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rae-writes · 1 year ago

Text

OnlyFantoms???

om brothers x reader

wc : 2.k

warnings : nsfw, gn!reader with skirt wearing (mammon, satan), panties/lingere wearing (satan, asmo), online sharing

synopsis : lets see what the latest trending porn videos are

dateables/sides ver. || being asked about it in a livestream

Your legs are spread open for the camera, hooked over your boyfriend’s with no chance of closing them, while his hand is shoved down the front of your bottoms. The other roams your body— sliding up your shirt and wrapping around your throat. Your arms are clearly straining themselves as they hold your body up, all so you could rock your hips against Lucifer’s fingers; though the view is covered by your clothes, the slick sounds are all too clear, giving away how aroused you really were. When your arms finally give out and you fall back against his chest, there’s a shift in the air that you can practically feel as his bicep flexes under the fabric of his shirt, free arm yanking you up higher on his lap so he can finger you harder. Over the sound of your moans and cries for him to ‘please let me cum, been s’good for you, please please please’, you can hear Lucifer’s signature low chuckle and the faint sound of his shaky breathing before he’s giving you permission, outright laughing when you squeal and jerk in his grasp. His hand slips from your bottoms, and though his face isn’t in frame, it’s clear he’s licking your cum off his fingers right before the video cuts off.

Good grades get rewarded | 0:45 seconds | 108.k views | 100.k likes | 97.k comments

Lucifer?!

Hand cam hand cam hand cam

Dude, isn’t Mc a straight A student? THIS IS WHAT THEY GET FOR EVERY A??

I’d good grades too if I had the morning star behind me like this

^I’d get good grades if I could have Mc in my lap like this tf

†

Panting and moaning fill the dim atmosphere, mixing in with the faint sound of slapping skin as large hands push and pull at your hips. The camera is positioned only to catch your lower bodies, but through the dark you can still catch the bobbing of Mammon’s adams apple and the curve of your mouth as you place kisses along his jaw. His grip on your hips makes your skirt ride up higher and higher, showing more and more slivers of skin until your entire ass is on display. There’s a shine- the mix of your cum and his- everytime he pulls you up, only to disappear with a filthy ‘shlick’ as he yanks you back down onto his cock. There’s a natural haze to the lens and the windows are entirely fogged up— sweat is beading and rolling down his exposed chest, showing you’ve been at this much longer before the recording ever started. By now, the second born has started emitting whiny growls as he switches to grinding you and the audio picks up a nearly inaudible choked out version of your name before his arms are circling around you and he’s lifting you up slightly with his last thrust. It’s quiet as you pet his hair while he’s busy massaging your waist- and then you're reaching over to grab the camera with a giggle, angling it to see the mess you’ve both made over your clothes. There’s a hushed ‘Lucifer’s gonna kill us-!’ before the screen goes black.

Greed is the name of the game | 2:45 minutes | 95.k views | 91.k likes | 86.k comments

A Y O???

PLS mammon sounded so hot

I don’t know who I’m jealous of or who I’d rather be rn

I wanna be the car

Come get y’all’s dinner, we’re eating good toDAY

†

The pretty lighting of the fish tank washes over you, highlighting the red scratch lines trailing down Levi’s abdomen to where you’re placing kisses along his hips and pelvis. The sounds are a bit exaggerated- both to make the demon squirm in embarrassment- and because you’ve got the hood of his jacket thrown up to cover your face. Levi’s got his arms pressed close to his chest, hands gripping the controller so hard the plastic creaks every so often; you can hear the shooting from his game and the frantic mashing of buttons. When you finally take his cock in your mouth, seen by your head bobbing at a fast pace, a loud moan rips from his throat and his hips begin thrusting against your ministrations. The room is filled with whines and whimpers, begs to ‘please go faster’, and your amused laughing. There’s a distinct pop when you pull off his cock and replace your mouth with your hand, all so you could lean up and slam your lips against his. Levi throws the controller to the side, hands scrambling to grab the back of your head and the wrist of the hand that’s jerking him off. He’s practically brainless now as he cries and begs for you to make him cum, switching between that and making those lewd, slick, noises whenever your tongue plays with his. When you command him to cum, he shrieks at the intensity, pulling you closer and closer until you're on top of him and his cum is streaking your clothes. There’s a meek ‘I’m sorry’ and the sound of your giggling before your hands go to the waistband of your pants and the video cuts off.

Motivation for true gamers | 1:30 minutes | 87.k views | 85.k likes | 74.k comments

Making these sounds my alarm as we speak

WHEN WILL IT BE MY TURN

Suddenly I’ve become a master gamer

Never picked up a controller in my life but I’m otw to buy one rn

Reverse the roles please I beg!!

†

There’s a fairly large spellbook in your hands as you sit on your boyfriend’s lap at one of the library tables; he has his head buried in the crook of your neck, fingers digging at your hips as he subtly rocks you back and forth over his cock. The side profile shows only your skirt bunched up to your upper thighs and lace green panties tugged down to your knees— everything is completely covered, even when Satan gets bold and begins bouncing you up and down. No sounds are made except for a faint creaking of the chair and the spellbook thudding against the table when your back arches. All movements halt when someone’s shadow passes by, but as soon as they’re gone, your arms reach back to wrap around Satan’s neck, fingers burying in his blonde locks and tugging desperately. You can’t help the way you begin fucking Satan without his guidance or the way short whimpers begin falling from your lips. He lets out a low hiss, wrapping a hand around your mouth harshly to keep things quiet, all while he pushes you forward to bend over the table as he stands. He pounds at you roughly, using the fabric of your skirt to keep your skin from slapping together. The frantic pace doesn’t stop until he’s got you shaking from your orgasm and he’s following along with a muffled growl. Only then does he let go of your mouth and kiss at where his fingers dug in a little too roughly, massaging over your hips as he whispers about a ‘another study session well done’ before the video cuts.

Shh— quiet in the library | 5:00 minutes | 91.k views | 87.k likes | 82.k comments

regretting never getting into reading after this

what days do you two go to the library, asking for a friend

my face was pressed up against the screen the entire video

can I be the bookmark

putting in my librarian application asap

†

It was a sight that would be found in the best of porn magazines: your body on display with a pretty- expensive- champagne lingerie set that matched the fifth born’s hair color to a tee, while Asmo himself was completely bare, smiling face all dolled up and in frame. What made it even more delicious was his manicured fingers wrapped around his own cock, sliding along the slick area as he gave breathy moans and laughs, all while resting his head on your thigh to watch you pleasure yourself as well. Each bite and lick he delivered to your skin was slow and drawn out, matching the pace each of you were going— but one sharp tug to Azzy’s locks made his back arch with a sharp cry, eyes flashing pink. It’s a blur as he yanks you on top of him, lace-covered ass now on full display for the camera as it bounces along with his movements. The noises are so beautifully vile as you both grind against one another, moans reflecting back that get louder and louder the harder he pulls you down. A few whiny ‘I’m gonna cum!’ exclamations escape him before he forces his cock in you at the last second and practically screams with how intense it made everything feel. There’s thirty seconds of sweet talk and giggling before he’s lifting you up bridal style and you both wag your fingers at the camera before the video ends.

Dress up, dress down | 8:15 minutes | 123.k views | 117.k likes | 103.k comments

I can die happy now

FOR FREE?!?!

I can’t decide who sounds better or looks better

^the answer is both

thank you for the fIVE COURSE FUCKING M E A L

†

The sound of running water does nothing to hide the sharp sounds of slapping skin or the rumbly growls Beel is letting out. His wings are sparkling under the shower spray, fluttering rapidly as he fucks into you; his muscles flex with each movement, practically showing off to the camera since he has his backside facing it. Your legs, lifted up to his shoulders with your knees to your ears, and your hands gripping tightly at his horns are the only part of you that can be seen. Your voice echoes, though, loud and whiny moans that hitch each time he delivers a harsher thrust. You can see his hands wandering, unable to pick a place to grip or knead underneath his fingertips, just like his head keeps tilting or ducking down to scatter kisses and bites and hickeys over your skin. When his pace finally falters, it’s due to his stuttering hips and an unrestrained moan tears from his throat, followed by ‘c-cumming! G��na cum inside, fuck, fuck—!’ You can see his knees buckle a bit and your hands white-knuckling his horns. He gives a few frantic thrusts before he crushes your body against him and stills, letting the water cascade down your bodies with content sighs. The sound of a door opening echoes, followed by laughter from multiple people, before you’re whispering ‘now how are you gonna sneak me out?’ and the video cuts black.

A filthy cleaning | 6:26 minutes | 89.k views | 78.k likes | 72.k comments

Can we talk about his sheer strength?? The muscles?? The effortless pace??

THAT ASS THO

ain’t never seen a more lucky human

Is that…the Fangol’s locker room showers-

I— please??

†

For a moment, there’s only giggling and the rustling of blankets to be heard as you crawl onto Belphie’s lap— whose face is completely hidden by the plush pillows surrounding him. There’s a faint huff from the demon as you begin grinding on his lap, which quickly devolves into groans the harder you press against his bulge. It’s not long before he’s full on moaning, though not yet awake, and you’re lifting yourself up to take his cock out. His oversized shirt you’re wearing hides you well- only showing enough skin to tell you weren’t wearing underwear- and shields the way you fist his cock before lining it at your entrance. Belphie stirs then, voice coming out hoarse as he calls your name groggily. You drop down, not bothering to go slow, and the seventh born lets out a high pitched whine, hips raising in surprise before he’s flush against the bed again, letting you fuck him till your hearts content. You do exactly that, with your hands pressed to his chest for support, and his own clawing desperately at your thighs. His voice remains in a higher pitch, moaning and whining and whimpering, getting louder and louder until you let out a sharp demand for him to cum, and then he’s cumming with a broken gasp— all Belphie can do is give choked cries when you keep rocking your hips and the video ends after hearing your ‘nu-uh, baby, not done yet. Still want more.’

Wake up call | 7:30 minutes | 84.k views | 80.k likes | 75.k comments

holy fuck I wanna be belphie so bad

why don’t I get woken up this way wtf

This! Is! How! You! Do! It! People!

Can— can we just. Talk about that WHINE THOUGH?!

The grip on their thighs and hoarse moans are sending me

6K notes · View notes

alnilaem · 4 months ago

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coyote head and the body of a man — (e)

ghost/fem reader There's a killer on the loose. But your logging town is small and quaint and doesn't even appear on maps, so you know you're safe. That all changes when a gruff, big, taciturn man shows up at your workplace one day. Or; Simon is a fugitive serial killer, and you're the housekeeping girl that caught his eye.

cw for explicit content, graphic violence, possessive behaviour, size difference, cunnilingus, stalking

pinterest board | ao3 | for @spidehpig <3

You believe you were born in the centre of an exploding star.

Born on the crest of death and fated for a bleak life. Dead, before you even had a chance.

The universe sweeps before you. Infinite. Expansive. Hungry. You float at the mouth of the galaxy and it swallows you whole, but doesn’t seem to like the taste of you—too bland, too trite—so it spits you back out and sends you tailspinning.

You land with a lack of courtesy. Tossed between trees and dropped in a basin. You find yourself in nowhere, Oregon. In a town flecked by a lake inlet and a clement fjord, where the moose population outnumbers the people population. It has a maritime allure but strangely enough, isn’t commercial enough to be a tourist hub. It’s too hidden in the thicket. Too deep in a borehole.

Every day here is the same. It's an abyss that yawns before you with no end in sight, lacking undue entertainment and vividness and excitement. There’s no light pollution so far off the beaten track, so oftentimes, you’ll wish upon shooting stars for someone to come for your deliverance.��

There’s a reason they say be careful what you wish for.

The day isn’t even halfway over and your bone tips already ache with hard work.

It isn’t to say your workplace is busy. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. A cut-rate motel with more vacancies than residents found far-removed from the highway, taking only cash, no card, which is good for deterring paper trails and welcoming the transient but is bad for providing records when the police come knocking.

You’ll get the occasional trucker, the sparse backpacker. In any case, folks stay here when they don’t want to be bothered. They’ll drive past the splintery welcome sign and stop at the diner for earthy, full-bodied coffee and a slice of famous rhubarb pie. They’ll recuperate in the motel and leave before sunrise, and you’ll be there to clean up what they leave behind, scrubbing the memory out of the fibreglass bathtub for whoever’s next.

It’s a place where time fleets away. Hallucinatory. Where people pay their due and you hang your head because after all, you’re nothing more than the housekeeping girl. Cottony pinafore and a black dress. Mary Jane flats. Fingers desquamating from years of bleach and vinegar stuck in your nail beds. You get handed dog-eared tips and in return, you don’t ask questions. But maybe you should have.

You’re sliding the window cleaner back into its compartment on the cleaning cart just as your boss scales the veranda. He’s grinning and sporting sweat stains across his armpits. A patchy beard. A loose tie.

Your nerves lock up tight when he grasps your shoulders. His razorous fingers and the pinchbeck of his wedding band saws under your skin. The dregs of his afternoon drinking knocks into you, and you try not to let your body betray you. Despite that, your eyes water and your nose crinkles. You white-knuckle your dress and almost pop the fabric of your pinafore.

“How’s my favourite employee?” he grins. “Is she workin’ hard?”

There’s an irreverent innuendo somewhere in his smile. You ignore it and opt for a stale smile.

“I’m working,” you eke out. “I've got to restock the bathroom, then I’m done.”

“That’s good, peach. Real good,” he watches you collect toiletry essentials, then tacks on, “there’s a man in the lobby.”

You falter. The travel-sized shampoo bottle almost slips between your forefinger and thumb.

“An outsider.”

It’s an observation, not a question. If the man in the lobby were a local, Phillip would have given you a name because in this town, everybody knows everybody. The fact that a name was bereft tells you your new guest came from elsewhere. Maybe he’s cutting through the main road on his way to Yachats for your town’s cascade mountains and bigleaf maple, or for the diner’s famous rhubarb pie. In any case, he's in need of a rest stop.

“Mh. I’m gonna check him in. Just wanted to let you know I’m givin’ him this room, so try to hurry it up, okay peach?”

You blink slowly. This motel holds twelve rooms—there’s never been a need for any more—and currently, nine of those are occupied. That leaves three. There’s no reason for your boss to put up the new guest in Room 11, especially when you’re still cleaning it.

Phillip reads the question in the bend of your eyebrow. He smiles knowingly and pats your head. “He requested a room on the higher level. Room 9’s aircon is busted and Room 6 shares a wall with the Pettie’s. They’re loud.”

You sigh. “Ah.”

“Sorry peach,” he smiles like he’s apologetic, but you don’t think that’s the case. “Just get it done, alright? And add some extra coffee packets."

You furrow your lips. Displeasure flutters over you but you wash it away with a smile, refusing to irk him. You nod and pivot, bones bending against your skin for an escape as his hand whispers against your bum in an encouraging caress.

Anger simmers in your marrow. Phillip simply chuckles, disparaging.

“That’s a sweet peach.”

His voice gets muted by the tinny, rattling radiator as you make it to the bathroom. You stock it up dutifully—perhaps taking extra long to ensure he's not waiting outside for you—and spritz air freshener around the room when you finish. It’s a flaky, expired bottle of Platinum Ice which barely masks the town’s deep-seated smell of old-growth forest, petrichor and woody debris. You hope the new guest doesn’t have a sharp nose.

You make sure to stuff the coffee station with extra packets before stepping out of the room. Off the mysteriously stained carpet, onto the veranda. You putter around with your large keyring, thumbing through the nickel-brass since you also have a key to the elementary school, post office, and city hall (aptly titled shitty hall by locals, since this town isn’t much of a city and the building’s roof is held together by nothing but rusty rivets and tassels of sprig collected in the corners). You’ve got so many keys because again, everybody knows everybody, and it isn’t rare to see the housekeeping girl at the motor lodge supplementing her income as a part-time teaching aid.

Finally, you find the master key. You lock the room and roll the cleaning cart into the utility room before locking that too. Your wrist drags across your forehead, wiping away sweat, and you tug on your dress because perspiration has pasted it onto the pert curve of your breasts, the squish of your thighs. You furtively glance down your bodice and watch how the sweat pocks your skin, knotting your nipples against your cheap bra. Lament catches you in regards to your shower after work—it’s going to be freezing since the heating system here is so fickle—and in the paroxysm of your grief, the sound of heavy breathing eludes you.

You don’t hear his footsteps. He’s an ambush predator. Stalking and shadowing in the tall grass, waiting for the moment your hackles melt to bite into your neck like an unripe stone fruit. You don’t see him, but you feel him. His breath tickling down your neck. The erogenous zone behind your ear.

A gasp parts your lips and you whip around, coming face-to-face with a paunchy chest plated by moth-eaten flannel. You heft your head up, exercising the hinge in your neck. Paling at the sight that greets you.

He has a Cabela’s cap on. It’s pulled over his eyes, but a few blonde curls peek out from under the crown of his hat. He has a damaged, blistered face. A cauliflower ear. Nicks on his cheeks that distend from his skin and have turned pallid with time, rippling like seafoam petticoats on waves as he flickers his jaw. He wears jeans and mud-clogged boots and holds a duffel bag.

His gaze unties you. You slowly find words, fitting them in an orderly queue in your mind as you avert your gaze and stare at the floor. Squirming. Preening. Sweltering.

“Welcome to Sockeye Inn, mister…”

Silence. He lets your words awkwardly trail off. Doesn’t do anything to belay the discomfort in your belly. The man simply stares at you with brown eyes.

Humiliation crawls up your spine and settles on your cheeks. It burns through your skin, withering you away, to which you fidget with your fingers and baldly nod towards the door.

“Your room is ready,” you murmur. “Enjoy your stay, sir. Uh– if you need anything just give us a shout. Phone’s on the bedside table.”

Foolishly, you wait for a response again. Nothing. He towers over you, owlishly blinking, one slower than the other because he seems to have a lazy eye. You clench your skirt and softly shoulder past him, heading for the stairs as you hear him putter with the keyhole.

You’ve halfway scaled it when a rasp distorted by what seems to be years of cigarettes stops you dead in your tracks.

“Bring me a BLT and root beer.”

You burn up at the muscle in his voice. The drag. Just as you’re about to reply, his room door slams shut and rocks across the veranda.

Your dress is stickier than it was before. Perhaps an ice cold shower isn’t so bad after all.

The end of your shift slowly arrogates.

After delivering food to Simon Riley—you glinted at the logbook while waiting for his order, reading his name—you left his room as soon as possible. You set the food down and found yourself plugging your nose. The Platinum Ice you sprayed before didn’t accost you— instead, it was pomade. Lucky Strike cigarettes. Decaying heartwood. Bleach.

You pointedly breathed through your mouth. It didn’t actually help though, since you could taste it then. The ethanol in the air drizzled over your pockmarked tongue and glided down your throat. Collected in your stomach.

You almost retched it back up at the sight of him.

Through the foggy shower wall, the colour of his hazy contour was striking. It seemed to be a tight fit for him, hemming in his lumberjack build. The shampoo bottle looked like a damn accessory in his large hands and his chased shoulder blades pressed soap against the glass pane, sudsy.

Your curiosity pulled your gaze lower. Down to the heavy mass between his thighs, thick and fat. Bulbous.

His spine suddenly went erect, straightening like a chary animal. As if by the agitated pappus of his skin, his chin lifted in your direction, and that’s when the earth collapsed under your feet and you beetled for the door.

You distract yourself in the kitchen. Emptying the dishwasher. Taking the garbage to the bear-proof receptacles. Putting the oven on steam clean. Kate, the kitchen supervisor, stares at you oddly under her hairnet but she isn’t going to reject a set of helping hands.

You scrub at a pan hoping it will erase the image burned into your mind. Hoping that the steel wool will have the same effect on your temporal lobe as it does on the pan. You don’t realize your hands are chafing and the pan is flaking, not until Kate is passionately complaining beside you, her spit dashing onto the side of your face.

“—fuckin’ freeloaders. They drain our taxes but can’t even do their damn jobs. Wait until one of their family gets butchered, you’ll see, that’s when they’ll start taking this seriously.”

She waves a newspaper in your face. The paper stack fans in front of you, blowing you with cool air. You’re just barely able to read the big, blocky headline.

Connection Made Between Ventura, Gilroy and Eugene Serial Killer — Aptly Coined the Ghost.

“Eugene!” Kate slaps the newspaper, frazzled. “Not even three hours from us!”

You scarcely listen to her, her voice ripening into white noise as you scrutinize the police sketch on the newspaper’s margin. The offender is drawn with an overripe balaclava and probing eyes. Dark brown, as if his corneal opacity has laid claim before death. His eyelids have no tension, but a furl of crow's feet gather at the corners. It’s uncanny. Eerie. And even though he’s pressed on paper, you can’t help the unease welling inside you.

A part of you waits for the other shoe to drop. For him to manifest and crawl out of the paper, dripping ink and viscous tar, ruining your Mary Jane flats and the floor you’d just mopped.

Hemlock hits the back of your throat. Lemony, sedgy. Your eyes fixate on the information detailing his crimes. Spines broken and necks snapped with inhumane strength. Pieces of flesh carved with the precision of either a surgeon or a butcher. Rigour mortis locking the victims in a scream, nail beds caked with skin which implies a struggle, but leads nowhere since the Ghost’s DNA hasn’t been found on any database.

(He’s as elusive as his name suggests. Investigators say he could be foreign, or that he has a clean record. The latter seems unlikely for the violent calibre of his crimes.)

There’s also his modus operandi—slicing off his victim’s ring finger, taking it with him. A cruel reward.

“They say he’s taking Route 101,” Kate tacks on. “That he’s a long-hauler. How the hell will they catch a long-hauler?”

You shake your head, shrugging. Your tongue is too heavy and your gums rub against the round of your cheeks when you try speaking. The sentence gets snagged on your molars, and all that comes out are sparse words, lamely falling to the floor with how out of breath you are.

“…They’ll catch him.”

“They better,” she shortly huffs. “I don’t want this town making the paper for all the wrong reasons.”

Death comes to you in a cornfield.

You’re sprinting through the crop, barefoot and scantily clad and pricked by thorns. Your clothing catches on thistle and corn husk, slowing you down, but the quick-footed trampling at your tail keeps your pace steady and stable.

Your lungs burn. Your bones rasp. Your eyes well up with how fast you’re moving, with how your retinas strain to see more in the pitch black than just reflective corn silk and the crescent moon.

The midnight sky is close to swallowing you whole, but at this point that would be an act of mercy. The whistle of his cleaver slicing through the air and the stomp of his boots are promptly catching up, heckling you, barely whispering against the flowy cotton of your dress.

By a cruel twist of fate your foot catches on a tiller and sends you flying. Your nose softens the impact, the crack of cartilage reverberating through your skull, glutinous red spurting down your chin as you try scrambling to your feet.

But true to his name, Ghost, he slips through matter and suddenly, he’s standing in front of you.

Black, sweaty tank top. Freshly sharpened meat cleaver. Stout arms. Predatory eyes. Rotting balaclava—which at this point, you’re starting to believe was grafted onto his face, fitting him like skin.

You raise your hands for mercy.

But you should know dead stars have exhausted all their luminosity—that after death, they hold no power. That space is a graveyard. That’s why the Ghost poises his cleaver behind him. That’s why the last thing you see is his cleaver handle swinging towards you, about to collide with and shatter your cheekbone into a million pieces—

—but daylight strikes you with no clear trajectory.

It’s your alarm that rings, waking you up from a nightmare, telling you to brush your teeth and scrub yourself down and pop your supplements before biking to work. You do so sluggishly, standing under the shower spray as you massage your cheekbone. Burning your toast as you scour the news for developing details on the Ghost case. Ordering a cup of coffee from the local diner and gulping it down behind the motel lest Phillip catches you.

Your nightmare—omen, prophecy, portent of death?—pursues you like the persistent stench of fish on an angler’s hands all morning. You flinch at the slightest noise while scrubbing toilets, you constantly look over your shoulder while sweeping floors.

Malaise builds in your blood vessels like creosote. It doesn’t thin into fluid, flowing in and out of your appendages and around your sex until you situate yourself in front of Room 11. Fluffing up your skirt and puffing out your chest.

You announce your presence and rap the door with your Mary Jane flat because your hands are occupied with new bed sheets. Your knuckles blanch around the linen, quivering, struggling to keep it in your grip. The sheets almost flutter to your feet when a voice penetrates the door, abrasive and husky. Rough. Grating against your spine and shaving down the vertebrae.

“Door’s open.”

You wait a few seconds before contorting yourself against the threshold. You try the handle and lo and behold, it’s unlocked, swinging open when you press your weight onto it.

You step inside and toe off your flats. Next to Simon’s boots, they look fit for a doll, and a dizzy spell ricochets through you at the size difference. At the stark reminder that he’s as big and packed as a thick tree stump.

You walk inside and heed the CRT television playing the news.

It does nothing to soften the scream that rips out of you as you round the corner.

Simon is in bed, pulling on a cigarette. His pudgy tummy and bristly chest are bared, the steel wool of his happy trail disappearing into the bed sheets furled around his hips. The flat sheet is thin enough to outline something stirring. Something thick and pressed against his inner thigh.

He stares at you, eyes of Argus. It’s so intense you’re sure he can sense the slick running down your back. The dew that settles in the gusset of your panties.

You stutter. “I can come back later.”

Simon sits up with a groan. It rattles you. His joints must be fettered with age, or hard work, but in any case your head goes cottony with the picture of him splitting wood and hauling heavy bovine flanks.

You swallow thick as he shakes his head. “It’s no problem, sugar. I’m not even here.”

The pet name makes you squirm. You sure do feel like it—sugar, that is—with the way you could melt on his tongue, wedge yourself between his teeth. Turn syrupy and sappy at the back of his throat.

He takes another drag of his cigarette. You watch raptly as his jaw feathers around it, lips proffering another plume of smoke.

He blinks. “Well?”

You eke out an apology and fiddle with your hands.

“I’ll have to, um, change your bedsheets first.”

Simon shakes his head. He taps the ashy casualties off the tip of his cigarette and you watch as it sinks onto the bed sheet, almost burning through the floral motif. “No need.”

“Well,” you cough, forcing your eyes away from him, “if I don’t, my boss…”

Simon pricks up. The hind of his spine straightens the same way a dog would sit straight and plumb after hearing rustling in a bush. His muscles tighten, thick, and his face twists into a sneer. The bed sheet around him falls and you lock up tight lest it bare his pubic bone.

“Is he a minger?”

“I’m sorry?”

He huffs. “‘s he a bully?”

“Oh, no,” you blandly laugh. “Mister Graves isn’t a bully. He just…”

“Makes you uncomfortable?”

There’s a lapse between acknowledging his question and spitting out an answer that makes you kick yourself. Simon already looks dubious. You hug the sheets closer to your chest and smile, your cheeks feathering like beeswax.

“He’s a kind man.”

“Not wha’ I asked,” he says. The bed creaks as he leans forward, the sheets slipping lower, scarcely covering his sex. “I asked if he does stuff he shouldn’t be doin’.”

Your heartbeat quickens. Briefly, you wonder if he can hear it. He probably can, albeit softly, due to his lumpy cauliflower ear.

“He’s a married man,” you mumble. “He doesn’t touch me if that’s what you mean. Not like that.”

“There’s only one way to touch someone,” Simon grunts. His chest starts churning a little, as if he’s agitated. “Does he put his hands on you?”

Your skin burns, remembering. A phantom scar runs through you, long and creeping, mapping all the places in which Phillip’s pinchbeck wedding ring has burned you. The suture of your spine, the pappy flesh of your neck, the rise of your hips where his palm has melted through your dress and smarted your skin.

Your silence makes Simon grunt.

Panic surges up your throat. You feel the need to defend Phillip, in some approximation of gratitude and fear since you’re on his payroll and you don’t want to reap the consequences should you rat on him and he find out.

“No!” you hurry. “Mister Graves isn’t like that. He’s a good man. Honest.”

Simon’s eyes push against your skin. He scrutinizes you, tests you. Waits to see if you’ll fidget too much and flake away and sink into the carpet.

He growls. “You fancy him, is tha’ it?”

Answering yes is the only way to shake him off your leg. You do so archly, so it seems as though the thought of your boss has you flushing when really it’s Simon. He’s fully upright, and now you can see the girthy base of his cock. Stirring, twitching. You suppress a moan.

“Yeah…” you murmur. You can feel your makeup turning blotchy, running down your cheeks. “It’s just a bit…embarrassing, is all.”

He lapses into it again. Staring at you. Razoring his way into your head and thumbing through your consciousness, searching for an Achilles’ heel. A crack he can break into a hole because he has the size for it—barrel-chested, stupidly thick fingers.

Simon slips out of bed and disturbs the coiled aches of the mattress. He holds a washcloth over his crotch. It’s crusty and keeps shape and covers almost nothing, confirming your inkling.

His bulbous cockhead winks at you from under the hem. It’s heavy. Leaky. Dripping precum that laves down his legs and gets caught in the wiry hair of his thigh.

Anxiety pools in your armpits and around your groin. Or maybe that’s just arousal. Brackish and sticky, rubbing your pussy lips together, hugging your clit.

Simon pulls on his cigarette once more and then folds it into the bedside table. You should scold him. You should tell him that he’ll have to pay for damages even though the wood is already degraded and mouldy. You should scuttle out of the room and call for Phillip, but that would be a crueler fate. Instead you stay fixed to the carpet as Simon steps forward. Cock swinging between his legs, tummy jiggling.

You don’t know whether he’s going to pull you in for a kiss or rip off your dress or—and you’re unsure why you think of this—take you by your skull and smash it against the television stand. He has the muscle to, surely, but somehow you know he won’t. And the thought of that makes your skin hot.

You’re at his mercy.

You gird yourself for his lips or for your dress to be torn off, but your preparations flux away as Simon steps close and crowds you against the television stand. The stench of Lucky Strike cigarettes and gamey meat impair you, as he reaches behind you and increases the television volume. You want to say something but cotton fills your mouth and the news report floods your ears. It’s fragmentary—you can only heed oddments of the news anchor’s latest updates.

The Ghost is still at large. Corpses keep popping up around California and Oregon, each with their ring fingers sliced off. The tipline has been leading investigators nowhere, shepherding them to the end of the earth and over the edge, floating, where they’ll move through molasses and will never be able to catch him.

White male. 6’4”. 196 centimetres. Brown eyes. Heavyset. Likely military background. Likely a surgeon, or a butcher. A dangerous, ruthless individual.

If spotted, do not approach.

Simon’s breath fans against your neck, rousing the bristles of your warm cheeks. He turns off the television and steps back. An ether opens up in the pit of your stomach as your gaze falls on his bulging pelvis, on the purplish veins and webbing muscle, sitting like a tuft under his navel, disappearing behind the washcloth where his cock stirs.

Simon tuts. “World’s goin’ to shite.”

You nod.

“You shouldn’t be out here anyway,” he tacks on. “Should be at home takin’ care of your man’s house. Keepin’ safe.”

You flash your naked ring finger embarrassingly fast. “I-It’s just me…and my cat.”

His eyes darken. His head tilts down at you. He purrs.

“Better get started on mine then,” he breathes. “Put yourself to good use.”

You shyly get to cleaning his room.

You try to ignore his hand disappearing behind the washcloth, pumping his cock. You can’t ignore the silk ruining your panties. Scarcely, you manage to ignore the caution creeping up your back. Your lower instinct that screams at you as you feel his stare tracking you across the room, burning. Smouldering. Warning.

Daylight scissors into you.

It melts the sleep in the corners of your eyes. It clears the haze in your head. It interrupts the sultry dream you were having. Your flesh is still pocked and your clit is still peaked, as you rehash the contents of it.

You can still feel Simon’s weight on top of you, sweat compressioning you, the sheets gathering under your slick back. Your underwear had dangled from one of your ankles, flapping and swaying as Simon pounded into you. Your head bobbed over the lip of the mattress. Your tits bounced, nipples caught between his gnashers. Your slick ran down your cunt and over your asshole, pooling onto the floral bed sheets. You just quit your job. You didn’t care about the sheets. Or the Pettie’s down the veranda. Phillip was on the other side of the door too, and he could hear everything. Your moans. Simon’s balls dragging over your furled hole. His groans—

—And the sudden tearing of cartilage and skin stretching, rubbery, as Simon shifted into something else above you. Something larger. Deadlier. His drool dripped onto your chest, and his cock was suddenly too big for your pussy, popping back out until only his tip managed to squeeze inside your puffy hole. He snarled down at you, but it got covered by a creeping balaclava. You still reached your orgasm, quivering around his cockhead. Watching him go spotty and graphite-like in your vision, as if he were a composite sketch.

You get out of bed and wash the absurd dream away under the shower. The nozzle hits your clit weakly, and you never reach your high. You show up to work pigeon-toed and sweaty. Pent-up. You scrub harder at bathtubs and almost snap at Phillip when he swats your bum. Almost. Simon is watching from the dining hall, and he makes you skittish.

The day rolls by sluggishly. There’s a Do Not Disturb sign dangling from Simon’s door, so you don’t get the chance to see him in his room. You huff and puff at the Pettie’s and give Kate attitude. It’s the peak of afternoon when you’re sent home, shoulders stiff because Phillip squeezed them and tacked on, ”I can always help out if you’re stressed, peach,” before shepherding you out the door.

You bike into town. Indulge in the diner’s famous rhubarb pie because the motel’s cherry pie is nowhere near as good, though you’ll never tell Kate that. You polish off your treat then ride to the beach (which is more of a graveyard for birds and braided, washed ashore sea meadow), and prop your bike against the wooden bollards.

The beach is familiar with you. It sees you when you're overwhelmed by the monotonous colour of your life. You never worry about meddling kids or loud teenagers or anything, because the stench of fish usually keeps them away anyway. It's your own Shangri-La. Your little Eden. Albeit overcast and greyscale, with an ocean spray that gets into your hair and dries out your mouth.

You slip out of your Mary Jane flats and wade through the sand dunes, breathing in salt and sulfur and tasting it on your lips. You maneuver around seawrack and driftwood and eventually find yourself seated behind a tussock of seaoats, watching as the waves lazily beat against the shore.

It's easy for you to lie down and get comfortable among the scent of iodine and the feel of pillowy granules. It's also easy to let your eyes flutter shut, lulled into limbo by the ebbing tide and murmuring waves.

You stir awake with flaccid lungs.

Presentiment hangs in the air, thick, like a blanket of smog. It interrupts your breathing pattern and makes you light-headed. Vertiginous. Makes you see things that aren't there…

…Such as the off-white scleras and twists of dilated blood vessels that stare at you from the foreshore.

They approach you eerily. Two pieces of driftwood floating over the waves, jolting slightly as it hits the sand, splintery and mossy and heavy.

The man feathers toward you from the blue glow of the beach. You squint through the darkness, because maybe it's the sheriff, but you know he walks with a drunken gait and he…strides like a bear on its hind legs.

The way he lurches for you says otherwise. Perhaps he's rather a panther or a coyote, or some crude backyard breed of all three.

A large palm splits itself over your mouth. An arm lays beside you and secretes a musk of sweat and iron. A knee digs into the plush of your cunt, agitating your clit, as a warm breath fans over your pulse point.

"Waited for me, didn't you?" he rasps against your neck.

In your stupor, you brace your hands against his shoulders. A sticky substance coats his skin, too viscous to be sweat.

Nausea knots in your throat. Tremors wash over your body. You dig your nails into his flesh, and when your hands don't fall through it like you hoped, you gravely realize he's made of muscle and skin instead of your drunken, sleep-inspired imagination.

You experience a cruel loss of equilibruim. If you weren't already lying down, you'd collapse to the ground. You go limp in the sand, thawing into his hands which you unwillingly notice are caked with that sticky substance too.

"There's dangerous folk 'round here," he grunts. "What if someone else followed you? A big, bad man?"

A chord of recognition stirs in your brain at his voice. That brash accent.

"Simon…?"

He chuckles. "It's me, sugar."

You squeeze your thighs together but it's abortive. He pries them apart anyway, and cups your pussy through your panties.

He rubs you through the gauze, knuckling your soft lips. Through the darkness you barely see the misshapen silhouette of his mouth. That snarl, curling off him as if he suffers from some chronic wasting disease, slowly atrophying and turning into some vestigal cadaver.

He kisses down your sternum. Grips your hand and forces it over his crotch. Your fingers brush over the solid mass. It's hard due to both stiffened denim and his thickening cock.

"All for you," he mumbles. "Take it out, sugar."

You fumble with the metal teeth of his zipper. You pull him out with both hands and your mouth goes dry. Tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth. Deadly nightshade hitting the back of your throat. Despite you, your thighs squish together, and a rumbling chuckle slips through the seam of his lips.

He's huge. Fat and heavy, so much so you need both fingers to wrap around him.

"Give it a kiss, yeah?" he coos. "Like a sweet girl."

You spread your lips against his cockhead. You pull away and a string of precum chases you, but Simon is pushing your head back down and bucking his bristly pubic bone into to your nose.

"There it is," he grumbles. "Such a big girl, aren't you?"

You look up at him with wide, wet eyes.

The stiffs of hair on his pubic bone tickle your nose. You smell sweat and iron, but you can't tilt your head away, because the stout muscle of his arms keep you in place.

Fighting is futile. His cockhead hits the back of your throat like oleander and he holds your jaw in place, dimpling your cheeks with his rough fingers, letting his balls slap against your chin.

Just as you're getting used to his size, he pulls out, breaking the strands of saliva and precum between you.

"Take off y'panties, sugar."

You pull them off and squirm at the way the gusset clings to your pussy lips a little while longer. Simon takes it against his nose and sniffs it, running his fingers through your pussy, spreading your slick.

You don't get a warning before he's curling one of his fingers into you. Massaging your walls. Scissoring you open. Thumbing your clit.

He adds another and twists them deeper—meaner—into you. He swallows your whimpers but spits them back into your mouth when he empties his saliva down your throat. He keeps stroking the inside of your pussy, your sticky walls, and rubbing your clit.

He squeezes your cheeks together and gives you a big kiss. He coos condescendingly into your lips, and licks away your fresh track of tears. "It's supposed to hurt, baby. Don't be mad, alright? It'll feel good soon."

He gets deeper and deeper. Knuckle-deep, when he curls his fingers inside you. You lock up tight and thrust your hips through the bulk of your orgasm, trembling and quivering around him.

Your lips quiver around a plea when he pulls his fingers out. It's a lapse of judgement on your part—you know it—but you can't help it anymore.

"Please what?" He grins. It's ugly. Like a truss of stitching falling off his face, mangled and chewed up.

"Can you g-go…" you squirm when he rolls his tumb over your clit, agonizingly slow. "Can you go–"

"C'mon baby," he whispers against your lips, "spit it out. Big girls use their words."

"Canyougodownonme?" you gasp and grip onto him, bucking your cunt into his palm.

He chuckles against your mouth. He kisses down your chest. He crinkles his nose against the husk of your pussy. He deeply inhales and vibrates at your scent. He darts his tongue out and flattens it against your dewy folds, licking a stripe up your slit.

You writhe but he holds you in place with those big, thickened hands of his. They're wet but at this point you can't tell if it's your arousal or that mysterious substance on him. You can't even think about it, not with your thoughts melting away, escaping you like the humming waves.

Simon's a bit too aggressive in how he eats you out. It doesn't come from a juvenile attempt influenced by sex-on-screen with undue emphasis, but rather his tongue spelling devotion into the fat of your cunt.

Your fingers flex into his blonde head of hair. It's closely cropped, but you still manage to pull him closer, grinding yourself down on the bumpy bridge his nose. You pull on his hair and he growls and sends a quake up your spine. He wraps his lips around your clit and swirls his tongue further into you, softly suckling your juices out.

The waves fold over each other, beating against the shore. They crest and crash and just as they race up the sand dune, teasing your flexing toes, your second orgasm crashes into you too. You twist and twirl Simon's hair in your grip and almost miss the feel of something cold being slipped onto your finger.

You're shaking, trembling, as you raise your hand. You're hazy and the moonlight is shrouded by clouds. It makes the mystery object look smeared across your vision, blotchy and spotty.

You hold it a little closer to your face, examining the twinkle as Simon massages your thighs to ease the quiver.

You turn your hand over and whisper your thumb over its curve.

You bristle when you realize what it is. It hangs off you a little loosely, burning your knuckle.

A pinchbeck wedding ring.

Stained with red, and still warm from the body it was pulled from.

Bile gathers in your throat and burns your mouth. Tears gather in your eyes. A small gasp parts your lips, billowing out of you like the mushroom-head of a flare just as realization fully commits itself to you.

You shiver. Both through realization, and your orgasm. "…What did you do to him?"

"Took care of him," Simon grunts, caressing your hair. "I'm supposed to handle the monsters under your bed, ain't I?"

You spare him a glance. You heed the white of his teeth and a smudge of—you know it's blood—across his cheek. His eyes, hidden in the shadowy canopy. His nose, bent out of shape and speckled with blood.

"You're not going to hurt me."

He brushes your hair back. "No."

You pant into him when he captures you for a kiss. "…Why?"

"I'm supposed to take care of ya," he grunts. "That's what couples do, no?"

He pushes something in your grasp—a folding knife. Your thumb slips over the two initials engraved into the handle—your initials.

"How do y'feel about Kate?" he asks.

Your coworker flashes into your mind. "I like her"

Simon—the Ghost—grunts. "And what about that bloke at the diner? What's his name?"

"I– Franklin?"

"Hn. Does he bother you?"

You thumb through your memory. Perhaps what you say is an embellishment, giddy of what Simon's going for.

"He did steal my bike once…" you mumble.

Simon pricks up. His chest puffs out and squishes against your arm. "He married?"

"Yeah, um," you swallow, "for about ten years."

"You want his pretty ring? Or his wife's?" Simon asks, then kisses you. "Anythin' you want."

Your lips stretch into a smile.

Simon cups your cheek, blood rubbing off on you. For the first time ever, you feel exhilarated at the thought of the future. At the thought of being taken care of. Doted on.

Suddenly the town doesn't feel so cold anymore. It doesn't feel like an invisible barricade is hemming you in. Simon is your ticket out of here, and a ticket to your new life.

You can abandon your pinafore and Mary Jane flats and maybe he'll spoil you with frilly socks and a cute sundress. Maybe he'll fuck you in his truck or in gas station bathrooms as the corpse of a man who wronged you rots in the truckbed. Maybe you'll get caught but at least you'll be together and at least your name will finally be known.

Not as the housekeeper girl, but Mrs Riley.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon riley smut #ghost smut #cod x reader #cod mw2 #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod smut #orion writing

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allurilove · 7 months ago

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Teenager Yandere Husband x teenager you

“What would happen if you went to the same school as him?”

Rated 16 + — regular ol’ short content !

Teen!Yandere Husband had a major scene phase starting sophomore year. It was his way of saying ‘fuck you’ to his old man, and he started to grow as his own person. He was finally able to express himself in a way his father tried to repress. His father was interested in fashion, creating multiple pieces and clothing that had made it to the runways, but he made sure teen!yandere husband looked proper. Not dressing him in the eccentric and world stopping outfits his father was known for, but the cookie cutter boy you see in those movies about snobby rich people. His dad thought his new bright hair was hideous, and when he started to cut up holes in his jeans— he got a whooping that night. That didn’t stop teen!yandere husband, it only fueled him to go all out. He had black eyeliner on his waterline, multiple rhinestone belts on his hips, and wore long striped socks with his boots. He donated all of his old polo shirts, cream white sweaters, and traded his name brand shoes for a pair of converses.

Teen!Yandere Husband enjoyed listening to My Chemical Romance, 3OH!3, and Get Scared. He had all of their latest music downloaded onto his mp3 player, and he listened to it with his girlfriend at the time. They both shared an earbud, and his arm was around her shoulders. She was just the type of girl he liked: she had those skunk extensions in her hair, long eyelashes, fishnets on her arms, and she smelled like a record store (idk if that’s a compliment). But alas, all mildly good things came to an end when he was broken up with. She wanted an alternative man by her side, and he wasn’t enough for her.

Teen!Yandere Husband started to grow out his hair junior year. He had to constantly brush his bangs out of his face, blowing at the strands whenever they poked at his eyes. He was this tall six foot two guy, bumping into people in the hallways with his wide shoulders. And he had an attitude. He didn’t apologize, just grunting out a ‘watch it’ before he stomped his way to his class. Teen!yandere husband also picked fights with anyone that tried to comment on his appearance. He knew how to throw a mean punch, and he learned it all from his great aunt. Breaking peoples noses and fingers were easier than he thought, and getting away with it was just as sweet than the thrill he felt. His father made constant excuses for teen!yandere husband, saying that it was just a phase and he was just a boy, and if that didn’t work… well a gracious donation would be sent to the school.

Teen!Yandere Husband got his dick pierced the summer before senior year. It was a risky move, his father was already on the brink of snapping at him and kicking him to the curb. But, thankfully his aunt was cool about it, and signed the paperwork. While he was at it, he got his ears and belly button done too.

Teen!Yandere Husband noticed you around senior year. He was cleaning up his ‘bad boy’ act, trying to get on people’s good side before the year ended. While he was on his apology tour, he saw you sitting at the library alone. He doesn’t remember if he had done anything horrible to you, and if he did, he would absolutely beat himself up for it. He was about to approach you, but then he suddenly remembered his appearance, and was self conscious about the way he looked. Who would love to be with a mess of a man like him? Surely, you already had people lining up to be with you.

Teen!Yandere Husband made his first move by asking you to sign his yearbook. You had made him nervous. Just your presence alone was making him sweat. He held brief eye contact with you when he asked, leaning against the white bricked wall with a blush to his cheeks. His voice soft and yet baritone, and he held up the yearbook for you to write your name in.

“Ah yeah… I think we had like one class together? With that really grumpy man that’s about to retire soon.”

You smiled, a little snort coming from you. He watched you add a little heart into your name. “You’re gonna have to be specific. That’s like half the teachers here.”

“You know,” he was totally talking out of his ass, “the teach that shakes his fist whenever he sees teens running down the halls.”

“Really? That’s odd. I never had a male teacher.”

“W-What? Oh-“ he gulped, adverting his eyes towards the ground. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and he awkwardly shifted between his weight. “Maybe I’m misremembering things.”

“If we took a class together… I definitely would have remembered.”

That left him speechless. Did you mean that in a good way?

“You’re sort of hard to forget… you kind of look like Sam Monroe from Life as a House.” you bit your lip, and your eyes took in the sight of his dark but colorful clothing. He had this scent that made him smell like fresh rain and wood.

He hadn’t seen that movie, but he was gonna guess on a whim that might’ve been your way of saying he’s … cute?

Teen!Yandere Husband got your number and followed you around all summer. He was actually shy when he got to hang out with you outside of school. Hours before he met you, he walked back and forth in front of his mirror, trying to give himself a pep talk before the hangout. He wasn’t this nervous before, and he started to fret about his appearance. He had put on his best jeans, clean shoes, and the classic sort of fancy tee. He picked you up in his red corvette, playing music from the radio incase you didn’t like what he usually listened to. He was determined to make this “hang out that’s totally not a date” perfect.

Teen!Yandere Husband casually paid for your things, and opened all the doors for you. He totally thought he was winning in the ‘gentleman’ department. He gave you compliments that teetered between the lines of flirtation, and just being friendly. He actively listened to whatever you had told him, making mental notes to bring them up in later conversations. That seemed to make you happy. You two had stopped by a carnival he coincidentally had tickets for. He tried his hardest to help you at any game, and he was pretty good at throwing darts. He happily smiled for whatever photo booth you brought him into, not once complaining when you wanted to use props.

Teen!Yandere Husband had genuinely smiled whenever he was around you. You just made life better. You were his little comedian, his best friend that’ll he never forget.

Full fics: these fics are an aged up version of yandere husband obvs, and it contains smut.

#1 #2 #3 #4 (coming soon)

Allure: this would be soo him if he were to text reader.

#Allurilove yandere writing #some references to the past fics i have made in the past #cute fluffy romance #yandere husband x you #teen!yandere husband x teen!you #teen!oc #teen!reader #teen!yandere au #male yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #yandere oc x reader #male yandere x you #yandere imagines #male yandere x reader #male yandere x female reader #yandere x fem reader

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onlyquinns · 1 month ago

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JACKED AND KIND, m. rempe

pairing: matt rempe x fem!reader, fluff!

content: you and matt take part in the ‘jacked and kind’ tiktok trend, with a slight twist

notes: this is my first fanfic on here so i’m super super nervous 😭🙏🏻 i hope you guys like it tho!! this was written in honor of his goal from jan. 21 😮‍💨

matt lays on the couch, his long legs stretched over one of the arm rests. it was his day off, a rare occurrence lately now that he was back on the rangers. you giggle at the sight of him, enjoying how he looked in a pair of sweats and a rangers tee, his chin tucked into his chest and his other hand occupied with his phone.

you wiggle out of your spot in the loveseat adjacent to him, making your way over to the entertainment center to set up your phone against the tv. matt looks over at you, his eyes drawn away from his own phone.

“what’re you doin’, baby?” he asks, pulling himself into a sitting position, his legs still draped over the couch’s arm rest.

you turn around and grin at him, your hands bunched up into the hem of your shirt to contain your excitement. “wanna’ record a tiktok with me? all you have to do is stand there.”

matt slung his legs off the arm rests, settling his feet into the living room’s plush carpet. “yeah?” he asks, one brow raised. “you sure that’s all i gotta’ do, baby?”

you blow air into your cheeks as you think. “mm… well, you have to stand next to me and then pick me up and put me on your shoulder when i tell you to.” you pout your lips at him, downturning your brows to really tie the look together.

matt laughs, the corner of his lips quirked upward in a delicious smug smirk. “alright, i can do that.” he hauls himself off the couch and stands next to you, waiting in his spot with his hands snug in the pockets of his sweats. he smirks as you start the recording and back up next to him.

music plays loudly from your phone, filling the apartment living room with a pop song he’s heard a few times from your phone already. matt looks down at you, smiling unabashedly at the way you sway your hips back and forth before you lift your arm and tug on his t-shirt sleeve.

“now!” you say and he immediately bends down and picks you up as if you weigh nothing. he hauls you onto his shoulder with a wide smirk as he listens to you giggle loudly, easily maneuvering your body.

“okay, okay!” you say, lightly gripping the top of his head, your fingers curled around the strands of brown hair. “that’s good—put me down, matty!”

matt grins, “nah,” he tells you, “i think i’m good, babe.” he squeezes your calves, his hands warm through the thin layer of your black leggings. before you can say something else, matt does a quick succession of spins, laughing loudly with you, his hold tight enough to ensure you don’t fall.

“matty!” you squeal as he stops spinning. you glance at your phone and see that it’s still recording. you grin mischievously, remembering another tiktok trend.

you shake matt’s grip off of your legs, his arms immediately moving to catch you in the event that you fall. you wrap your arms around his neck and shoulders, your tongue peeking out in concentration, and throw one of your legs over his shoulder so your pelvis is pressed into his ear.

matt’s laughter fills your ears, unsure and shy, “what’re you doin’ there—?” he tries to ask before you start humping the side of his head, your palms pressing his head further into your body.

you laugh loudly as he scrambles to grip your thighs, quickening your movements against his brown hair. his fingers splay across your lower back and thigh as you begin to slip, your frantic movements causing your body to slide off his shoulder. matt catches you around the waist, stumbling slightly before he settles the both of you into a heap on the floor. laughter erupts from the both of you, your tiktok recording long forgotten and over.

“damn, babe, you set a brutal pace,” matt manages to say through his laughter. his dark eyes are alight with humor as he looks at you. he presses his lips to the top of your head, the action firm and grounding.

you turn in his arms and peer up at him through your lashes, batting them innocently, “learned from the best,” you teasingly purr, pressing a hand to his chest. the thump of his heartbeat under your palm further grounds you, allowing you to catch your breath.

matt’s hand comes up and grips the hand you have splayed on his body, long fingers dwarfing yours. his eyes deepen into a darker shade of brown and his tongue swipes out quickly to wet his lips. his lips quirk upwards into a cocky grin and his grip on you tightens, fingers moving from yours to slip underneath your shirt. “hm… think you might need another lesson, yeah?”

#val’s writing 🧃#matt rempe x reader #matt rempe x you #matt rempe x y/n #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #mr73 #nhl fanfiction #mr73 x reader #nhl fic #matt rempe #matt rempe blurb #nhl blurb #Spotify

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amourquinn · 2 months ago

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( short fic ) 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌

pairing : boyfriend!quinn x fem!reader wc. 1.5k

genre : angst, fluff at the end no warnings

summary : a late-night argument forces you and quinn to confront the vulnerabilities in your relationship

「 author’s note 」 this one was inspired by the song mad by ne-yo !

the apartment was eerily silent, save for the occasional hum of the heater and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. you tossed and turned in bed, trying to find sleep, but it refused to come. the argument with quinn earlier in the evening replayed in your mind like a broken record.

it wasn’t even a big fight—nothing earth-shattering, but the frustration lingered. it had started with something trivial, as most fights do. quinn had been stressed from back-to-back games, and you were juggling a heavy workload. his short responses had grated on your nerves, and your sharp words had only added fuel to the fire.

now, as you lay staring at the ceiling, the weight of the unresolved tension felt unbearable. quinn was on his side of the bed, his back to you, his breathing steady but not quite deep enough to suggest he was asleep either. the air between you was thick, but neither of you had made the move to bridge the gap.

with a sigh, you pushed the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed. the hardwood floor was cool beneath your feet as you tiptoed out of the bedroom, careful not to make too much noise. the faint glow of the kitchen light guided your steps as you made your way to the fridge.

you grabbed a glass of water, sipping slowly as you leaned against the counter, your mind still racing. the stillness of the night only amplified the ache in your chest. you hated going to bed angry with quinn, and this was no exception.

the sound of soft footsteps broke your thoughts. you turned your head to see quinn leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. his hair messy from tossing and turning, his tired eyes meeting yours. he wore a simple black t-shirt and sweats, his shoulders slightly hunched as if weighed down by something unseen.

“hey. couldn’t sleep either?” he asked quietly, his voice raspier than usual.

you shook your head, taking another sip. “no.”

for a moment, silence stretched between you. he crossed the room, opening the fridge and pulling out a water bottle. he unscrewed the cap and took a sip, his eyes glancing at you briefly before flicking away.

you leaned against the counter, arms wrapped around yourself, while he lingered by the table, his hands resting on its edge. the space between you felt impossibly large.

“about earlier…” he started, but his tone was cautious.

you shook your head, cutting him off. “quinn, i don’t want to fight right now. i’m tired.”

his jaw tightened, and you could see the effort he was putting into keeping his emotions in check. “i’m not trying to fight,” he said, his voice quieter now. “i just… i don’t like how we left things.”

you exhaled sharply, setting your glass down on the counter with more force than you intended. “neither do i, but we both said things we shouldn’t have, and now here we are, not sleeping and avoiding each other.”

quinn ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in his movements. “you think i like this? i hate when we argue. i hate going to bed like this.”

“then maybe you shouldn’t have—” you stopped yourself, biting your lip to keep the words from spilling out. you didn’t want to make things worse, but the sting of his earlier comments still burned.

“shouldn’t have what?” he pressed, stepping closer. his tone wasn’t angry, just tired, like he genuinely wanted to understand.

you hesitated, looking down at the floor. “you shut me out, quinn. every time something’s wrong, you close off, and i’m left guessing. it feels like i’m fighting to get you to let me in, and tonight… tonight it just felt like you didn’t even want me to try.”

his expression softened, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “that’s not true,” he said quietly. “i’m just… i don’t always know how to deal with things, okay? and i know that’s not fair to you. i know i should’ve—”

“communicated?” you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. “yeah, you should’ve. instead, you snapped at me like i was the problem.”

quinn flinched, guilt flashing across his face. “you’re not the problem,” he said firmly. “you never are. i just… i had a bad day, and i took it out on you. that’s on me. i’m sorry.”

the sincerity in his voice caught you off guard, and you felt your defenses start to crumble. you hated how easily he could disarm you with just a few words, but at the same time, you didn’t want to stay mad at him.

“i didn’t mean to push you,” you admitted softly. “i just… i worry about you, q. i hate seeing you like this and not knowing how to help.”

“i know,” he said, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. his hand hesitated before resting lightly on your arm. “and i’m sorry for making you feel like you can’t. i’ll try to do better, okay? i promise.”

you searched his face, looking for any sign of insincerity, but all you saw was the man you loved, tired and vulnerable, but trying.

“okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

the sincerity in his tone chipped away at the wall you’d built up over the evening. you bit your lip, crossing your arms over your chest. “i’m sorry too. i know you’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”

he let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “it’s not an excuse, though. i shouldn’t take it out on you.”

you nodded, the tension in your chest easing ever so slightly. “i just… i hate it when we fight. especially over stupid things.”

“me too,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. he set the water bottle on the counter beside your glass. “i hate the way it feels—like this distance between us.”

you looked up at him, your eyes searching his. the vulnerability in his expression softened the last bit of anger you’d been holding onto. “me too. so much.” you murmured.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. the quiet hum of the fridge filled the space, but the air between you felt lighter now. he reached out hesitantly, his hand brushing against yours where it rested on the counter. it was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

“let’s go back to bed,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your knuckles.

you nodded, letting him guide you back to the bedroom. the warmth of his hand in yours was comforting, and the tension that had once felt suffocating now seemed to dissipate with each step.

once back in bed, you slipped under the covers, your back turned to him out of habit more than anything else. you felt the mattress dip as he settled in beside you, and for a moment, the silence returned.

then, slowly, tentatively, you felt his arm snake around your waist. his body pressed gently against your back, his warmth enveloping you. it was an unspoken apology, a gesture that said more than words ever could.

“i love you,” he murmured into the darkness, his lips brushing against the back of your neck. “i hate when we fight. i hate when there’s even a moment where it feels like we’re not okay.”

your chest tightened at his words, the raw emotion in his voice making your heart ache. you turned slightly, just enough to look over your shoulder at him. his eyes were soft, his expression open and unguarded.

“i love you too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “even when we fight. even when i’m mad at you. i’ll always love you.”

a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

for a long moment, neither of you spoke. his hand rested lightly on your hip, his thumb tracing soothing circles against your skin. it was such a small thing, but it carried a quiet kind of intimacy that made your heart ache.

“go to sleep,” he whispered against your skin, his voice low and soothing. “we’re okay. i promise.”

you nodded, closing your eyes as the steady rhythm of his breathing lulled you into a sense of peace. the warmth of his embrace, the weight of his arms around you, felt like home. and even though the remnants of the argument still lingered faintly in the back of your mind, you knew they would fade with time.

#[ 📁 ] short fic #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes fanfiction #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes fluff #quinn hughes angst #nhl hockey #vancouver canucks

606 notes · View notes

heeluvv · 11 days ago

Text

𝐅𝐔𝐋𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 ୨୧

pairing ♒︎ sim jaeyun x reader

genre ♒︎ smut

warnings ♒︎ fingering, pussy eating, unprotected sex, tit play, daddy kink, etc.

natty's notes ♒︎ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

you had always kept to yourself, preferring solitude over pointless small talk and meaningless interactions. socializing never appealed to you—why waste energy caring about people’s lives when they were just as irrelevant as the next? you were content in your own world, detached from the gossip, the hierarchy, the petty dramas that surrounded you.

but if there was one person who could pull you out of your quiet indifference, who could bring out the worst in you, who could make your blood boil with nothing but pure, unfiltered rage—it was sim jaeyun.

the golden boy. the poster child of perfection. the captain of the soccer team and the walking, breathing ego that came with it. jaeyun was obnoxiously charming, devastatingly good-looking, and painfully aware of it. you hated to admit it, but he was infuriatingly hot—the kind of attractive that made it even worse when he opened his mouth and let that cocky, self-assured, utterly insufferable personality spill out.

and yet, no matter how much you tried to ignore him, he was always there—always in your space, always testing your patience, always pushing you toward the edge of absolute hatred.

like right now.

the distant shrill of a whistle cut through the air, a cruel reminder that karma had decided to be your enemy today. all you wanted was a moment of peace to focus on your studies, yet the universe had other plans.

your fingers gripped the edge of your notebook, trying to block out the noise, but curiosity—or perhaps masochism—had your eyes drifting from the pages to the field below.

and there he was.

jaeyun stood in the middle of the field, black compression shirt clinging to his body like a second skin, accentuating every toned muscle, every sharp dip and curve of his figure. his sleeves stretched tight around his biceps, flexing every time he moved, and his broad shoulders carried the kind of natural confidence that made it impossible not to look.

his hands—god, his hands—looked buffer than ever, fingers flexing as he wiped the sweat from his brow. damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, framing his face in a way that was unfairly attractive, his jaw clenched in focus, lips parted as he caught his breath.

and just like that—you hated him even more.

you hated how good he looked. hated how someone so cocky, insufferable, and utterly arrogant managed to crawl his way under your skin with nothing but a smirk and a well-timed stretch. hated how, despite everything, your body reacted to him in ways that made you sick with frustration.

because no matter how much you despised sim jaeyun, there were nights where you couldn’t help yourself.

nights where the memory of his voice—low, smooth, teasing, always dripping with mockery—played in your mind like a broken record. nights where your fingers gripped the sheets, your body aching, your mind clouded with filthy, shameful fantasies about how he’d be in bed.

rough. harsh. demanding.

a man like him wouldn’t settle for anything less than full control, wouldn’t be soft or hesitant, wouldn’t let you get away with your usual bratty attitude. his cock—of course it’d be big, thick and veined, the kind that made your thighs clench just thinking about it. and he’d know exactly how to use it, how to ruin you, how to make you choke on his name the same way he always made you choke on your words when you argued.

there had been too many nights where you’d touched yourself too much, too desperately, too often, chasing a high you could only ever reach by thinking about him. remembering the way he spoke to you, taunted you, tested you. he never even had to do anything overtly sexual—just the sound of his voice, the way he said your name with that condescending smirk, was enough to make your stomach twist with something you refused to name.

maybe it wasn’t hate. maybe it wasn’t even anger. honestly, you didn’t know what the fuck it was.

but you knew you were fucked.

and he knew it too.

because the moment your gaze lingered for too long, the moment you let your eyes betray you, his head snapped up, locking onto yours with deadly precision. his lips curled into a smug, knowing smirk, one that told you he could read your thoughts, see the way your thighs subtly pressed together, feel the heat burning under your skin.

and then he did something unforgivable.

his hands dropped to the hem of his compression shirt, fingers teasing the fabric, dragging it up slowly—too slowly—revealing the toned ridges of his abs, the sharp v-line disappearing beneath his shorts. his skin glistened with sweat, muscles flexing as he wiped a hand over his face, and that was it. that was your breaking point.

your thighs clenched before you could stop them, heat pooling between your legs at the intrusive, unholy thought of grinding against his abs.

but your face? your face remained impassive, indifferent, perfectly annoyed.

except he saw right through you.

his smirk widened, and then—because he was a menace, a fucking devil—he lifted two fingers, forming a V, and flicked his tongue between them, slow and deliberate.

your breath caught, a sharp gasp nearly escaping, but you swallowed it down, forcing yourself to glare.

because this was his favorite game.

he loved to push you, tease you, provoke you, just to see how far he could take it before you snapped. and you? you hated that it worked.

hated that your body betrayed you every time.

hated that instead of looking away in disgust, your mind ran wild with images of that tongue on you, between your legs, ruining you in ways your own fingers never could.

because the truth was—as much as you hated his teasing, hated his smug expressions, hated the way he knew exactly how to get under your skin…

you hated even more that it turned you on.

you couldn’t take it anymore.

the heat pooling in your stomach, the unbearable ache between your legs, the way jaeyun had looked at you like he knew everything you were thinking—it was too much. you needed to get away, needed space, needed somewhere secluded where he wouldn’t find you, wouldn’t push you further, wouldn’t see just how much he was affecting you.

gathering your belongings in a flustered haze, you left the bleachers, forcing yourself to walk, not run, as if that would somehow keep him from noticing your sudden, desperate retreat. the moment you stepped inside the girls’ bathroom, the tension in your shoulders loosened, the silence finally giving you a moment to breathe. it wasn’t ideal, but it was private, safe, far away from him.

or at least, it should have been.

but even as you reopened your notebook, pretending to refocus, your mind was already wandering. drifting back to the way jaeyun had looked standing on that field, his sweat-slicked skin glistening under the sun, his shirt riding up just enough to drive you insane.

you exhaled sharply, pressing your thighs together, feeling the uncomfortable stickiness between them. you couldn’t take it anymore. and though it was a reckless, dangerous thing to do here—on school grounds, in a public bathroom where anyone could walk in—you didn’t care.

your fingers trembled slightly as you set your books aside, reaching down to drag your skirt up, revealing the dampened fabric of your panties—soaked, ruined, completely exposing how badly he had affected you. the cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the fire burning in your core.

hesitation didn’t exist.

your fingers traced over the damp fabric, pressing down on your clit through your panties, delivering soft, teasing strokes that made your body twitch, thighs clenching involuntarily. your bottom lip was pulled between your teeth, suppressing the moan that threatened to spill out as you circled your fingers again, testing the sensitivity, reveling in the fact that it was all because of him.

never in your life did you think you’d be getting off at school, but you had one person to blame.

and that same person was going to pay for it later.

your mind drifted, unraveling into dark, forbidden thoughts—starting first with his hands, the way they flexed when he wiped sweat off his face, the veins running along his knuckles, his fingers long and thick, so perfectly built for touching, gripping, fucking. you imagined those same fingers curving inside you, pressing deep, dragging along your walls, knowing exactly where to touch, how to break you apart with just his hands.

“fuck…” the word slipped past your lips, soft, breathy, needy. your fingers picked up their pace, rubbing tight circles over your clit, imagining him doing it instead.

then your mind wandered lower.

his thighs—thick, strong, built from years of training—the way they’d feel underneath you, how he’d let you grind down against them, flexing just to make you feel it harder. you could almost hear him in your head, that low, mocking voice filled with amusement as he teased, “is this all you can do, baby? i thought you hated me.”

your breath hitched, your fingers working faster, needier, the tension tightening in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any second.

your mind spiraled deeper into the fantasy of him, completely lost in the intoxicating thought of jaeyun ruining you. his plump lips—the same ones that always curled into a cocky smirk, the ones that taunted you endlessly—now pressed against your body, leaving open-mouthed kisses along your skin, sucking harshly just to claim you. you could almost feel the bruises he’d leave behind, marking you up just to prove a point, just so everyone could see that you were his.

but then it was his tongue—your mind whirling at the filthy images of him trailing it over every inch of your body, slow and teasing, cruel in the way he’d drag it across your skin with no urgency, knowing you’d squirm under his touch. especially when he finally settled between your legs, hovering, smirking at how soaked you’d be for him.

he wouldn’t give in easily—no, jaeyun would make you beg, make you say his name the way he wanted before rewarding you. you could picture it too vividly, the way he’d flick his tongue over your clit in agonizingly small strokes, just enough to tease but never enough to satisfy, forcing you to writhe beneath him. you’d grip his hair, try to push him closer, but he’d only laugh, his voice thick with amusement as he murmured, “desperate, aren’t you?”

and the worst part? you would be.

but nothing—nothing—would compare to the thought of his cock.

his thick, veined length, the way he’d stretch you open, the way he’d find pleasure in watching you struggle to take him in. your mind twisted into filthier images, ones that made you ache with need, thinking about him forcing himself past your lips, groaning as he watched your mouth stretch around his size, watching you choke, struggle, drool as he shoved himself deeper.

he’d mock you for it, for your watery eyes, for the way you tried to take him so obediently despite the tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. “what’s wrong, baby?” he’d taunt, “too much for you?” but he wouldn’t let up. he’d hold you there, letting you suffer with your mouth full of him, finding twisted amusement in your helplessness.

“fuck, jaeyun—” the moan escaped before you even realized it, his name falling from your lips with ease, your fingers working faster, deeper, more desperate. the sound of wetness echoed off the bathroom walls, mixing with the heavy, uneven breaths slipping from your lips. but you were too far gone to care.

your mind whirled into new possibilities, wondering—which position would he love most?

doggy?

would he want you on all fours, back arched for him, ass perfectly presented as he pressed his cock deep into you, one hand fisting your hair while the other came down in harsh, stinging slaps on your skin?

the image alone had your body tensing, your core tightening, the thought of him commanding you, ruining you, owning you tipping you dangerously close to the edge.

“shit—!”

your body jerked, pleasure crashing into you, breaking you apart as your orgasm ripped through you, leaving your thighs shaking, your breathing heavy and uneven.

your fingers slowed, the aftershocks pulsing through your body as the last waves of pleasure settled deep in your core.

but as the high faded, as the reality of what just happened sank in, only one thing lingered in your mind.

you needed to get back at him for this.

as the waves of pleasure slowly faded, leaving behind a lingering buzz of sensitivity, you fumbled for the toilet paper, wiping the slick from your fingers with shaky hands. your breathing was still uneven, erratic, the aftershocks of your orgasm pulsing faintly through your body as you reached for your phone. the screen lit up, the time glaring back at you—past 4.

you needed to get out of here. now.

with slightly trembling fingers, you tugged your sticky panties back into place, the damp fabric clinging uncomfortably against your sensitive core, a stark reminder of what you had just done. pressing down your skirt with forced nonchalance, you exhaled slowly, trying to steady yourself, trying to act as if nothing had happened.

your bag swung over your shoulder, your belongings clutched tightly in your hands as you pushed open the stall door—only to freeze.

your breath caught in your throat.

what the actual fuck.

there he was.

jaeyun.

leaning casually against the sinks, his arms crossed over his chest, his head tilted downward in what looked like bored amusement.

but then—he lifted his gaze.

his smug, infuriating, cocky gaze.

the second he heard the stall door open, his head snapped up, lips curling into a slow, devastating smirk.

his eyes—dark, knowing, utterly unreadable—swept over you in a way that made heat prickle down your spine, that made your heart slam against your ribs.

and in that moment, you knew.

he had been here the entire time.

your entire body locked up, every muscle in your frame going rigid as a sudden, burning heat crept up your neck, flooding your cheeks, settling deep in your stomach. the air in the bathroom felt thick, suffocating, the weight of jaeyun’s gaze alone pinning you in place, rendering you completely, utterly speechless.

your mind scrambled, trying—desperately, frantically—to piece together some kind of snarky response, something sharp and biting, something that would make it seem like you weren’t caught red-handed. but the words never came, vanishing before they could even form, leaving you stranded in the unforgiving silence that stretched between you.

his presence felt all-consuming, taking up every ounce of space, every breath of air, every single thought in your head. and you knew. you fucking knew there was no talking your way out of this.

because you had been caught.

completely. undeniably. irreversibly caught.

jaeyun let out a soft scoff, the sound laced with amusement, disbelief, as if he couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed—but was entirely enjoying it. he shifted, his posture straightening, his hands lowering to press against the sink counter, his grip firm, calculated, like he was settling in for a show.

but his eyes—sharp, teasing, deadly—never wavered from yours.

“had fun, baby?”

his voice was smooth, lazy, dripping with pure, unfiltered arrogance.

and it was deadly.

“i-i don’t know what you’re talking about..”

the words tumbled out, weak, unconvincing, betraying you before you could even attempt to sound believable. your voice stammered, breath still uneven, the aftermath of your orgasm clinging to you in ways you couldn’t hide. it was pathetic, really—grasping at the thin veil of denial, desperately gaslighting yourself into believing that maybe, just maybe, jaeyun had heard nothing.

he hadn’t walked in on you touching yourself to the thought of him.

he hadn’t heard the breathless, wrecked moan of his name spill from your lips as your fingers worked you to the edge.

and he sure as hell hadn’t been standing there, watching, listening, waiting, while you fell apart over him in the most shameless way possible.

right?

jaeyun pushed himself off the counter, his movements slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world to watch you crumble. his gaze dragged over your face, taking in the way your lips parted slightly, the way your eyes darted away, flustered, panicked, guilty.

he knew. he fucking knew.

his steps were unhurried as he made his way toward you, closing the space effortlessly, like a predator playing with its prey. his hands stayed tucked in his pockets, a move that would have seemed casual if not for the way he subtly angled his hips, discreetly camouflaging what you already knew was there.

“no?” he echoed, voice mocking, smooth, his head tilting slightly, lips curling into something dangerous.

he stopped just close enough, forcing you to look up at him, the space between you nonexistent, suffocating.

“are you sure about that?”

his voice dropped lower, his tone dipping into something dark, knowing, completely unforgiving.

you were fucked.

“i have t-to go…”

your voice barely held steady, coming out in a breathless, shaky whisper, but you forced yourself to move anyway, clutching your bag like it was some kind of lifeline. your body screamed for an escape, your mind racing for any possible way out of this mess, but the second you tried to squeeze past him, it was over.

jaeyun’s hand shot out, gripping your wrist, spinning you effortlessly before your back collided with the cold, unforgiving wall. the force made you gasp, your bag slipping from your fingers, its contents spilling onto the tiled floor, but you barely noticed—not when he was this close.

your breath hitched, sharp and uneven, your chest rising and falling too fast as he closed the distance, his body just inches from yours, pressing into you without actually touching. but the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his presence made it feel like he was everywhere.

his breath—hot, teasing, deliberate—cascaded over your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine.

“why don’t i make it happen?”

his voice was low, dark, dripping with suggestion, and before you could even process his words, his tongue flicked out—a teasing, feather-light lick against the shell of your ear. your body jolted in response, heat coiling low in your stomach, a betrayal to your own desperation to resist him.

his hands slid down, coming to rest on your waist, fingers firm, possessive, gripping you like he was testing just how badly you wanted to run.

except you didn’t.

you couldn’t.

you never thought—not even in your wildest, filthiest fantasies—that this would actually happen.

you had dreamed of this—had spent too many shameful nights lost in the thought of him, picturing his hands gripping you just like this, his lips ghosting over your skin, his voice laced with the same dark amusement he carried now.

but you never thought it would go this far.

you never thought he’d know.

“i heard it all, y/n. don’t lie to me.”

the words sent a shockwave through you, making your stomach drop, your body locking up instantly.

he was so close now, so unbearably close, his breath ghosting over your cheek, his voice low, smooth, completely in control.

your wide, stunned eyes met his—dark, full of lust, unreadable in the worst way. your lips parted, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths, every ounce of air in the room suddenly gone.

the tension was suffocating. electric. devastating.

you weren’t even sure which one of you was breathing harder.

but you knew one thing—you couldn’t take it any longer.

your hands shot up, sliding over the firm lines of his neck, your fingers gripping him desperately as your lips crashed into his.

he didn’t hesitate.

his mouth moved against yours just as urgently, his grip on your waist tightening, grounding you, pulling you flush against him.

the kiss was messy, rushed, uncontrolled, tongues colliding, fighting for dominance, a battle neither of you were willing to lose.

jaeyun tilted his head, deepening the kiss, pressing into you with more force, more hunger, his fingers digging into your hips, like he was staking his claim.

his lips broke away from yours, leaving your mouth swollen, tingling, but before you could even whimper in protest, he was already moving—trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck.

his tongue flicked out, dragging over your pulse, his lips following with a sharp, lingering suck before his teeth sank into your skin, biting down just enough to make you shiver.

“fuck, jaeyun—”

his name slipped from your lips in a breathless moan, your fingers burying themselves into his damp hair, tugging him closer, harder, as if you could make him devour you faster.

his hands slid under your shirt, rough and impatient, fingertips pressing into your ribs before curling around the fabric.

and then—he ripped it off.

the shirt was discarded somewhere, anywhere, his breath hitching as his hands immediately found your tits, cupping them in his palms, squeezing just enough to make you arch into him.

his thumbs rolled over your nipples, watching in dark fascination as they pebbled under his touch, slick from the heat between your bodies.

“fuck—” he groaned, his thumbs brushing, teasing, rubbing, eyes fixated on the way your tits bounced every time he played with them.

he had thought about this too many times, too many nights spent fisting his cock to the idea of it, imagining your tits wrapped around him, squeezing him, his cock sliding between them while your mouth was open, tongue flicking out to catch his tip.

and now, you were here—real, warm, desperate beneath him.

his hands moved behind you, unclasping your bra in one swift motion, tossing it aside without a second thought.

his gaze devoured you, drinking in the sight of your bare skin, your chest rising and falling rapidly, your nipples hard and begging to be in his mouth.

and then—he dove in.

his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, tongue swirling, flicking over the sensitive bud before his teeth caught it, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

“so fucking pretty,” he muttered against your skin, his breath hot, damp, intoxicating.

he sucked hard, determined to leave bruises behind, claiming you in deep, dark marks that would take days to fade.

his mouth trailed higher, pressing kisses up your collarbone, along the curve of your throat, before descending again, this time onto your other tit.

“mm—fuck, jaeyun—” your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shut, your panties soaked, sticky, unbearable with how badly you needed more.

but he didn’t give in—not yet.

“jaeyun, please—” your voice broke, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging hard, trying to ground yourself, trying to make him move faster, harder, give you more.

but he only smirked against your skin, his grip on your waist tightening as he murmured, smug and cruel—

“beg better, baby.”

he lowered himself slowly, sinking to his knees before you, his lips dragging over your stomach, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. his hands found the hem of your skirt, fingers gripping the fabric as he pushed it up, letting it bunch around your waist, exposing just how much you needed him.

his hands guided your trembling thighs over his shoulders, positioning you perfectly, his face so close, too close, his breath hot, teasing, fanning against your soaking, ruined panties. his eyes darkened at the sight—your slick glistening through the thin fabric, staining it completely, proof of how wrecked you already were for him.

“fuck—” jaeyun groaned, his fingers hooking into the waistband, yanking harshly, tearing them away in one swift movement. the ripped fabric was tossed somewhere, forgotten, and before you could even process the loss, his hands grabbed at your ass, grounding you, keeping you balanced as his mouth descended upon you.

his tongue darted out, licking one slow, deliberate stripe through your folds before thrusting inside you, his mouth sealing around your dripping heat as if he were starving.

“ah—!” the scream ripped from your throat, your thighs clamping down around his head, your fingers flying to his hair, gripping tight, pulling hard.

but jaeyun didn’t care—he wanted it.

he wanted you to hold him there, wanted you to lose control, wanted to feel your body breaking apart in his hands.

his tongue moved in long, devastating licks, his lips wrapping around your clit, sucking, flicking, devouring. he moaned into your heat, the vibrations shooting through you, making your body jolt, shudder, tremble.

“fuck—jaeyun, please! please—!”

your hips rocked against his mouth, chasing the friction, chasing relief, and he let you, let you use him, let you grind down on his face, his tongue fucking into you, licking you so deep, so perfectly, every flick of his tongue making the coil in your stomach tighten, tighten, tighten—

his hands squeezed your ass, pressing you even closer, his mouth slurping, messy, loud, and he groaned against you, the sound deep, guttural, pure sin.

“so fucking sweet, baby,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire, his lips wet, glistening, ruined with you.

“gonna eat this pussy till you cry for me.”

your head slammed back against the wall, the dull ache barely registering over the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses. the way jaeyun’s tongue worked inside you was nothing short of sinful—precise, merciless, devastating. every flick, every deep stroke of his tongue sent you spiraling, your thighs trembling violently atop his shoulders, threatening to give out completely.

your pussy clenched around the relentless movements of his tongue, soaking him, ruining him, making him groan into you like he was addicted to your taste. you could hear it—the obscene, wet sounds of him devouring you, drinking you in, savoring every drop like you were the best thing he’d ever had.

“jaeyun, please—c-can i cum? please, can i—i?”

your pleas turned to whimpers, then to sobs, your voice breaking under the weight of your impending climax, under the unbearable need to let go. your fingers gripped at his hair, desperate, pulling, tugging, trying to ground yourself, trying not to fall apart too soon.

jaeyun only chuckled against your heat, the vibrations sending shockwaves through you, making you twitch, gasp, tremble even harder.

“aww, you wanna cum, baby?” his voice was mocking, condescending, yet dripping with pure filth, his hands digging into your thighs, pressing them harder around his head. “wanna make a mess on daddy’s face?”

the word—that fucking word—sent a shudder through you, a sharp, visceral reaction you couldn’t suppress.

your moan was loud, desperate, wrecked, your body jerking involuntarily, the filthy nickname feeding into every sinful fantasy you’d ever had.

“please, please, daddy—”

your voice cracked, high-pitched, teetering on the edge of ruin, your climax hanging by a thread, so dangerously close, so impossibly unbearable.

jaeyun groaned against you, tongue flicking faster, his hands spreading you open wider, his movements completely unrelenting.

“then cum, baby,” he murmured against your clit, voice dark, commanding, merciless. “make a fucking mess for me.”

the second the words left his lips, you broke.

your orgasm crashed into you with full force, a violent, breathtaking release that tore through every nerve in your body. a loud, uncontrollable scream ripped from your throat, your entire form convulsing, trembling, muscles tightening so hard that for a second, you felt like you might black out from the intensity.

jaeyun groaned, his grip on your ass tightening, fingers digging in as he held you in place, his mouth devouring every drop of your release.

“fuck, baby—”” he rasped, voice thick with pure, ravenous hunger, the vibrations against your clit sending aftershocks ripping through you, making your thighs spasm uncontrollably around his head.

but he wasn’t done.

his tongue licked long, deliberate strokes, lapping up every bit of your arousal, cleaning you up with slow, torturous drags, drinking you in like he never wanted to stop.

“oh fuck—” your moans came in shaky, gasping breaths, your chest heaving aggressively, body still shuddering in the aftermath.

and yet, he still didn’t let up.

his mouth was relentless, his tongue dipping back in, pressing another slow, suffocating lick through your folds, his lips wrapping around your clit just to feel you twitch again.

but before the overstimulation could truly wreck you, he finally lifted himself off you, his face slick with your release, his lips glistening, wet, ruined.

and yet, he didn’t wipe it away.

he licked his lips—slow, deliberate, greedy.

“so fucking good, baby.”

his voice was hoarse, rough, completely wrecked.

and his cock—fuck, his cock was aching.

his hunger for you was insatiable, he could spend hours between your thighs, ruining you over and over with his tongue alone, but the ache in his pants was now painful, throbbing, unbearable.

he wanted to feel you. all of you.

finally.

his hands moved with ease, picking you up effortlessly, his strength barely faltering as he carried you off his shoulders, setting you down onto the cool, porcelain sink.

his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart just enough to take in the mess he made of you.

his cock twitched in his shorts, straining painfully, the evidence of his arousal obvious in the thick wet patch covering the front of his sweats.

he didn’t waste another second.

with one hand, he dragged his shorts down, his boxers following, both pieces of clothing pooling at his ankles as he finally freed himself.

and fuck—your assumption had been right.

he was huge.

his cock stood heavy, thick, angry, his veins prominent, his slit already leaking precum, twitching with need as he gripped himself at the base, giving himself a few rough pumps.

“you’re doing so fucking good for me, baby,” his voice was pure sin, filled with dark satisfaction as he fisted himself, teasing his tip against your soaked, pulsating entrance. “such a good fucking girl.”

your body shuddered, still raw, overstimulated, desperate, but you wanted him more than anything.

“are you gonna take me well, baby?” he murmured, his voice taunting, teasing, his cock dragging along your folds, smearing his precum over your entrance. “gonna show daddy just how fucking desperate you are for his cock?”

your only response was a soft, wrecked whimper, your body too dazed, too lost in the haze of pleasure to form a coherent thought.

but jaeyun wasn’t feeling patient.

one hand slid up to your breast, squeezing it harshly, his fingers pinching your nipple as he finally pushed in.

the stretch was instant, breathtaking, overwhelming.

your walls clamped around him, your body struggling to take his sheer size, your head tilting back, mouth falling open in a silent scream as he pushed deeper, filling you inch by inch.

“oh fuck, baby—” his groan was deep, strained, broken, his grip on your breast tightening, fingers digging into your skin as he bottomed out completely.

his cock throbbed inside you, buried to the hilt, your tight walls gripping him so perfectly, so sinfully, so impossibly tight.

“shit—” he gritted out, his jaw clenching as he held still, letting you adjust, reveling in the way your body wrapped around him, sucked him in.

he had waited for this.

and now, he was going to ruin you.

his other hand moved to your neglected breast, fingers gripping, kneading, squeezing with just enough force to make your back arch deeper, a series of soft, low grunts escaping his lips as he drank in the sight of you.

“gonna fucking ruin you…” his voice was husky, dark, dripping with sin, his breath hot against your skin as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear before he snapped his hips forward.

“i’ll have you begging for more, baby.”

and then—he slammed into you.

his thrusts were merciless, brutal, unrelenting, each one hitting deeper, harder, sharper, the sheer force making your entire body jolt against the sink. your fingers desperately clawed at his back, nails digging into his skin, leaving burning, red trails that only made him groan louder.

“fuck—” your eyes rolled back, pleasure crashing over you as he found your sweet spot instantly, his cock pushing into you so deep, so perfectly, stretching you so good that your thighs trembled violently, your breath coming in shaky, uneven gasps.

and then—his hands left your tits.

only to come slamming down onto your skin.

hard.

the sharp sting of his palm meeting your flesh made your body jolt, your head tilting back as a loud, broken scream spilled from your lips.

“fuck, daddy!”

your cry echoed in the small space, your hands flying up, searching for something—anything—to hold onto as the pleasure overwhelmed you.

your fingers latched onto his broad back, nails raking down the sculpted muscles, leaving deep, red scratches that only fueled him further.

“fuuuck—” jaeyun groaned, voice thick, slurred, completely wrecked.

his head tilted back, his jaw clenched, his stomach flexing beautifully, sweat dripping down his abs as he pounded into you harder, the force of it rocking the sink beneath you.

“this pussy—taking me so fucking well—”

his words were half-spoken, half-moan, his voice drenched in pleasure, his hips never faltering, never slowing.

“you love this fucking dick, don’t you, baby?”

his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them even wider, pushing himself even deeper, watching as your body shuddered beneath him, completely ruined, completely his.

“fuck yes! yes!”

your scream echoed through the small space, bouncing off the bathroom walls as your body convulsed, every muscle tightening, your core clenching around him like a vice. each ruthless, punishing thrust sent you spiraling closer, the coil in your stomach winding tighter, tighter—

“gonna cum on my dick, baby?”

jaeyun’s voice was thick, strained, completely wrecked, his breath hot and uneven against your skin. his grip tightened around your legs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he lifted them higher, pushing them closer to the mirror behind you.

“oh—s-shit!”

your head snapped back, a scream ripping from your throat as his fingers descended, pressing against your swollen, overstimulated clit, flicking harsh, precise strokes over the bundle of nerves.

“wet my dick, baby,” he groaned, his voice hoarse, shaking, desperate.

his cock twitched violently, the feeling of your tight, spasming walls squeezing around him, sucking him in, milking him for everything he had sending him dangerously close to the edge.

you could barely breathe—barely think—your body thrashing, pleasure swallowing you whole as the dam finally, violently shattered.

“fuck, jaeyun—!”

your hands shot down, gripping your own thighs, holding them open, wide, vulnerable, and then—you snapped.

your orgasm crashed into you like a violent wave, knocking the air from your lungs as liquid pleasure gushed out of you, squirting harshly, uncontrollably against jaeyun’s lower stomach and soaking his cock.

“oh, fuck—yeah, baby—fuck!”

his moan was loud, shameless, raw, his rhythm stuttering, his hips snapping forward in a series of fast, erratic thrusts.

his cock throbbed aggressively, the feeling of your release covering him, dripping down his abs, your walls still fluttering around him sending him spiraling right after you.

“fuuuck—” he gasped, his voice wrecked, trembling as his head fell forward, his grip on your thighs turning bruising.

and then—he came.

thick, hot ropes of cum spurted deep inside you, coating your walls, filling you completely, stuffing you full, each pulse flooding you even more.

his hips jerked in tiny, shallow thrusts, riding out the last waves of his climax, his chest heaving, his body shuddering, both of you a mess of tangled limbs, hot skin, and ruined breaths.

but when he finally pulled out, a soft whimper of protest left your lips, your walls clenching around nothing, already missing the stretch of him inside you.

his low, satisfied groan sent another shiver down your spine as he watched, completely enthralled, entirely mesmerized, as his cum spilled out of you, thick and messy, dripping down your thighs.

“fuck, baby—look at that.”

his fingers traced over your wrecked entrance, pushing some of the cum back inside, watching it slowly ooze out again, a dark smirk curling on his lips.

you were completely spent, body trembling, breath still unsteady, but in the back of your mind, one thing became clear.

maybe—just maybe—your hate for him had never been real to begin with.

maybe it had always been masked by something deeper, something filthier, something much, much worse.

and now?

it had been completely, irrevocably fulfilled.

natty's notes ♒︎ i hope you all liked it !!

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