised at the man. Through the sights, I see the two small pieces of metal lining up with the mans head, and in my peripherals, I see Spencer warily nod his head as he glances over me with extreme and utter nervousness.

"Uh, y-yes, actually," my husband answers, swallowing down his worry as the fate of his life rests at the tip of my fingers. Now that I think about it, if it weren't for Spencer's bad habit of leaving his pants in the middle of the bathroom floor, I wouldn't have the ability to save him right now.

Just as the man turns around, I line up the sights with his head once again as I pull the hammer back, the trigger following soon after. Watching as the man quickly goes down with no life left in him, only slight convulsions surging through him now, I slowly let my hands fall back to my side as the realization of what just occurred passes through me. I just shot someone... someone who was threatening my husband's life, but still! I've never done that before, and I never want to have to do it ever again!

Within a few moments of my eyes widening in shock, I feel Spencer take me into his arms while slowly taking the gun out of my hand and tossing it onto our bed. "You did so well, love," Spencer assures me in my ear, making me slowly sit on the ground with him as shock runs through me. I'm so stunned by what just happened that I can barely breathe. "You did good, baby, you did so good. I'm so proud of you."

Despite Spencer's words running through my head, I find myself suddenly gasping as I realize something. "Baby! The baby!" I almost shout, turning my head toward Spencer as my now free hand falls to my thirty-week old bump. "Spence, the-the noise, the noise! Could the noise have hurt her ears?"

Immediately, Spencer shakes his head before moving to place his hand on top of mine, his other hand raising at the same time to wipe away the sudden rush of tears falling down my face. "No, no, she's fine, (Y/n), she's fine," Spencer assures me, gently rubbing his thumb against my clothed belly. "The muscles and amniotic fluid protect her, so when the noise does reach her ears, it's extremely muffled," he further explains, gently taking my face into his hands to turn me toward him. "But I am going to have a medic look over you and the baby when they get here, okay?"

Keeping my eyes on his, I nod before laying my head against his chest, a small sigh falling from my lips. "He was the stalker, right?" I ask Spencer, my eyes flickering up to his face as his hand reaches down to gently card through my hair.

Spencer simply nods. "Yeah, he was," he tells me, making me shake my head. "The way he spoke, it's how he wrote his letters," Spencer further explains, "He was an obvious narcissist with a superiority complex - just like his letters."

That would explain the man's words from earlier and how selfish they all were. Although, what if the cops don't believe us and arrest me in spite of what's been going on? I know Spencer wouldn't have gotten in trouble shooting him as a BAU agent, but what about me?

"Spencer, am I going to jail?" I immediately ask, my eyes growing wide as panic sets in my chest.

"No, no, you aren't, and you need to calm down," Spencer tells me, holding my head to his chest as he kisses my temple. He's trying to comfort me while also preventing me from looking over at the dead man currently lying on our bedroom floor. "You did nothing wrong, that was self-defense, and you protected me as well as save me from the man who was going to kill me, no doubt," he points out, his voice growing softer with every word. "You're awesome, love."

In response to his comment, I find myself lightly laughing with tears rising to my eyes again. That's what I usually tell Spencer when he gets back from a case and they successfully stopped a killer. Even if the case goes awry and Spencer returns home sad or disappointed in himself, I still remind him of my usual compliment. Now, much to my disbelief, the roles have reversed and now it is me who has stopped the bad guy.

Once my breathing is slowed and my panic has settled down, Spencer helps me go back to our bathroom where he makes me stay. Without wasting anymore time, Spencer grabs his phone from his side table and dials the police before walking through the house with his gun in hand to make sure there are no other intruders. Thankfully, there isn't, and Spencer soon returns to the bathroom to take me out to the living room, getting me as far away from the dead body as he can all the while making sure I remain comfortable.

Sitting behind me on the couch, Spencer makes me lie between his legs as I rest my back against his chest, his right hand rubbing soothing circles against my bump while he uses his other to dial up his team. Thankfully, soon of them are still at the office working late when Spencer calls.

"(Y/n) shot the stalker?" I hear Derek's familiar tone over the phone as Spencer explains the situation. As he goes on, the sound of sirens in the distance slowly grow closer, and the only thing I can do is hold a hand to my swollen tummy as our little girl gives the occasional kick to my ribs.

"Yes, directly in the head," Spencer answers Derek with a quick glance over to our bedroom where the dead body remains, the spilled blood from his wound no doubt soaking into floor. I never would have listed 'blood is easier to clean up' as a pro when choosing hardwood over carpet. "She shot like a trained officer."

Spencer's comment warrants a rare chuckle from their boss. "Too bad she wasn't able to help you when you failed your shooting test and needed to retake it," Hotch's voice pipes up from the background, causing Spencer to let out a little 'hey!' in response. In light of the situation, I laugh a little at that. I can remember him calling me after failing it and I had to tell him it was okay. Of course, in his mind, it wasn't.

"I don't fail tests." I remember him telling me, making me laugh. No matter what I said, he still continued on about failing the test, unable to let it go.

"The team will be here in a few minutes, okay?" I hear him tell me, bringing me out of my thoughts and back to the moment. I hadn't even realized he ended the call with his team.

Still, I nod back at him, only a few seconds passing before he's leaning over and pressing his lips against my cheek. "It'll all be okay," He assures me, making me slightly nod with another small shuddered breath. "I promise," He further assures me, sensing my anxiety. "I'd never let anything happen to my hero~"

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #dr spencer reid #criminal minds fandom #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid imagines #bau team #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds oneshot #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds smut #matthew gray gubler x reader #matthew gray gubler imagines #matthew gray gubler imagine #Matthew gray gubler

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whateverloomis · 3 months ago

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Dilf!Billy Loomis who kidnaps the sweet lil reader that works at the local Spirit Halloween?

I've always wondered how Billy would kidnap someone because he 100% would lmao. This is basically a drabble, it's all I've been able to put out lately. Anyways, here it is! Hope y'all enjoy babes 🫶🏼

Warnings: FEM READER, kidnapping (honestly it was a willing situation but the intention was there lmao,) spiked drink, alcohol consumption, flirting, fingering, stranger danger (lol,) Stu Macher feature, unedited

Finally, your favorite season has arrived and you couldn't be happier. Fall. Halloween. Gloomy nights and a full moon. Ghost stories and pumpkin spice in the air.

It also means night shifts at Spirit Halloween. It isn't exactly the funnest job, but being surrounded by all kinds of decorations and costumes is worth doing it.

Tonight the store isn't as full as it usually is and you're almost grateful. The week has been chaotic so far and you definitely need a slow day, especially since you're at the register.

A few people came in and browsed the costumes but nobody bought anything, except for one. A man.

He's wearing a white tee with an oversized navy blue jacket along with light wash jeans. As you scan his body with your eyes you land on his black doc marten boots. It looks like they've been used quite a bit but they're still in great shape. You fixate your gaze a little too long on them, boots are one of your weaknesses and the man wearing them sure make them look extra hot. He must be in his 50s, but fuck does he look delicious. It's odd for you to find older men attractive but when it happen you're practically weak at the knees.

You continue looking at him as you suck on a lollipop you stole from a random aisle. With the view of the attractive man studying and touching the Halloween masks your brain got creative, and you definitely wouldn't mind having his cock in your mouth instead. Gosh, what a slut. Thinking that way about a complete stranger? Who does that?

It doesn't stop you from entertaining yourself with the thought as you feel the sugary bulb against your tongue.

"Do you have another one of these available?" the man asks and snaps you back to reality. He's holding a ghost face mask and you can't help but imagine him wearing the damn thing.

You nod and search for another mask from the pile of items people decide not to buy last minute, and luckily you find another one.

After handing it to him, you pull the lollipop out of your mouth, "Anything else I can help with?"

You noticed how he looked at your lips when you removed the candy from your mouth and smirked, "Mm, no, I have everything," he responded and you instantly got flustered.

"So, are you new in town? I haven't seen you around before," he asks, making small talk.

"Yes, I moved here a few months ago. It's pretty nice, I didn't think I'd like Woodsboro much..." you trailed off and Billy looked at you with a questioning look,

"Is it that boring here?" he continued and you laugh shily, "No, I just don't really have friends to hang out with..." you say and the man frowns.

"Well, I can show you around if you'd like. I know a nice deck with a mini bar down by the Woodsboro lake. It's really nice at night when there's a clear sky." he said and you mentally curse yourself for being tempted to go hang out with him. A stranger. But you couldn't help it, it's been a while since you hung out with someone and this guy is incredibly hot.

Your mind is racing but before you reason with yourself, you accept his invite... Billy Loomis' invite.

•

After a brief walk and a few drinks at the mini bar you were already letting loose and getting flirty with Billy.

"Wait, so he fell in the water with his suit on?" you asked, giggling at Billy's story of Stu falling into the hotel pool where their prom was hosted in '96. You were sitting rather close to the man, your thigh touching his while you faced each other.

"He really did, the idiot" he responded and took a swing of his beer. "We should all hang out sometime, I'm sure he'd like you." Billy continued and you blushed at his words. "Really? You think so?" you asked, shyness taking over. "Of course, anyone would like a cutie like you," he said, no shame in being straightforward.

You bit your lip and let out a breathy laugh. "I've never thought that way about myself..."

"Well, you should, I mean look at you" he continued and placed his hand on your thigh, running it up your skin slowly until it rested right under the hem of your short dress.

Silence fell upon you in an instant and the tension that was building went up a notch. Naturally, both of you leaned in and gave each other a few lingering kisses.

Billy pulled back and hissed, looking down at his hand on your thigh, squeezing slightly. "Bars about to close... You wanna go back to my place?" he asked and you nodded slowly, following him to his car.

Once you reached the vehicle Billy leaned against the hood and pulled you towards him by your hips. You instantly wrapped your arms around his neck and continued kissing and it quickly got heated.

You might be a shy person, but when it comes to getting what you want? You don't hesitate one but, and at that moment you wanted him. This stranger that you met a few days ago.

It's reckless but you didn't care. The way that man was using his tongue to tease your lips and mouth was incredible and you could've stayed there all night but you needed more.

"Mm, let's go" you broke the kiss. Billy smirked and opened the door for you, looking at your ass when you walked past him to get in the car.

•

You found yourself straddling Billy's lap on the couch of his living room. The cabin he owns is relatively small but extremely cozy and charming in every way, just like him.

The sound of your soft moans mix with the crackling of the fire place. The make out session had been going on for a while and you were already grinding against his growing length. He feels big, and you can't wait to see what he's hiding in his pants.

Billy was careful with what he chose to do, he didn't want to scare you away after all, so he slowly slipped his hands under your dress and pulled it up and over your ass. You moved your hips quicker in response to his actions and he exhaled at the feeling of your pussy against his clothed cock.

He squeezed your ass and dug his fingers in your flesh before sneaking one of his hands between your legs. He rubbed your clit over your underwear, encouraging you to grind against them, and that you did. Slowly.

"Fuck... You soaked through these." Billy said while snapping the band of your underwear with his free hand, "I've barely touched you baby..." he continued and nipped your neck.

"Mm, please..." you said and grab his hand. "Need to feel..." you continued while you pulled your underwear to the side, moving his fingers inside your throbbing cunt.

"Fuck..." Billy moaned and finger fucked you from below imagining his cock buried inside you.

After a while his impatience took over and he stood up. You wrapped your legs around his torso along with your arms around his neck and into his room you went...

•

After Gods know how much time of fucking and playing with each other Billy offered you a drink, which you gladly accepted. After a few sips you went to the bathroom to clean up, and while you were away he took the opportunity to spike your drink. Of course he had alternate motives, and you were an easy target. Too easy.

Once you came back and took a few more sips of that drink you never thought you'd end up passing out... much less end up with your hands tied behind your back on a chair in the middle of a living room. A room that was comforting a few hours prior, but there you were. Confused out of your mind.

"Look who's up" you heard Billy whisper. His hand softly brushed against your cheek.

"Where... What?" you said while moving your arms around, feeling the restraints.

"Shh sh sh, we're at my place, remember?" Billy said softly. Why was he being so gentle in a situation like this? You had no clue, and it made the situation all the more confusing and frightening.

"What's goin- What the fuck?!" You lost it.

"Hm... Well, you see... It's a very interesting story, really. I used to study with your aunty Prescott."

No way.

"And I tried to kill her, but the bitch got away from me, so I thought... Hm, how can I get her attention again?"

"Billy... Don't" You started.

"Why not kidnap her sweet nephew. The one she loves like a daughter..."

"Billy..."

"Why not use these? Terrorize the town again... Terrorize Sidney again." He continued, holding the ghostface masks up. The ones you sold him a few days ago.

But why two?

"Am I late?" You heard another voice behind you. Turning around was useless so you closed your eyes hoping it was all a dream.

"Nah, I'm just getting started" Billy replied and the other man came to view. He handed Billy a knife and took his mask afterwards.

"YN, meet Stu." Billy said and Stu waved as if this were a normal everyday interaction.

"You. You're the ghostface killers..." you put it together quickly, all the memories of Sid warning you about moving to that damn town. How she wouldn't trust the silence.

She was right.

#ghostface smut #ghostface x reader #billy loomis smut #ghostfacesmut #billy loomis x reader #scream (1996)#billy loomis x you #stu macher smut #stu macher x billy loomis #stu matcher x reader

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walpu · 1 year ago

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I've got those requests almost at the same time jsrfwwxewe also I fucked up big time and accidentally deleted them but thanks god I've made the screenshots

I've been looking forward to writing something nsfw for him lmao

nsfw headcanons w/Aventurine

characters - Aventurine notes - gn!reader, nsfw, subby!Aven. Somehow turned into a character study. Somewhat angsty but with a turn for hurt/comfort. No beta.

Okay, first of all, he's no virgin. But he's NOT a manwhore either. Like for some reason when it comes to the cunning characters it's always either he's a dickrider-pussydestroyer-900 or he's actually a fragile innocent virgin baby. Not the case with Aventurine, not on my watch at least.

I mean it's pretty much canon that the only moment he feels truly alive is when he's gambling so he won't seek sex for the purpose of filling up the hole in his heart. And I don't see him as a lustful person in general.

He has one-night stands from time to time though. Not particularly often but once in a while he feels a certain level of frustration and stress budling up in him so in order to distress without losing his cool he seeks sexual relief. For him it's a safe way to relax a bit without actually taking off the mask of a frivolous and confident man.

Also. He's very touch starved. Not even in a lustful way, he just wants to feel someone's touch. Someone on twitter pointed out that he's practically hugging himself on his e6 and I haven't been the same ever since.

And now look at his body language in almost every cutscene. He has his arms crossed and is generally pretty reversed. I think he doesn't trust people around enough to be in his personal space but when it's a part of the sexual act, it's just natural. He doesn't have to feel exposed. So yeah. This is another reason why he seeks sex.

Now do you remember what Sparkle said to him? About stripping himself naked for Sunday and all that? Yeah I feel like he gets comments like that a lot due to people's prejudice against Avgins. People are usually not this straightforward butttt the idea behind their comments is the same.

He may act unaffected as long as he wants to but I do think it messed him up quite a bit.

Due to his fucked up views on his own value and his sexuality he doesn't have a healthy set of boundaries with his partners, allowing them to be as mean and rough as they want. And I don't mean just kinky stuff, I mean genuinely uncaring partners who really don't give a shit about Aven's comfort. I think subconsciously he seeks people like this. In his eyes, it's better this way, otherwise he may crumble from a gently and caring touch.

So yeah. His sexual encounters usually leave him sore and exhausted. The initial feeling of relief washes away in the morning, leaving him more empty than before.

Okay now to the happier part because we are 466 words in and I still didn't say anything good or sexy.

If the two of you started your relationship as a fling then initially he would be surprised because of how observant and attentive you are.

"My, my, how caring you are. But don't worry about me, you're free to use me as you wish" he says in the same flirty tone as usual. And you just. Stare.

He acts like he's bored while you literally pry the information out of him and, well, he doesn't give you anything specific anyway so you have to ask questions during the whole prosses to make sure he's doing fine. Orrr you just set for something very vanilla just in case.

In reality he's a bit confused. Has mixed feeling about this. Being treated with such care makes it harder for him to hide behind his mask but it feels so nice.

And when he realizes that he has actual feelings for you he just. Stops sleeping with you lmao. If you have questions about this he'll find 2134144 excuses but in reality he just tries to figure out his own feelings.

If you started off as friends then he would not try to sleep with you until you start dating. At first he just doesn't want to mix up this dynamics. And when he catches feelings, he just tries to make sense of it. Plus since sex is not something entirely positive for him, he's just kind of... unsure how it may affect your relationship even if it's obvious that the two of you want each other.

Okay now the real talk. When the two of you are officially lovers be prepared to face his messed up views on his own sexuality. Will probably need a lot of reassurance, attention and aftercare to realize the importance of his own safety and comfort. Learns to value himself through you.

A very good lover, knows how to please you and wants to please you. His previous sex partners weren't important to him so he didn't go out of his way to make them feel good but with you it's a different story. Literally worships your body, pressing kisses everywhere. Especially likes your thighs. Kisses them, bites them, leaves marks all over them. Loooooves teasing them while keeping eye contact with you right before giving you oral.

I feel like he's a switch but leans towards being a sub. May dom if you want him to or, rarely, if he feels like it.

May look like a brat but is not actually a brat. Well, most of the time. He's a tease but still does pretty much everything you want without making you work for it. However, if he's in a playful mood, may get all cheeky with you. Says stuff like: "Oh, that's all? I know you can do better" or "My dearest, don't disappoint me, okay? You know I don't make deals that don't pay off" just to rile you up. He loves being tamed okay. He knows you won't hurt him so him being all cheeky and disobedient is actually a huge sign that he's comfortable with you and trusts you fully.

Worship his body and he'll melt. Like. He'll genuinely crumble.

Goes all worked up and needy and soft and completely submissive in your arms.

Loves loves loves edging you. And fucking hate being edged. And by "hates" I mean he will whine and sulk and beg you to let him cum already. Secretly loves it but won't admit. You know it anyway since he never tries to stop you, obeying your every command, like a good boy he is. If you tell him that you'll stop doing that if he actually wants you to he'll huff and admit that he's not actually against you being a meanie.

Loves marking your body and loves when you mark his. HOWEVER would prefer to leave/have hickeys on the parts of your bodies that are usually covered. Doesn't want to create any rumors and doesn't want to make you uncomfortable. However, if you're into this, he'll gladly cover your entire neck with hickeys.

Is actually very sensitive pretty much everywhere so it's quite easy to overstimulate him. Once again, he'll whine but would never be against it.

Has the pretties moans and is very loud as well.

Doesn't have a lot of stamina so if he tops and you're still not satisfied after he cums, he'll use toys to entertain you up until he is ready for another round. If he bottoms then please give him some time to rest. Andddd kiss all over his body so he would get worked up again as soon as possible.

Has a praise kink. And a bit of a degradation kink too actually. Don't just insult him, mix it up with a praise and boom he's ready to cum.

Loves aftercare. Both giving and receiving it. He feels extremely vulnerable after a sensual lovemaking session so please just hold him and tell him he did great.

#hsr #aventurine #aventurine x reader #hsr aventurine #honkai star rail #sub aventurine #reader insert #walp's writing

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eclipseslayer · 7 months ago

Text

TRICK-OR-TREAT

• STALKER!TOJI FUSHIGURO X F!READER

• Day 4 of Kinktober: Knifeplay.

• SUMMARY: Thinking you're just opening up the door to some kid who's trick-or-treating, you instead open it up to a fully-grown man in a Scream costume.

• CW: Stalker!Toji, DUB-CON, knifeplay, penetrative sex.

• WC: 2.1k

MDNI! 18+ ONLY!

Ding dong.

You groan, feeling annoyed while you turn your head to look at the clock.

It's eight o'clock. Trick-or-treaters are supposed to be home, now.

You hang your head, and with a pivot of your heel, you turn to head back to the front door. You grab the bowl of candy that sits on a pedestal in the entryway, and you put it on your hip while your hand grips the door handle.

You twist the knob, and, slowly, you pull the door open.

"It's eight, now, aren't you supposed to be..." Your words trail off once you're met with the sight in front of you.

Instead of a small child, or an annoyingly over-grown teenager, you're met with a hulking shadow: a man, tall and wide dressed in a Scream outfit that drapes over him like a black curtain, and the Ghostface mask hides his countenance. It's almost eerie.

"I uh..." You clear your throat, and you put the candy bowl back onto its pedestal. "...can I help you?"

Your words are meek, and as you look up at the man is front of you, you could almost tell that he was smirking underneath the mask.

"Trick-or-treat."

His voice is deep, and it makes your hair on your arms raise. He holds out a bag full of candy to you, and your eyebrows raise.

"O-Oh." You turn your back to him and you reach out to grab the bowl of candy, but, before you can think, you hear a heavy thud which makes you whip your head towards the sound. The big bag of candy had dropped to the floor, and the man had shoved his way into your home, pushing past your doorframe.

"Trick-or-treat."

Slam!

You jump, and immediately feel a shockwave of cold wash over you, entrapping your body in what feels like a block of ice as you see the door slams behind you, with the hulking man walking in.

Slowly, he approaches you, with heavy boots thudding against the wooden floors, until he pushes you up against the wall in the entryway to your home, trapping you beneath his broad body.

He leans down, and you can feel the plastic of his mask scrape against your ear, and you hear him whiff.

"Finally..." He groans, and slowly he begins to press himself against you, his lower-half meets yours and you let out a whimper.

You're shaking, practically quivering like a scared puppy in the night, abandoned and left to fend for itself under the scary shadows of the darkness.

"I've been waiting... for so, long," he moans into your ear and he presses his lower-half up against you again. You gasp when you feel a raging boner.

"P-Please... p-please, d-don't..." You stutter out, but the man rumbles a low chuckle.

"Oh, your sweet, sweet begging sounds as good as I thought it would be..." He grumbles and he leans in and pushes his mask up just barely so you can see his lips, and his strong features of his jaw.

Your legs quiver and you whimper again, and your hands grip onto the wall, searching for anything to hold onto.

"P-Please... no!" You beg louder, desperate for this man to hear you, but your pleading sounds of desperation fall onto deaf ears.

He continues his onslaught as he starts to kiss onto your neck, leaving small marks onto your skin as he begins to suck and pull with his teeth.

Whining, you try and pull your head to the side to escape his sudden marks, but, he quickly stops you by placing a large, gloved hand around your neck, preventing you from moving, making you gasp as air is suddenly swept away from you.

"Stop movin' so much, damn," he hisses under his breath, and then quickly puts his teeth back into your neck.

You go to protest, but, before you can, you suddenly see him reach into the sleeve of his robe, where he slowly digs around for something. He grunts when he finds it, and when he pulls it out, you're shocked.

A knife.

Shiny and untouched, with a heavy, thick, black, blunt handle.

"W-What—"

"Shh, shh..." the man coos, and he pulls away from your neck. He moves his head so he's facing you now, once again, and you see the scar twitch on his lips as a slow smirk creeps upon his expression.

You whimper.

"It's okay, sweetheart," he murmurs, and he removes the gloved hand from around your throat. " 'M just takin' ya clothes off, see?"

He grips the knife handle firmly between a fist, and, pinning you down with his other hand, he slowly drags the edge of the blade across your stomach until it lands on the hem of your shirt.

Your breath hitches and your eyes widen as you feel something stir between your legs.

Panic rises in you when you realize that you're enjoying this.

You're enjoying being taken advantage of, and toyed with as you watch him drag the knife along the hem of your shirt.

You let out a shaky breath when you feel the cold metal meet your skin, and your legs press together out of habit, making him come to a halt.

He looks up at you; black eyes of the mask meet yours.

"You likin' this?" He asks, bluntly, and you swallow thickly. You want to answer no, and shake your head and beg for him to stop, but the sudden cool feeling of the knife brisking over your skin made you want otherwise.

"I..." You can't even bring yourself to answer the truth, so you nod your head.

Slowly, a grin crawls onto his lips, and he lets out a hearty chuckle.

"Ahh... knew ya'd like this kinky shit. I imaged ya would... always thought a good lookin' girl like you would like this..." He murmurs, and he leans back into your neck and resumes leaving marks onto your skin.

You lean your head back against the wall and finally you accept this as you let out a soft moan.

He hums against your skin, and he twists the knife, ripping the hem of your shirt. He drags it up, ripping the fabric in half, and lets it fall off of your body.

"Fuck... your moans... make me so hard..." He murmurs and he moves his face back in front of you again. Those black eyes meet yours once more.

"You gonna be good 'n still for me if I let you go?" He tilts his head, and, feeling like a puppy dog once more under his mysterious gaze, you nod.

"Y-Yes, Mr. Ghostface," you reply, meekly, and he chuckles darkly.

"Toji, sweetheart," he corrects you and he places the knife under your chin, humming with delight when he sees you squeeze your legs together again.

"R-Right... Toji..."

He nods and he removes his hands from you and then he slowly moves them to your pants. He takes his knife and puts the blade inside your jeans, and slowly begins to rip the fabric down the middle seam.

You gasp with each tear, only whimpering as you feel the cool metal brushing against your skin. It sets a fire within you, one of need, slowly kindling it's way to your heated core.

Your hands needily grasp at the wall behind you, searching, looking for something to hold onto while you shiver underneath the knife, but fail, so you resort to biting your lip to restrain the climbing anticipation.

The knife feeds the anticipation when you feel it cut through your panties, splitting them in half, just as the knife did with your jeans. The fabric of your clothes fall to the floor, leaving you bare and needy.

You whine, looking at the floor then back up at the masked man who's smirk remains untouched.

Your gaze goes back to the knife in his hand and you swallow thickly as you watch it, following it carefully as it ghosts over your skin, leaving you resorting to soft, needy whimpers.

You gasp as you feel the back of the blade glide over your skin. The coolness leaves goosebumps in their wake. It glides over your stomach, making it cave in and out as you react to the cool curve of the knife, and then it glides down to your pelvis, leaving you to your own devices as you bite your lip even more, whimpering in anticipation.

Then, it glides down, the blunt back of the blade moves between your folds, making you gasp. You grip Toji's arm in retaliation but he hushes you.

"Toji—!"

"Shh... don't worry, doll. Not gonna hurt you... I've finally got you where I want you, and you think that that's what I'm gonna do? Naw. I need this pussy all pretty 'n nice for me. Ima be careful, sweetheart."

It's thrilling, how the blade moves between your pussy. You think that any second now he's going to turn the blade over—despite his words—and cut you, but, he doesn't, which makes it so enticing.

You whine, wanting to squirm but you stay still under the blade's touch. Toji notices this, making his smirk only grow. He lets out a low chuckle and he finally removes the blade from your pussy. He brings it up to his face. You can tell he's looking at it, as it's covered in your slick, from underneath the mask. He hums and brings it to his lips and tastes it, groaning at how good it tastes.

"Fuck... just like I imagined," he grunts, and he brings his hands down and begins to unbuckle his belt. He fumbles for a minute, until he finally lets his pants fall down around his ankles, soon followed by his underwear.

When he reveals himself, you're aghast. He huge—thick and sturdy, and long—and he's dripping with precum.

You swallow thickly.

Then, slowly, he brings his cock to the entrance of your pussy. He takes one of your legs and hoists it around his waist, grunting, until finally, he presses the big tip into your pussy, where he lets out a groan.

You moan in response, feeling the tip kiss into your pussy, just barely pushing in. He huffs and, in one swift movement, he hoists up your other leg and places it around his waist, and his large meaty hands grip your thighs, and, with another quick movement, he thrusts in.

"Toji!" You shout, and your hands fly to his hair and you grip it, feeling his cock suddenly swell within you, filling you up so that your walls cling to him in a vice grip.

He grits his teeth and groans, burying his face into your neck, leaving the plastic on the mask pressing against your cheek. "Shuddup. Goddamn, holy fuck, you're so tight," he mutters quickly in a single breath, huffing. "Love it—ya feel s'good."

He pulls back his hips, and, wham!

Another single thrust that leaves his cock pressing up against your pussy. You whine loudly in response, and, then, without warning, he does it again.

And again.

Until he starts building a rhythm, where he constantly is slamming into you, roughly, stretching you out with no warnings. Only grunts, groans, and curses are expelled from Toji, and you moan loudly, clawing at his back as you feel him all around.

"Toji! Toji!" You moan, crying at this point from how good it feels to have his cock pushing in and out of you, scraping against your insides from how big he is.

"That's right, say my name, doll, say it. Say it like you're mine," he grits through his teeth, nearly growling in your ear.

"Toji!" You shout again, louder than the last few.

His cock feels so good as it bullies into you, making you dumb on his cock. You become boneless, and one with the wall as you melt into it, feeling so numb because of his good this stranger's cock is.

It continues to bully into you, hitting that oh-so delicious spot over, and over again that makes you—

"Oh, oh, oh!"

—cum.

You shake, and shiver, and your legs clamp around the stranger as you cum, and soon afterwards, you feel a familiar warmth fill you as Toji suddenly spills his seed without warning.

"Fuck, you were grippin' me so tight..." He groans into your ear, and huffs, becoming out of breath as he suddenly lets you go, dropping you to the ground.

A triumphant grin is plastered onto his face and plants his hands on his hips as he catches his breath.

"Bet ya that's the only treat ya got for Halloween, huh?"

#🌑 postings #🌑 my fics #kinktober 2024 #kinktober #jjk fanfic #jjk x you #jjk smut #jjk x reader #toji fushiguro smut #toji fushiguro x reader #toji smut #toji x reader #toji x you #toji fushiguro x you

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lunaticgf · 5 months ago

Text

sevika x fem reader

Forced Attraction.

Tags : Captor!Sevika x Captive!Reader , kidnapping , dubious consent , very dubious , stalking , mindbreak , Dom!sevika , victim!reader , sevika is a creep , psycho even , reader is a freak tho , pain slut even , dark fic , violence , threats , Stockholm syndrome , manipulation , fingering.

Summary : You don’t remember how you ended up here.

Note : yeaaaah. I needed to write this one for my soul. In my defence… yeah I got nothing LOL. Enjoy degens. This is probs very ooc but ic if you squint hard enough.

Sevika followed you from a safe distance, making sure to stay hidden. Her keen eyes observed your every move. She observed the way you talked to others, the way you smiled, the way you walked. She memorized every little detail, committing it to memory so she could replay it in her mind later.

Sevika watched you with a mixture of fascination and obsession, her gaze never leaving your figure. She stalked you every day, always watching and waiting for the right moment to make her move.

The cold night air stung your face as you walked home from a late night shift, the dimly lit streets feeling eerie despite the city bustling with life. You couldn't shake off the feeling that eyes were on you, following your every move. As you quickened your pace, feeling increasingly uneasy, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you. You turned around, but there was no one there. Shrugging it off, you continued your walk, telling yourself you were being paranoid. However, the sense of being watched persisted, and you couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was actually there. As you walked, you started to notice small things out of place, a shadow darting behind a building, a sound of footsteps trailing just a few steps behind you. The feeling of being followed increased, making your pulse race. You could sense someone's presence, but whenever you turned around, there was no one there.

Fear gripped your heart as you quickened your steps, desperate to home and away from the unseen pursuer. You glanced over your shoulder once more, and this time you saw a figure disappearing around a corner. This only confirmed your suspicions. Panicked, you picked up the pace, jogging now towards your house, the fear of the unknown presence behind you outweighing the fatigue. Every step you took felt like an eternity, your heartbeat thundering in your ears as adrenaline coursed through your veins. You desperately longed for the safety and comfort of your home, away from the stalking figure lurking in the shadows.

As Sevika watched you run, excitement and anticipation coursing through her veins. She could almost feel your fear, smell it wafting through the air. She couldn't let you escape, not when she'd spent so long observing and planning. And that’s why she had a plan.

You spot Sevika in the distance ahead, a wave of relief washed over you. Her familiar face was like a beacon of safety in the darkness, and your tense shoulders softened as you jogged towards her.

"Sevika!" you called out, your breaths coming out in ragged gasps. "Thank goodness, I thought... I thought someone was following me."

Sevika feigned concern, her expression masking the fact that she was the one who had been following you. She stepped closer, her eyes scanning your face, taking in your disheveled appearance.

"Why would someone be following you?" she asked, her voice gruff but gentle. "Are you alright?" Hiding the excitement that was building up in her. She's enjoying this, the power she has over you, the trust you place in her.

"You know, I've been worried about you. You've been so distant lately, and I couldn't help but wonder what was going on in that pretty little head of yours."

Sevika's grip tightens on your shoulder as she pulls her in closer, her breath hot against her ear. Your heart races, a mix of relief and something else she can't quite place. Sevika's words are laced with concern, but there's an undercurrent of something darker, something predatory.

"You've been through so much, haven't you? All alone, trying to navigate these treacherous streets. It must be so hard, not knowing who to trust." You felt a strange mixture of relief and unease at Sevika's words. They were comforting, yet there was something in her tone that sent a shiver down your spine. You couldn't deny that she made you feel safe, but her possessive nature was beginning to worry you.

"You trust me, don't you? You know I would never let anything happen to you." Her thumb brushes against your cheek, and she sees the way your eyes flutter closed, a soft sigh escaping your lips. "That's right, you can rely on me. Always."

As your eyes flutter closed, Sevika takes advantage of the moment. She slips a small vial from her pocket, the contents within glinting in the dim light. She uncorks it swiftly, the faint scent of bitter almonds filling the air.

"W-wait, what is that?" you asked, a sense of alarm rising in your chest. "I don't-"

But your protest was cut short as Sevika's hand pressed more firmly against your lips, the cold glass of the vial resting on your chin. Her gaze held yours, an unspoken command in her eyes that brooked no argument. "It'll make everything easier, trust me," Sevika coos, her free hand stroking your hair softly. You comply, lips parting to accept the liquid. Sevika watches as she swallows, your eyes still closed, completely unaware of the betrayal unfolding.

The bitter liquid slid down your throat, leaving a strange, almost metallic taste behind. A rush of dizziness washed over you, vertigo stealing your sense of balance and making you swoon. Sevika caught you, her strong arms encircling your waist, pulling you against her body as you stumbled. As the drug begins to take hold, Sevika's eyes gleam with a twisted satisfaction. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers, "That's my good girl." Those words send a shiver down your spine, but your body is too weak to react.

Sevika's hands roam over your body, her touch lingering in places it shouldn't. She traces the line of your jaw, her thumb brushing against your lips. Her fingers slide down your neck, her grip tightening slightly as she feels your pulse fluttering beneath her touch.

"You're so beautiful when you're like this," she murmurs, her voice taking on a dark, hungry edge. "So helpless, so vulnerable."

Her hands move lower, her fingers tracing the curves of your body. She leans in, her lips brushing against your neck, her tongue darting out to taste your skin. You let out a soft moan, your body responding despite your mind screaming in protest.

"You like that, don't you?" Sevika growls, her breath hot against your neck. "You like it when I touch you like this."

Her hands move to your thighs, her fingers digging into your flesh as she spreads your legs further apart. She leans in, her lips finding yours in a harsh, demanding kiss. You can taste the bitterness of the drug on her tongue, the metallic tang of her lipstick. But you're powerless to stop her, your body betraying you as it responds to her touch.

"Mine," Sevika hisses, her eyes locked onto yours. "You belong to me now."

Sevika's grip on your thighs tightens, her nails digging into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. She pulls away from the kiss, her lips curling into a wicked grin as she sees the haze of confusion in your eyes.

"What's wrong, love? Don't tell me you're already missing me." Her voice drips with mock concern, her fingers trailing up your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. "I'm right here, after all."

She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "And I'm going to be with you every step of the way, from now until forever."

Her hands move to your wrists, her grip firm as she pins your arms above your head. She leans back, her eyes raking over your body, drinking in every curve and every inch of exposed skin.

"You're mine now," she growls, her voice low and possessive. "And I'm going to take what belongs to me."

She leans in, her lips finding yours in another bruising kiss. Her tongue pushes past your lips, claiming your mouth, your breath, your very essence. She swallows your moans, your whimpers, your pleas for mercy. She consumes you, body and soul, until there's nothing left but her.

"Say it," she demands, her lips hovering just inches from yours. "Say you're mine."

She waits, her eyes boring into yours, her grip on your wrists tightening. She won't let you go until you give in, until you submit to her will. And you know, deep down, that you will. That you'll say anything, do anything, to make the pain stop, to make the hunger in her eyes fade away.

"Say it," she growls again, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "Say you're mine, and I'll make it all better. I'll make you forget about everything except me."

She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. "All you have to do is say the words.”

Your lips part slightly, a soft whimper escaping as Sevika's grip on your wrists tightens further. You can feel the pain radiating up your arms, but it's nothing compared to the dread and fear that consume you. Her eyes bore into yours, their intensity unyielding, demanding.

"Please..." you whisper, your voice barely audible. The drug has left you feeling groggy and disoriented, your body responding in ways that seem foreign and uncontrollable.

"Please what?" Sevika taunts, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Please make it stop? Please take you away from this place? Please...what?"

She leans in, her breath hot against your cheek. You can feel the heat radiating off her body, her scent enveloping you—a mixture of sweat, leather, and something darker, more primal.

"You know what I want to hear," she murmurs, her voice a low growl. "Say it, and I'll make everything better. I'll make the pain go away. I'll take care of you like no one else ever has."

Your heart pounds in your chest, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, a desperate plea for mercy.

"I...I'm yours," you manage to choke out, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. It's a surrender, a capitulation to her dark desires. And as the words leave your lips, you see a wicked gleam in Sevika's eyes, a triumphant smile spreading across her face.

"Good girl," she purrs, her grip on your wrists finally loosening. She leans in, her lips finding yours in a soft, almost tender kiss. But the tenderness is fleeting, replaced once again by a hungry, possessive desire.

"Now, let's get you somewhere safe," she whispers, her voice laced with a dark promise. "Somewhere where no one can ever hurt you again."

She helps you to your feet, her arm wrapped tightly around your waist as she guides you out of your old home. The world outside is a blur. Sevika keeps a firm grip on your waist, her stride quick and purposeful as she leads you through the winding alleys and shadowed streets of Zaun.

"Where...where are we going?" you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper. Your legs feel like lead, each step an effort as you struggle to keep up with Sevika's relentless pace. She doesn't answer, her expression hard and unreadable as she focuses on navigating the treacherous path ahead. The streets are filled with the usual sights and sounds of the undercity—shouts and laughter from nearby taverns, the distant hum of chem-works, the occasional scuttle of a chem-rat—but they all seem muted, distant, as if seen through a thick fog.

Eventually, Sevika slows her pace, guiding you towards a nondescript door set into the side of an old, crumbling building. She knocks a quick, rhythmic pattern, and the door creaks open, revealing a dimly lit staircase leading down into darkness. "Home sweet home," she murmurs, her voice echoing in the narrow space. She ushers you inside, her hand on your back pushing you forward. "Welcome to my little sanctuary."

You descend the stairs, your heart pounding in your chest as the door slams shut behind you. The air is damp and musty, the scent of mildew and chemicals filling your nostrils. Sevika leads you through a labyrinth of tunnels and corridors, the walls lined with makeshift beds, crude workstations, and stacks of crates and supplies.

"What is this place?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper. The drug is wearing off, the edges of reality beginning to sharpen once more. Sevika turns to face you, her eyes gleaming in the faint light cast by the flickering chem-lanterns. She reaches out, her hand cupping your cheek, her thumb brushing softly against your skin.

"This is where I bring my special gifts. And you, my dear, are my most prized possession." Her hand trails down your cheek, her fingers intertwining with yours. She pulls you deeper into the heart of the underground complex, the sound of your footsteps echoing through the narrow tunnels.

Finally, she stops in front of a heavy metal door, the kind of door that's meant to keep secrets locked away. She withdraws a key from her pocket, the metal glinting in the dim light as she unlocks the door and pushes it open. Inside, the room is bathed in a soft, eerie glow. The walls are adorned with photographs—photographs of you. Snapshots captured in various moments throughout your life, some taken without your knowledge, others seemingly staged to capture specific emotions. You gasp, your eyes widening as you take in the sight. There you are, laughing with friends at a café, lost in thought as you walk along the riverbank, asleep in your bed, completely unaware of the camera trained on you. There are dozens of them, each one a window into a different moment of your life.

Sevika stands behind you, her breath hot on your neck as she whispers, "Isn't it beautiful? A chronicle of your life, all laid out for me to admire."

You turn to face her, horror etched on your features. "How? How did you...?"

A cruel smile plays on her lips. "I have my ways. I've been watching you for a long time, my dear. Long before you ever knew I existed."She steps closer, her eyes never leaving yours. "You're mine now. Every moment, every memory, every breath...it all belongs to me."

Her hands reach up, cupping your face, her thumbs brushing away the tears that have begun to stream down your cheeks. "Don't cry, my love. This is just the beginning. We have so much time together, so many memories yet to make."

Her hands remain cupped around your face, her thumbs tracing the line of your tears, her fingers tangled in your hair.

"You're so beautiful when you cry," she whispers, her voice a low, husky purr. "So vulnerable, so weak."

Her grip on your hair tightens, her fingers digging into your scalp as she tilts your head back, forcing you to look up at her. Her eyes are wild, hungry, the predator within her unleashed.

"But I don't want you to be weak, my dear. I want you to fight. I want you to scream." Her lips curl into a cruel smile as she leans in closer, her breath hot against your skin.

She leans in, her teeth grazing your earlobe, sending a shiver down your spine. Her voice drops to a low growl as she whispers, "Scream for me, my love. Show me how much you want this."

Before you can respond, her hand moves from your hair to your throat, her fingers wrapping around your neck. She squeezes gently, just enough to make you gasp, to remind you of the power she holds over you.Her other hand moves down your body, her touch rough and demanding as she grabs your breast, squeezing it hard enough to make you wince. You let out a soft cry of pain, and Sevika smiles, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

*"There it is," she purrs, her voice laced with dark pleasure. "That's what I want to hear."

She tightens her grip on your throat, her fingers digging into your flesh as she leans in, her lips brushing against your ear. "Scream for me, my love. Scream until your voice is raw." Her hand on your breast twists, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you cry out again. The pain is intense, overwhelming, and you can't help but let out another scream, your body bucking against hers.

Sevika laughs, a low, dark sound that sends a chill down your spine. "That's it, my dear. Let it all out. Let me hear your pain, your fear, your desire."

Her hand moves from your breast to your stomach, her fingers digging into your flesh as she pushes you backwards, towards the wall. She pins you against it, her body pressing against yours, her hand still wrapped around your throat.

*"Say it," she demands, her voice a low growl. "Say you're mine. Say you belong to me."

Your body presses against the cold, unyielding wall, trapped beneath Sevika's overwhelming presence. The pain and fear coursing through you mingle with a dark, perverse desire—a craving for more, for her to push you further, to break you completely. Sevika's eyes narrow, a wicked gleam dancing in their depths as she senses your silent plea. She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispers, "You like this, don't you? You like the pain, the fear, the control."

Her hand tightens around your throat, cutting off your air supply for a moment before releasing, allowing you to gasp for breath.

"Say it," she growls, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you need this."

You swallow hard, the words catching in your throat, but you manage to choke them out, a desperate plea in your voice. "Yes... I-I want this.. I need this.. I need you, Sevika."

A wicked smile tugs at the corners of Sevika's mouth. She leans in, her lips finding yours in a brutal, punishing kiss. Her tongue invades your mouth, claiming every inch of you, tasting every tear, every gasp, every whimper. Abruptly, she breaks the kiss, her hand pulling back. Before you can react, her palm connects with your cheek, the force of the slap sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You cry out, your head snapping to the side, but you don't pull away.

Sevika's eyes blaze with a primal intensity as she watches the red handprint bloom on your cheek. She leans in, her voice a low, menacing growl.

"You like that, don't you? You like the sting, the burn. You like feeling used, abused, owned."

Her hand raises again, and this time, her palm crashes against your other cheek, the force of the blow sending you reeling. You let out a choked sob, your body trembling against the wall, but you don't turn away. Instead, you meet her gaze, a silent plea for more. There is such a pathetic needy look on your face.

Sevika's lips curl into a cruel smile, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Good girl," she purrs, her voice laced with dark approval. "You take it so well. You take everything I give you and beg for more."

Sevika's hand raises again, poised to strike. The anticipation hangs heavy in the air, a tangible force that crackles between you. She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice a low, menacing whisper.

"Count them," she commands, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Count every blow, every slap, every mark I leave on your skin. Let it be a reminder of who owns you."

The first slap comes without warning, the sharp sting of her palm against your cheek making you cry out. "One," you gasp, your voice very unstable. Like your mental.

Sevika smirks, her hand raising again. "Two," you choke out as the second blow lands, the pain blossoming across your cheek.

She continues, each slap harder than the last, each one leaving a vivid red mark on your skin. You count them, your voice growing hoarse and ragged with each number. By the time she reaches ten, your face is a mess of tears and bruises, your body trembling beneath her touch. Sevika steps back, her eyes raking over your form, drinking in the sight of your battered, broken body. She leans in, her hand cupping your cheek gently, her thumb brushing away a stray tear.

"Beautiful," she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper. "You look so fucking beautiful like this."

Her thumb traces the line of your jaw, her touch surprisingly tender despite the brutality that preceded it. You shiver, your body responding to her touch even through the haze of pain and tears.

Sevika's eyes darken, her pupils dilating as she notices the subtle shift in your body. She leans in, her breath hot against your ear as she whispers,

"You're wet, aren't you? All this pain, all this fear...it's turned you on."

Her hand moves from your cheek, trailing down your body until it reaches the dampness between your thighs. She presses her fingers against you, a low growl escaping her lips as she feels your arousal. "Filthy little slut," she murmurs, her voice laced with both contempt and desire.

She steps back, her eyes never leaving yours as she begins to unbuckle her belt. "Turn around," she commands, her voice stern. "Hands on the wall, ass out." You hesitate for a moment, a flicker of defiance in your eyes, but it quickly fades. You turn around, your body shaking slightly as you press your hands against the cold wall, your ass sticking out obediently.

Sevika watches you, her eyes gleaming with anticipation and darkness. She finishes unbuckling her belt, the sound of leather against denim echoing through the room. She steps closer, her body brushing against yours as she leans in, her lips finding your ear.

"Good girl," she whispers.

Her hand reaches around, her fingers brushing against your wetness before she plunges two fingers deep inside you. You let out a sharp gasp, your body tensing at the sudden intrusion. Sevika chuckles darkly, her other hand gripping your hip tightly.

"Relax," she commands, her fingers moving slowly, deliberately inside you. "Take what I give you."

She begins to move her fingers, her thrusts slow and steady at first, but quickly building in intensity. You can hear the wet sounds of your arousal, the slap of her hand against your flesh, and her low, dark growls of pleasure and dominance.

*Sevika leans in closer, her body pressing against yours as she whispers in your ear, "Who do you belong to, my dear? Who owns this pathetic little cunt?"

She punctuates each question with a sharp thrust of her fingers, her voice a low, menacing growl. "Answer me," she demands, her grip on your hip tightening even more.

Your mind reels with the intensity of it all—the pain, the pleasure, the overwhelming sense of Sevika's complete control over you. You know the answer she wants to hear, the words that will appease her dark desires. With a shaky breath, you manage to choke out,

"You...you own me. My body...my mind...everything belongs to you."

Sevika lets out a low, satisfied growl, her fingers still moving inside you, her palm pressing against your clit. She leans in, her teeth grazing your ear, her voice a dark, hungry whisper.

"That's right, my precious doll. You're mine, all mine. This tight little cunt, these perfect tits, this pretty face...it's all for me."

She punctuates her words with a particularly hard thrust, her fingers curling inside you, hitting that sweet spot that makes you see stars. Your body bucks against hers, a desperate moan escaping your lips as you feel the pressure building inside you.

"Don't cum," she growls, her voice a commanding snarl. "Not until I say so. You don't get to cum until I'm satisfied."

She continues her relentless assault, her fingers moving faster, harder, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alight with pleasure and pain, your mind consumed with thoughts of her, of how badly you need her.

"Please," you beg, your voice a broken whisper. "Please, I need...I need..."

Sevika chuckles darkly, her hand coming down on your ass in a sharp slap. Need what, pet?" she taunts, her fingers stilling for a moment before resuming their relentless thrusts. "Need my cock? Need my cum? Or do you just need more pain?"

Your body tenses at her words, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. You're so close to the edge, so close to giving in to the pleasure that threatens to consume you.

She leans in, her lips brushing against your ear as she growls, "Beg for it, my sweet victim. Beg me to let you cum. Show me how much you want it."

"Please," you beg again, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I need...I need to cum. Please, Sevika, please let me cum."

She hums in approval, her fingers moving faster, harder. You can feel the orgasm building, the tension coiling in your body like a spring ready to snap.

"Cum for me, my pet," she growls, her voice laced with dark satisfaction. "Let go, let it all out. Show me how much you belong to me."

With a final, desperate thrust of her fingers, you tumble over the edge, your body convulsing as the orgasm rips through you. You cry out, your voice echoing through the room as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you, leaving you gasping and spent. Sevika holds you tightly, her body pressed against yours as she rides out the storm with you. When the last of the spasms finally subside, she leans in, her voice a low, satisfied purr in your ear.

"Good girl," she murmurs. her fingers slowly slipping out of you. "Now get on your knees and show me how grateful you are."

You comply immediately, your body still shaking as you turn around and lower yourself to the ground. You look up at Sevika, your eyes filled with a mix of gratitude, fear, and desire.

She stands before you, her pants still unzipped, her shirt partially unbuttoned, revealing glimpses of her muscular chest. She reaches down, her hand wrapping around your hair as she guides your face towards her crotch.

"Show me what a good little slut you are," she growls, her voice laced with dark hunger. "Make me cum with that pretty little mouth of yours."

You tentatively reach out, your hands trembling as you grasp the waistband of her pants. You pull them down, revealing her toned thighs and the bulge of her chemtech prosthetic. You look up at her, a silent question in your eyes.

"Don't worry about that," she says, her voice harsh. "Just focus on making me feel good. That's all you need to worry about."

You nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you lean in, your tongue darting out to taste her. You can feel her tense under your touch, her body responding to your ministrations. You redouble your efforts, determined to please her, to show her how grateful you are for the release she's given you.

As you work, you can hear Sevika's breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Her hand tightens in your hair, her hips moving in time with your movements. You can feel the pressure building, the tension coiling in her body like a spring ready to snap.

"Fuck," she growls, her voice a low, guttural sound. "You're so fucking good at this. Such a good little slut."

The words send a shiver of pleasure and shame coursing through you, spurring you on. You continue your work, determined to bring her to the edge, to make her cum just as hard as she made you.

As Sevika's body tenses and her breath hitches, you can feel the moment of her climax approaching. Her grip on your hair tightens, her hips thrusting harder, faster. You take it all, your lips and tongue working in harmony to bring her to the edge.

"Fuck, yes," she groans, her voice a low, desperate growl. "You're so good, my little slut. So fucking good."

Her body convulses, a guttural cry escaping her lips as she finds her release. Warmth fills your mouth, her essence spilling over your tongue. You swallow, your eyes watering as you continue to suck, determined to take every last drop.Sevika's breath comes in ragged gasps as she rides out the waves of her orgasm. Finally, she pulls away, her hand releasing your hair as she steps back, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her climax.

"Good girl," she whispers, her voice hoarse with satisfaction. "You did so well."

You look up at her, your eyes filled with a mix of pride and exhaustion. You've pleased her, and in this moment, that's all that matters.

Sevika extends a hand to you, helping you to your feet. She looks you over, her eyes roaming your body, taking in the bruises, the marks, the signs of your submission.

"You look beautiful," she murmurs, her voice softening. "Like a work of art."

She leans in, her lips brushing against yours in a gentle, almost tender kiss. It's a stark contrast to the rough, brutal passion that came before, and it leaves you feeling cherished, wanted, and utterly belonged to her.

"Clean yourself up," she says, stepping back and gesturing towards a nearby sink. "Then come find me. I have...other plans for you."

You nod, a shiver of anticipation and fear running through you as you move to do as she commands. Whatever she has in store for you next, you know one thing for certain— You belonged to Sevika.

❥・・ ┈┈┈┈┈‪༚༅༚˳ . ୨୧ . ˳༚༅༚┈┈┈┈ ・・❥

Wow you stayed until the end… freak. Heh I hope you enjoyed ^^ MIGHT make a continuation someday. <3 Be sure to take care of yourselves!!

#sevika x reader #sevika #sevika x you #sevika x female reader #sevika smut #sevika brainrot

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xoluvx · 9 months ago

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lunch; b.eilish .˚₊✩ part five ✩₊˚.

i don't wanna break it, just want it to bend

part four

The warm water felt heavenly on your skin. The thought of her touching you, tasting you, teasing you clung to you like algae on an abandoned ship. You wanted to wash it all away. Scrub it off of your skin, out of your brain. It was stupid. You’d been stupid to agree to this. Now you couldn’t stop thinking of her and you missed her even though she was only a few feet away.

And it was because of all this that her words hit you hard.

The corners of your eyes were pooling with tears, masked by the water dripping from the shower head. Your chest felt tight. The emotions were caught in your throat and it hurt. It hurt so much.

You scrubbed your thighs harder letting the tears stream down your face, hot on your cheeks. Unable to control your sobs, you dropped to the floor crouching and holding your knees, burying your face in the nest you’d created as the water hit your back. It felt like you were drowning in the shallow end. Drowning in your sorrow.

But you’d allow yourself this only once. One time to let it out before erasing it from your brain and moving on. It was just a blip.

There was nothing. Absolutely nothing she could do to change your mind.

“I worked on that song,” she said when you walked into the room, your shirt clung to your back clumped by your poorly dried skin, your shorts barely visible under the oversized shirt.

“Yeah?” You asked trying to feign happiness.

“That’s why I came. I wanted to show you,” she smiled sitting up on the bed tapping the spot next to her. You couldn’t look at your bed the same way. Not when she’d made you cum twice in the span of a few minutes. Not when you’d willingly touched yourself to the thought of her, violating all sorts of rules in the contract.

“Come,” she said patting the spot again. The word was triggering. Yeah, you wanted to come. Fuck, you were so weak. Did crying in the shower mean nothing?

You inhaled pushing aside your inner battle and sat next to her as she scrolled through her files.

“It’s just a draft,” she said playing the file.

I've said it all before, but I'll say it again. I'm interested in more than just being your friend

You could humming in the recording. Her voice humming. It wasn't completely audible, but you could picture her tapping her hand on her knee as she let the melody flow.

Don't wanna break, just want to bend

Then she squealed into the mic and the voice recording ended abruptly.

"I'm still struggling with the exact lyrics. I think I'm keeping the first part. Don't know about the end-" she was rambling scrolling through her phone. The files flooded the screen. She was completely oblivious to your unresponsiveness. You stared at the screen, not looking at anything in particular. Your hands cupped your thighs. Then she locked her phone and turned to you, snapping you out of your trance.

"What did you think?" her voice was almost a whisper. She tugged at her shirt, pulling it down nervously. Tossing her hair to the side leaning into you instructively waiting for your answer. Her eyes searched your face, lingering on your lips for a second too long.

"It's good," you nodded giving her a small smile. Good? Just good? Your best friend was figuring out her sexuality and it was just 'good'?

But the lyrics were rushing through your brain like an endless figure eight. Was she interested in more than just being your friend? Or is that what just made sense for the song? Was there someone else she was thinking of? That annoying ache in your chest was back.

You dug your fingernails in the palm of your hand trying to push it all aside. Bury it as deep as you could.

"I think I might need a little more help," she cleared her throat, body scooting closer. The proximity of her body made your own fill with heat. Her hand touched your thigh and you tensed.

"Are you okay?" she asked searching your face. You were staring off into space again. You weren't breathing. Air was nonexistent. No air in your lungs, no oxygen in your veins. You felt numb.

"Hey," she whispered cupping your face. Blinking, you inhaled and the sudden influx of air caused physical pain. You coughed and clutched your chest getting up from the bed allowing yourself the commodity of distance.

"Woah," she sounded concerned. One leg was folded on the bed, the other planted on the floor as she touched the space where you previously sat leaning her body forward. "Seriously, are you okay?" she asked, confusion laced in her voice.

You nodded wrapping your arms around your body. You felt physically sick. You wanted to crawl out of your skin. You'd started sobbing and hadn't realized it until Billie was scrambling to her feet, wrapping her arms around your body.

She cradled your head with one hand, the other held your back. You were shaking, hot tears streaming down your face. You were distraught, but she was so close and she was holding you and you were allowing it and you didn't care.

You pried your hands free cupping her face and crashing your lips on hers. Billie stood still as she held you, but her lips moved matching the desperation in the kiss. Your fingers dug gently into her cheeks pulling her closer, her hands holding your head. Lips salty from your tears and touching sloppily as your bodies moved towards the bed.

She sat and you straddled her body never breaking contact with her lips. Her hands came down to your hips, gripping like she wasn't ready to let go. Like this was the last time you were going to kiss her and she wasn't ready for the end.

You pulled away breathing heavily, hands pulling at your shirt. She helped you removed it hastily and inhaled deeply when she saw you weren't wearing something underneath. She looked at your tear-struck face. Eyes red, lips pouting. Her fingers caressing your cheek, sticky as the tears dried. Then she cupped the back of your neck and brought you down for another kiss. Equally as hot, but more desperate. More hungry.

"Fuck me," you breathed against her mouth, your hips moving wanting to feel something that wasn't hurt or pain. Wanting to forget it all as if she wasn't the reason you'd broken down in the first place. You wanted to use her; to make it feel not personal.

Billie swallowed your words, hand traveling between your bodies, disappearing between your thighs. She cupped your pussy, hand pressed firmly on your core. You ground your hips, moving on her palm with urgency. Billie watched as you tossed your head back. She watched the way your throat moved as you gasped for air.

Gaining some confidence, she moved her hand pushing your shorts to the side. She felt your raw flesh on her fingertips and something lit within her. Without warning she pushed her fingers in your pussy, two at first and then three as you bounced on her digits holding her shoulders. She was amazed by your certainty. By your ability to hold yourself together as she barely held on by a single thread. Just like you were certain you loved girls before you knew what love was. Something she was still struggling with.

"Oh my god, Billie" you moaned fucking yourself on her fingers. The sounds coming out of your mouth were pornographic. She almost had a hard time deciphering if they were real. But when you held the back of her neck, forcing your eyes to meet. She knew. She knew they were real and raw.

You bit your bottom lip, whimpering as your eyes sent signals. Right there, right there. Harder. Please. They spoke volumes as she pushed another finger in. She was four fingers deep and you were clenching around her so gloriously. She was going to make you cum. Again.

"Fuck yes, baby" you hummed tossing your head back as you slurred your words. Billie's fingers faltered. Did you-

Did you just call her baby?

Her hips raised instinctively causing her fingers to abruptly push deeper. You bit your lip, legs shaking. She wanted to hear it again. She wanted you to chant it, to whisper it in her ear. To stuff her mouth with it. She moved her hand from your hip where she'd held you in place and to your jaw capturing your lips in a desperate battle. Tongues were wet, lips were messy.

You couldn't process her new found confidence and self-assurance. The way she moved her wrist burying deeper and deeper, pushing on your g spot when she heard the shift in moans. High pitched and yearning. She knew she had you wrapped around her fingers. Literally.

"Baby," your voice was whiny and hot against her ear as you clung to her shoulders, head falling in the nook of her neck. You were lost in pleasure. Blinded by lust. Shattered by disappointment, but put a bandaid on it and you'd survive. If only to live long enough to reach the third orgasm of the night.

"Cum for me," Billie's voice was hoarse. She felt your walls clenching around her fingers.

"Please," she begged and you moaned uncontrollably, tears fogging your vision, lip tucked under your teeth stifling your cries. You shuddered as she held your body, fingers still deep in your pussy. Your bodies remained linked for a couple of minutes, lips pressed on your cheek. Until you were raising yourself, fingers slowly gliding out of your pussy.

Your body fell on the bed, chest rising and falling trying to catch your breath.

When the air settled, you finally spoke.

"I'm sorry," you whispered. Your voice weak. God, you were pathetic. Apologizing when she was the reason-

"Don't," she replied laying next to you, hand resting on your neck feeling your pulse. It was rapid. Active under her fingertips. Her thumb ran along your skin and under your jaw as she stared at your lips.

Pulling her face forward, thumb caressing the corner of your mouth, she kissed you purely. Pure and soft and sweet. So sweet, the sugar was going to your head as you lids fluttered and your mouth opened inviting her tongue. They tussled for a moment, her body pressing on yours, leg wrapping around your thigh urging you to turn to her. To hold her the same way. To kiss her just as tenderly and eagerly.

You held her face pushing your body close, limbs tangled, hands getting lost in hair. You were breathing her air she held the back of your neck. Lips moving so sloppy on yours, eyelids fluttering and lost in the heat of the moment.

Thoughts discarded. Just you and her and your bed and her lips and her hands and your whimpers and your bodies floating through space. Intoxicatingly high off the kiss.

"Stay," you whispered. Permanently. You wanted her to stay forever. Just you and her and your bed forever. But for now, just the night would do.

"I will," Billie whispered back, nose clashing, tongues sloppy, hands gripping your back. Her body so close it felt like an extension of yours.

part six

.˚₊✩ masterlist ✩₊˚.

.˚₊✩ taglist ✩₊˚. @rockyourworldcc @be3flow3r @crazyoffher @lulukings92 @iknowhowtobend @ash198458 @delusional-4-fake-people @dandelions4us @jollyreginaldrancher @chrissv4mp

#billie eilish #billie eilish x you #billie eilish x reader #billie eilish x fem!reader #billie eilish x y/n #billie eilish imagine #billie eilish fic #billie eilish fluff #billie eilish fanfiction #billie eilish smut

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hyukascampfire · 5 months ago

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𝔎𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑃𝑈𝑆ℵ𝐴𝐶𝐻𝑇 ⼎˒ c.yj & c.bg

݁ ˖ 𝔎r⍺mpus𝔫⍺cht

[ 𝔡.] krampus, creatures of european folklore, come one winter’s night every year with exactly one duty: to punish the naughty, who they are said to either eat or drag down to the hell from which they came. assigned to you this year are two of krampus' most revered helpers. they adore their purpose. come december 5th, they make their march through the snow and toward the sweetest treat that they might ever have the opportunity to crack. ˖ ݁

˒˓ ﹐ ⧼ 🐾 ⧽ ･ 6.6k

𝔭airings ˒ krampus!yeonjun & krampus!beomgyu 𝓍 reader

𝔤 ; smut

𝔴arnings ˒ smut, pwp, fingering, cunnilingus, threesome, punishment, objectifying language and degradation, choking on fingers, bondage, overstimulation, orgasm denial, oral (fem receiving), a healthy dose of fear, mean dom! beomgyu & teasing soft(er?) dom yeonjun, it’s really just generally nasty, hair pulling, dacryphilia, clit overstim…, demeaning usage of the words slut and whore, the boys don’t cum or even try to, masks for just the littlest of time, no mxm, really there's so much so tell me if i missed anything!

✎୭ ashlynn’s note request by anon & the sexy sexy @thetxtdevil , thank you for blessing me with this. this is by far the filthiest thing i've written. 6k of pure smut from start to finish. i'm so nervous oh my gosh, i feel like the characterization was new for me. regardless, enjoy my yeonjun much agenda!

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

From a light and easy sleep, your eyes flicker open to a tap at your window. Shifting against your warmed blankets, you push up off the bed. With your knuckles, you rub sleep from your eyes.

Outside, there’s nothing but night sky. Moonlight beams in, all still. It washes your room in a slight, silvery haze. All is how it should be.

Except for the window. Your curtains dance and billow in a breeze that should not be there. You frown, blinking at it with heavy eyes and a sleep-addled mind.

You’re sure that’d been closed when you fell asleep. Sleeping with windows open during the summer? Sure. But in deep winter, where even the branches have frozen over and snap off under its weight? No; you hadn’t left the windows open. You hadn’t even opened them at all. Dragging heavy limbs up from where the mattress had formed to their shape, you slip from bed.

At the window, pulled open to one side, you poke your head outside. Nothing but snow blankets and soft flurries greets you. An ice-cold breeze howls and comes through the open window, bitterly cold against your toasty skin. You run your hands up and down the bare expanse of your skin, hoping for friction to keep the chill at bay.

You close the window with a firm hand. The lock twists under your fingers with a sure click. Tugging on the window, you make sure that it’s closed once more. And then twice more.

The bed, still warmed, greets you lovingly. It’s not long before the fog of sleep falls back over you. You tug your blanket closer, and give in to it.

Tap. Fog receding, you push up from the mattress and strain your ear.

Tap. Tap.

Blood running cold, you freeze. It sounds something like a stray tree branch, scraping claws for branches down the glass. Something in it sounds intentional, though.

The tapping continues for a few more long moments. You can hear your blood roaring through your veins. Maybe a bird’s perched on the ledge? Or perhaps the tree beside your window’s gone awry.

Behind you, there’s a scrape, or maybe a rustle. You whip your head around. In the center of your chest, your heart stops cold.

There, a shadowy figure in your doorway, stands a man. He’s tall, only a few inches from brushing up against the door frame, with a broad set of shoulders and long, long legs that seem to continue down from him infinitely. Silken fabric dangles down from his hand, and on his face—

A mask. Toothy and wood carved and shining in the moonlight with some glazes, it’s terrifying. Especially over the face of an intruder in your home.

Your chest is tight. He stands there—an imposing presence—in the doorway. Watching. Observing.

No matter how you will it, you can pull no words up from your throat. They’re all jammed in there tight—constricted by a clawed hand of terror. Your lips tremble around your open-mouthed drags for breath.

The man steps into your room. Every last drop of blood and rationality you’ve got in you screams. It tells you to run; to dart. Toward or away from him, either would be better than this.

You can’t. Right where you are, lifted from the bed and weight leaned back into your palms, you are utterly frozen. You swallow dry and blink fast, scared to succumb to the darkness of a blink for even a moment.

“Who are you?” Your voice comes out hoarse. It takes everything in you. Every trembling ounce of energy, every last reserve of bravery you have stashed away for moments like these. But you said it, and that’s better than shaking here as if it’ll do anything for you.

“Naughty fox,” he says, littered with taunt and bad intent. His voice muffles against the wood mask, but it comes out younger than you might have thought. “Don’t you recognize me? Or do I not look how you expected?”

Recognize him? No, of course you don’t. Certainly not with that mask on, but you don’t recognize that build or voice, either. You stare at him bug-eyed.

Beneath the veneered wood, he lets out a puffed laugh. “Hmm,” he says. He reaches up and pulls the mask from his face. “Perhaps you don’t. It doesn’t matter. What are you going to do when my friend gets here? Tremble like a leaf, like you are now? I think he will like your fear much more than I do.”

His voice is syrupy and sing-songy, and he’s got the face to match. Dullness hangs heavy and dark beneath his sharp eyes. His skin is sullen beneath the pale moonlight, but you think it might look that way even under the sun’s gaze. And, on his mouth, he wears a smile like cracks in a porcelain vase. It gets under your skin, walking a shiver up your spine.

Your stomach does flips and rolls. What does he mean, his friend? Finding your fear enjoyable? You open and close your mouth a few times. You are so, utterly screwed. From his head, brownish horns stand proud. You don’t even know how to begin to rationalize that. Quite frankly, the look he pins you with is equally terrifying and hard to swallow.

“Look at you. You can’t even move,” he hums, voice like knives. “I might believe the scared little lamb act, if I didn’t know exactly how you acted this year; if it wasn’t exactly why I am here.”

Fingers and toes gone numb, you look him over once more. Down to the hollow eyes and angles of his face, he is beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful; the kind of presence that might enchant you for all its unease, and stick with you for much longer than you suffered it. “Why are you here?” you say. You hate how your voice comes out: mousey. Pitiful. You sound every last bit the terrified thing he accuses you of being. “I don’t know who you are, or why you’re in my house.” Around the words, your jaw trembles. Just like the rest of you.

In the darkness of his eyes, something akin to wicked interest twinkles. Or, perhaps moonlight. His long legs eat up the distance between the door and your bed with only a few languid steps. The only sound in your room is the thuds of his heavy boots against the wood paneling.

Looking down at you with eyes that eat and eat, he scoffs. “Well, you don’t know me because good people don’t know me. But you weren’t good this year, were you? So, you will know me,” he says. “We all have to atone for our actions.”

Utterly still. He’s so still that he absolutely cannot be human. Not if he has to breathe or... anything. But he doesn’t. He just looks down at you with that bone-chilling taunt. Those horns look beyond real up close, too. And, that smile... that isn’t human, either.

“But, isn’t it so fun that you can answer for it like this?” he says. “In the same way you treated those poor men. You can take what you give, can’t you?”

You blink up at him. He breaks into your home, into your room, talking about something you’ve done? “I don’t...” you begin, the words both unsure and twisted with fright for his closeness. “I don’t know what you mean. Who are you?”

“Maybe you think putting up a ridiculous act like this might save you, but it will not.” He runs his tongue over the razor edge of a pointed incisor. “I think I’ll humor you. I am Yeonjun, and my friend is Beomgyu. We are Krampus’ creatures. We come to exact his will onto any stupid little human that’s forgotten themselves this year,” he says. “And you; you haven’t been so good this year, have you? Leaving men like victims, playing with their hearts like toys. From a sweet thing like you, I am quite amused. Really.”

All the way from the back of your jaw to your chin, he drags his knuckles. As he takes your chin, you allow the chill to seize your body. It’s no use fighting the shudder; you think you might even enjoy the thrill of it. It’s a strange thought. You try and snuff it out, but to rational thought’s dismay, it only fans the flames of the fire set in your core. Your cheeks radiate with that heat, painted a flushed pink that you don’t know how to swallow, either.

Though that awful, corrosive grin has dropped from off his mouth, a different smile tugs the corns of his lips. It’s loose, much less intense than the consuming of his eyes. “Look at you. I see it. I see that look in your eyes,” he hums. “How would you like to repent, sweet thing? Like this?”

Slowly, you nod. Looking into those deep, voracious eyes, you should feel scared. And you are. But, in this way—like this, you are not. Maybe it’s the hungry gnashing between your thighs, or maybe you’ve gone and lost your mind.

He tilts his head up in a quick gesture. “Lay back.”

The breath in your throat catches. Looking up at him all dumbfounded, you open your mouth to speak.

Raising his brows in a patronizing lift, he challenges you with dark eyes. “This is not a good foot to start your punishment off on, now, is it? Can’t listen... You’d better get listening, before Beomgyu arrives. He won’t be so kind,” he says, tilting his head to one side something like an animal watching a meal squirm just before they sink their teeth into it. “Lay down on the bed.”

You kick your legs out from the tangle of the bed and settle down onto your back. Tingling, you press your knees together until there is hardly a seam. In their place, your bones buzz with a self-destructive sort of excitement. Between your mind and body, there’s a lag. Where your body stays here, idling a thousand miles per minute, your mind has floated off somewhere out of touch. Clear thought has gone with it.

Whoever this friend he continues to mention is, you’re not sure you want to meet him. Maybe that’s exactly what Yeonjun wants: a strange fear like anticipation, placing obedience over you like a collar.

All breathy-like, you say, “When is he coming? Your friend?”

He runs his thumb over the inner side of your knee, narrowing his eyes down on you. “Are you excited to see him?” he asks. “You don’t get to think about that. Rotten whores don’t get to be excited about their punishments.” Unravelling that silken fabric from his hand, he circles the bed until he’s at your side.

The name puffs smoke into your mind like a beekeeper might do to a rowdy hive—it renders you affable. “I’m not a whore,” you say, conviction weak.

“Aren’t you?” he sneers through a curled lip. Taking your wrists, he raises them up to the headboard above you. The silk is soft enough against your skin as he secures you to it. Maybe a little tight.

Tight, and restrictive. You try and wiggle yourself free to no avail. Here, with your hands up and bound so that you couldn’t undo them no matter how you try, there’s a twinge in your stomach.

Yeonjun likes that. He reaches down and places his hand flat over your torso and says, “You get it now, don’t you?”

Licking your dry lips, you look up at him round-eyed. “I don’t know what I did,” you say. The sheets beneath you rustle against your shifting. “Why are you... punishing me? I’m not a bad person.”

“I don’t think it’s up to you to decide what kind of person you are,” he says, slow and accompanied by a false smile. “Do you want to know what kind of person I think you are?” Fingers dancing along the waist of your flimsy pajama bottoms, he flirts with the promise of undressing you. But he does not tug. Breaths fall shakily past your parted lips.

You shake your head. No, you do not. You know you won’t like whatever he has to say about you, if the look in his eyes and the fact that he’s even here has anything to say of it.

His fingers brush against the soft skin of your belly as he hooks them under the waistband. “That’s why we’ve come. Don’t worry; I’ll show you exactly what I think of you,” he tells you. Your bottoms loosen around your skin as he drags them down. “Lift your hips.”

Digging your feet into the mattress, you oblige him. The slipping of your bottoms down your thighs, and then past your feet, brings a wave of reality crashing down over you. Your breaths quicken.

You’d dampened your panties; a little wet patch over grey cotton announces your arousal to whoever might catch a glimpse. His eyes latch onto the sight.

He brings his gaze back up to you, black eyes amused. “Look at that,” he coos. “What a sweet slut you are. So dirty that she can’t help but soak her panties at the thought of being punished. That’s fucking pathetic.” The words slither out like venom, burning through your delicate skin.

The entirety of your body jumps at a slap in the shape of his hand against your outer thigh. A chesty yelp crashes out from your throat. The skin there raises in a welt and prickles like tiny, little fires as he runs a hand over it. You might think that it’s meant to soothe, if the smoothing touch didn’t exalt the dazzling bite. He doesn’t mean to soothe.

Blinking away twinkling tears, you say, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did...”

Brushes of his fingers over that damp smear send electricity bolting up your lower back. “You’re not sorry yet. Sorry would look a lot different from this. I think there’s still a great deal of straightening up to do, and you’re going to take every last bit of it. And you’ll enjoy it, won’t you?” he says. “I mean, you’ve soaked your panties. You’re excited to be used, like you use men in your bed. Used like a whore. The heavens are looking, darling.”

You shift your wrists against their binds, hot under his words like red-hot knives along your skin. Anticipation shoots up your spin as he tugs your panties down now, too. “I’m not a whore,” you shudder out.

The slickness of the sounds from between your thighs as he parts you with two fingers has your ears burning. His middle finger prods at your hole, and it flutters against it. Collecting some of your slick arousal right from its source, he dips his finger just in and brings it up to display the sticky mess over his fingers. It glistens in the night’s lowlight, catching light in a lewd, humiliating display. He furrows his brows. “Are you sure?”

You’re not sure how to answer that. Even you know that you’re beyond wet. So, you just watch open-mouthed as he slips his to middle fingers into you. You rustle against the bed with the intrusion, and then again as he begins pumping them in and out of you, pressing against your walls during some and spreading your walls during others. Capturing your lip, you sigh.

The slight sparks in your belly, and the slick sounds of his fingers working you open—it’s maybe absurd, but nothing you can’t handle. Why he thinks that fingering you might be a punishment, you’re not sure. You just bask in the ebbing rays of twitching muscles, letting soft sounds fall out when he brushes up against a delicate spot.

His eyes drink you in, working his giving arm diligently. Looking down at you from his nose, he says, “You like that? Of course you do. You’re a filthy slut that’ll take anything she can get. You’re making a mess of my fingers. You’ll clean that up, won’t you?”

Face burning, you let your eyes flutter shut. Your lashes dust against your shame-reddened cheeks. You know you’re not who he’s painting you to be—you don’t go around like that. It’s not fair. Especially not when this is what he does; coming to exact some sort of flimsy justice in the price of flesh. “D—you do this to everybody you punish?” you say through gritted teeth. “Have sex with them? I don’t think you can... judge me.”

It’s as if he can feel the sputtering in your belly himself. His fingers, glistening in a thick smearing of you, turn from tantalizing pumps to punctual curls. Your moth falls open into a silent gasp, brows knitted and furrowed. You can hear yourself. So can he—if the twitching of his narrowed eyes says anything. He plays with one of his pointed teeth, something almost vampiric, again. “Not everybody,” he coos. “Just pretty toys like you. Pretty things we can use, and then throw away when they break, without feeling too bad.”

The silk digs into your wrists, holding you without remorse. You try and rebel against it, hands itching furiously with the need to dig your fingers into his arm, or curl into the sheets, or just grab. Push. You don’t know—all you know is that he beckons a razor-sharp orgasm toward you, and all the hair on your body prickles at its rushing presence. Hoarse groans, filtered through your tense throat and tight jaw, mingle with the wetness of his fingers in your cunt. “W—hah—I don’t—”

“Stupid,” he mocks. God, his fingers. He knows just where to play; how to turn you even more the fool he claims you are. “You can’t even fucking talk. Your brain’s gone all dumb, huh? On what, just my fingers? I wonder how you’ll handle me. The both of us.” he says. His voice is utterly even despite his fingering. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Eyes and nose and throat burning, it’s like lifting the weight of the sky to open them. But you do. The image of him is bleary, smudged by the nearness of release like heat waves. Like a mirage. And, if you weren’t able to confirm him by the fluttering of your hole around his fingers, or the thickness of them inside you, you might be able to convince yourself that he was just that: a mirage. But, he is real.

And you’re made to feel how real he is as he tugs his fingers from you, ripping everything away in an excruciating blink of an eye. Just like that, he’d stolen your orgasm. A long, complaining sound comes from your chest. Your blood jumps to the surface, whip-lashed. Between your thighs, all that excitement and pure electricity, it all pulls back like ocean tide.

You know why he’d done it, and you know why he wanted you to watch as he did.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says. “You don’t get to cum. Not until we break down that mind of yours, and built it back up. Into something better. Worse.”

Heavy boots thud against the floor in front of your window. Whipping your head toward the sound, you find a second man, or... whatever they are, broken in to your room. Your heart thuds in your chest, maybe with the sharp claws of fear around it, or maybe with the loss of ecstasy. You tug against the restraints again as he stands there. A mask, no different from Yeonjun’s, obscures his face. This time, you know that the horns curving from his head are real. He’s not so tall as Yeonjun, but he’s broader. And, something about the way he’s stood there, taking you in... it’s also different. It brushes up against something deep and primal inside you, preserved inside you as instinct to protect against moments like this.

And, it tells you that tied up is a terrible thing to be, when a creature is looking at you like that. You press your thighs together.

“Oh, look who’s come,” Yeonjun purrs.

The air is tense for a moment. The new figure, Beomgyu, reaches up for his mask. It clatters against the ground.

Seeing his face revealed is the same as it was with Yeonjun. Your eyes dart over each feature. Beautiful and put together in such a perfect way, but tainted by a guttural eeriness. His eyes are heavy and mousey brown, just like his mess of hair.

And, if Yeonjun’s snark and smiles had been offsetting, then Beomgyu’s serenity is beyond that. Hair-rising. Rotten.

Yeonjun, beside you now, runs his fingers through the hair on the top of your hair. He curls them into it and tugs as he says, “Aren’t you excited now, dove?”

Whimpering at the sting, you breathe out, “Yes.”

Rough fingers joining Yeonjun on your body, Beomgyu brushes his fingers over your outer calf almost captivated. Almost. His touch is different from Yeonjun’s, and that’s all it takes to show you why Yeonjun had spoken of him how he had. He is different.

The both of them roam their hands over you, here and there—featherlight touches everywhere.

The bed dips and accepts Beomgyu’s weight as he climbs up onto his knees. Hard fingers biting into the plush of your thighs, he takes them into his hands and pries you open. Those deep, odd eyes inspect your cunt. His tongue darts out to wet his snow-chapped lips. “Such a pretty pussy,” he says. The tenor of his voice is both the type of cold that could freeze right through you, and the type of blistering hot that will eat you down to ash. “Keep them open for me.”

“She does have a pretty pussy,” Yeonjun hums from beside you. His gaze lights up your face.

It’s hard to breath around the thick knot in the center of your chest. Though your thighs go to snap closed as he splays his hand over your lower belly, lightning twisting your insides, you don’t allow them to. You’re not quite sure you want to see what disobeying this pair would mean.

God, you’re wet. It dribbles down into the sheets beneath you. You know he sees it, too. His eyes are hungry at it.

Beomgyu tugs you further down the bed toward him; as far as your restraints will let him before going taut. They tighten around your skin. “Are you scared?” he says. It’s clinical, in a strange sort of sinister way. “You’re shaking.”

You go to answer him, but can’t speak around the thumb Yeonjun dips into your mouth. He speaks instead. “She’s excited. So excited; you should’ve seen her earlier. Crying over my fingers, just ‘cause she couldn’t cum.” Spikes of his raven hair hang over his eyes as he looks down at you. His eyes narrow.

The two share a look. It’s enough to get you nervous. Breaking into a scoff, Beomgyu works on his bottoms.

“You’re gonna be good and take it, right, baby?” Yeonjun says, talking at you more than to you. “It’s only what you deserve.”

Taking one of your thighs up and lifting it over a broad shoulder, Beomgyu cuts in, “Keep her straight for me, won’t you?” He runs his length up and down your slit, collecting your arousal. Each bump at your clit has you sighing and jumping.

“You already get her first.” Yeonjun glares daggers.

Beomgyu’s answering grin tells plenty of what the two think of each other. You’re not really certain they’re true friends. Maybe that’s just the nature of whatever they are, though.

Letting his cockhead tap against your throbbing clit a few times, he feeds off your struggling sounds. Pleased, he pushes into you without ceremony. Your walls are eager to accept every solid inch of him. More than length, though, it’s the thickness of his cock that you have to stretch around. You puff out a whiny sigh and tug on your bottom lip with your teeth.

Once he’s into you down to the hilt, he pushes off his heels and climbs over you. Coming face-to-face with him, shaggy locks brushing over his eyes, you realize how pretty he is. Is that a ridiculous thing to consider in this circumstance? With him balls-deep in you? Maybe.

“It’s a shame Yeonjun likes them tied up,” he muses, bracing one hand in the bed at your side and the other pressing your one thigh now to your front. “I’d like to feel your nails on me as you try and handle your punishment.”

You swallow hard. He’s still nestled and dormant inside of you. The thought alone has your muscles fluttering around him.

A knowing light passes over his eyes. He pulls his length from you, all the way to where his thick tip pops free from you, and then he fucks himself back into you. “You’re so fucking shameless,” he spits.

Yeonjun’s fingers through your hair is the only thing you can register as Beomgyu sets a thundering pace. You squirm and arch your back from the mattress to try and catch up, to breathe. None of it makes the slide of his cock or the nudging of him against your sweet spot any less wholly overwhelming. Whining and mewling through gritted teeth, you say, “Oh—fuck, yes! Beomgyu, right there, feels so good right there...” The words twist and slur, your voice breaking under his thrusts.

“It does? Should I keep fucking you like this?” he says. His hips slow, and he says, “Or should I slow down? Just because I can?”

Your chest burns. The need to cling to him has the bindings tightening around your wrists impossibly more. All your tugging does is make things worse for yourself. Speaking, the words come out in a fumbling plead. “No—Please, please don’t stop. I wanna cum. Do anything, but please, don’t stop.”

Piping up from beside you, Yeonjun sneers, “Ask him correctly. No whining.”

Fighting the desire to wiggle your hips enticingly just for an inch of friction against his cock still nestled inside your cunt, you say, “Please, fuck me.” It’s hard not to mumble the words for shame, but you know that’s not what they want. They want you ashamed; to peel down the layers of societal decorum and turn you into some animal.

“That’s more like it,” Beomgyu says. He rewards you with those same mouth-watering, tear-inducing strokes once more. “You don’t get to keep your modesty. We know what you’ve done; you can’t pretend to us.”

So fast, right in your center, that knot begins tightening once more. You writhe and whimper. Where his cock digs into you, the muscles turn each time.

Yeonjun watches every last bit of your struggling. His eyes dance over your screwed up face, and he listens with intent to your crackling cries. Stroking his fingers over your neck and face and through your hair, you’re not sure if he means to soothe or wind you up. “You’re doing fine,” he coos. “Still breathing?”

You’re hot and clammy all over. “Mhm!” you mewl. Beomgyu reaches down and pinches hard on your clit. It draws a broken cry out from you, arching off the bed so that your front melds into his. The headboard groans and crackles against your violent tugging. You curl and splay your fingers frantically to try and itch the overflowing urge to grab or claw.

Beomgyu’s wild eyes get a wry look, and his hips take a new angle. It’s like blinding white on your brain. The drags of his cock, fucking you into the bed, Yeonjun’s dusted touches and Beomgyu’s touches like claws, the delirious spasming of your inner muscles, and the weight of their combined looking, it’s all compiled and too much. You cum blisteringly with a cry. And, with your hands tied up, you’ve got no choice but to suffer its wrath.

It’s a suffering that makes you feel infinitely more alive.

Floating down, your chest heaves for scarce breath. Ecstasy drips through your veins slow like honey. Past it, you can hear nothing more than a shuffling. That doesn’t matter right now, though. The sweetness of it clogs your senses and has you content. All you can really taste is the sugary goodness of pleasure pulsing through you.

In the midst of the blur, you think you hear a sly, foxy voice right in your ear. He whispers something along the lines of, “Now that the brute’s done.”

The weight of Beomgyu hovering over your chest and a puff of cool air over your sloppy cunt are enough to drag your mind toward clarity. Enough to realize that they are by no means done with you yet.

Clearing thick syrup from your thoughts, you say, “What are you doing?”

You can’t see past him, but you know Yeonjun’s settled between your legs. He holds your thighs wide open like a silver platter. And your cunt, the delicacy. He doesn’t even bother pinning you—Beomgyu does the job for him. Without fanfare, plump lips press an open-mouthed kiss right over your begging clit. The little wet pressure is electrically charged, sending bolts of jagged lightning spiraling up your spine. Your hips jump against it. It’s no use, though. Between the two of them, you’ve got nowhere to go. You are right where they want you. A breath of a laugh falls onto your cunt.

Beomgyu lifts himself enough to drag your shirt up your torso and bunch it over the swell of your chest. “Don’t ask questions,” he says, pinching your rosy nipple. You choke a gasp. At the attention, both of them tighten into stiff little peaks, prickling hard. “Just fucking take it. You’ll take what you get.” He spits the words out like venom that’s burning his tongue.

Yeonjun peppers little kisses over the entirety of your cunt, lingering over your hole and right over your clit. You gasp and quake as it reawakens the aftershocks of your all-too-recent orgasm. Beomgyu, not one for dainty touch, palms your tits like dough. He leaves red in the wake of his touch, pinching here and there. Their touches blend; Yeonjun’s intentionally placed brushes, and Beomgyu’s unapologetic play. The tang of blood is heavy on your tongue—you’d bitten your lip raw trying to filter your sounds.

When Yeonjun flattens his tongue and flicks it up the underside of your clit, though, none of your efforts stifle the guttural cry that it beckons from you. Each of his touches after that, the suckling of it in his puckered lips, the grazing of teeth, and the occasional dips to collect your arousal like sticky sweetener straight from the source, have your body wracked with tingles and flesh-deep shudders. He’s tying that knot right back up in your gut as though somebody might tie the stem of a cherry with their tongue. Each pitiful, pitchy sound you make, he answers with a sound muffled into your pussy.

Hair dangling down in his eyes and obscuring the rotten look in his eyes, Beomgyu runs a splayed hand up the plane of your chest. The smoothing over skin is a much more innocuous sound in the air than the sloppy sounds of Yeonjun drinking you up. When he reaches the fragile column of your throat, your heart skips a few beats, laying down like a frightened animal in your chest. It comes back to life when he doesn’t stop there. He reaches your mouth and drags your bottom lip down with the rough pad of his thumb, tilting his head back to get a good look at you.

“Open your mouth.” Beomgyu reaches up for the headboard, where your wrists are secured. He fumbles with it for a moment before the silk flutters down. The release from the strain—from the cutting of the fabric into your skin—is enough to send a chill down you. Your nipples tighten impossibly further with it. Soothing over the indented skin, you bask in the freedom to move. If only you could reach past Beomgyu to dig your fingers through Yeonjun’s hair.

Hips twitching both into and away from Yeonjun’s suckling mouth, it takes you a moment to get to it. He splays you open further, licks up the sensitive underbelly of your nub harder. Competing to hold your attention.

Open your mouth? Whatever his intention is, you both itch for it and dread it. You let him slip his two middle fingers past your lips and over your tongue. The sensation of him pressing down on it is foreign. You furrow your brows up at him with your mouth split over his digits, saliva pooling at the floor of your mouth. Your limbs and stomach tighten, frame going rigid. If he were to just slide them a little further, you know you’ll be fighting for breath.

And, of course he does. Eyes narrowing and twitching with wicked delight, he pushes them right for your gag reflex. “Let’s see deep you can take it,” he coos.

Your belly jumps. He’d found your limit. For a moment, he holds it there, even as you squirm. Even as you dig your crescents into his wrist. When he finally pulls them free from your throat, you sputter and swim for breath. Your nose burns, and tears cling like dew in your lashes as you look up at him with round eyes. He scoffs a laugh, his fingers a glistening mess of your mouth.

Holy shit.

“Since Yeonjun’s got a soft heart,” he says, pressing his fingers back over the path he’d made the first time. He pushes and pulls them in and out of your mouth the same as he might your cunt, making sure to push down on your tongue with each drag out. “He’s going to let you cum. So, I’ll have to keep you quiet somehow. Don’t want the neighborhood to know what a filthy, rotten girl you are, do you?” Capricious him—a moment ago, he’d wanted you screaming. He just wanted to see you gag on his fingers.

You claw for your life, dizzied just enough to feel like it’s heaven’s gates you see behind your closed eyes, rather than the fiery iron gates you fear you’ll be seeing instead. Especially after this; especially as you feel them eroding down your virtue with their poisonous touch.

Like his words had summoned it, the bumps of Yeonjun’s strong and tall nose against your waiting clit as he laps at your hole pushes you right over the ledge. You’d been dangling there for so long, the fall is almost rapturous. And, when you hit the ground, stars dapple your vision like you’ve really been hit. You go tight like a calm before a crashing, thunderous storm. Releasing, you explode in lightning and shaking limbs. Through it, you dig your heels into the mattress and buck into Yeonjun’s mouth, you rake lines down Beomgyu’s skin and wail around his fingers. You seethe like a storm.

Rumbled breath goes right into your throbbing, aching core. Yeonjun doesn’t stop on your cunt. If anything, the fluttering of your hole and the twitching of your clit eggs him on. He feasts and feasts like your pussy is the first meal he’s had since arriving here through the snow-fallen woods. Your insides protest the overstimulation, wringing you out almost painfully. Tears fall molten down your temples, wetting the hair that frames your face. Beomgyu, and his weight above you, might act as a grounding presence, if not for the way he watches in cruel delight as you choke and drool over him.

Beomgyu sneers down at you, “Look at you: slobbering all over my hand. You don’t disappoint, do you? Is this where you thought you’d end up when you screwed others over?”

It’s not like you can answer him. You just squeeze your eyes shut to brave the roiling in your stomach as they work in tandem to force you right from one orgasm into another without respite. You’re wound up so tight—so, so tight. Sobbing and thrashing; you’re not sure you can handle another. Where the first had been smooth like syrup, and the next even sweeter, this third one feels destructive. This one feels like destruction.

Freeing his fingers, he wipes them down your cheek. You choke and sputter, lungs burning. He must’ve seen something in your eyes.

“Too—to much! I can’t... take it,” you mewl. It’s hoarse, but you don’t care. Right now, all that exists is Yeonjun’s hot tongue and the terrifying climax he intends to bring you with it. He indulges in a cocky grin against your pussy for just a moment before brushing his teeth over your clit.

Speaking for the first time since he’d gotten his mouth on you, Yeonjun’s voice is husky. “Hmm? Even if I...” He flicks his tongue up your clit. Your voice catches in your throat, along with your breath. He’d been torturing the poor bud all night—it throbs hard and twitches at just the slightest attention. “Do that?”

“Yeonjun,” you cry, warbled around a knot in your throat. It’s half plead for mercy, half plead for more. He continues, keeping his touch cruelly light. Not enough to give you that mercy, but enough to keep you needing it. “Go—d, please!” You don’t know if you’re asking for him to let up, or for more. Either would be better than this. Your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Ask for something if you want it,” Beomgyu spits. “If you wanna fucking cum, ask properly. How many times do you have to be told this?”

You have no shame. Not like this. Shame was something you let them crush up to dust the moment they put their hands on you. Poor voice shot and whiny, you rush out, “Yeonjun, please. I want to cum so bad, I’ll do anything. Just please—ah!—let me.”

“That’s it,” he says. The corners of his lips twitch. “That’s all I want to hear from your mouth. Words befitting of a slut. But you’ll take what we give you, and that’s that. You don’t get to pick—you just take it.”

You don’t even hear any of it. Yeonjun pinches your clit one final time. It’s such a slight touch; it’s absurd how your body crumbles at it. Thighs snapping shut around Yeonjun’s ears, you shake violently. It’s nothing to deter him—he works you through it anyway. You don’t even have anything more than slurred, nonsensical whines.

When Beomgyu pushes off your chest, you blink slowly at the sight of Yeonjun there. His mouth comes off you an utter, obscene mess. Your essence glistens in the moonlight, smeared down his chin and his cheeks and over his swollen lips. He looks absolutely drunk.

Finally, you for the first time since they’d come, you slump. Your bones and muscles creak. Dragging in quick, panted breaths, the only thing you worry about is feeding your starved brain oxygen and letting the liquid sun still hung heavy in your veins dissipate.

Beomgyu doesn’t even leave you with any parting words. Tugging his clothes on, he’s slipping out the window, just as he’d arrived here. He’d gotten his fill.

They’d drained everything from you. You can’t even press yourself from the bed to catch your breath. Yeonjun swipes his tongue over his mouth and cleans the rest of his face off with the back of his hand.

Bent over and his mouth so near your ear that you feel each word, he tells you, “Next year, I think I’d like to have you all to myself. Do you think you can do that for me? Allow me that?”

The fanned words over your cheek—it makes you think that those words he’d whispered in your earlier were not just a figment of your post-orgasmic imagination.

Shuddering, you hope as he follows Beomgyu out the window that he saw in your eyes that you have no intentions of playing saint this next year.

Not now, anyway.

﹙⋞ ﹚... back to the 𝓂asterlist

✎୭ ashlynn’s note so now that we’re all furiously turned on,, how was it? omg i’m nervous for real.

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