#come to find several of the cars are wet

[quadrantvacillation]

A day in the life of a parent is like the world's lamest horror story.

[kittlyns]

Girls I am on the fucking brink for realsies this time.

[strawberries-and-racing]

go back to sleep - cl16 smut

pairing: charles lecler x fem!reader

summary: charles comes home late after a long week of hardly seeing eachother and fucks you while your asleep

warnings: a little bit if angst at the beginning, established relationship, somnophilia, unprotected sex, fingering and a little bit of a control kink.

the cool night air that wafted off the mediterranean sea and settled over monaco brought charles no comfort. the darkness of the night pressed around him as he rounded the last few corners before pulling into the driveway.

he'd hardly seen you in the last week. you were swamped with work and always exhausted.

meanwhile, ferrari was falling apart, each race seemingly more disastrous than the last.

before, the two of you had always been able to make it work and saw eachother constantly. cooking together at night by the warm glow of the kitchen lights, reading together or going out on small, intimate dates.

but the last several days had been different. the week had been particularly stressful and busy for both of you but it felt different for charles. your schedules weren't aligning and he often ended up coming home extremely late, and you left early in the morning.

he knew that you were just busy and soon it would all blow over but still, he felt alone. he felt a little paranoid, everything seemed off.

he worried things would grow dull between the two of you. he worried you'd get irritated with his late nights. he couldnt bear to lose you.

tonight especially, his body ached for you.

he parked the car and got out, making his way up to the apartment. he opened the door quietly as to not wake you up.   

hastily, he put down his bags and made quick motions to prepare for bed. the apartment was dead quiet, only illuminated by the city lights that came through the windows. the clock reads 12:39.

as he opens the door to the bedroom, any traces of tiredness in him melt away as his eyes land on you.

you're asleep, your entire body limp. the ponytail you normally wear to sleep has fallen out and your hair fans out across the pillow. your lips are slightly parted and your body heaves slightly with each breath you take.

your legs are spread and your his tshirt is bunched up enough to reveal your white cotton panties, the ones he knows you like to wear to sleep.

you look so peaceful, angelic, fragile. so neatly prepared for charles to wreck. the idea of doing so excites him so much that he finds himself crawling slowly onto the bed.

his fingers begin softly stroking your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties. you dont move, dont make a sound. still asleep, still perfectly spread for charles.

he carefully pulls your panties to the side, running his fingers up and down your folds. even in your sleep, its unbelievable how wet you are from his touch.

his fingers move from softly circling your clit. your body doesnt move.

he slowly pulls your panties down your thighs and slips them off your ankles.

as his thumb continues pleasuring your clit, his fingers glide down and push inside you. your walls tense around his fingers and you groan, you shift positions a little.

but you dont wake up.

he pumps his two fingers in and out of you, increasing his pace ever so slowly as to not disturb you.

your sleeping body clenches around his fingers, walls fluttering with pleasure. charles finds it impossible how you remain asleep with how deeply he thrusts his fingers into you, brushing against your g-spot.

he pulls out his fingers before you can reach your orgasm.

a soft breeze swirls through the open window. you visibly shiver, goosebumps creeping over your thighs.

you remain unconscious still, even as he pushes his unbearably hard cock inside of you. the feeling of having you completely and absolutely under his control sends waves of arousal over his body. your motionless frame was all his to use however he wanted.

a small groan escapes charles' lips at the contrast of your hot core to the cool air of the bedroom. he gently begins thrusting in and out of you, placing his hands on either sides of your waist and gripping the sheets.

you exhale softly from parted lips. the muscles in your abdomen tensing, your walls clenching around him.

he increases his pace little by little. your delicate body flinches. he has to use every ounce of his willpower to keep his pace slow.

your expression beneath him is impossibly soft and innocent. he swears hes never seen anything more beautiful.

a small moan leaves your lips. the noise is hardly audible but the little vibrations that ripple over your body is enough to make charles's cock twitch inside you.

your eyelids flutter, you shift a little. your eyes open slowly.

your whole body feels hot, pulses of pleasure rushing through you. as you slowly regain consciousness your met with charles's intense green eyes. you cant quite read his expression.

it takes you a minute to piece together the situation, your mind still foggy with sleep. the heat and movement between your legs. charles on top of you. the familiar dark glint in his eyes.

charles thrusts into you carefully but deeply. you bite your lip, moaning. your finger nails clutching his arms.

charles brushes his hand over your cheek, touching you softly.

"go back to sleep, ma belle."  his voice is rich and soaked in lust. he places a soft kiss to your cheek, then to your neck.

your body feels so tired from the exhausting week and you're barely holding onto consciousness. so you give into charles without protest, just and you'd done so many times in the past.

you close your eyes. letting the gentle, familiar movements of charles's hips rock you back to sleep.

[luveline]

How about ploy marauders going to a party and Sirius promised to do readers make up, but is late so the other two are making an attempt. Sure they might know how to do Sirius's messy style, but do they know big dramatic styles? Can James do a perfect wing?

<3 fem, 1k

“Can you stay still?” Remus asks, turning your face a half inch where it’s held in his hand. 

“Can James stop kissing me?” you ask. 

James pulls his face from the curve of your neck, the warmth of his lips lingering on your skin. “Sorry, are you busy?” 

“You’re supposed to be helping.”

“Don’t act like you weren’t enjoying yourself.” 

You smile. Remus rubs the softest curve under your eye with his thumb, the tip of his tongue sticking out between his lips. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, concentrating instead on your face and the wetness of your makeup where it’s beginning to sink in. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he sighs. 

“You know better than I do,” James says. 

You don’t know a thing about it, that’s why you’d arranged for Sirius to do your makeup tonight before Marl’s birthday bash, but where is your awful boyfriend? Late, decidedly unavailable for makeup-ing. 

“You’ve done his mascara a thousand times,” James argues with Remus. 

“Yes, but Sirius has never asked me to do his blush.” Remus’ hand moves to the side of your face. “You are lovely, though. I think using only a little of everything is working in our favour.” 

“Sirius only lets him do mascara because he already has nice eyelashes,” you worry. It won’t matter if Remus messes up or doesn’t get close enough to the root. 

“Yes, and because he likes it when Remus holds his face like that,” James points out, eyeing Remus’ hand where it stays at your cheek. Remus has long fingers, ever-so slightly thick with two golden rings that kiss your chin as he lets his hand fall, and he’s always gentle. 

“James, I’m tapping out.” 

James pretends to roll up sleeves he isn’t wearing, your bulkiest boyfriend in a short-sleeved t-shirt that showcases the lean muscle of his forearms, the not so lean ridges of his biceps. They tense as he sits up, his knee jabbing yours, the bed creaking dangerously beneath your angled weight. “What’s there left to do? She’s gorgeous.” 

“What did you want?” Remus asks you. 

“Uh, I wanted, you know…” You sound ridiculously shy. You wish you could just do all of this faff by yourself rather than force their attention, but neither boy seems annoyed. “He does that smudgey eyeliner, it makes my eyes look bigger. And lipgloss, but I can do that myself.” 

“Are you kidding? That’s the best part,” James says. He gives you a smile confident enough to reassure you and handsome enough to make you shy from his touch all over again. “Pass me the black pencil, Remus. I’ve got this.” 

James does not got this, his expression melding from happy, adoring, to perturbed, and then annoyed. “Aw, I’ve fucked it.” 

Remus shakes his head vehemently. “You haven’t! We just need a wet wipe.” 

They search the room for Sirius’ wet wipes and come up empty-handed. A towel is wetted and taken carefully to your eyes instead, cold and rough on your eyelids. 

“Be gentler,” Remus whispers. 

James is practically atop you know, your chin tilted up to his hand. “Sorry,” he whispers in turn, then to you solely, “‘m I hurting you?” 

“No.” You’re whispering too. It feels appropriate; they’re both very close to you, and this movement might fix or ruin your makeup with the party’s start time drawing ever closer. 

“I think I’ve fixed it,” James says, taking the pencil up again, the nib soft as it rolls over the corner of your eye. “Sirius can perfect it in the car, right?” 

“I thought you were good at everything?” you ask. 

James turns your face up impossibly higher, craning his head down for a peck. “Yes,” he whispers severely, “I’m good at everything. But Sirius is usually better. Quick, let’s find your lipgloss before we’re late.” 

Remus tries to tell James that it isn’t true, a serious conversation at a bad time, and James won’t listen to a word of it. They quibble over who’s doing your lipgloss, bathe you in compliments when they’re done —aw, dove, you look so cute, and cute? she looks perfect— then suddenly an abrupt beep is sounding outside. The three of you scramble into your jackets and down the stairs, meeting Sirius where he leans against the car. He throws the keys to Remus, ushering you into the backseat with him for some last minute clean up. 

“Hey, they’ve done a good job,” he praises, another hand on your face to turn it up kindly to the light. “Did you bring your lipgloss?”  

You nod quickly and dig for it in your jacket. 

“What!” James says from the front, turning in the passenger seat to complain. “That’s the one thing we did perfectly.” 

The car starts. Remus laughs to himself behind the steering wheel. 

“Did I say otherwise?” Sirius asks, letting his fingers curve toward the back of your neck. Pale in the light, eyes lit with something funny you’ve yet to hear, he dips in close to you and talks quietly, “I’m sorry, I promised I’d do your makeup for the party. But you’ve all done well without me, you look perfect, especially your lips.” 

“Then what did you want it for?” you ask, confused, your seat belt pulling as Sirius encourages you forward. 

“To reapply.” He taps your neck with a fingertip. “Spare a kiss? I promise I’ll fix any mess.” 

Commotion from the front seat.

“James–” Remus warns. 

“What? I want to watch.” 

“Freak,” Sirius says lovingly. 

“How am I a freak? She’s my girlfriend, you’re my boyfriend, and you’re doing that voice like you’re gonna lay her down in the back seat.” 

“James.” 

—

requests r open!! pls think about reblogging if you enjoyed, I hope u did either way!!!

[eyesxxyou]

Bit weird, but Logan with a pain kink and trying to quit smoking because pretty you asked. You find him smoking one and next thing you know, you're on top of burning hearts into his skin with the cigar.

❝ cigar burns ❞ l. howlett

↳ warning. mentions of oral (m. receiving), smoking, reader puts out cigar on logan, pain kink

You caught Logan smoking after he promised he wouldn't. To be fair, you hadn't had much confidence that he’d actually agree to give up his cigars. You had asked while licking his cock and fondling his balls and in a moment of weakness and, admittedly, horniness, he had agreed.

Logan usually wasn't one to make promises he couldn't keep. He knows himself, maybe more than he’d like, and he knows that he loves smoking his cigars too much to ever give it up by his own free will. He never thought the day would come where he'd set down a cigar for good and never pick it up again.

And then you came along, with your pretty eyes and pouty lips and your severe adversity to smoking. And everyone knew Logan was an absolute sucker for you, would do anything you said like a dutiful dog. So when you asked him to stop smoking all while giving him the best head of his life, what could he do but agree while cumming in your mouth?

Catching him with a cigar between his teeth while he changed out the brakes on your car, you snatched it from his lips before he could even have a moment to react. You weren't angry, not even disappointed. A part of you knew he had been smoking while you weren't around, you could smell it on him when you came home and hugged him. But you chose to be blissfully unaware for the sake of keeping the peace.

“Listen, doll-” He wanted to explain himself but you simply sat in his lap without a word and pressed the lit end of his cigar into his shoulder. “No– you listen to me, Howlett.”

Logan flinched, his brows furrowing, eyes flickering at the stinging pain of his sizzling flesh. “I told you to stop smoking, and you said you would.” You released the cigar from his skin and watched the wound close up right before your eyes. Logan looked at you, eyes glazed over and heavy. He squirmed under you, grunting as you jabbed him with the cigar again, this time on the side of his throat.

He went slack jawed, holding back a groan. You never knew he liked pain so much, the sick bastard. You traced a heart with the end of the cigar into his flesh and watched it heal slowly.

“I catch you smoking again, I’m putting this out on your dick.” You gave it a good twist into his shoulder to make sure it was out before flicking it to the side and placing a gentle kiss to Logan’s lips, wet and tender.

You left Logan there, with a cock so hard he thought he might go unconscious with all the blood rushing to it.

Maybe he'd have to get caught smoking some more.

[mama2bears]

Starting Over Again

Pairings: Tyler Owens/Female Reader

Warnings: Violence, Abuse, Injury (Might need to add more warnings later)

Summary: You are trying to escape an abusive relationship and start your life over again. You leave your small Tennessee town to join the Tornado Wranglers as a storm chaser, a dream come true for you. Will you be able to start over again, or will your past catch up to you? Will Tyler be there to protect you? Will you be able to trust anyone again?

Chapter One

You laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the distant sound of rolling thunder. The only light in the room is the flashes of lighting as it strikes across the night sky. You turn your head to see the time, 12:15, the red numbers on the bedside clock reads. You turn to look at your husband, Lee, sleeping beside you. Five years ago, you thought he was a dream come true. Now, you tremble with fear at the thought of spending one more day with him. As you touch your split lip and the fresh bruises on your face, you wonder if you can survive yet another beating.

What will you do if you are able to escape safely this time? What will happen if he catches you again? Where will you go? He already told you he would kill you if you ever tried to leave him.

Your body trembles as you carefully slip out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor. Taking a shaky breath, you tiptoe to his side of the bed, where you know he keeps the truck keys and his wallet. That was your only means of escape.

“Please help me out of this,” You pray under your breath as you search the nightstand area for the keys and wallet. You finally find them in his pants pocket, which were in a heap beside the bed.

You work as quickly as possible with your shaky hands to get the wallet and keys. Pausing for a moment, you decide against getting anything out of the closet. That's how he caught you trying to escape the last time, and you had spent three days in the hospital because of it. You still had the bruises to show for it as well.

Taking one last look to make sure he was still sleeping, you carefully tiptoe down the hallway. You stop at the dirty cloths hamper and grab a top and pair of jeans before hurrying to the front door.

Trembling with fear, you slide your feet into a pair of flip flops and carefully open the door. This is as far as you have ever gotten to freedom. The only sound you hear is the pounding of rain outside and the thunder rumbling more loudly now as the storm approaches.

No storm outside could be worse then the storm you had lived with for the past several years. Taking a deep breath you slip out the door into the pounding rain. Silently, you pray the storm outside will muffle any sound of the door closing behind you.

You run as fast as you can though the cold pounding rain. Your hair is plastered to your face, your night gown is soaking wet and clinging to your body. You shiver in the cold rain as your hands fumble with the truck keys, finally getting the truck unlocked, you slide in. You look up one last time towards the bedroom window. No lights. This was a good signs. Maybe, just maybe you will be free.

The truck fires up as you turn the key and without a second thought you speed out of the driveway and into the night.

“Now where are you going, Y/N?” You ask yourself.

You knew you had to get rid of this truck. He would report it stolen as soon as he woke up. You also had to get what you could out of the bank before he reported the cards stolen as well. He had made sure you didn't have a car of your own. You weren't allowed any money of your own either. Hell, he even made sure you were alienated from your friends. It was his way of making sure you were trapped with him. No way out.

Well, you weren't going to be trapped any more. You didn't know where you were going or what you were doing, but you would NOT be trapped and living in fear any more.

You pointed the truck towards the bank, hoping that you had remembered his pin correctly from the number of times you secretly watched him use the card.

* * * * *

Tyler Owns sat in the hotel room and stared at the computer in front of him.

Kate and Javi were married a year ago and now Kate was expecting their first child. Tyler was happy for them, but he really needed to add someone else to the crew. Kate wouldn't be chasing with them anymore and Javi would be spending more time with Kate as they prepared to start their family.

Problem was, he couldn't find anyone he liked. All the resumes that came in were inexperienced wannabes. They just wanted the thrill of the chase without any knowledge of weather, let alone tornadoes.

“Any new leads yet, Boss?” Boone asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“No.” Tyler shook his head. “We have been looking for a new team member for months now, but it seems all the good ones already have a team of their own. Storm Chasing isn't just for anyone. It takes a special person.”

Boone shrugged, “They're out there, Boss. We will find them. Until then, Lily and I will put in the extra work when Javi can't be here.”

“I appreciate that, Boone.” Tyler nodded, then closed the laptop. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow is the start of the season. Should be some good storms popping up.”

“We'll be ready to roll!” Boone grinned, tossing his empty beer bottle into the trash before hitting the bed.

Tyler sighed and headed towards the second bed in the room he shared with Boone. It was only three years ago that Kate joined their team. He thought maybe he had a future with her, and they tried. However, Kate and Javi shared something special together. Something he would never have with her. They would always be best friends, but they would never share the bond that Kate and Javi had.

'It's better this way.' Tyler thought to himself as he settled down into bed, 'I am not the settling down type anyway.'

* * * * *

The sun was starting to peek over the Smokey Mountains of a small Tennessee town. You had successfully withdrew $500 from the bank and drove a few towns over. Now, you had to ditch the truck and find a way out of here. To where, you didn't know yet.

You park the truck in the parking lot of a local park and place his wallet and keys in the center console. You tossed your wet night gown in the trash after you quickly put on the still damp clothes you swiped from the hamper on your way out the door. Before leaving, you rustle though the papers in the glove box and say a silent prayer of thanks when you find he had stashed your driver's license and social security card in there. You remember the day he took them away from you. “Y/N, babe, you don't need them! You don't even have a car to drive anyway! I am going to put them up for you. If you need them I will be with you and I will give them to you, if and when you need them.”

“Okay,” You had muttered in agreement. By that time, you had already learned not to argue.

You also remembered WHY you didn't have a car anymore. Because he had taken that away also. It was only a few weeks after you married him. You discovered your car didn't start one morning and asked him about. He promised he would fix it and that night it was gone. He told you that it was towed to a friends house so they could work on it together. Truth was, you were never going to see it again. That, was the first step to trapping you in an abusive marriage with no way out.

“Well, Y/N,” you say to yourself as you briskly walk down the street, towards a sign that pointed to a local library, “You aren't trapped anymore.” Thankfully the storm of last night had moved on, but you still shivered in the cool morning air.

Across from the library was a small convince store. Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that you hadn't eaten anything since dinner last night. You step inside to grab a hot cup of coffee and a sausage biscuit.

As you pay for your items, you glance nervously at the local news, almost expecting them to be running your picture, stating you as a missing person or a criminal. Thankfully, you did not see yourself on the news and quickly thank the attendant and hurry across the street to the library.

You felt tears stinging your eyes as you sat outside the library doors, waiting for them to open. You were trembling, partly from the cool damp air and partly from fear. Lee had made sure that you had no friends, no resources, no where to go.

Smiling sadly, you remember the job and friends you had at the National Weather Service. It was a local satellite office outside of your small Tennessee town, but it was something. You were a weather reporter and storm spotter. It was a job you loved, but Lee had taken that from you, along with everything else.

The sudden sound of the door unlocking made you jump, but you were greeted with a warm smile of the librarian.

“Good Morning.” She smiled, opening the door, “Can I help you find something?”

You enter with a grateful smile, “I just need to use the computer for a little while. Will that be okay?”

“Sure, you just need a library card. You got your ID and proof of address, dear?”

“Um, I have a ID, but I am afraid that's it.” you hand the drivers license over and she looks at it and sadly shakes her head, “Oh I am sorry dear. You have to be local to this county to get a library card.” She hands you the card back and you take it with trembling hands, “Please...” you whisper.

The librarian is silent for a moment as she takes in your trembling hands, bruised face, uncombed hair, and damp clothes.

“Are you in some kind of trouble dear?” She asks softly.

You nod, unable to stop the tears, “I just need to figure out where I can go. I want to look up jobs that are far away from here, and see if I have enough for a bus ticket to get there.” You say in a shaky breathe.

“I understand dear.” The library nodded softly. “Go ahead and use the computer. Can I call anyone for you? The police?”

“NO!” You hiss, “Please, no police. I don't have anyone to call. I just....I...I just want to get away from him, okay?”

The librarian nodded and took her seat. “You can use computer number 3 as long as you need. Let me know if there is anything else I can do to help you.” She smiled softly.

“Thank you.” You force a small smile and head to the computer.

You stare in silence at the computer for several minutes.

Finally, you type in “National Weather Service Jobs” and wait.

You don't even know if you could get another job at the National Weather Service. Sure, you had a degree and you had experience with storm spotting. You had three good years on the job, but Lee had forced you to quit with no notice. When he had your car towed away, he told you that he wouldn't allow you to work anymore. Your friends called the house, even stopped by a time or two. Lee forced you to tell them that you weren't interested any more in working there. That couldn't look good on a resume. You had no work experience in the past three years.

“No one will want you.” Lee's voice from your past echoed though your mind again, bringing fresh tears. Maybe it was true...no one wanted you. Not anymore.

You wipe the tears away and scroll though the list and something catches your eye...

“MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!

BE A STORM CHASER WITH THE TORANDO WRANGLERS!”

You allow yourself to smile just a little as you clicked on the link. Storm Chasing was always a dream of yours. A dream you were working towards before you met Lee. Before he changed everything about you.

“Are you experienced in storm chasing? Do you have a love of storms? Are you ready to RIDE YOUR FEARS! Then Tyler Owens and the Tornado Wranglers are looking for YOU! For more information call 479-642-2345 or Send your resumes to torandowranglers@weather.com now...

You find a scrape paper and pencil next to the computer and jot down the number and email address provided.

Clicking the link to send an email, you realize you didn't remember your old email anymore. Quickly, you open up google and create a email with just your first name and maiden name. Then, type up the email.

“Mr. Owens. I am very interested in storm chasing with your team. While I may not understand what “Ride your fears mean” and I most certainly don't understand what a “tornado wrangler” is, I do have bachelor of science degree in Atmospheric Science as well as three years as a weather forecaster and storm spotter for the National Weather Service here in East Tennessee. I am ready to leave Tennessee and follow my dreams as a storm chaser. I am going to try to call you after I send this. I am ready to leave today and arrive by bus to whatever town and state you are in. - Y/N Y/LN

You hit send and then get up and approach the librarian again. “Um, could I possibly use the phone?” you ask.

“Sure dear. Did you find something?” She asked.

“I hope so,” You give a weak smile as you dial the number given.

After a few rings hear a southern drawl answer, “Tyler here,”

“Hi, Mr. Owens?”

You hear him laugh, “Well that's a little bit too formal for me, Darling. Who is this?”

“Um, My name is Y/N Y/LN. I just sent you a email about the storm chaser position. I was calling to see if we could talk?”

“Oh, well, Hi Y/N,” Tyler said slowly, “Listen we are just sitting down for breakfast, I can give you a few, “ he paused for a moment, “Let me take a look at that email. Can you hold?”

“Sure.” you answer.

“What's up?” Boone asked, taking a seat next to Lily.

“Some girl just called, said she sent me an email about the storm chaser position.” Tyler told them as he pulled up an email.

“She called and emailed?” Lily asked, “Must be determined.”

Tyler was silent as he read the email then looked at his two friends, “It says she has a bachelor of science degree in Atmospheric Science and she has worked with the National Weather Service in Tennessee for three years.”

“Sounds like she might know her stuff,” Lily said.

Tyler nodded thoughtfully, “She says that she is ready to leave Tennessee today.”

“Determined or desperate?” Boone asked.

Tyler shrugged, “I guess we are about to find out.”

“Y/N, you still there?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” you respond.

Tyler smiled at being called sir. Southern hospitality. “Well, Y/N, you say you are ready to head out here today?”

“Yes sir. More then ready. Just tell me where.” your voice cracks a little.

“OK. You said something about a bus in your email...are you too scared to fly?” Tyler asked.

“No, it's not that. I am just limited on funds right now. I can only afford a bus ticket.” you say, a bit ashamed.

“I understand,” he said kindly, “Okay, listen. We are near El Dorado,Oklahoma right now. I believe the nearest bus station would be Wichita Falls, Texas. Think you can get a bus to there?”

“I believe so. I will have to look at ticket prices.” you answer, jotting down the town name.

“Do you have any references I can check out?” Tyler asked, “from your time at the National Weather Service?”

“Um..” you stumble, “I don't have the number right now, it has been a few years since I've worked there.”

Tyler sighed, “Really? Why? Did you leave? What have you been doing the last few years?”

You sigh, well there goes that job. “It's really a long and personal story.” You tell him meekly, “I didn't leave by choice and I wasn't fired or anything. It was...it...was just personal.”

Tyler nodded his head, “If you want the job, we will give it a try. Call me and let me know when the bus will be in. Do you need someone to pick you up or are you renting a car?”

You smile, could this really be happening? “Would it be possible to get picked up?” you asked hopefully.

“We will work something out. Put this number in your phone and let me know when you arrive, okay? Can I call you back on this number?”

“No, um, I am using a phone at a library right now. I, um, I don't have my own phone yet.”

Tyler sighed, “Let me guess, long personal story, right?”

“Kinda,” you sigh.

“Alright, Y/N. We all deserve a shot and if you are telling me the truth about your experience, then you are just what we are looking for.” Tyler said, “Get your bus ticket and call me back with when you are due to arrive. We will pick you up at the station and go from there.

“Thank you very much sir.” You smile and hang up.

“Everything working out, dear?” The librarian asked.

“I hope so...” you smile, “Where is the nearest bus station?”

“Oh my, that would be in Knoxville dear.” The librarian said.

“Oh,” You sigh. Knoxville was at least a half hour away.

“Where you going?” The librarian asked.

“I got a job out of state. I really don't want to say anymore. I just need to take a bus there.”

The librarian nodded knowingly. “He hits you, don't he? You trying to get away from him?”

You nod.

“Go ahead and get your ticket dear. I will have my daughter give you a ride to the bus station. I am sure she won't mind at all. I am going to call her now.”

“Thank you.” you smile gratefully and head back to the computer.

It takes you only a few moments to find a bus ticket from Knoxville.Tennessee to Wichita Falls, Texas. You gasp at the cost, $200. Then, you realize that you have to pay for it online...with a card. Something you don't have.

You sigh copy down the number to the bus station and close the window before returning to the library desk.

“All set with your ticket dear?” the librarian asked.

“No, I need to pay online with a card. I...I um...don't have one. I have cash, that's it. I need to call the bus station and see if I can show up with cash and get a ticket.”

The librarian smile softly. “Honey, I have been in your shoes before. A long time ago. I married young and I married the wrong guy. He almost killed me before I decided to leave him. People helped me along the way. I would like to help you. I promise, no one will ever know where you are going. I would like to buy the ticket for you. Keep whatever cash you have to help you when you get there.”

You smile though your tears, “That's so kind of you, but I couldn't ask you.”

“You not asking me dear. I am offering. I am paying it forward from years ago. If it were my daughter, I would want someone helping her.”

You nod your head. “Thank you. I am going to Wichita Falls, Texas.”

“Very well dear. Give me a moment.” The librarian took the number from you and made a phone call. She jotted down some information, thanked the person on the other end and handed you the paper back.

“You have a ticket on the bus leaving this afternoon.” She said, “My daughter will be here shortly and give you a ride to the bus station. She's about your size and will bring a few changes of clothes you can take with you. They said it's about a thirty hour trip you should arrive at your destination by Wednesday morning.”

“Thank you so much.” You smile, “You have been such a blessing.”

“Not a problem dear. Do you need to call your new boss and let him know?”

You nod and she hands you the phone.

Tyler picks up on the second ring, “Tyler here.”

“Hello Mr. Owens, It's Y/N Y/LN again. I got that bus ticket. I am leaving this afternoon and should arrive in Wichita Falls by Wednesday afternoon, says 2:25 arrival time.”

“You can just call me Tyler,” he smiled. “We will have someone there to pick you up Wednesday afternoon then. See you soon. Have a good trip, Y/N.”

“Thank you.” you end the call and give the librarian a small smile though your tears. This was going to be the first day of the rest of your life. A chance at freedom after living for years in hell.

Chapter 2

Tag List

@itsdesiree86 @sarah-bear706318 @darksparklesficrecs

[hoseoksluna]

CHERRIES | jhs ft. jjk

pairing: soon-to-be-boyfriend!hobi x oc (feat. ex-boyfriend!jk)

genre: heavy, heavy, obnoxious smut

word count: 12.7k

summary: you don't know how he does it, but hobi makes you forget about the life you led before him, using his tongue.

playlist: hobi's playlist ; hobi's the weeknd playlist 

pinterest board: cherries / taglist: join

warnings: oh my god—dd/lg but differently, businessman!hobi, dominant and emotional and fucking possessive hobi, oc is horny... a lot, praise kink, breeding kink sdflhldghfdklaxjkfghskfg, oral sex (f. receiving), fingering, female and male masturbation, use of a sex toy, cum eating, ass eating, religious personification, mentions of anal sex, thigh and ass slapping fuck

note: my babies, i'm so happy to be posting PART TWO OF BERRIES for you, oh my god. i had the time of my LIFE writing this, had to take breaks every 20 mins, was horny beyond my fucking mind BECAUSE THE SMUT IN THIS? FUCK. THIS IS PURE FILTH. 12K WORDS OF FILTHY HOBI SMUT. IM DEAD. HAVE BEEN DEAD. i missed writing so much that i spewed this out in 3 days... literally how? but i'm so happy to be back. i hope you enjoy this part. make sure to let me know what you think! i'm in a severe (hehe) need of your feedback. I LOVE YOU, MY BABIES. MWAH.

side note: this part has the entirety of my being in it. from the first word to the last. it means a lot to me. very special chapter! <3

By the time you come out of the art museum, it’s storming. A sound so cacophonous that it spreads dots of gooseflesh along the perimeter of your skin underneath your silk dress and the layer of your heavy trench coat. Loud and violent like your heart’s deep drum that stills once you see Hoseok leaning against his glossy car. Arms and legs crossed in the same fashion, clothed in the coupled shade of blackness, a mop of tousled hair swept back and rippling in the unforgiving wind that flushes his cheeks with its rosy coldness and then clouds pull in, darkening his stare fixed on you. 

A shower of sudden rain finishes its touch on his countenance. 

Eye contact broken, Hobi’s shoulders raise as he feels the iciness of the slender raindrops falling upon him, eyes flicked up to the shadowed heavens. A heartstring of yours snaps and you don’t really know who gave the command to your aching legs to run towards him with your coat suspended over your head—whether it was that weakened heart of yours or basic human decency. Emotion versus logic. 

You find soon enough the verdict of the winner. 

Because when you have to stand on your tippy toes to cover him from the rain, despite the fact you’re wearing your high-heeled boots, and Hobi takes the makeshift shield from your hands and shrouds you both from the wetness, an identical flush crawls from your left cheek, upon the column of your nose right next to your other cheek, warming you up from within. 

Emotion. The string that ruptured grows again to its full length during that fleeting moment and you’re aching to take him home. 

No rain in sight—just him in this close proximity, in this gray cocoon, smiling down at you lopsidedly, a dimmed light flickering in his inky pools, faintly, barely, only there for you to see. To catch and cling to like his patchouli scent does to you, a whiff of dainty wildflowers leaning in and enclosing around you, forcing away the thoughts that are erect in the corners of your mind, waiting for the adequate moment to strike. Thoughts of how you sense Jungkook’s life entwining around your world again; his companion perfuming the air with petrichor, the inner turmoil she must be facing the very strength that pulled those clouds in, causing a storm to stretch across the skies. You figure each beat of her confused heart must be the grumble of the thunder, but then Hobi’s outer film of softness amidst the darkness is a force way greater, because firmness broods right underneath it, and it is an energy that keeps those thoughts pressed against the walls of your mind.

He did turn you into a locked orchard—and the threat of another declared war isn’t even a wind that brushes past your fruit trees and berry bushes. 

In fact, the more you deepen your exchange of gazes and Hobi cages you in between his shirt-clothed elbows, the more you want to show him the stain of your juices upon your panties. 

You’re aroused—blooming, in need to be picked. It outweighs the past and you’re glad for it, deem your newly born sexuality more important than the doomed normalcy of your life. 

You sink your manicured nails into that newness, adamant on not letting it go, regretting that you agreed to see your ex-boyfriend later tonight, regretting that you grew soft at the hint of his own normalcy, even though you said to yourself that you wouldn’t. It’s one of the reasons why you dig your nails deeper, maximizing your closeness to Hobi—it’s done in an effort to erase your foolish moment of weakness, to better yourself like you encouraged yourself to do earlier when you had perceived that you misinterpreted him. You curl your lips under your teeth to stifle back a sigh, wishing you were as firm as him, as stable in your decisions and your way of living as him. Wishing your weakness wasn’t a putty you play with, leave your fingerprints of your bad decisions on that blemish until you hate yourself, until the paste hardens and there’s nothing left for you to do but to watch it. Watch the evidence of your failure, your brokenness and your imbecility like still life—the curse, the doom of your life, haunting you. 

It almost slinks in, threatening yet again to desiccate your orchard, the movement akin to a wave rolling in, but then Hobi speaks. And his voice sears those thoughts to nothing. Not even their shadows are left behind. 

“Did you say hi to your friend?” he murmurs, reaching behind him to open the door of the passenger side for you, the coat that’s propped on his forearm lowering until it rests back around your shoulders. 

You can merely nod, your empty mind focused on the absence of your selfishness—for once again, you want to be close to him for his sake, even more so when Hobi places his palm on the top edge of his car so you don’t hurt your head. 

A prince, an orchardist, and a gentleman. 

You’re feeding him and sucking his dick before he goes to work—you don’t care. Hope to God he fucks your brain out of your head and plants a new one; one that isn’t so stupid. 

Seated inside his car, you glimpse profoundly at the way the rain kisses the crown of his head as he rounds his vehicle, sitting right beside you and carrying inside his heavenly skin fragrance, now accentuated by the residue of petrichor that all of a sudden doesn’t have anything to do with what you just bore. No hints, no thoughts, no wars. How he does it is something you’ll never have the capability of understanding—a fracture of attention of the intimate kind and he binds you to him, erasing your still fresh past as if it never happened. 

You flex and relax your hand on your lap, a gesture that depicts that you cherish it to the point that you yearn to submit to it and remain submitted. And you will. You’ll figure out a way to stay stable, even if events appear to try and revolutionize you. A way to keep your fist clenched in his presence. 

Hobi lets the car warm up a little bit before he turns on the heating, angling his rear view mirror just right, from which two purple, plush dice swing back and forth, colliding once and never meeting again. 

How inspiring. 

And then you watch his hands. Watch them dominate the car, spur it to life as he drives through the drenched street, parting the rain like a curtain, stepping in, taking you home. 

As if he sensed your thoughts, he glances at you. “My place or yours?” 

A red light halts his control and Hobi uses it to tap on the screen of his dashboard, dousing the space in a sultry, wet ambiance as slow, calm music breaks the silence. While it was comfortable for you, now you feel even more at ease and you wiggle in your seat, sinking deeper into the leather. 

Quite useful material for the lecherous saturation of your mind; for the lustful layer of sweat lining your skin. You feel so hot. Feel the need to be ridded of your clothes right now. Feel a certain kind of vivacity that drives you to do things you wouldn’t normally do. 

You take his hand from the shift stick, cradling it with both of your own hands, a finger tracing the veins that paint a slender but a strong temple—a temple for his beauty and character, you suspect. 

“My place,” you say, yearning to make him feel at home in your space; cook for him, make him come, stuff like that.

Green light blinks and Hobi doesn’t withdraw from your hold. No, he tells you what to do, quickly. 

“Keep your hand on mine,” he instructs and you listen, sinking your fingers between his and gripping him like in an effort to grip onto stable submission. “Just like that.” 

Your stomach flips at his choice of praise and you lick your lips, tightening your hold hard enough that he peeks at you with a smirk while he shifts the gear stick with you and speeds down the road. The heat worsens and you don’t think you can take it anymore.

That alone is the most attractive thing you ever experienced with a man. 

And when he plays with your thumb, you can’t help but to squeeze your thighs together. Watch him intently sneak a glance as you do so, knowing your dress has ridden up a little, exposing your tanned thighs, swathed with the brown leather of your boots. Your position also provides him the intriguing reveal of a secret—you’re wearing knee socks underneath. They were invisible to his sight this whole time and now that he sees them, his eyes linger there for a few seconds longer before he drags his teeth along his bottom lip, flicking his gaze back to the road. 

“You’re wearing knee socks under those?” he asks, his voice low and tortured. Doesn’t look at you as he does. Only shifts the gear stick again, stiffly. You imagine something else is stiff, too, and you smile, a tendril of confidence clothing you in allure and sinful, dark joy. It beckons your vivacity to drive forward. 

You move his hand to let the pads of his fingers feel the smooth fabric. His body twitches, his lungs inhaling a short, soft air, mouth parted, eyes unblinking, gloomy just like the heavens above. A thunder sounds and you feel like roaring just the same. 

“It matches my underwear,” you murmur and the thunder prolongs, echoing feebly. You drag his hand down your thigh with the intention to also make him feel the nylon material of your panties, but he halts your movement halfway, hand gripping your flesh, trembling ever so slightly, stirring your confidence. You almost moan at his brusqueness. 

“Don’t,” he scolds, brows furrowing, chest heaving in that slow manner. His lips dry and he wets them. Doesn’t spare you a glance. Turns the wheel with that one hand as he takes a left turn, his posture slouched, thighs spread, a small tent evident in between. His arousal for you grows and it only propels you to finish the job, knowing his scolding was merely a warning, not a portrayal of his discomfort. And he proves you right with his next words. “If you do that, I’ll crash this fucking car.” 

You laugh through your nose, your confidence and your own arousal fluttering in you, begging to be let out. Your favorite artist starts playing and you’re not surprised by the way your body reacts. Your thighs naturally spread and you move your pelvis forward. Feel your slick dampening your panties even more, trickling down your needy seashell just as The Weeknd begins to sing about your desire. 

“I wanna fuck you slow with the lights on…” 

You lick your lips, inhaling deeply and exhaling with a soft moan. Hobi digs his fingernails into your skin, coaxing another one out of you and he calls you by your name in a sterner warning. You caress the edge of his hand with the thought in mind that you’ve always loved the crescent moon, so it would only be illogical for you to not want more of it imprinted on your skin. 

“You shouldn’t praise me then,” you croak out, doused in adrenaline-tinged lust, your sweat heavy upon you. You clutch your cherub necklace, needing to be touched, a habit of yours that you’ve had ever since you were a teenage girl. Your fingers graze your collarbones, lingering in the dip between them. “Besides, you’re such a good driver that I think you can handle it.” 

Hobi hums out an endearing laugh, that smirk of his reappearing on his mouth. He rubs the moons he impressed into your thigh from side to side and your hips buck, asking for that movement down low where you need him the most. 

“You have a praise kink?” he questions and you catch him bite his lip, catch him enjoying that information, sinking it into his flesh. You want to kiss it, bruise it, make it permanent for a little while. You revel in such a dirty, yet gentle conversation and you stop yourself from bucking your hips again. 

“A severe praise kink,” you correct him, emphasizing the adjective with a bit of a bratty tone to divulge to him what he does to you and how much he needs to pay for it. And before you can go on, he catches you off guard. 

“If you want me to keep praising you then rub your clit,” he negotiates with you, taking your hand and moving the gear stick, leaving it there. “And you’re wrong. I can’t handle you like this. I can’t touch you when I’m responsible for your life.” 

Daddy. The title would’ve slipped out of the tip of your tongue had a moan not been first, coating the ambience with a sultriness that makes you tug at his hand in order to do as he says, in order to be praised, to be gratified. But Hobi doesn’t budge. He tightens his grip around the shift stick, clicking his tongue. 

“No, baby. With your other hand,” he orders, his breath shaking and amidst the enveloping of his fatherliness around you, strengthening you and binding you with ropes of safety, girlishness and seductiveness, you scrunch up your brows, wanting his hand to be there when you make yourself feel good. 

And you tell him. 

“I want you to help me.” 

The rain thickens, creating a sensual background noise to the next slow song playing and Hobi sighs, disliking your attitude. Your arousal grows to highs you’ve never seen before, a sweet, pleasing darkness consuming you, sprinkling you with glitters of appetite and craze. 

All because your sexual chemistry is so good, so strong—so natural, despite the fact you just met and don’t know each other enough for it to be possible. It exceeds the laws of human connection and the feeling of it is heady, intoxicating you with wine of the ripest cherries. You even feel as though this is your first alcoholic drink. Feel as though you’re an unspoiled virgin on the cusp of her very first sin—the Virgin Mary with long hair, cherub necklace, tanned skin, knee socks and high-heeled boots. 

Hobi erases your past life. Paints a new one with watercolors; paints you anew. You know the dulcet taste of fatherliness and manliness from Jungkook and while it was what you needed at the time, sexually that is—as it wasn’t often that he used this kind of energy day-to-day, and if he did, it was to tease you—what Hobi does runs deeper. It surpasses your need; it’s not a filling that will decompose soon enough and ask for it again. It’s something else entirely. 

It’s something that falls upon you and stays. Clicks and connects with no way out. It’s another layer of skin, strands of hair growing out of your scalp, the drum of the vein upon your neck. 

It began in the museum and uncoils here. It’s not worth it to juxtapose it with what you had before—it’s laughable to do so. Hobi has established his fatherliness the moment he held your coat as a heathen in a church, not taking his gaze off of your intimate prayers for even a split second. Unkinked it with his honesty and by expressing his responsibility over you, listening to the murmur of the sea of your sexual need but not diving head-first into it, knowing better. And now it is ready to bloom with flowerets, with fruits, with leaves to accompany you. 

“It’s this or nothing,” Hobi decides, squeezing his fingers against yours to also emphasize the gravity of his words and you purse your lips in response, finding the ultimatum so attractive. “You live thirty minutes away, so you either rub your clit on your own or you wait. It’s up to you.” 

It’s mind blowing to you how he went from being timid to now ordering you to pleasure yourself. You’re sweltering beneath your clothes and Hobi notices, looking at your body through his rear view mirror. He turns the heating up and you laugh, blush deepening, eyes crinkling at the corners. Your heart thuds heavily in your chest. 

“Why didn’t you put your seatbelt on?” he mutters, letting go of your hand and giving you a mean look that makes your walls clench and your throat let out a low, almost soundless moan. 

You never put a seatbelt on. As dangerous as it, you hate the way it chokes you due to your small stature and you tell him. “It chokes me, Hobi, I don’t really like it.” 

Hobi doesn’t respond. He reaches over and drags down the seatbelt adjuster without taking his eyes off of the road, driving steadily. His patchouli scent hits your nostrils and you nuzzle your nose into his bicep, fingers curling around his arm, smelling him in a simple, comfortable manner. Hobi gives you a quick smile and you hear the sound of him pulling on the seatbelt, but then a pedestrian runs across the previously empty crosswalk, forcing him to stomp on the brake abruptly and your heart nearly skips out of your chest. Almost flying forward, Hobi holds you in place with his strong arm, which you cradle against your quickening chest. 

Exchanging a look, you both pant in tandem and Hobi shakes his head at you. Panic lines his dark eyelashes and he immediately grabs the seatbelt and, tugging harshly, he sinks it into the buckle, placing the belt behind your back. He doesn’t acknowledge the pedestrian lifting his palm in apology and neither do you, too preoccupied with the fact he just saved your life. 

“You wear a seatbelt in my car. No buts. Understand?” 

Too shocked by the twist of events and too touched by the gesture and the sternness of his words, you nod. He pats your thigh, the one he marked, fondling the skin with his thumb, and it drives you to say something. “I’m sorry, Hobi. I’ll wear the seatbelt from now on.” 

You mean it. This has never happened to you before as you usually take the public transport, but you do understand now how dangerous it is to not wear one. Your heartbeat calms and the aftershocks of the adrenaline come to the surface, scattering along your figure. Numbness melts and your arousal returns at full speed. 

Hobi nods, smiling gently, pleased with your apology, and you feel so peculiarly gratified that you managed to do something like that to him. He sinks his fingers under your thigh and you marvel at the size of his hand because his thumb still remains there on the top of the flesh, even as he wraps his digits around you like that. Kneading just once before he lifts them and begins to tap on his screen again, shifting the energy with the voice of your favorite artist. He moves the gear, accelerating. 

“Why you rushing me, baby? It’s only us, alone,” The Weeknd sings and you sigh, your body loosening up. You hike the seatbelt around your hips higher, curling lower on the leather, thighs parting until your knee taps his hand. You miss his touch and you long for it again, finding its warm ghost on your skin not enough. 

“You like The Weeknd, don’t you?” Hobi says, his pinky finger brushing along your sock-clad knee, causing you to almost twitch. 

You smile, relishing in the love you have for the singer. “I’ve spent ten years of my life loving him.” 

Liking your answer, Hobi skims his fingers along the side of your inner thigh until he finds yours, intertwining them—this time his palm closed over the back of your hand, placing it to its former position on the stick. It’s warmed by him and you love it so much that you search for his thumb, playing with it. 

“I could tell,” he breathes, his tone deepened by a heartfelt emotion that moves through you. You raise your brows in curiosity and question, wondering how that has come to be. Glancing at you to see your reaction, Hobi laughs softly, his heart evident in the sound, coated with it entirely, and you catch his thumb, holding it, on the verge of bursting. “I saw what you did when I put him on.” 

You round the tip of your tongue along your top lip, recollecting well what you did when you heard him. “What did I do?” 

A beat of silence between you and him, he lets the singer sing his elegy. Then, his index finger traces your manicured nail on the same digit. “You spread your legs. Made such a pretty sound that I almost stopped this fucking car and fucked you until the whole city could heard it.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat and you’re too late to halt the moan from slipping out, a fire coursing down from the top of your head to your toes. You want a taste of his desire so bad that you’ll do anything for it. Even let the seatbelt choke you to death. 

Hobi gives you a look, one that chills your blood this time. But it feels absolutely exhilarating.

He calls your name. “Don’t do that to me. Not here.” 

Your breath trembles as you scurry to regain your composure, sliding up in your seat. Hobi, too, stops that movement by cradling your thigh, putting it back to the stick once you get the message. 

Why does this feel better than if he gave in? 

“What if I want to?” you challenge and Hobi rubs his eyes, slapping his hand back onto the steering wheel. Frustration, it looks so good on him. “What if I want you to fuck me here?” 

He shakes his head, just once, biting his lip, reddening the pillow. “No, I don’t share.” 

Fuck. 

This is a point of no return. You will never be the same after what he said and you feel your attachment melting into his chest, dissolving there into leaves from your fruit trees. Your imaginary wings flit, aroused from his possessiveness. 

“You know what to do,” he adds without looking at you, turning up the volume as if to subdue your incoming moans. 

A cherry on the top of the fucking cake. 

You don’t waste a precious second. Lifting the hem of your dress, you expose your drenched panties, a large wet spot in the center darkening the black fabric. Hobi doesn’t spare you a glance. No, he takes your intertwined hands and fixes his rear view mirror, tipping it down. Dangerous, but smart. Responsible. 

It’s those glimmering flecks of his character that drive your fingers to pull your panties to the side, but Hobi, once again, stops you. 

With words, this time. 

“Do you want me to die?” he rasps, tortured—horribly tortured and you cup your femininity, coaxing a groan out of him. “Do it over your panties, baby. Please.” 

He begged. You don’t think you ever heard that word come out of a man’s mouth in your life and you break, whimpering, pulling your panties back in their place over your pussy, dragging the tip of your middle finger up and down your dripping slit, sighing. Adding your index, you put pressure to the sides of your clit as you slide your digits in the same direction, over and over, teasing yourself, breathing out little moans that make him grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. 

Hobi glances once at what you’re doing and swears. “Fuck, rub your clit. Don’t tease yourself, baby. Make yourself feel good.” 

With a mewl, you stick your fingers together and begin a series of circles, doing as he says. Your eyes roll back, head knocking back into the leather, satisfaction seizing your body and sweetening it. The material of your panties is so flimsy that it feels as though your fingers are stroking your bare flesh and when you tug the fabric to your hole to wet it and rub your clit harder, your moans gain volume, mingling with The Weeknd’s poetry seamlessly and magnificently, dethroning the rain. 

And then Hobi shifts the gear stick with your hand and drives so fast that your pleasure deepens, thrill rushing in your veins. You match your circles to that speed, your sounds becoming obnoxious, whiny squeaks when you look at him to see his jaw clenched, chest heaving and the tent in his pants larger than you last checked it. 

Hobi skims his fingers along your forearm, back and forth, cradling it. Senses your stare and reciprocates it, catching you at your best when you find your spot and buck your hips, furrowing your brows. He moans, clutching your thigh. 

“So good. Such a good girl, rubbing her clit for me to get praised. Fuck, baby. You’re doing so good.” 

You lift your fingers in order not to come, the aftershocks of your ripped away orgasm quivering throughout your whole body and you squeeze his hand, letting go—wrapping it around his tent, instead. You figure he deserves it for praising you like that. 

He finds your lidded, mischievous eyes in the rear view mirror and he flattens his lips, a brutal expression on his face that should make you scared, but it doesn’t. It only spurs you on. You graze your palm on him, causing his breath to quicken, and you whimper when you search and search for the tip of his cock. He’s slender, but big and your mouth dries. 

“You almost made me come with what you said,” you say, truthfully, retracing your path down his length, his breath, now hardened, wafting over you. You love the way he focuses on the road with every fiber of his being as you’re toying with him. Love watching him grit his teeth, narrow his eyes; love watching sweat adorn his flushed chest and neck. You ache to bite him there. 

And you would—had he not buckled you in place. 

You don’t notice you’ve arrived at your apartment until he stops the car and turns to face you, leaning his elbow on the center console. Nobody could gaslight you into believing that ride took thirty minutes. Nobody. 

Hobi made that fifteen. Ferally. For you. 

You can see it in his shining face—his need for you, his desire, the fact he sped down the road because you’re so horny. And you ache to kiss him. 

“You really do have a praise kink,” he says, mutedly. Must be thinking the same because his gaze flicks to your lips. You lick them for him, encouraging him to do it. “Almost coming from me praising you. Such a good girl.” 

You hiss, the drum in your clit returning, stealing your attention. Hoseok grins, pleased to be proven right, pleased that you make it so easy for him. You squeeze his length and he makes the same sound, gritting his teeth briefly before he pouts. 

“What’s this?” he asks, speaking of your hand placement. “When did I allow you to do this?” 

You breathe heavily, descending your fingers to his full balls, feeling them perfectly due to the silky fabric of his dress pants. You knead them and he moans, the sound traveling right to your yet again needy bundle of nerves. Your hand automatically flies to it, rubbing it, and Hobi curses, eyes narrowing, fixed on the movement of your fingers. 

“It’s asking for me, isn’t it?” you murmur, sliding your hand back to his manhood and his pools almost go cross, head tilting back. Your pleasure from your motions expands, your nerve endings burning. 

“I’m so hard for you,” he agrees, his hand clasping over yours, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows with great difficulty, the column of his throat such a thing of beauty for you that it forces you to unclip your seatbelt. You’re about to crawl onto his lap, but one darkened look from him makes you decide against it. “Show me that pussy, baby.” 

Your moan has a certain elation to it, giddy at the fact you get to expose such an intimate part of you to him, giddy that he’s taking this to another level. 

You slide your drenched panties to the side and at the sight of your glistening pussy Hobi groans deeply.

“Lean against the door,” he commands, wiping at his mouth and you tremble all over, more than delighted that he’s reacting to you this way. 

You swivel, propping your back against the leather of his door and Hobi lifts your legs, spreading them. You hook one of them around the back of his headrest while the other dangles in his hold. His gaze zeroes in on your pussy and as he bites his lip, he acknowledges himself with her by tracing the flesh with his thumb. Your clit, your lips before he circles your gushing hole, groaning, bettering the song you barely can hear. Your confidence and your allure skyrockets and you follow his digit, riding it, begging for more of his touch. He plays chase with you until both of you and him can’t take it anymore and when his thumb is completely soaked, he lifts it to your mouth—only to fuck with you, though, because he plunges it inside his, leaving your own parted for nothing. 

You’re embarrassed, but he likes it. Whimpers around his finger. Pushes your knee to your shoulders and dives right in. 

You yelp, grabbing a hold of his hair as he licks over your clit, closing his lips over it and sucking until your eyes roll back, until all your still parted mouth knows is his name and your thick heel digs into his shoulder. 

But you moan the wrong variation and he’s quick to correct you with a dripping chin, his hands on either side of you, face merely inches away from yours. “That’s Hoseok for you, not Hobi.” 

Red all over, you can only moan in response, gripping his hair until he hisses in pain. He strums your clit without breaking eye contact, so slippery and swollen from his attack. The orchard in you grows, brims with fruit that is on the cusp of bursting, the berries in you big and full. His eyes narrow furthermore, pupils dilated, causing his gaze to darken in ways you’ve never thought could be possible. 

“Moan my name, baby. Show me how good I’m making you feel.” 

The wrong variation slips again, all due to the mind numbing pleasure he’s giving you. He adds more pressure to his fingers for a second before he withdraws and slaps your thigh. And slaps it again. 

“I can’t praise you if you don’t learn well, can I?” he mutters and you whine so loudly that his eyes round, body growing boneless. “Fuck, baby, if you keep making sounds like that I’m gonna come in my pants.” 

You scramble your words, find it the most difficult thing in the world. And he doesn’t help you. Not when he sinks a long finger inside your heat, fucking you slowly until you can take him. You lose your mind altogether. 

“You’re making me feel too-too good,” you breathe out, hiccuping as he adds a second finger in, silencing you when he gives you long strokes. You follow his gaze down and perceive that he’s watching you soak his digits. He twists them, moaning, a litany of mad, mad curses falling out of his mouth in a hushed tone. 

“So wet just from me praising you, oh my God,” Hobi comments and you squeeze your eyes shut, taking it as he begins to pound you to the hilt, his arm bulging, his whole body moving. “Eyes on me. What do you call me when I make you feel this good, hm? I already told you. Just remember.” 

You know which variation he means and wants to hear, but your tongue curls, aching to utter a different name that he deserves to be called by. 

And you say it, opening your eyes and boring them into his. “Daddy.” 

And you don’t stop saying it. Not when he closes his eyes for a split second, agonized by such saccharinity. Not when he undoes the button of his pants and pulls himself out while thumbing your clit. You gasp, legs quivering, what you touched brought to reality and your orgasm nears, especially when he fist-fucks his length. 

Hoseok draws back down to your clit, licking it over, nuzzling his face in it as he drinks your nectar right from the source, his wet fingers from you making squeaky sounds around his girth, causing you to scream, the intensity of the moment running so deep and you’re too weak to take it, overwhelmed by his arousal. 

He lifts his head for a moment. “I want you to call me Daddy when you come on my tongue,” he rasps amidst his growls, never stopping the movement around his cock, and you nod your head, vehemently, willing to do anything for him.

“I’m so close.” 

Hoseok pouts. “That’s so good, baby. You know what to do?” 

You swallow. “I’m gonna call you Daddy when I come.” 

He grins at you and the expression breaks when he fucks his tip, his brows casting a shadow on his face. You break along with it, shuddering—pleasured from watching him pleasure himself. And you break again when he praises you for your good answer. “Such a good girl. You’re gonna come hard for me?” 

You don’t get to say your yes because when he sucks your clit into his mouth and groans against it as he flicks it with his tongue, he’s a witness to it himself. The fruits in your orchard explode and he drinks their juices, running the muscle all over your pussy, his mouth smacking, enjoying every drop. You squeal the title, forcing pleased growls out of him that deepen when you swear, repeating the name over and over again until your orgasm smooths down the perimeters of your body, slowly dwindling away.  

You can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t see. White dots flood your vision and the only thing that grounds you is Hobi taking your hand in his. The dots swim away, revealing him on the verge of his own orgasm as he tugs on his length, rapidly now. 

“That was so good, baby. You came so well for me. Called me Daddy like I wanted. Good girl,” he praises and your moans are an endless stream, enveloping around his cock, which he guides your hand towards. The weight of it, his warmth, the protruding veins, you could come again just from the feel of him. “Jerk off your Daddy. He’s close, too, from the way you came for him.” 

The third person, fuck. You bite your lip, focusing on his tip as you grip him, twisting your wrist. His skin is sticky from your nectar and you spit onto your hand, earning a praise from him that makes your mind spin, even though you heard those two words plenty of times throughout your sinful date. 

It will never get old—it will only make your femininity wetter for him. 

And his growls, the same could be applied to them. They propel you to fuck him faster while your fingers sneak over to your sensitive clit that he provokes, rubbing circles that cloud your vision with a mist, painting him to be an angel—like the one you saw in the museum. 

And when he comes, he grows a pair of glorious wings. Black, with hints of rose gold and pinks. His body doubles over, hands propped on the dashboard and the passenger seat as he spills for you, ropes of cum painting your stomach in that eternal ivory color that serves as skin for those sculptures. In a way you become them once he praises you for making him come, his breaths a legato rivulet that gives you life, his hips snapping, fucking your hand. 

He smears his cum on your tanned stomach, fingers dipping below the waistband of your panties to discover a lighter shade of skin, marveling at the difference. Light passes through his eyes before he covers your pussy with the fabric, opening the glove department to fetch some tissues, cleaning you up, dragging down your dress and helping you sit up.

It’s at this moment, as he’s kneeling—towering over you and you’re sitting on your bum with your hands folded on your lap like the good girl he made you into, that he clutches the back of your neck and smashes his mouth into yours, moving it against you with such strength and vigor that you struggle to devour him in the same manner. It causes you to claw at his sides, to long to see his body in its full, bare beauty. His imaginary wings wrap around you, sealing the resplendence of your orgasm profoundly inside your skin and when he tastes you, his growls traveling down your throat are the raindrops that the orchard inside you needs in order to grow. You help him by moaning back, the aftertaste of you the sunlight. 

Piercing his gaze into yours, he caresses your hair, messes up your diligently fixed updo. Catches your ribbon as it falls, wrapping it around his hand, the wisps dangling from his fingers like your leg was just a few moments ago. 

You’re so satisfied that you could cry. 

You don’t even understand what just happened and how it came to be. Don’t remember what occurred before you sat down in his car—Hobi has completely and wholly erased it. 

And it’s him who notices that your hand still carries the remnants of him. You don’t care to look—you can’t rip your gaze away from the shine on his face, from the gratification smoothing out his features, from the pink flush decorating the perfect redness of his swollen lips. But Hobi forces you to, in the tenderest of ways. Looks lovingly at your palm, cooing, shooting that look into your eyes, where it unfolds, creates something new that you never experienced before. And when he grins, your stomach flips, winged creatures intoxicated with madness inside. 

“You see what you did?” he whispers, the love in his eyes expanding, growing warmer, burning you faintly. “I want you to lick it up. You deserve every drop.” The breath you let out causes him to tremble and you cradle the fabric of his shirt in your fist. Hobi kisses your fingers, looking at you through them, his smile quivering. “Stick out your tongue for me, baby.” 

You do and he slides your palm over it, his salty nectar the sea that swam against your body a week ago in your healing time and you moan, devouring his taste like he devoured your mouth, licking it up, collecting it until there’s nothing left. You show him your tongue, then, and Hobi plays with it, using his thumb, your ribbon wrapped around his hand tickling your chin. He rubs it on the muscle, playing chase with you again until he tells you to suck it. And the sound that descends from his lips once you do makes you squeeze your thighs together, your own wetness dripping out of you. 

To end it, Hobi kisses your forehead, lingering there for a few seconds longer. Caresses your mouth, tracing each line, tracing your cupid’s bow, making you glisten with your own saliva. A shining, lively angel—just like him. You whimper. 

“Swallow it, baby.” 

You do, showing him the evidence that you obeyed after. 

“Good girl.” 

You take the underside of him, semi hard, into your hand, giggling, heart thumping. “You just made me horny all over again.”

Hobi hums, brushing his ribbon-clad fingers through your hair from the crown of your head. You want him to do that once you suck him off. “And you’re gonna make me hard all over again if you touch me like that.” 

You mimic the noise he made, squeezing him. Hobi curses, delighting you. “Let’s go inside. I owe you that breakfast, don’t I?” 

He kisses you, softly, with a hint of harshness that causes your nipples to harden painfully against your bra. You almost rub your clit again, so fucking out of it, crazed. 

“You do, baby.” 

You got everything you wanted in such a small amount of time that your vision twirls. Hobi is holding your hand as you’re leading him to your apartment, your ribbon still hanging from yours and his intertwinement, and your heart hasn’t stopped beating feverishly in your chest. Not even once. 

You’re facing the inevitable as you watch Hobi unlace his dress shoes on his knee, his cock stiff and uncomfortable in his pants. You’re brazenly falling for him. You know your hormones swirling your system from the lustfulness you indulged in aren’t to blame—if there’s anyone to blame, then it’s Hobi himself. You consider him to be such a beautiful person that you would be absolutely stupid, blind and deaf not to fall for him. And what’s more, you sense your decline to be safe. Stable. A leverage that won’t ever break. A ribbon that won’t fray. 

It’s as strange as it is inviting and your submission comes naturally to you. And this time, you don’t fear it won’t last. Don’t fear you’ll let up. There’s a sense vibrating in you that assures you that Hobi will take care of it. Put it back where it belongs if it ever strays. You don’t have to monitor it. You don’t have to do shit. 

You were wrong about one more thing. Hobi isn’t Daddy. 

He’s Father. 

It’s this thought that drives you to take off your dress and leave it in the middle of the floor that leads to your kitchen. You’re barren down to your soaked underwear, bra and knee socks, your feet basking in the way they don’t have to ache in your boots anymore. Pulling a plate of eggs out of the refrigerator, you set it on the counter, preparing a pan by oiling it on the stove. You hear Hobi’s feet pad on the floor as you pop some bread in the toaster and you turn your head, seeing only his dark silhouette standing behind you, your dress and your ribbon in his hands. 

Your heart quickens, abnormally. 

“How do you like your eggs?” you ask, resuming your cooking as you break the shell of an egg on the lip of the pan, spilling the delight into the bubbling oil. 

Hobi crosses the distance and you can only feel the softness of your ribbon when he places his hands on your hips, letting them travel until they stumble across the pooch of your lower belly. He groans, holding you there, pressing his hard, silk-clad cock against your nearly bare bum. 

Self-consciousness creeps in as he kneads one of your insecurities and you quiver, clasping your hand over his, your confidence wavering. 

“However you like them is how I like them,” Hobi flirts and you laugh through your nose, shaking your head, waiting for the egg white to fade into that milky color he painted your stomach with. 

Sunny side up it is. 

“Hobi, your game is out of this world,” you flirt back, sliding your spatula under the egg to check if it’s done before you can flip it. 

Hobi lowers himself onto his knees and you gasp, soundlessly. He begins to scatter violent kisses along the dots upon the flesh of your bum, sucking it into his mouth as if it were an orange he was sinking his teeth into. You have to grip the counter in order not to fall over, willing strength into your weakened legs. 

He bites the supple roundness of your ass cheek, smoothing out the pain with a flick of his tongue and kisses, gentle ones this time around. Hums. “Is it?” 

He glides his nose along the inner of your thigh, rooting right in the center of your pussy, burying his face there. You turn around halfway, arching your back, latching onto his hair that you’ve ruined, egg long forgotten. 

“Your thighs are wet again, fuck,” he whispers, mouthing your clit before he descends once again to them, licking them over, drinking your nectar that he’s created. Trails his tongue back up and, sliding your panties to the side, he takes you into his mouth, growling as he sucks onto your lips, playing with them using his tongue, hands spreading your ass cheeks, so he can have more space to make you absolutely lose yourself in him. 

And it’s working. Even more so when he begins to swirl his tongue around that other, tiny hole, causing your eyes to go cross before they roll back. Your head dips into a dreamy daze, where time doesn’t exist as he switches between flicking your clit and eating your ass and it isn’t until a certain burning smell suffuses your nostrils that you snap out of it. 

You’ve burned his egg, its edges black like the feathers of his imaginary wings, and you yelp, turning off the stove, pushing the pan away. 

“Hobi, I burned your egg,” you exclaim and he bends you over the counter while still remaining on his knees for you, sucking your clit with all the strength he possesses. Your climax pinches you in warning, lovingly, promising to melt over you like rain soon, so very soon. 

Hobi doesn’t give a fuck about his egg, it seems. 

“Just a little more, please,” he begs, moving his flat tongue from side to side on your bud, hands descending down your wet thighs until he reaches your knee socks, stopping there. Whimpers. 

That would’ve thrown you over the edge had he not pulled away, fingers wrapping around your knees. 

You turn around and the sight of him on his knees with his glazed nose, mouth and chin, with his cock pitifully erect in his pants, creating a print that makes you salivate, absolutely and irrevocably breaks you. You can still hear his plea ring in your mind, begging you to give him a few more seconds of your pussy, and your brain malfunctions. Numbness tightens around your fingers when you cradle his face and it feels so real when you do so—the fact that you’re wanted, desired; the fact that Hobi is the one in submission to you, dominant yet attentive to you to the point that he would never want do anything you wouldn’t. He listens to you, carves his life around you… and he hasn’t even known you for a month. 

You messed up his hair—and when you run your fingers through his strands, you feel your powerful ruination sifting through them, feel your seduction and your confidence, alive and breathing in that thick, dark brown mop of his. And now you crave to mess up his skin. Bruise it. Stain it with the pinks you can see in his imaginary wings. Watch them turn yellow like the rose gold in their flecks over the following days. 

You’re not letting go of him. 

Not when he looks at you like you’re Virgin Mary and he’s a sinner. 

You pull him up by the collars of his shirt, wrinkling the fabric, adding to the ruination, and it’s electrifying. He’s the cleanest sinner you’ve ever had the grace to see and you want to stain him. Beyond the stickiness of your juices. And when he towers over you and cages you in between his buff body and the counter, hands on either side of you upon the marble, his patchouli scent making you bloodthirsty, you don’t kiss him. No, you go straight for his neck. 

He didn’t expect it, groaning when you lick a stripe over his vein, sucking the skin inside your mouth. Over and over again until the sucking noises make him twitch and fist the ends of your hair, pressing his cock against your stomach. You’re feral, you’re inhuman, scattering kisses along that column like you’ve never had a man in your hands before. And it’s true. You never have. It was always you who had been in men’s hands. Never the other way around. 

Your fingers gain feeling when you undo the buttons of his shirt, ripping some of them, secretly preventing him from going to work after you’re finished with him. Unless you plaster your correcting concealers on him, he really can’t step a foot outside. The bruise you left on his column is huge, purply red, and the only thing it’s missing is bite marks. A joy rotates in you, rooting from the fact that you’re changing his plans, that you have an effect on him, and you unfold that emotion when you tug that shirt down his broad shoulders and press a kiss in the middle of his chest. 

But then Hobi grips your hair on the crown on your head, making you look at him. 

And you can’t explain it to yourself, why you like being manhandled like that, despite the freedom you just experienced. Like a child, whose father let her run free before he scolded her and told her to stop, for she ran for too long and it’s getting cold. 

“What are you doing?” he asks, lowly, and the tone etches itself onto your own throat because your answer is ready on the tip of your tongue, unabashed, dirty, throbbing.

“I need you to fuck me.” 

Hobi blinks, his brows rising, a light like a comet shooting past his irises before an unbounded, starless night shrouds them. 

You’ve done it. You’ve stained him. Now he needs to come all over you. Make a mess. Paint you again. 

He slackens his hold on your hair. Runs his hand down the length. “If I fuck you, I’ll breed you.” Curls his hand around your throat, where those words form a new necklace, plated with that rose gold. Your mouth parts, a moan falling past, your nectar in tandem, mind dizzy from the idea of being stuffed full of his cum. He flattens his palm over your sternum, hooks his fingers over the band of your bra in the middle of your breasts. You hope he chisels the lines of his hand into your skin. You want to wear him. “Are you on birth control?” 

You stopped taking it the moment you were broken up with. Didn’t think you’d need it so soon. Didn’t think you’d have a man in your life again, let alone sleep with him. 

Your body desires to please Hoseok so resolutely that a wisp of your regret swathes around his wrist—regret that you threw away those pills that are the driving force in his sexuality. He might have been okay with not taking this any further, but you’re not. You’re far, far from okay. 

You want to be bred. You want to be bred so much that you could cry. 

Your mouth pouts, but your sadness doesn’t touch your seduction. It merely heightens it. 

“You have a breeding kink?” you ask, mimicking his former words, causing him to drag his tongue over his lips slowly, divulging his arousal. It’s another tree that begins to grow in your orchard, planted by your bare hands. A cherry tree, its pink flowerets the flush that spreads across his prominent pecs. You want to make them shiny with your tongue. 

And you do. 

You place wet kisses over the underside of his left pec, nibbling on the skin, your small stature making it easy for you. Hobi inhales a sharp breath, sneaking his fingers under the cup of your bra, grasping your breast, squeezing until you whimper. 

“A severe breeding kink,” Hoseok corrects you, just like you did in his car. He pulls down your bra straps, his hand quick to undo the clasp on your back, disposing you of the undergarment, dropping it onto the ground. Gooseflesh spreads across your skin and you let him feel it, let him feel the effect he has on you by pressing yourself against him, twisting your arms around his torso. 

A tender hug, in the middle of a bonding moment. You’d be so happy, you’d laugh, you’d skip, if you had never thrown away those pills.

You wonder if he feels the drum of your heart, if he feels how it’s creating a brand new music that no human, no celestial being has ever heard before. 

“I stopped taking birth control several weeks ago, Hobi,” you say, your regret and your sadness lowering your tone. Hobi coos and it makes you want to sob. “Did you bring a condom?” 

He caresses your bare back, your hair a stream of a waterfall that he parts with his hand. “No, I didn’t expect this to happen.” 

You do the same for him, burying your face deeper into his chest, perceiving that you’re embracing a pure angel. You engrave patterns into his skin, feathers of wings that are dripping with the fire of stars. Even though you’re dying to get fucked, this tenderness is, little by little, appeasing your darkness in a way you don’t really understand. 

“We don’t have to do anything. I can make you come with my mouth again,” Hobi says, drifting his nails along the perimeter of your shoulder blade while his other hand grips your waist. The memory of the moons to the sky you paint on his back.

You lift your head. Meet the gray clouds in his eyes. “You want to breed me that bad?” 

A smile curls one end of his mouth. “It’s what you deserve.” 

The same smile finds a way to your mouth, then blossoms into a grin, your heart a heavy music, and you press it into the middle of his chest. Bite him there, his growls another instrument in the song. He clutches the hair at the nape of your neck, coaxing out a similar sound, your darkness a wave that ebbs to and fro. 

“Put it in my ass, then.” 

Hobi calls you by your name, sternly. 

“What?” 

He sighs. “You want to get fucked in your ass on the first date?” 

You don’t know what part of his sentence makes you hiccup. Whether it’s his purity, the fact that such an angel voiced out that lewd desire of yours and didn’t jump head-first into its sea—or whether he acknowledged, once again, that this is a date. Hobi laughs, endearingly, and you blush. He kisses your cheek, lifting your chin, placing a chaste kiss onto your lips and you could die right now and know you’ll be entering the pearly gates. He’s saved a spot for you there, negotiated with God that you’ll spend your eternity there like the businessman he is. 

It’s what propels you to get on your knees. 

“Baby.” 

And it’s him stopping you each time you want more that makes you fall for him harder. 

“You’re so good to me, Hoseok, I can’t help it. I want to give back to you as much as I can.” 

He utters a low, deep curse, tipping up his chin as he cradles your face in both hands. Helps you stand to your feet, kisses you with something that doesn’t resemble the chastity of before and you moan into his mouth, digging moons into his back. You press your pelvis against his thighs, frustrated that you can’t reach his manhood and Hobi hears you, lifts you up and you wrap your legs around him, grinding your femininity against his manliness, squeaking the same curses down his throat. 

“Fuck, baby, grind that pussy on me like that. Just like that, yes. You learn well, don’t you? You’re such a good girl, you just need to get fucked, don’t you, baby?” 

You agree with every word, your expression of pleasure saying the words for you, and Hobi moans, pushing your hips down on him while he meets you each time. 

“Where’s your bedroom, baby?” 

“Down the hall. First door to the right.” 

You suck on his neck as he takes you there, plopping you down onto the edge of your bed. You watch your hands undo the button of his pants, but then he accidentally kicks into something and you know exactly what it is. 

An orange Nike box filled with the two toys you own. 

And Hobi wouldn’t have crouched to get it had you not started giggling. 

How thrilling it is—to see him holding something so private, something no one has ever seen before. 

He palms his cock once he discovers what’s inside, rolling his eyes back. He throws the box next to you on the mattress, pushing you back and ripping your panties out of your body in a split second. Your giggles die, replaced by whimpers, replaced by the beat of your clit and his vulgarities as he pins your knees down, gazing, lovingly, at the way your nectar trickles down to your other hole. He bends to lick it up and you die, too. 

“Naughty fucking girl. How can you be so naughty and so good at the same time? You’re making me lose my mind,” Hobi snarls, putting his entire weight into the back of your knees and you gush for him, gasping, not able to take his praise, your hips instinctually raising for more of his tongue, which he slaps your thigh for. Once, twice, three times, four times until you whimper so loudly that there’s nothing else left for him to do but let up, grab your pink hitachi and lay down on his back, guide you to sit on his face. 

It’s now that he takes the time to ogle your body. His night-tinged eyes glide along your tan lines, his fingers tracing them, making you shudder and rotate your hips above his mouth that he wets and keeps wetting as if it’s not enough to quench his thirst. 

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he chokes out, brushing the pads of his fingers along your stiffened nipples. Fireworks shoot out above your orchard, casting a rainbow of colors upon the trees and bushes. “I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you to have you like this. You belong to that museum, baby, but I’d die if someone were to look at you in my place.” 

His possessiveness coated with so much affection and admiration for you elongate your imaginary wings. And you can’t halt the rounding of your mouth, the pool of tears that line your eyes, the cracking of your heart as you take in his precious words. You feel like flying; you feel like soaring free with the knowledge that with the two beats of his own wings he’ll catch up to you, fly with you like two doves. 

You want to kiss him. Pay your gratitude that way and when you begin to crawl down his body, he stops you by grabbing your waist, immobilizing you above his face. 

“Stay where you are. You’re not sitting on my cock until you come on my tongue. Is that what you want? Ride Daddy’s cock until he covers you with his cum?” 

You can’t take it anymore. You simply can’t. 

Hobi turns the vibrator to life and its buzzing sound makes you quiver. You lower yourself onto his mouth that he quickly opens for you, darting out his tongue. He lets you ride the muscle, guiding your hips to twirl in circles, and you hold onto your breasts for emotional support as you sense yourself slowly disappearing in him, in the pleasure he gives you, in his warm, dark aura. 

Your mouth has no lock, no force to stop it from speaking. 

“I was wrong, Hoseok,” you start, changing the direction—swinging your hips back and forth as you grab onto his hair with one hand while the other stimulates your nipple, making you pant, whine and so terribly out of it. “It’s not your game that’s out of this world. It’s your fucking dirty talk.” 

Hobi hums, flicking your hand away and pinching your nipple, causing you to tip your head back and pour more vigor into your movement, his mouth too busy to respond. 

“If you ever talk to anyone like this that’s not me, I’ll kill her, you hear me? She won’t live to see the next day.” 

It’s Hobi now that can’t seem to take it anymore. 

Holding you steady by the waist, he sits up, sucking on your clit with so much strength that you scream, your body shuttering so violently that you completely lose yourself. He throws you onto your pillows, raises your hips until they’re at level with his mouth and finishes his fucking job. Alternates between sucking and licking, stars flooding your vision, the ones you traced on his beautiful, broad back. 

You come and you don’t stop. 

Hobi spits on your clit and presses down the hitachi on it, moving it from side to side, your orgasm prolonging, reaching highs beyond the heavenly kind and all you can see is him, doused in colors that glimmer and his name, the right variation of it this time, falls from your lips like a prayer. Right variation, right prayer. 

Virgin Mary that is looking at her God. 

Setting the toy and your bum on the bed, he takes both of your hands into his fist as you’re still convulsing, in the middle of your undying orgasm. He lines his cock at your entrance, changes his mind last minute, and glides it along your sensitive pussy, holding himself at the base. Back and forth, the ebb and the flow of the sea. The sight does anything but calm you down. It supports the continuation of your orgasm. 

“Listen to me very carefully,” he whispers, lowering your hands to his manhood until they wrap around him. “This cock has been yours the moment you came out of this fucking building to meet me outside. Every ridge, every fucking vein is yours.” He squeezes your hold against him, moving it up and down in an agonizing way that makes him shudder just the same. God at a very breaking point. “And these—” He groans as he uses your hands to cup his balls. “These fucking kids are all yours. Yours to swallow. Yours to decorate this beautiful body with. Yours to stuff your little hole with.” Your chest doesn’t rise with any inhalation of breath. You’re motionless, bloodless, paralyzed through and through. Scorching to the touch. Horny beyond your senses. Hobi pins your hands above your head, lining himself up, at last, at your entrance. Sinks inside you in one swift, but vigorous motion until he’s buried in deep to the hilt and he consumes your scream, kissing you so hard that he sucks every last drop of life you had in you. Then, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing its tip as well. “So don’t think for a second that these eyes are for anyone else but you.” A brutal thrust. A yelp. A loss of time and surroundings. “I’m yours, pup. I’m fucking yours.” A mad, mad laughter. “I’ve known you for a week. Ate your pussy first before I kissed you. And you touched yourself in my fucking car because you got horny from the way I praised you in that museum. How could I not be yours?”

The pet name, the magnificence of his sonnet, the stillness of his cock as you clench around him—the very cozy feeling of him being at home, being at the mountain of Athos that you blessed. You feel so small beneath him, so taken care of—and you’re at loss for words, though only one remains in your otherwise erased vocabulary, and from the top of your lungs, you utter it.

“Daddy.” 

His imaginary wings flutter, the pink swelling over the black, and he growls, letting go of your hands and folding you in half, leaning his weight on the back of your thighs. Props an overlapped pillow beneath your bum, so you’re at the perfect level for him to start fucking you properly.

And he does, coaxing out your screams, causing your legs to shake on either side of his shoulders. 

“That’s right, pup. I’m your Daddy. You’re doing so good, screaming for me the way I like it.” 

Hobi pounds into you, giving you a half of his length that’s more than enough. Bends at the waist to scatter wet kisses along the back of your thigh, filling you to the hilt as he does so, your juices squelching around him, making such a serene, glorious sound that forces him to bite down hard onto your flesh. No alleviation after, just long and ruthless strokes while he stares down at you, eating you with his eyes. The ghost of the pain lingers, adding to the experience, adding volume to your whiny noises. 

“You’re taking it so well. You’re a good pup, aren’t you?” 

You sob, the pressure gyrating deep in your lower tummy, the pet name the thing that will throw you over the edge if he calls you by it again. “Yes, Daddy. I love it when you call me that.” 

A hum. “Oh, yeah?” 

There he fucking goes again. 

A dam rushes to break and you’re defenseless.

“Yeah, I love it so much that it’s gonna make me come.” 

Hobi sucks in a breath. “Tell me you’re my good little pup and I’ll let you come.” The same breath he inhaled lodges in your throat and you watch him with a blurry vision reach over for your hitachi and turn up the intensity until the vibrations are so loud that you hear them echoing within your headspace.

He fucks you faster, ridding you of any chance to speak. Teases you with the toy by placing it, barely, on your stiffened nipple, leaning over to moisten it with his tongue before doing it again. And you can’t stop it and neither can he, the way your orgasm overtakes your whole being. It’s at this moment, when he thrusts become sloppy, that you manage to croak out the words he wanted you to say. 

“I’m your good little pup, Hoseok, oh fuck, yes, yes,” you whisper, your sentence blending into an efflux of legato moans—and this, this is his very undoing. 

And Hobi does something you didn’t expect him to do. 

As colors burst in your perspective and your orgasm drags you under, he stimulates your clit with the toy, pulling out of you and pressing his tip against its vibrating side, growling so deeply that it forces your juices out of you, sprinkling him with its iridescent drops as he tugs at his length. He paints your stomach, paints the hitachi, his nectar so enormous that it lands upon your breasts, even as far as on your neck. His body glistens in sweat and now your essence—and looking at him with your hazy vision, another orgasm rolls in. 

You thrash your body so hard he has to pin you down, ripping the pillow out from behind you, laying down his weight on you. He kisses you and the lip lock lasts, seemingly, for a century. He moves his mouth against yours, basking in the feel of your puffy mouth as he alters between kissing you harshly and kissing you gently, getting to know you this way. 

And when he lets up to breathe, he brushes your hair away, flings the vibrator out until it falls off the bed. 

“Say it again,” Hobi says, affection flashing in his now rounded eyes, its warmth thumping. “Louder, for me.” 

Your throat is dry, but you manage to do it with a sleepy smile. Think you would do anything to please him. “I’m your good little pup.” 

Cupping your face, he kisses you with such tenderness that you begin to cry. Your tears soak his cheeks and he whimpers into your mouth, moved just the same by the depth, the vibrancy of the energy thickening between you. 

And when he looks at you, his own tears rush in his waterline. 

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers, pausing for a second. “What have you done to me?”

When afternoon rolls in, Hobi is still tangled up in your sheets. You brought him breakfast to bed, one you didn’t burn this time, while he rested, naked and gratified, still flushed in pink, but clean from your shower. His patchouli scent intermingled with your body wash, cinnamon and lemon, concocting something intoxicating in you that made you see him with a halo above his head. He became a saint by giving in to his desires, by coming so hard that you still feel his hot ropes of cum singeing all those sensitive, intimate parts of your body. Hobi took his time tracing and smearing each and every drop, rubbing it deep in you as if he was digging a grave for your past. And you watched him do it, with tear-stained cheeks, acknowledging yourself, just as intimately, with the information that this is something Hobi likes to do.

You plan to put that into practice the next time you get to touch him. 

He’s grazing his fingers along your arm as you’re laying halfway on your side, halfway on him, your leg in between his. Seems to be lost in thought, seems to be searching for his words when he widens his travel across your body, going as far as to the peaks of your shoulder blades before returning back. You feel an inkling to help him, feel like it’s the least you can do. 

“What are you thinking about?” you try, dragging a finger across his collarbone. Hobi sighs, so terribly reactive to your touch, your head lifting in such a calming manner as he breathes in and out. 

“Did I scare you with what I said?”

His heart under your ear begins to hammer and right away you understand the gravity of his question. He’s lost himself in a flashback of today’s sinful events, but stumbled across a high, overpowering mountain of his bared emotions—the blessed mountain of Athos. And it seems as though he’s forgotten the way back, the trees around him growing dense, the trees of panic that whisper to him that, maybe, he made a mistake. 

You hope, with every fiber of your being, that he doesn’t regret those words of beauty that have come to live under your skin like planets in the universe that you and he have created. 

That would ruin you. That would break you—and not in the pleasant kind that you like. That universe would drop upon you and you don’t think you’re strong enough to pick up your own half of your creation, shake it off and learn to live again. 

You straddle him and he covers you with your duvet. Not your naked breasts, but your torso, inviting you into that island. You thought he did to prevent distraction from weakening his focus, but he doesn’t regard your body like that—doesn’t regard it as an instrument of lust. Something about that moves you, enough for you to take his hands, your thumbs in the middle of his palms, and spatter your soft kisses on them. On his fingers, his knuckles. And when you reach the back of his hand, you halt, boring your gaze into his, catching that comet flying past his eyes again and staying this time, staying in the glint that appears as his brown pools wet. 

“Your words mean a lot to me. I carry them in my heart. You know that poem?” 

Hobi shakes his head, flattening his lips, closing his eyes for a brief moment. 

You don’t mind. You’re delighted to enlighten him. 

“I carry your heart with me,” you recite, keeping the heel of his palm against your lips. “I carry it in my heart. I am never without it. Anywhere I go, you go, my dear; and whatever is done by only me is your doing, my darling,” you finish the first stanza of the poem that has not left your bloodstream ever since you were a teenage girl. Sharing that with him brings out a sea of feelings you remember your past self invariably longed to swim in. Tenderness, closeness, passion. Having it now feels as though you’ve passed a milestone. Hobi’s halo flashes with a rosy pink hue and your softened heart constricts. “The things you said were my doing, Hobi.” 

He caresses your side, starting from your armpit, going down the side of your breast, your waist until he arrives at the fleshy part of your hip, which he grasps. His chin quivers as he opens his mouth to speak and a lump forms in your throat. 

“You’re a poem, pup,” he whispers, circling his thumb over your tummy. “You don’t mind that I said those things?” 

You kiss his hands again, upon the same places to make your affection last longer on his skin. Your clit awakens at the pet name and naturally, you scooch over until you’re sat on his soft manhood over the duvet and you begin to move your hips back and forth. Hobi hisses, but doesn’t stop you this time. Lets you do what you want in the safety you conjured around him. 

“Say them again.” 

You speed up your movement. 

Hobi moans. Pauses. Swallows. Thinks. “I’m yours.” 

You grind harder in reward, moaning with him, feeling him stiffen under your clit, feeling him comprehend that you love those declarations. 

“My cock is yours,” he breathes out, his other hand joining the other and gripping your hip, digging in his nails. Another half moons, another beauty, intensifying the pleasure. You lick your fingertips and pinch your nipples. Hobi shudders, visibly, underneath you. “If you keep this up, I’m gonna have to cancel my work meeting.” 

You laugh, meekly but seductively, prolonging your thrusts, slowing them down, coaxing pained groans out of him. A delight. “Who said I wanted you to go?” 

Hobi curses, switching places with you on a whim that surprises you, bends you over, arches your back by lifting your bum in the air. The duvet falls, sadly, off of the mattress—and your soul, for him, falls equivalently. 

He slaps the side of your thigh. One, twice, thrice. “Who’s pussy is this?” 

You long to see him, your soul begs for it. Whispers to you to grab your phone and you do, swiping your finger on the screen and angling it so your camera has a blissful view of him. Of him fixed, darkly, on your ass and your femininity in the middle. 

Curious to know what’s taking you so long to answer, his brows rise as he discovers what you’re doing and he bites his lip, pulls on your legs to straighten them and you plop down on the mattress with a loosened breath. He gets in the same position. Licks over the swell of your ass cheek. 

“Film it. Film yourself telling me who’s pussy this is,” Hoseok commands and in a millisecond, without a thought spared, you click on the red button, excitement tingling your nerves. 

“My pussy is yours, Hoseok.” 

His eyes flick to the camera, meeting your stare, and your breath hitches, the view so attractive as he mouths that skin, marking it. He sneaks a hand to your clit, lifting his body a little, and spanks the spot he bruised. You gasp, elated, humming in a high-pitched tone, causing him to smirk. 

“Ride my hand. Whose pussy is this, baby, hm?” 

You snap your hips, furrowing your brows at the faint pleasure, at the desperation that courses through your veins. 

“Yours, Hoseok, ah, fuck. I want you inside me, please.” 

And he takes you, right there on camera, from behind—immortalizing your inside joke as you and him mention it and laugh about it together, immortalizing the way he paints your wings that ivory color and the way he rubs it in, sinking it deep within its membrane. 

And when you’re so spent that you can’t keep your eyes open and Hobi is drifting his mouth over your breasts, he tells you to send it to him. And with one cracked open, you do. 

It’s later in the evening that you find out that it wasn’t Hobi you sent that video to and your blood freezes. 

Your phone rings and Jungkook’s picture fills the screen. 

𓂃 ౨ৎ LOVE-KISSED BABIES: @tkslovechild, @jjk7k, @parkinglot-nights, @bethvar, @Sexytholland, @yoongibaybee, @crystaleah, @fennecnco, @lil-kpopstan, @euphoricmyth

© 2024 hoseoksluna, all rights reserved.

BACK to masterlist | READ part one

[bloddysnow]

Why’d You Only Call Me When You’re High?

Synopsis: You are summoned by Sylus in the middle of the night, a familiar occurrence whenever Sylus is drunk. Your encounter is filled with raw passion, where Sylus seeks solace in desperate sex as a way to cope with his inner turmoil.

warnings: nsfw minors dni. Sub! Sylus, soft dom! reader. reader is gn. (cock or strap), possessive behaviour, smoking, alcohol, anal sex. mention of masochism.

It’s three in the morning. The sky is dark, with stars peeking through the occasional cloud. The moon hides behind them, only occasionally slipping out to dimly light the street with its pale glow. You step out of the car, closing the door. The street is empty, everyone around is asleep, and only the sound of your footsteps can be heard.

You walk toward his house. The streetlight nearby casts a dim glow on the pavement, creating long shadows from the trees and bushes. A slight breeze rustles the branches.

You were asleep when the sharp ring of the phone jolted you from sweet slumber. You were ready to curse whoever woke you at such an hour until you saw who was calling.

You picked up the phone and brought it to your ear, still somewhere between sleep and reality. The voice on the other end was raspy, broken, with clear signs of drunkenness. He spoke softly, almost in a whisper:

"Could you come, please?"

As you get closer to the door, you notice that no lights are on. The house stands dark and still, almost abandoned. Pressing the doorbell, you wait, listening to faint sounds coming from inside. The door slowly opened.

Sylus appeared in front of you. He looks completely exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t slept for several nights. He’s wearing a dark robe. His hair was wet, droplets of water clinging to the tips, as if he just got out of the shower.

He just stares at you for a moment, saying nothing, then steps aside, inviting you in without a word, leaving the questions for later.

As soon as the door quietly closes behind you, you feel Sylus suddenly pull you toward him. His lips find yours in a sudden, desperate kiss. He kisses you roughly, pushing you against the wall. His hands grip your clothes tightly, as if afraid you might slip away.

Your teeth clash against each other, and his tongue insistently invades your mouth, greedily sucking on your tongue, leaving you no room to breathe. You can taste the alcohol, and with every second, it becomes more and more apparent. This only makes the kiss wilder. His arms wrap tightly around your neck, pulling you even closer so that there’s no space between you.

Sylus suddenly pulled back, as if trying to control his emotions. He rests his head on your shoulder, his breathing becoming slightly more measured but still hot and heavy. You feel him take a deep breath of your scent. His voice is soft as he whispered directly into your ear:

“[name]… I need you as hell.”

This wasn’t the first time he drunk called you. Every time he was under stress, his only way to cope was to drink and then—call you. You knew this routine by heart: the late-night call, the raspy voice, and the plea to come. You knew that behind this was a deep emotional pain he could never express with words.

It was as if he was trying to drown something inside himself, and in sex with you, he sought comfort, or perhaps salvation. There were moments when, in the heat of passion, you noticed how his body trembled, and tears streamed down his cheeks while he held onto you.

Every time, it left you with mixed feelings. You kept coming because you understood that in those moments, he needed you the most, even though it was hard for you.

Each time you move faster, the leather couch squeaks, making rhythmic sounds.

At some point, you glance down and see Sylus’s body starting to convulse. His legs are tightly wrapped around your torso, knees tucked in, heels pressed against your back. His muscles tense up, and he throws his head back. You see him cum, his sperm spilling onto his own stomach. His face contorts in pleasure, eyes squinted, hands tremble as he clings to you, getting out his orgasm.

With each final deep thrust, you push into him even further until you feel a hot wave of pleasure wash over you, and you also reach your peak. Sylus, still immersed in his own sensations, let out a drawn-out moan as he feels your hot liquid inside him.

Finally, his body relaxed, hands slowly slipping off of you, and grip loosens. You could feel the tension leaving him, and as you get up, you sit beside him. Reaching for a pack of cigarettes, you took one, placing it between your lips, and with a flick of the lighter brought the flame to the edge. The first deep inhaled fills your lungs with smoke.

You heard the leather couch rustling quietly next to you. Sylus slowly moved, sitting on your lap. You pull the cigarette away so as not to accidentally hurt him. His face pressed against your neck. You gently run your hand through his hair, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

"Sylus, you like it? Feel better now?"

He tilted his head to meet your gaze, staying silent for a few seconds, just looking into your eyes. There’s something in his gaze that you can’t quite comprehend. Slowly, without a word, he reached for your hand wich was holding the nearly smoked cigarette.

Sylus brought it to his chest and, without breaking eye contact, pressed the burning end against his skin, leaving a scorching mark. A soft sizzling sound is heard as it begins to go out. His face remained calm, but you can feel the tension in his body, see how the pain reflects in his breathing.

“I like everything you do with me [name].”

It was truly difficult to understand him. Every gesture, every emotional reaction seemed so contradictory. He was a person who hid his feelings behind masks and extremes, making his behavior almost unpredictable. You tried to make sense of it, but every time you felt like you were only scratching the surface of what was really going on inside him.

He lowered his gaze, the corners of his lips rise in a sly grin when he noticed that you’re hard again.

[cntloup]

You wake up in an unfamiliar room angst, kidnapping, thoughts of miscarriage, mention of torture, blood

Simon bumps into you, a troubled woman whose boyfriend kicked her out after he found out she's pregnant

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9

You wake up to the buzzing of a semi-broken light and a thick damp oily smell filling the rusty old room. 

You wince as you slowly move your neck, gradually gaining consciousness, feeling your ears ringing and a sharp stabbing pain in your head. 

You struggle to open your eyes, even in the dim light of the small room, your vision slightly blurry from what seems to be sweat, tears and blood from a hard blow to your head. 

You groan in pain and slightly jolt in your seat as you notice you’re tied up in an unfamiliar room.

Vague disturbing images prance around your mind as your eyes land on the various tools on a small table beside you and you shake your head to get rid of them but to no avail.

Then they slowly come together like the pieces of a puzzle and you remember. You remember all of it. The agonizing torture. And several blows to your belly. Oh god! 

You dip your head to check your swollen belly, only to see the pool of blood beneath you.

You feel a surge of panic rising from deep within you and start to feel light-headed, from the loss of blood, or the thought of losing your child, you honestly don't know.

And you don't know how many days have passed. Are they even looking for you? Will he save you?

There are whispers outside the room, some foreign language, Russian probably by the sound of it and you can barely make out any words, but there's one word you fully understand... 'Ghost'.

At the base, there's a thick tension in the atmosphere. After Simon found the blood and no sign of you in the house, they started working on finding the possible kidnappers.

Simon is pacing the halls as they try to track down your captors and he's absolutely livid at whoever dared lift a finger on you, anxiety bubbling up inside him, gnawing at him to the point of being utterly unbearable.

You lower your head and shut your eyes again, acting as if you’re still unconscious after you hear footsteps approaching and the clicking of keys. 

They put a sack over your head and carry you to the car and drive to an unknown secluded area so a doctor can see you as you struggle to keep yourself from sobbing and thrashing around to free yourself.

Simon makes his way to Price's office with heavy footsteps and slams his fist on his desk, snarling furiously "We both know who it is. If you don't order the raid now, I swear-" "We must act fast. Laswell called with the location of the warehouse they're headed to." Price cuts him off.

They place you on a bed while your eyes are covered and you don’t notice much else as a wet rag covers your nose and mouth.

There's only the faint sound of gunshots in the distance and muffled shouts and punches. And you can sense the ground quaking by what seems like the pounding of footsteps and you feel the rag being removed followed by a loud thud and a pair of strong arms lifting you as you drift unconscious.

[pearlzier]

“why the fuck did this shit just squirt on me,” matt's gaze narrowed at the four year old in front of him, brows raising for a moment before he yelped as he felt your hand hit him upside the head. he glared at you, “what was that for?”

“you can't swear in front of my niece!” you gawk, ruffling his hair gently to apologise for whacking him.

“okay, but, what is this,” he lifted the LOL doll, staring the shit out of it as it makes him severely uncomfortable. the little girl, however, seems positively thrilled by it spewing water whenever you filled it up and squeezed it. she giggled and clapped her hands, and matt merely huffed, proceeding to fill the doll back up with water.

“it's uh,” you grab the piece of paper with names scribbled on them, trying to find where your niece had named her dolls, and soon landing on the name, “chrissy?” matt practically burst out laughing, causing your niece to also laugh too even if she didn't actually know what was happening.

“s'this chrissy, kid? yeah?” he waved the doll around, gently holding it for her and watching as it spewed water from its mouth and made her giggle again. “like uncle chrissy? yeah, that's my girl.”

your heart practically melts, as you watch your boyfriend and your niece play together. he lifts his gaze to yours and he smiles, humming under his breath, “you look a lot like her,” your niece looks a lot like your sister, sure, but matt thinks you two look similar. both incredibly pretty, and adorable. “you two smile exactly the same.”

he looks between the both of you and that only corroborates his claims, and he nods his head again, watching as the little girl handed him a stuffed toy from her toy box. he held it gently in his hands, and he giggles softly. “come sit with us, pretty sure me and the kid are scared of you bein’ up so high.”

you were only sat on the bed, but fair enough, the kid didn't have a great sense of scale from her tiny height. conceding almost instantly, you find yourself sat beside matt, arm to arm, as your niece hands you two various things to play with. “fluffy,” she mumbles at the toy that matt's holding, and he nods gently.

“fluffy toy? or are they called fluffy?” matt looks at you for answers, blue eyes wide and soft. he's so at ease right now, it makes you feel at ease. “wait, look at the uh..” he snaps his fingers, “the list.”

you grab the list once more and your niece stabs a chubby finger at a name on the list, one that says ‘bartholomew’. you and matt both stare at it for a moment, then look up at the baby, then at eachother, and matt says exactly what you're thinking in the first place—“can she even pronounce that..?”

no, she can't, clearly, since the slurry of siunds that slipped from her wet lips were not nearly anything close to the word, ‘bartholomew’. the two of you burst into little giggles and lean against eachother. it's adorable, it's wholesome. even the kid can see it. “uncle matt?”

“yeah, kid?” he speaks up, not looking at the girl but still putting his full attention into talking to her despite the fact he's trying to set up her barbie car.

“do you like auntie?” she bats her lashes idly, chewing idly on her bottom lip as her chubby fingers tug at matt's shirt. he lifts his gaze to hers, his head leant against your shoulder. the question makes both of your brows furrow, and he nods, answering after a second.

“‘course i like auntie, she's my girl,” he says naturally, which too makes your heart warm. matt looks over at you and he interlaces your fingers together, holding your hand for a moment before he looks back at the kid with a little tilt of his head. “why you askin’, hun?”

his gaze searches hers as he sits cross-legged, and he nods his head for her to continue, tone gentle. “uhm.. are you gonna marry auntie?” matt's eyes widen and he swiftly lets go of your hand out of pure instinct.

your gaze flits to his, and when he sees that, he soon clasps your hand into his again, squeezing it. “if she wants to, sure. one day,” god fucking god, he's perfect, you say to yourself. you knew it already however this solidifed it. his blue eyes meet his and he smiles, leaning into your shoulder. “one day, kid.”

your niece seems very happy to hear this, and she continues playing with her toys like literally nothing had happened. like she really hadn't just given you two something to talk about when your sister came and picked the kid up. “you really mean that?” you spoke up after a little moment, eyes searching his as you shifted yourself a little closer.

“mean it, baby,” matt admits, leaning over to press a kiss to your shoulder with an arm around you before your niece decides conveniently that she wants something to eat. not from you, but from matt. “uncle matt? wan’ sumthin’ to eat..”

“you hungry? aight, c'mon,” he releases you gently and holds out his hand for the little girl so the two of them can head over to kitchen, before matt holds his hand out for you too. he offers a gentle smile, “i'll make somethin’ for you too.”

hey, who can say no to that? you push up off of the floor and you grasp his hand, the three of you making your way down to the kitchen. your niece bounces happily, just happy to be accompanied by her auntie and her uncle.

you realise, a little surprised with yourself that it's taken so long, that matt would make a perfect father. and that maybe that conversation you have is gonna change your lives a little more than you thought.

tags ┆.ᐟ ᰍ ︵ @junnniiieee07 , @st7rnioioss ۫ .

a/n ┆i am so full of ideas to write oh my god ୭ ✧ ˚. ᵎᵎ ✶

[changetyre]

If you don’t mind and have the time, could you do a George x Alex x Reader smut? You can go on however you’d like!

We'll take care of you II Alex Albon x Reader x George Russell ⓈⒽⓌ

SUMMARY: You're overworked, tired, and stressed but you trust your favorite boys enough to take care of you and make you feel better.

WARNINGS: **18+**, innocent reader, threesome, polyamorous relationship, DP (Not proofread)

A/N: I cannot think of Alex and George being anything other than gentle loving boyfriends tbh so some fluffy smut for once : )

You held your phone to your ear as you heard it begin to ring, you tried your hardest to hold in the tears that threatened to escape your eyes as you at the entrance of your work hiding away from the rain.

You'd been the first person to arrive this morning immediately faced with an infinitely long stack of pages you had to read through and as you continued through the day several pages were added to the pile resulting in you being the last person out...for the 4th day in a row now.

You loved your job, you really did but having been hired by a high-end company wasn't as exciting as you thought it would be right about now. You were good at your job, no excellent and you knew that but apparently so did your new boss who took advantage of your wit and efficiency leaving ridiculously large workloads on your shoulders while still being paid a minimum wage.

"Hi baby, I was worried you coming home yet?" You heard your boyfriend's voice through the phone as he picked up.

"G can you please come pick me up?" You couldn't hold your tears in now finally finding comfort in his voice. "I just left work and-"

"I'm on my way." George didn't need further explanation as you heard keys rustling in the background.

"Are you away from the rain love?" You heard your other boyfriend's voice through the phone and you could hear the car starting in the background.

"Yeah...just about." You sniffled. "I'm just tired." You knew your tears probably concerned them more than necessary.

"It's okay darling, we're almost there." you heard George's voice echo so you knew they'd put you on the car's speaker.

"I miss you." You sighed, speaking honestly despite having seen your boyfriends this morning you'd craved nothing more than to be in their arms the whole day.

You looked down at the soaked cuff of your pants along with your wet heels. Your body shivered with the spray that managed to get onto your coat.

"We're right here with you love..." You heard Alex speak as you could see the car round the corner. "Always." He finished before they pulled up in front of you and you hung up.

You were about to walk to the car but both Alex and George walked out running toward you, neither of them wearing a jacket although Alex held an umbrella in his hand.

"Oh, baby." George sighed as they both approached you opening their arms for you. You happily let yourself fall into them letting out the tears of exhaustion and frustration.

"I'm so tired." You cried in their arms as Alex rubbed circles on your back and George ran his fingers through your hair.

"It's okay darling, we're here," George reassured you kissing the top of your head.

"Let us take care of you." Alex added kissing your temple.

You finally looked up, the tug on both their hearts seeing your soaked eyelashes and puffy cheeks was enough for them to decide they needed to help you feel good again the best way they knew how.

The boys led you back to the car George getting in the driver's seat and Alex getting in the backseat with you. Alex cuddled you into his body while George began taking you both home.

Your boyfriend's body heat was already enough to make you feel better, you found yourself almost dozing off to sleep but just before you did George had already pulled up to your home.

"C, mon let's get you inside darling," George said as he parked the car got out, and walked around to open the door for you.

You were ready to step out but were pleasantly surprised when George scooped you into his arms allowing you to wrap yourself around him like a little koala as he carried you inside.

You shut your eyes, you trusted the boys with your life and you wouldn't care where they took you as long as they stayed with you.

"Let's get you out of this baby." you heard Alex's voice behind you as George carefully set you down. Alex reached for the hem of your shirt pulling it over your head.

Once the shirt was lifted off you did you realize you were in your bathroom. George began unbuttoning your pants while you heard the shower start running as Alex warmed the water up for you.

"Let's get you freshened up my love." George had stripped you completely naked before walking you to the shower.

"Come here, baby." Alex was already inside, his white hair quickly dampening.

You stepped in letting Alex pull you in by your waist to his naked chest. George only let go of you momentarily but you already missed his presence.

Luckily it didn't take long for him to also undress before joining you in the shower.

Alex ran his fingers through your hair making sure it got completely soaked through, you closed your eyes enjoying the feeling of your boyfriend's caresses.

Soon enough George was in front of you placing soft lingering kisses to your bare neck.

"mhm." You sighed feeling the stress melt away, as if George and Alex were sucking it out of you slowly.

"You feel better already baby?" Alex asked behind you and you felt as he began placing kisses along your shoulder.

"Yeah..." your voice was barely above a whisper but it didn't need to be any louder.

"Kiss me, darling," George whispered softly as he cupped the back of your neck, his fingers disappearing in your hair as he brought your face closer to his.

You didn't need to be asked again as you happily obliged to George's petition joining your lips to his. Your mouth opened and closed slowly along with his in a kiss filled with love and lust.

George's tongue battled with yours in a lazy and playful fight but it was still enough to make warmth pool at the bottom of your stomach.

You whined as George pulled away upset that the kiss ended but this sadness didn't last long as you were smoothly turned around, George and Alex holding you tightly to make sure you wouldn't slip on the wet floor.

"My turn my love." Alex smiled as he began kissing you. You loved the way you could feel the difference between your boyfriends kisses, although they both ended up making you feel the same.

George's kisses always took your breath away, they had you in a haze all throughout and you could feel as George silently fought for dominance by intensifying the kisses or making sure to pull noises out of you.

Alex however, his kisses were like a breath of fresh air, it literally felt like you were filling up your lungs all throughout his kisses despite the fact this was physically impossible. Alex's kisses were soft, so soft that it almost felt like he was constantly making sure you were in control, always careful not to hurt you throughout but still making sure you felt every fiber of his love through it.

Yet despite the difference they were both able to set off those butterflies in your stomach, they were able to make your hair stand up all across your body and they were able to make your blood rush right to your core.

"Fuck she's soaking-" Your breath hitched and you were forced to pull away from your make-out with Alex as George ran a finger through your slit. He repeated the process a few times with his fingers as he covered them in your wetness.

"Is she?" Alex smirked, as they spoke as if you weren't right there.

"Taste her." George brought his fingers that just went through you to Alex's lips who sucked them clean.

"Yeah...that's good." You could hear the smile in Alex's voice despite being turned away from him.

You were feeling all sorts of things watching your boyfriends talk about you this way and even more so when they proceeded to make out with you in between them. These were the moments you were humbly reminded of your short height compared to your giant boyfriends as you could literally look up and watch them kiss without you being much of a barrier between them.

"Let's take care of you, darling." George finally looked down at you as did Alex.

You felt again as Alex began placing kisses along your shoulder and George pecked your lips before kneeling. You felt as Alex took a hold of you from behind lifting you slightly so your core was level to George's face and he wasn't forced to crouch down further.

George placed his hands on your ass carrying some of your weight as he brought you forward, your back leaning on Alex's chest. You could feel George's breath on your folds and the anticipation was unbearable.

"G please." You whined.

"Shh baby I got you." George placed soft and quick kisses on the inside of your thigh inching closer and closer to your center.

"Don't tease her Georgie she's had a rough day." Alex spoke behind you.

"Yeah...you're right." George agreed but there wasn't much previous warning before he latched his mouth onto you.

His tongue quickly began to flick at your bud and then he switched to small but harsh suckles. The combination of both feelings was making you wild, you knew you wouldn't last long tonight.

"Ahh." You moaned as the pleasure increased when Alex began caressing your breast between his hands.

"Is he making you feel good my love?" Alex whispered in your ear before nipping your ear softly.

"Ye...yeah-" it was hard to focus on getting words out through the pleasure.

"Can I fuck you while he eats you out baby?" Alex asked you in a soft whisper again.

It took you a second to process his words but once you did you quickly nodded.

It was as if Alex was prepared for your confirmation as you quickly felt his dick running through your slit. You felt as if George helped lift you slightly, licking and sucking Alex's tip for a few seconds before he finally entered you.

"Ughhh." You could've almost cried with joy at the feeling that ran through your body.

George resumed sucking at your clit as Alex began setting a slow pace.

"Fuck you feel so good darling, I love you," Alex whispered.

"I...I love you." You wrapped your arm around Alex's shoulder allowing you to face him slightly as you kissed him sloppily all whilst George continued his torture on your core.

"Baby please let me fuck you too." George had stood back up again, his tongue swiping across your left nipple for a few seconds.

"Yeah." You nodded.

This wasn't the first time you'd let the boys take you at the same time. It didn't happen often because you were always forced to rest for a few hours before being able to move again but it was the last day of the week and quite frankly you didn't give a shit if you couldn't walk tomorrow right now.

George lined himself up with your entrance too, you felt Alex slow down his pace so that George was able to enter you slowly. Alex's eyes rolled back as he felt George's dick directly above his rubbing along it slowly.

"AH." You yelped at the stretch but after a few seconds, the momentary sting turned to pleasure.

"Can I move?" George asked before doing anything.

"Mhm...yeah." you linked your other hand around George's shoulder now being held up equally by your boys as they began moving.

They both trusted in and out of you almost in a rehearsed pace alternating between fucking in and out of you at a steady pace, not too quick, and definitely not too slow.

"Agh sh*t that's so good." George moaned, it's as if the pleasure was too much and he needed a distraction as he leaned forward to take your right nipple into his mouth.

"Ah ah ah...I'm gonna cum." You whimpered. "I'm gonna cum." Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as both Alex and George quickened their pace inside of you.

"George you almost there?" Alex panted as he asked George.

George groaned loudly which was enough of an indication but he still answered. "Right there with you."

"Let go, darling," Alex spoke to you and even if he hadn't told you your orgasm had already washed over you making you tremble in their arms in pleasure. Your legs shook as you would've fallen forward if it weren't for the boys holding you tightly.

Past your haze, you could hear them grunting as you felt them fill you up, their cream no doubt spilling out of you with how much they stretched you out.

"Fuck-" George sighed as he came down from his high as did Alex.

As expected you were completely tired out...fucked out. The boys carefully pulled out of you knowing how sensitive you were. They both took the time to wash you.

Alex continued his caresses on your hair now with shampoo and conditioner and George washed your body softly being careful between your legs but still making sure you were cleaned between them.

"D'you feel better darling?" George asked placing a kiss on your temple as he dried your hair.

"Much better." You sighed contently as you let your boys take care of you. Like they always did.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Truth Serum

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!cop!reader

Summary: While searching for an abducted child, you and Tim are abducted and injected with truth serum.

Warnings: fluff, angst, child abduction, drugging, Tim and reader make out while working

Word Count: 2.6k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

“Bradford,” Wade calls over the radio. “We got an anonymous tip about the AMBER alert. The caller said a car matching the alert description was parked outside the Los Angeles Memorial Sports Arena.”

“We’re responding,” Tim replies. “Why the arena?” he asks you.

“It wouldn’t be very busy this time of day. Stay low there until there’s a crowd tonight and disappear with them,” you hypothesize. “Or something happened, and they had to stop.”

Tim nods as he turns on the shop’s lights. He doesn’t want to alert the abductor that the police are coming, but he needs to get there fast. Once you find the car, you’re a step closer to recovering the kidnapped child. The AMBER alert is several hours old, and the longer it takes, the more your chances of finding the child healthy and alive diminish.

“Take the next left,” you tell Tim. “If we can get in the back way, they shouldn’t see us coming.”

Tim takes your advice without argument, which surprises you. Calls with kids are some of the hardest, but when you know one’s in danger, everything changes. Part of what makes Tim such a good cop is his ability to separate his emotions, but the moment you got the AMBER alert notification, he tightened his grip on the wheel and told dispatch to let you and him patrol for the car.

“There it is,” Tim murmurs as he stops behind a partial wall in the parking lot.

The silver sedan you’ve spent the morning hunting for waits in a parking spot as if it’s just a normal day. You can’t see signs of anyone in the car, and Tim opens his door quietly and steps out. As you open your door, you notice something under the sedan less than 100 yards from you.

“Tim, it’s a trap,” you say quickly.

He turns toward you and gestures for you to get back in the car, but the car explodes, and you’re slung back against the shop before you take another step. You reach toward Tim where he lays behind you, but a booted foot kicks your hand away.

“Time to serve and protect,” the man standing above you says.

He drops a wet rag on your face, and you lose consciousness before you realize it’s not water.

 “Hey, c’mon,” Tim whispers.

He jostles your wrist with his fingertips as he demands you talk to him. When you realize that he’s asking for a response, you squeeze your eyes closed and grunt. Tim takes it as enough of a sign that you’re still alive and stops talking.

“Where are we?” you ask, blinking slowly. “Are you tied up?”

“Welcome back,” Tim murmurs grumpily. “You don’t handle chloroform very well.”

“My bad,” you reply sarcastically. “Have they been back?”

“No.”

“How mad are you?”

Tim makes a sound that you take as a sign to stop talking. For someone so eager to hear your voice a moment ago, your questions changed his mind quickly. Behind you, metal scrapes as a door opens. You hear heavy footsteps and assume that it’s the man who knocked you out.

“Glad to see you’re both feeling better. Need those minds as sharp and clear as we can get them,” he says. “I’m George.”

“And I’m the man in yellow,” you reply under your breath.

“Cute,” George murmurs. “You’re just here to help. If you found the car, you know about the kid.”

“The kid you abducted?” Tim asks.

“Details, details… Either you start telling me what you know, or I beat it out of your friend here.”

Tim’s fingers press against your wrist as he flexes beneath his restraints. George laughs, and you turn your neck painfully in an attempt to see him.

“You’ll get a turn,” George promises when he notices your movement. “If neither of you is feeling talkative, perhaps you need some courage.”

George walks around Tim, and you track him as he stops before you. He’s larger than he seemed in the parking lot. As he smiles down at you, you relax. If he thinks you’re intimidated, he has you where he wants you.

“Do you want to tell me anything?” George asks.

“Your right boot is scuffed,” you answer. “Little saddle soap would buff it right out.”

George clenches his jaw as he reaches into his pocket. He withdraws a syringe, and your eyes widen as you push back against the chair you’re tied to. His smile grows as he reaches for your forearm.

“Don’t,” you demand. “Don’t touch me.”

Tim moves behind you, but there’s nothing he can do to help.

“Don’t worry, Officer Bradford,” George calls. “You’ll get a turn too.”

George slides the needle under your skin and looks directly into your eyes as he depresses the syringe. He pulls the used needle out and tosses it into the corner of the room. After he pats your arm, he returns to Tim’s side.

“What was that? What is it?” you demand, pulling against your restraints.

A bead of blood appears on the surface of the skin. Tim is likely being injected too, but you need to know what George is pumping into you.

“Back up,” Tim growls from behind you.

“Gladly,” George answers. “To answer your question, sodium thiopental. Enjoy the next few minutes of control.”

As the door slams behind George, you exclaim, “Truth serum?”

“It doesn’t work,” Tim says.

“Yeah,” you agree. “But this idiot doesn’t know that.”

“And you want to pretend it does?” Tim questions. “For what?”

“He gets fed up and tells us what he knows… I hope.”

Tim hums and his fingers press against your skin. “Let’s try it.”

“Hello again,” George says as he returns.

“Hi,” you blurt out.

“So glad to hear some excitement. We’ll start easy. Why are you here?”

“Because we’re cops and someone said the AMBER alert car was here,” Tim answers.

“Oh, so grumpy does speak,” George muses happily. “In that case...”

George grabs the side of your chair and spins it quickly. You’re beside Tim now; his arm is pressed to yours and you can look at him without straining. The plan is working already.

“Glad you’re okay,” Tim tells you.

“Not the truth we’re looking for,” George interrupts. “Tell me, what do the police think?”

“Lots of things,” you answer. “You-“ you interrupt yourself off with a giggle – “you have to be more specific.”

“Where do they think the kid is?” George clarifies.

“With the bad guy,” Tim says. “The guy who drives the silver sedan… Did you steal it?”

“Do they have a name, a face? Who is the suspect?” George is getting agitated, exactly as you hoped.

“A face...” you repeat. You look toward Tim and say, “You… you have the prettiest face ever. I want to marry you.”

Tim takes the confession in stride, likely assuming that you’re still playing I’m high on sodium thiopental.

“You’re the best partner I’ve ever had,” Tim replies, leaning toward you.

“Listen!” George demands. He places his hand over your jaw to direct your face toward his. “Where is the kid?”

“The kid?” you ask, your voice distorted by his grip on your face.

“Mmhmm. Where did they take him?”

George releases your face, and you stretch your jaw out as you turn toward Tim.

“Kids… Tim, I want to have your babies. You’d have pretty babies. And smart babies.”

Tim nods along, but there’s a faraway look in his eyes that you don’t recognize. He’s either playing up the truth serum bit, or something else is happening. George slaps the side of your face before he storms out of the room. You smile at Tim, despite the deepening hand print covering your jaw.

“Pretty and smart babies?” Tim asks.

“You weren’t giving me anything to work with,” you point out with a shrug.

“I like listening.”

“Well, it is truth serum,” you murmur.

When George returns, he shoves a picture in your face.

“My son, where did they take him?” he demands.

“Son?” you and Tim ask together.

“Oh!” you exclaim when you see the picture. “George, listen, we can help. But you have to let us go.”

“Why would I do that? You people are the reason he’s gone!”

“George,” you repeat softly. “We know that the man who reported his abduction is really his stepfather, and half of the LAPD is looking for your son, but we don’t know where he is yet.”

“He never would’ve disappeared if you hadn’t taken him away from me!”

“Then let me help,” you implore.

George stares at you for a few seconds before he nods. He cuts your restraints and steps back as you stand. You pull Tim’s handcuffs from his belt as you move, just in case.

“Let’s go,” he commands.

You shake your head and point to Tim. “Both of us.”

“No,” George answers. “Help me and I’ll let you come back to get him later. We’re going.”

George grabs your arm and shoves you harshly toward the door. You could fight back, but without Tim to back you up, it would go poorly fast.

“Tim, I’ll be back,” you promise.

“Be careful,” he mouths silently.

You nod and hold his eyes until the door closes. As you follow George through the underground tunnel, you watch him closely.

“Dad!” someone yells deeper in the tunnel.

“George,” you say lowly. “What did you do?”

“He’s my son!” George bellows.

He turns toward you with your gun aimed at your chest. You raise your hands and maintain eye contact with him.

“This doesn’t end well for you,” you tell him. “What was the goal?”

“His stepdad is looking for him,” George explains. “I can’t lose my son again.”

“So… what?”

“You would bring him here, lure that monster here, and I would save my son!”

“George, it doesn’t work like that. You kill his stepdad, you injure me or my partner, and you go to prison. So that little boy in there still loses you. You’re stuck, George.”

“No!” he yells. “No, I have the gun and my son.”

“And when you have to run? You drag him with you?”

“I- we-“

“You didn’t think that far?” you guess. “You don’t get out of this, George. Not like this.”

“Dad!” his son yells again.

“He needs you right now. If you let me go, surrender, and return that little boy to his mother-“

“The court takes him again.”

“But you still get to see him. What’s better, George? Taking him from everything he loves or seeing him when it’s good for him?”

The gun falters in George’s hand, and when he begins to lower it, you surge forward. As your shoulder collides with his chest, you pull your gun from his grip. It fires into the tunnel as you wrestle George to the ground. The moment you push him to the concrete and secure your cuffs on him, George begins crying.

“Save the tears for your court date,” you respond. “Where’s my radio? My phone?”

George shakes his head, and you sigh in exasperation. You pull his shoulders to help him into a seated position against the concrete wall.

“Stay here,” you demand. George nods vehemently, and you ask, “Where’s your son?”

“Third door on the left,” he answers through sniffles.

You walk to the third door and open it carefully. The little boy runs to you and hugs your legs as he rambles about how his father took him from his mom’s house and won’t tell him anything.

“It’s okay, buddy,” you assure him. “Here, can you hold my handcuffs? I need someone to keep them ready until I come back.”

He nods and accepts the handcuffs. As he sits on the thin mattress behind him and toys with the mechanical lock, you return to the main tunnel. George doesn’t speak as you pass him, nor when you take the knife from his side.

You open the door to the room where Tim is waiting and step inside. He looks up quickly and blows out a large breath. His jaw tightens quickly, and you notice blood running down his left hand.

“George is in cuffs outside,” you say. You squat before Tim and begin cutting his restraints. “And his son is fine. Babysitting your cuffs at the moment.”

You set the knife aside and focus on gently freeing Tim's bloodied wrist, oblivious to how he watches you. His skin has been scraped raw from tugging against the rope to get out and get to you. He heard the gunshot and assumed the worst, then you came in like nothing happened.

The moment Tim is free, you stand and offer a hand to him. Tim knocks your hand out of the way as he stands. You begin to ask him if he’s okay, but his hands rise to your shoulders, his thumbs against the pillar of your neck. Before you finish the question, Tim presses himself closer to you and kisses you. You blink in surprise but melt into his affection quickly. As you slide your arms over his shoulder and move with Tim, you wonder how much of his action is adrenaline and if there’s anything in this that he means.

“Officer?” George’s son calls down the tunnel.

You step back and Tim drops his hands to your waist.

“That was…” you begin.

“Truth serum,” Tim finishes. “Let’s go.”

He brushes past you, trailing his right hand over your waist. Outside, he leads George out as you carry his son back into the sunlight. The young boy clings to you, and you comfort him as Tim uses the radio in the shop to alert dispatch and request backup.

“Where’s our stuff?” Tim asks George as he shoves him against the dented back door.

“Threw it in here,” George mumbles against the glass.

“He may be a kidnapper, but he’s no thief,” you murmur.

“You see those dents?” Tim asks lowly, so George’s son doesn’t hear. “Those were made when you tried to kill two cops. All of this for a little boy you’re never going to see again.”

George begins crying again, and Tim rolls his eyes as he looks away. Tim may be good at hiding his emotions on the job, but you know better than anyone that he still feels them and feels them deeply.

The first of many patrol cars pulls into the parking lot, and you nod at Tim before you’re pulled away in the hectic moments that follow your heroic recovery.

You knock on the door once, then pull your hands behind your back. Part of you expects that the door will remain closed, but Kojo barks as Tim opens the door.

“Hi,” you greet, rocking back on your heels. “I- uh- I just wanted to thank you for everything today.”

“Come in,” Tim invites.

You walk past him, remembering what it felt like to have his hands on you and his lips against yours. As you turn back to Tim, he steps into your space.

“Was any of it true?” he asks.

“It’s called truth serum for a reason,” you whisper.

Tim fails to hide his smile as he says, “Then you think I have a pretty face?”

“The prettiest ever,” you agree.

“And you want to have my babies.”

“I’m pretty sure I said I wanted to get married first,” you point out happily.

Tim’s hands raise toward your face, but he stops when he sees the bruise along your jaw. You catch his left arm and kiss his bandage, the injury underneath caused by concern for you.

“I was going to say I love you,” you murmur. “But I didn’t think you’d believe me.”

“It’s truth serum. I wanted to believe it all,” Tim answers.

“Then kiss me again,” you request softly.

Tim does exactly as you ask, takes your face gently between his hands, and kisses you. It’s just as shocking and enlivening as the first time, and you smile against his lips because it was true. It was all true.

[artdcnaldson]

art donaldson. make me cry on your cock. please. need it to be so hard and rough my little body can hardly take it. need him to ruin me and use me. horny brain. need to be a babysitter dilf!art hires to look after lily. need him to pick me because he thinks i'm pretty, need him to feel disgusting with himself for looking at such a young thing like that. but hire me anyway. need him to lie and insist the AC doesn't work, just so i'll keep wearing short skirts he can look right up under.... many thoughts.....😵‍💫

-🐞

BABYSITTER AU ALWAYS HITS SO CRAZYYYY

He feels so fucking gross like… his wife hired you— you’re working for them because you need a job while you’re in college, and he’s leering at you like a fucking perv.

You’re swimming in the pool with Lily when he gets home and you just giggle and wrap yourself in a towel and say you lost track of time, sorry! And god, just the mental image of you in a wet swimsuit is jerkoff material for the next fucking month.

You’re everywhere— he feels like he’s going crazy. You leave a spoon that you ate ice cream with on the counter and he’s slipping it between his lips, sucking on it like he can taste your spit there, even though all he can taste is metal. Blankets thrown carelessly across the couch smell like you— your perfume and deodorant. On one particularly desperate night, he cums with his face buried into the fabric, practically huffing your scent.

He’s gross, he hates that you’ve made him this way. He’s had plenty of other young, pretty babysitters hired before, but none of them do this to him. None of them fuck with his head this severely.

It all comes to a head when he gets home late one night after a charity function for underprivileged tennis players. Tashi’s away with Patrick, coaching him through the qualifiers for Roland Garros, which leaves him alone. Lily’s asleep when he peeks into her room— tucked in perfectly snug, surrounded by three of her favorite plushies.

But you… he can’t find you anywhere. It’s not until he steps into his bedroom that he hears it— the shutter of a phone camera, a girlish giggle. He steps into the bathroom and sees your shadow dancing across the marble floor, then sees a dress dropped into a heap in the doorway.

When he steps into the closet, you shriek in surprise, holding a hand to your chest. “Fuck— Mr. Donaldson, this isn’t—“ you stop talking, eyes wide, breathing in short, nervous pants.

You’re wearing Tashi’s lingerie. Tashi’s jewelry. The dress heaped on the floor is the one his wife wore to speak at the Stanford Commencement a few months prior. It’s cute— you’re playing dress up as his wife— but it sets an uncomfortable heat blooming in his stomach.

“Turn around,” he says, letting his eyes roam over your figure. You look pretty in lingerie that nice, that expensive. It’s got to be worth more than your fucking car payment.

“Mr. Donaldson—“ you stammer, shy now that you’ve been caught. He nods and you obey, biting down on your pouty bottom lip as you turn slowly for him.

“Take it off.” You quickly slip off the jewelry— the diamond earrings, the necklace, the rings, the Rolex. You drop it onto the vanity table and stare down at the floor. “All of it.”

He watches the bob of your throat as you swallow hard. Your gaze flicks over him quickly, lingering at the evident bulge in his fancy trousers. You obey, standing a little straighter, putting yourself on display for him as you unclasp the bra, let it fall to the floor.

Your nipples are already pebbled with arousal, and you slowly drag your hands over them, playing with them while Art watches. Art swallows hard as your hands trail down to toy with the waistband of the panties before you slip them down your legs.

“Hand them to me.” You’re trembling as you reach down and grab them, taking nervous steps forward before you place them into his open palm. He swallows hard, feeling the way your arousal has already soaked through the fabric.

Your feet are fidgeting where you stand— toes curling and uncurling into the plush carpet in the closet. “Does trying on Tashi’s clothes make you wet?”

“No, sir,” you answer quickly.

“Then what?”

You blink shyly, sweetly up at him. “Pretending I’m your wife does.” Jesus fucking Christ. “Imagining in her, that you’re going to come home from a busy night and stuff me full of cum. You know this set still had the tags on it? If I were her I’d wear things like this every n—”

He grabs your jaw hard, silencing you with a squeeze. “Stop fucking talking. I’m trying to— I’m trying to be decent.”

Decent. It’s laughable. You’re stripped naked before him on his orders. He’s holding panties you drenched with your arousal in his other hand, and all he can think is how bad he wants to taste them— taste you.

“Don’t.” You say, blinking up at him. “Don’t be decent.”

He releases your jaw, and you’re on your knees in an instant. Your hands work his belt, and he doesn’t move to stop you. He lets you pull it from the loops, undo the button and zip of his pants and push them down his thighs.

“I’ll stop,” you say as you pepper a soft kiss to his thigh. “Tell me to.”

He swallows, then groans as you palm his dick through the briefs he wears, tracing the length of him in your hand. He doesn’t want you to fucking stop.

And why would he want you to stop when you swallow him down so perfectly? Exactly how he knew you would. You’re blinking up at him with your lips wrapped around his cock, moaning at the taste of him.

He thought you’d be sweet and innocent, but you’re taking him deeper, spit spills from the sides of your mouth as you take him into your throat. Don’t even fucking gag at all, just breathe through your nose and lave your tongue along the underside of his dick, tracing along the vein there.

You moan around him when he grabs a fistful of your hair, holds you in place while he fucks into the wet heat of your mouth. You just take it, even as his full balls slap against your chin with every thrust, as his cockhead knocks against the back of your throat.

He can’t take that anymore. He bends you over Tashi’s vanity, makes you watch yourself in the mirror as he splits you open on his cock. You mewl, eyes rolling back. “Fuck, Mr. Donaldson— you’re so big, feel so good—“ you cry out, a dopey, pleased smile on your face.

He hooks two fingers in your mouth to shut you up as he pounds into your cunt, forcing little squeaks and muffled cries from your mouth. God, your pussy is so perfect— soaking wet, tight as a fucking virgin even though he knows you’re not one— not by a fucking long shot.

He should’ve known. Pretty college girl begging for a job, taunting him with your pretty body, flirting with him any chance you got. He should’ve smelled the daddy issues on you and turned you away. Tashi should have.

But she didn’t, and you were both reaping the benefits now.

[ay0nha]

Treacle Tart | Hobie Brown

SUMMARY: Underneath the mask, his eyes widened. Hobie wasn’t often surprised. His abilities would ease the pain quicker than most, but you were right; a hospital would help. But his abilities, the parts that felt like instinct, took over. The threat was taken care of, and he swung and swung, furthering himself from the aftermath only to find himself seeking you out in the end.

PAIRING: Hobie Brown x gn!reader

WORD COUNT:1.5K

WARNINGS: mentions of injuries, canon-typical things, cockney slang coming from an American, established pining, a smooch, etc.

A/N:  I just say the new movie and wrote this in one sitting, so mind the errors and lack of coherency. This is ENTIRELY inspired by the lovely @strangesem​​‘s headcanons (find here). Enjoy. Slang used: Day’s a-dawning - Morning / Duck and dive - hide / Treacle Tart - sweetheart

It always happened late into the night. Oftentimes, if you tried hard enough, you could see the sun starting to rise above the skyline. Yet, when you squinted what was before you, the silhouette worked out to be the vigilante that gravitated towards you. 

“Spider-Man—” You caught your words, seeing how he leaned against the windowsill he crawled through. His breathing was ragged and wet, representing the severity he was trying to hide. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, yeah, nothing to worry ‘bout, love—” He winced, pausing when he attempted to stand at his full height. “Just a, just a—” His usual humor was cut off by a sharp intake of breath. “I’ll be—

“No…” You shook your head, repeating yourself a few times as he attempted to push past you. Normally, he sought you with scratches, things that hadn’t always warranted things outside a pre-supplied med kit. This, though, this was out of your depth. 

“Day’s a-dawning, I don’t have time to pop into hospital.” The cockney slang made you frown, and it deepened as he tried to push past you. “You know I have to duck and dive.”

“No—You can’t talk your way out of this one.” Your tone was firm, loud—different. It blocked him physically from moving past the doorway. 

Underneath the mask, his eyes widened. Hobie wasn’t often surprised. His abilities would ease the pain quicker than most, but you were right; a hospital would help. But his abilities, the parts that felt like instinct, took over. The threat was taken care of, and he swung and swung, furthering himself from the aftermath only to find himself seeking you out in the end. 

As strong as he tried to be, detach himself from genuine connections, you were like a magnet. You were quiet; really quiet. You’d mumbled your thank you’s, whispered apologies, and generally went out of your way not to interact with people as a whole. It was just what you preferred, how you worked. The simplicity of it, the gentleness and softness of your presence, was what drew Hobie in and what had made him return. His lifestyle was loud, he thrived in it. But to find something, someone—you—that shared likes and dislikes but in your own way was alluring. 

Even now, for the man who always knew what to say, he felt at a loss for words. Blood was on your door frame, but it didn’t matter with the way Spider-Man slinked down. He slouched into his shoulder, out of pain or desire; you weren’t sure. 

“...I don’t have things here for....” You pointed to the deep gash on his arm. Selfishly, you used his wounds as a buffer from the warmth that bloomed from the proximity. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“But I like you so much better.” Hobie was never shy with compliments. It was another thing simple to him; he liked what he liked and didn’t what he didn’t. You picked up on that quickly. Yet, it hadn’t quite hit you the way it was now. 

You hadn’t wanted to discredit yourself, but if you said it aloud, you knew it would sound absurd. There he was the Spider-Man, standing in front of you. He was bleeding a lot, breath rough due to no doubt broken bones. Yet, his presence alone told you that his first thought was you. The warmth in your chest carried to the tips of your fingers at the realization. You could feel your hands starting to shake with nerves as you fiddled with them. 

“You’re staring.” The shit-eating grin could be felt, practically burning through his mask. You envied his composure despite his state. 

So with a stutter of an apology, and after stammering around for a moment, you finally accepted the job that you felt unqualified for. You could tell the disinfectant stung with every flinch Hobie offered you. You grimaced with guilt, but a part of you was relieved he was still breathing. 

“Thought you were supposed to be nicer than them nurses.” He squirmed with discomfort. You knew he used humor to deflect, but you appreciated his demeanor. It calmed you as you continued to dress his wounds. 

You never asked about the trouble he found himself in the middle of. It wasn’t your business, and if you truly were curious, you could turn on the news.  But again, this was different, more serious. This was the first time you truly felt worried. 

It caused you to focus intently on cleaning his wounds. It felt like the only thing you could possibly control. You took your time intentionally, making sure that not only the details of it were secure but that you could have a moment to revel in his tangible life. 

Once finished, you both remained still. His eyes burned your skin, but you refused to look up when asking, “That’s everywhere, right? I didn’t miss something?”

Without words, he pulled at his mask, needing the air to see you directly. Your eyes flicked up to be met with deep brown ones. The piercings weren’t the shock, the desire on his expression was. He looked at you with such intent, as if every moment was planned for despite its incredible impulsivity. 

“Hobie.” He introduced himself, smirk settling naturally. You blinked hard, words unable to form for a few beats. Hobie revealed himself easily, readily. It felt as though he held onto it prior only to tease you. 

“You’re not supposed to tell me that.” You whispered, shock still dictating your moves. 

“Nah–You know I do what I’m not supposed to.” He drawled, accent seemingly thicker. Through your consistent stare, Hobie could see the questions filtering through your eyes. He would answer them all, but he sought more of your comfort. 

Despite his rough exterior and pointed words, he was soft. Especially as he traced your face with his eyes only to follow the pattern with the pads of his fingers. The night was rough, he hated to admit it, but it was. Things got out of hand but were handled. 

Moments like those reminded him that he was someone under the mask. He was more than the Spider-Man.  He stood for things beyond that and moments like this, moments involving you, helped ground him in his beliefs. 

Mimicking the softness you offered him, he reached for your chin with a gentle hold. “I’m thinking I’m overdue for a thank you.”

“Oh?” You breathed out your words, feeling how they fanned across Hobie’s face the way his had. The draw to each other was simultaneous and had gone relatively unnoticed.

“Mhmm...” He hummed, head tilting to get a good look at you. He was memorizing the moment, the same way you had.

There was no  burning, all-consuming feeling that threatened to swallow you whole.  Rather, it was steady, welcomed. It had been in the making from the first time he saved you. You had apologized to him then, as if saving you from a robber had inconvenienced him. Your kindness permeated the interaction and Hobie desired more.

The joking, the teasing, all of it, was apart of an expected outcome. He resisted due to his position, wanting to keep you out of danger, to feel indifferent. But it was an injustice in itself to even think of doing that to you.

You felt silly at first, caring so deeply for someone behind a mask. The nights he didn’t come stumbling in to talk your ear off about a new album, you thought on the relationship. You assured yourself you were a friend. A friend that was there for the occasional patch up because in what reality would a superhero of all things would compromise that.

The reasoning, on either part, was to reflect so-called responsibility, but it only reflected what you both wanted. So to mix your breath, lean in close to have knees touch, it felt...good. It felt right. Your shyness was still there, but channeled in a way of excitement.

“You let me do this, and I’ll never stop.” He whispered along your lips. He needed to know he wasn’t crossing any boundaries while placing his feelings on the line. 

Neither could remember how your faces gravitated towards each other, but it was most likely due to how Hobie’s thumb was to your lip, an eye trained to where he'd just traced. It was a preface to how your lips connected: quiet and barely there, a tender peck as if to soothe you mixed with something innocent.  Then he pecked you once more slightly less tentative and less friendly. It wasn't until the third you melted into his touch, reciprocating the same level if not more emotion.

His thumbs brushed over your temple, and you leaned into the kiss Hobie  deepened. The action made your chest heat, so forthright, as though he  didn’t truly understand the emotions he invoked. Hobie took a bit of  pleasure in it that maybe you’re just as affected by him as he was by  you. It wasn’t a new relationship by any means, but it was, at the same time.

When you pull away, he looks slightly dazed, and you commit the sight of him  like this to memory, the harshness of life nowhere to be found. “...Thank you.”

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Taken: Refusal

It’s past 8pm and you’re walking to your car, one of the last people in the office to leave again. He smiles darkly as he hears the click of your heels against the asphalt, coming towards him. He’s leaning against the wall, covered by the shadow of the parking garage, waiting for you. Your attention is on your purse as you dig through it, looking for your keys. You don’t stand a chance when he surges out of his hiding spot towards you. He grabs you by the throat and pulls your back against his front and shoves a syringe into your arm with his free hand. You’re out cold before you even have time to react.

He catches your body easily, carrying you to your car. He slides your prone body into the trunk, closes the lid, gets into the front seat, and drives away.

Thirty minutes later, he pulls into the garage of a house at the edge of town, miles away from anything and anyone else. He pulls you out of the trunk and carries you into the house, down the stairs, into the basement. There, he gets to work.

The basement room is well-lit and set up almost like a bedroom. A beautiful king-sized bed sits in the middle of the room with a dark wooden dresser against the wall, and a second door leading to a well-decorated bathroom. The only thing out of place is the large St. Andrew’s cross opposite the bed. He hums slightly as he works, feeling giddy with excitement at finally having you here. He‘s not in a rush, he’d injected you with enough sedative to keep you unconscious for several hours, giving him plenty of time to do what he needs to.

The first thing he does is cut away your clothes. He takes care not to accidentally nick you with the knife and smooths his hands across your body gently, almost reverently. He sighs a little, you aren’t going to be happy when you wake up, but soon, he’ll show you how good it is here. And you’ll be so happy with him.

He ties your naked body to the cross, your arms and legs spread eagle and affixed to the wood with rope. He wraps an extra piece of rope around your waist to keep you in place so you won’t be able to move when you wake up.

He runs his fingers up your thigh, watching as goosebumps erupt in his wake. Your skin is so soft. His fingers keep going upwards, going to between your legs as he parts your folds with his fingers. He slides his finger over your clit, rubbing gently at first, then with more pressure. Your breathing hitches and your body twitches slightly as the pleasure permeates into your unconscious mind. He smiles, rubbing faster and harder against your clit. He slides a second finger against your slit, feeling the moisture starting to gather. You’re so responsive and you’re not even awake yet. He pulls his fingers away, not wanting to have too much fun quite yet. You make a small, simpering noise, almost like you want him to keep going.

He steps away for a second, grabbing a ball gag from his pile of toys. He pulls your hair back gently, opens your mouth, and clips the gag into place. You look so pretty, all tied up and gagged. He grabs a small remote-controlled bullet vibrator next, along with a harness fitted specially for it. He slides the vibrator against you, positioning it directly on your hard little clit and latches the harness around you, keeping the vibrator flush against you. He clicks the remote, and watches as the vibrator starts to buzz at its lowest setting against your clit.

Your body reacts immediately. Your cheeks flush, your breathing deepens, and your legs start to tremble. He runs his fingers against your slit, finding you dripping wet and your pretty pussy clenching. He collects some of your slick on his fingers and brings it to his mouth, savoring the taste of your pussy. He takes a few steps back, sitting down on the bed as he waits.

—

You slowly come into consciousness, feeling your body clench as something is pressed up against your pussy. Something that feels so good. But before you can fully appreciate it, alarm bells are going off in your head. What happened? Where are you? The last thing you remember was going to your car, and then…

You start, remembering the man, being grabbed, the sting of the syringe. Your eyes fly open and you take in several things at once. You’re naked, you’re tied to a cross, you’re gagged, and you’re so close to cumming.

You wail into the gag but the sound is muffled and desperate. Your eyes dart around the room, blinking against the light.

“Welcome back, darling.”

Your eyes shoot to the man. You don’t understand. But before you can think, you see the man click a remote and the vibrating on your clit intensifies. Suddenly all you can think of is the pleasure that’s shooting through your body. You arch your back as much as you can and you scream into the gag as you cum hard. You shake in the ropes slightly as you come down from your high, trembling as the aftershocks hit you and the vibrator is still going strong. Your hips thrust, trying to dislodge the vibrator that’s slowly pushing you towards overstimulation. You wail desperately against the gag. He smiles as he clicks the remote one more time and the vibrations stop.

You’re breathing heavily as you hang from the cross, your body going slack. You whimper into the gag softly.

“That went even better than I’d planned,” he said, clearly proud of himself. He’s deranged, you think to yourself. What the fuck is happening?

“Here I was thinking you’d get nicely started with that bullet vibrator, I didn’t think you’d cum like that right when you woke up. You, my dear, are deliciously responsive.”

He walked towards you, brushing his fingers against your cheek. You shook him off, moving your head has much as you could.

“Tsk tsk don’t be like that.”

“LET ME GO!” You screamed through the gag. It sounded more like “EE ME OO.” But he seemed to get the point.

“Now now let me talk first. You’ll want to hear me out. I know exactly who you are and what I’m doing. I took you and I am keeping you and the sooner you accept that, the better it will all be.” You shake your head in confusion.

“You see, I know your type, the pretty girl with not much in your life. You have a mediocre job, very few friends, no boyfriend, hardly any family. No one will miss you. No one will look for you.” As he speaks, his fingers begin to trail up and down your torso. He circles your breasts, gently rubbing your stomach before coming to a stop right above your pelvis.

Real fear strikes you in that moment. He’s right. No one would come for you. You don’t even know if anyone would file a missing person’s report. Maybe your boss when you don’t show up for work but realistically, they’d just hire someone else to replace you in a few weeks. You’re shaking as you stare back at him.

“Now, lucky for you, I think you’re perfect for me. Exactly what I’m looking for in a pretty little pet. All it’s gonna take is a little training.”

Your eyes widen and you scream objections into the gag. He looks annoyed now, and the hand that was rubbing gentle circles against your hip suddenly tightened into a bruising grip. He came in close, close enough for you to see the flecks of color in his eyes.

“You were doing so well, don’t make me punish you already.”

You scream even more, wailing, hoping that maybe someone will hear you and come to help. His bruising grip on your hip loosens for a second and suddenly, he slaps you across the face.

You start in pain but mostly in shock and fear. The slap scared you more than it hurt you. Tears welled up in your eyes and you stared back at him desperately.

“Now are you going to be a good girl?” His voice was low and dark, underpined with something that you couldn’t decipher.

You shake your head, fear overriding your sense of self-preservation as you buck and thrash on the cross as if it’ll help you get free.

“Fine, if you won’t be good, I’ll show you what happens to bad girls.”

You struggle harder, desperately trying to get free. He leaves your line of sight and eventually, you tire and start to sag in your ropes. You hear a click, and suddenly, the vibrator against your clit, the one you’d all but forgotten about in your fear, roars to life. It vibrates furiously against your clit, at an intensity so much higher than before and you feel your pussy clench as you screams at the stimulation. Your previous orgasm seemed so long ago but the violent stimulation quickly overwhelms you.

You whine and shake as you feel yourself rushing to another orgasm.

“Aw honey are you going to cum again? You filthy little whore cumming for your kidnapper while you’re tied up.”

You feel your orgasm coming, the feeling cresting inside of you, when suddenly, the vibrator clicks off.

“No, cumming is for good girls and you were bad.”

You moan into the gag, staring at him with tears in your eyes. Your hips gyrate, trying to find the stimulation to push yourself over the edge but your orgasm is fading quickly.

“You don’t deserve to cum. No, you deserve to be punished.” The dark promise in his voice made your heart pound with fear, but your pussy clenched in response.

He walked up to your body, looking down at your puffy little clit, straining against the vibrator attached to you. He ran his fingers gently over your button, chuckling as you bucked and groaned.

“You’re soaking wet. The perfect little whore for me.” He growled into your ear and kissed the side of your neck softly before sinking his teeth in, feeling you flinch and grow taut as he gently lapped at the sting he’d inflicted. His fingers danced along your slit, running around your lips and clit but never entering you, despite how badly you wanted him to.

“I think this bad little girl needs to think about her mistakes.” He says and he pulls away. He walks a few steps away and you wail against the gag.

“NO PLEASE, DON’T LEAVE ME LIKE THIS!” It comes out garbled but he seems to understand. “You need to learn your lesson, darling.”

He smiles then he leaves. You lean against the cross, feeling drained and defeated but all of a sudden, the vibrator comes to life again. You shriek and thrash, feeling the pleasure in your clit spread as you rush toward an orgasm. But like before, right as you were about to cum, the vibrator stops. You scream desperately, moaning, begging incoherently behind the gag. As the orgasm ebbs away, the vibrator starts again.

[vmbrq]

MINORS DNI ; cnc (breeding?), afab/fem reader

just bc @/hyeyulove said they missed my ethan writing.

giggling rn because being in a relationship with deranged, ghostface ethan landry would be one hell of an experience on its own, but the day you let him fuck you without a condom is the day you can kiss your autonomy GOODBYE LMAOOO that man will NEVER leave you alone. he's already attached to you as is, so you think you can expose him to raw sex with FEELINGS and live the rest of your life in peace? that's actually really funny.

he'll be so needy—pawing at you, pressing up against you, languidly smoothing his hands over your waist and thighs, sheepishly commenting on how good you smell or look, anything to lure you into fulfilling his wishes. even if it's just you sitting on his cock and not moving while you two watch a movie or him teasing only the tip into your cunt, he just wants to feel you. he'd be addicted to how fucking warm and wet you feel without the latex barrier, groaning at how clearly he can feel every twitch and pulse of your walls, his breath hitching as you let him hold you by the hips and slowly guide you up and down along the length of his cock, on the verge of trembling when he clutches you tightly and empties his balls inside you for the second time.

and god forbid you ask him to pull out in the middle of him drilling into you. you're so overwhelmed, crying out and drunk on pleasure, babbling for him to pull out! since it's the only thing you can remember to do. but sometimes, ethan can be so mean when he's in charge. he'd loom over you, eyes wild and dark, lips pulled back into a mocking grin, and laugh. you think you have a chance at deterring him? that's cute. he'd take your moment of bewilderment as you stare up at him with wide eyes to hook his hands under your knees and fold your lower half up and into a mating press.

you don't have a snowball's chance in hell at pushing him off. he's far too heavy, too strong, and he'll reinforce your lack of control by leaning his weight on you to keep you pinned helplessly in place. all you can do is moan and whine and wince, embarrassed, at the obscene squelch of his cock bullying its way deep inside your sticky, overstimulated cunt and the slap of his heavy balls against your pelvis. but as overstimulated as you are, you don’t dislike it. he knows you don’t. if you did, your cunt wouldn’t be squeezing around his cock to keep him inside every time his hips pulled back a bit further than usual. you’re like an open book. he knows you by now.

on another note, the amount of text messages he sends you will increase in general, and if you don't reply within the time frame he deems acceptable, he'll start blowing up your phone. you'll wake up from a long nap, disoriented and not even remembering who the hell you are, and find several missed calls and texts from him as well as your man HIMSELF standing outside your bedroom window.

and those little couples pranks you see on tiktok, the one especially that's like "texting my bf he's gone, you can come over now?" yeah, you can't do that LMAOOO that man is INSANE. you remember how strong he was in that apartment scene where he was terrorizing the core four? HELL nah. you can damn near hear his car tires screech from down the STREET as he swerves around and heads back to you. in his brain, oh, so you think you can just be handing out pussy that good all willy nilly? 🤨 yeah okay. i know that the way he tried to kick in that bedroom door had y'all feeling something, bc me too.

he wouldn't try to kick it down immediately, but he'd stand out there seething, jaw locked, knocking on the door a little harder than normal, fighting to keep his voice even so he won't scare you out of letting him in. but his patience would dwindle rapidly. his behavior would be erratic, switching between pleading and persuasion and guilt-tripping and banging on the door and yelling so quickly you can barely keep up. babe you are playing with your LIFE😭 that pussy got him in a chokehold, and he'll be damned if anyone even gets the opportunity.