#if anyone wants to looks deeper into that

[intromortal]

ꕥ NICE N' FULL ⸝⸝⸝ six different scenarios in which the enhypen members breed the fuck out of you !

⚠︎ smut. mdni. breeding kink, mentions of pregnancy, p in v, dirty talking, pet names, more warnings listed for each member. total wc 4k. ⸻ rules ⋆ m.list

✷ NIA — not exactly what bae @vampsol asked for bc i went a little au-ish here :p but it's me so what did we expect. shoutout to my goat @karinasbaby for sharing a braincell with me and helping me w the ideas <3

ꕥ LEE HEESEUNG

arranged marriage, it's okay they're starting to be obsessed with each other, slight somno, oral (f. rec), cum eating

If you were to tell anyone Heeseung didn't as much as look you in the eyes about two months ago, they'd never believe you. Not if the way he's clinging to your lower half before he even opens his eyes fully is anything to go by. Still naked in bed, the wet sheets clinging to your bodies the only thing shielding you from the cool dawn air.

Marriages of convenience are rarely easy, especially for spirits as free as Heeseung, and he's made it clear to you how much he'd rather have married anyone else instead. They also come with burdensome expectations of heirs way too soon for his liking. Yet, something about your devotion to him in your most intimate moments despite your general indifference and coldness towards each other, brought the cold and hard as steel man down to his knees, a puddle of mush at your feet ready to fulfill any request.

"Hee," you mutter softly against your pillow as he parts your legs to make space for himself, and Heeseung's heart soars. A month ago it would've been 'Heeseung' or 'husband' with that venomous tone you seemed to only reserve for him, like his spot in your life was only a joke. It's different now, you're tender with him.

"Shh, pretty. Just lay here for me like this." It's still early, and Heeseung can barely see, but he wants the first thing he looks at in the morning to be your pretty hole, raw and sore from all the previous fucking, still gush his seed out. He parts your folds slowly, careful not to hurt you, and watches as his milky cum greets him, pouring out of you. It's a sight for sore eyes, and one he knows he will never get enough of. Even when he'll manage to put a child in you, he knows this is something he won't be able to let go of.

You shift, now more aware of your surroundings, but Hee is quick to keep you still. Your hand underneath your stomach faintly tingles because of its weird position, but it all fades in the background when Heeseung grabs your ass and spreads it, moving lap at where his cum is gushing out of you.

You're still sensitive from the night you spent together, but his touch is feather light and you don't really know if you want him to stop or you want more. He moans at the mixture of your tastes, pushing his tongue deeper inside your cunt like he's trying to clean you, switching so soft kisses on your lips once he's satisfied.

He makes his way up to your face, littering your bottom and spine in kisses and playful nibbles, relishing in the little sounds you make in response. Your front is still pressed to the mattress, and not seeing him almost makes you believe this is not the Heeseung that was shooting you sharp glares throughout the entire wedding ceremony. His touch is warmer, so much more delicate than the way he held your end that first night. His kisses are slow and deliberate, not empty and forced anymore. It's like soul has find its way back into Heeseung's being, after months of being a cold slate. The change started out slowly, but now you're here, and you genuinely feel like you could really love this man. Maybe a part of you does already.

His voice is the same, but the tone makes him sound like a whole different person, the forever present irritation is gone, only a playful tilt to it left as he finally reaches your ear to whisper in it. "Slipped out while sleeping, all of our hard work gone… such a pity." Heeseung aligns his cock to your weeping cunt, rubbing his head a few times along your folds, then carefully pushes in. "We have to do it all over again."

He's gentle, showering you in soft praises, and his thrusts are even slower. You've never known anything other than fucking, but you think this is what lovemaking feels like.

"So good, baby. You'll be such a good mom, you've been so patient with me even when i didn't deserve it. You'll be wonderful," he whispers in your ear, raising goosebumps all over your skin at just how sweet he sounds. "You are wonderful. You're perfect."

ꕥ PARK JONGSEONG

husband!jay, semi-public, bulge kink, he's insatiable

What better way to spend your honeymoon trip if not by getting filled over and over again by your dear, newlywed husband?

You can't think of any, but maybe that's also because you can't really think about anything that's not the delicious drag of Jay's cock against your walls. So deep inside you, pushing more even when his balls are already flush to your skin. Like he can't get enough, like he could break any barrier and mold into you as one if he really put his mind to it. He needs more, you both do.

But one thing's for sure, he's giving you his all.

"So fucking good, my wife has the best pussy. So perfect for me," he pants hotly in your ear, his large warm hand cupping your breast and separating it from the frigid glass your front is pushed against. The view from your suite is breathtaking, emphasized by the huge transparent wall, right beside the queen sized bed. At the moment though, you're not really focused on it. Nor is Jay, too busy gawking at your beautiful figure caged between his chest and the glass. He could stare at you forever. "I'm gonna stuff you full, baby. Gonna fuck you so good all trip, there's no way you won't be pregnant by the end."

You believe it, because all he's done ever since you undid your luggage in the middle of the room once you arrived to your destination is pump you full of his cum, all day, all night. And then all over again. Only stopping to get you food. You aren't safe from him when showering, even worse when taking a bath, definitely not when you're lounging around the natural pool close to your suite. It's not his fault you look so good in the bathing suits you packed and the ones he picked out for you. Jay has always had good stamina, but ever since the wedding he's been downright feral.

His thrusts are slow, but intense, like he's trying to drag the pleasure out as long as he can, savoring the way his tip nudges just the right stop that has you mewling in his hold every single time. His breath is warm against your neck and so are his grunts of pleasure, your favorite sound in the whole world.

Jay twists your sensitive and sore nipples between his fingers, only smiling into your neck when you reward him with the cutest mewls he's ever heard in his life. "Fuck, baby. I'm the luckiest man alive. I can't believe you're mine forever."

"You too," you whine in response.

"Yes baby, I'm all yours, forever. I love you much."

"Love you too," you sob, throwing your head back into his shoulder, completely overtaken by the pleasure he's giving you, allowing him more access to lick and suck on your sensitive neck.

"I know, baby. I know. You're doing so good, just a little more. My sweet girl, you'll be such a good mom. Can't wait to make you one. We'll have so many, so many cute kids running around. Doesn't that sound like a dream? Fuck, I can't wait."

The hand still playing with your tits slides down to your stomach, pushing down on it until Jay can feel his own cock thrusting into you. "Right here, you're gonna carry our baby here." He keeps fucking into you slowly, deliberately, so different from the speed of the circles he draws on your clit with the fingers that were soothing your hip just moments before. He drags out his own pleasure, but needs to give you so much more. "Come on my cock baby, milk it dry. We have so much more work to do."

ꕥ SIM JAEYUN

fwb!jake but he has feelings, he's down bad and a little subby in this one, dub-con (for jake), slight blood play (just his lip)

This is a series of mistakes. It's all Jake seems to be doing as of lately.

First of all, he's not even supposed to be in your bed again, the fourth time this week. Not when he finally came to terms with the fact that he has developed a raging crush on you and cannot keep his feelings at bay any longer, even when you two agreed this whole arrangement will only be sex and nothing else.

But he can't help it when you're so fucking addicting. You not liking him back is gonna break his heart, but at least he gets to fuck you, at least he gets a little piece of you, even if it's not exactly the one he wants.

Secondly, he should've refused to fuck you raw for the first time the moment you asked, even if the thought alone had his eyes crossing and rolling all the way to the back of his skull. But he's a weak man, for you especially, and he simply couldn't resist the temptation, not when you looked up at him with your big glossy eyes and with such a cute pout on your lip.

So here he is now, fucking you raw like his life is on the line, trying his hardest not to spill inside you too soon because if he does he might just die from embarrassment.

All he does, all he's ever done, is with the purpose of impressing you. It's like you have him chained up to this invisible leash he didn't even notice you put on him, and now it's too late to take it off. Jake means it when he says he would do anything for you.

His thrusts are shallow and quick, he's fucking you mostly with his tip, and you don't think you've ever seen him so worked up. It makes you feel things you didn't even know you needed. You like the feeling.

"You're so cute like this, Jakey," you giggle into the messy open mouthed kiss he's drowning you in, your fingers ghosting on the muscles of his back while his tremble on your waist. "Fuck me deeper, I want to feel all of you."

Jake's hips still for a second as he bites down on his bottom lip so hard he draws blood, but you don't mind at all. You even lick it clean, sighing dreamily at the iron taste overtaking your senses. Jake's eyes screw shut, and he's so close to cumming his eyes start to water. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him, and thinking that this might very well be the last time only makes his eyes wetter.

"I—fuck. I can't. I'll cum too soon."

"That's okay, we can go again," you say it like it's the most obvious thing in the world, and a little piece of Jake's heart breaks. He doesn't know how much more of this he can take.

You sense his hesitation and wrap your legs around his hips, pushing them closer to your pelvis so his length fully sheaths inside you. It's so warm and big and throbbing to release his cum in you and there's not a single thing you want more. "Fill me up, Jakey. Claim me," you whisper in his ear. "Why don't you show everyone I belong to you?"

Jake resumes his movements, tentatively at first but steadily building a pace that feels good, his thrusts are deeper now, needier, and even if he were to try to pull out, you'd keep him right there. "I want to. I want you fully, fuck— please be mine," he sobs into the valley of your breasts, voice muffled as he licks and nips at your skin.

"Go on. Make me yours then. Show me how bad you want me."

And he does because fuck, he's weak. He's so fucking weak for you and he wouldn't have it any other way.

ꕥ PARK SUNGHOON

coworker!hoon, secret relationship, semi-public, degradation, jealousy, mentions of marriage

Something about the way Sunghoon's thick eyebrows were furrowed from the second he walked into the job that morning, or how his jaw clenched as he gritted his teeth whenever any of your colleagues as much as opened their mouths to say something, should've been your cue to behave for the day.

Unfortunately for everyone involved, he happens to look so damn hot when he's pissed.

And he's so filthy when he's jealous, pushing his buttons becomes your favorite challenge in times like these.

"Eyeing Jake all day like you want to bring him to the back and fuck him, are you not ashamed?" he spits, voice an octave lower than usual and barely slipping through his gritted teeth. "Bending over in front of him, touching him when you know I can see you. Do I have to mark you up for you to fucking behave for once?"

The roughness in his voice makes your eyes wet but your panties wetter, he doesn't bother to undress you, you don't have time for it anyway. You're just a few steps away from the lounge bar where some of your coworkers are surely taking a break right now. Anyone could walk in at any time, and maybe Sunghoon wishes for that to happen.

Instead Sunghoon just flips your skirt up and pushes your panties to the side, immediately rubbing his angry red tip on your folds to coat them in your own juices. He feels so incredibly hard against you, and that's how you know he must've been hiding a boner this entire time. As much as he loves to pretend he doesn't, it's little cues like this that let you know just how much he enjoys putting you back in your place. "Of course you're soaked." He barks a laugh devoid of humor but full of disdain.

"If it's my attention you want," he whispers more softly, and the switch in his attitude sends shivers down your spine, something that doesn't go unnoticed by Sunghoon, his lips curling into a smirk. "I'll give it to you. I'll give you so much of it you won't ever think about disrespecting me again."

He pushes his girth into you fully in one thrust, his rough fingers finding your clit within seconds, not even giving you enough time to savor the pleasurable sting that comes from his cock stretching you out so nicely. He grabs your jaw in his other hand, his smirk not turned into a snarl. "You'll cum, and you'll cum hard enough to milk all of me. You'll keep cumming around my cock no matter how much it hurts, until I fill you up. Is that clear?"

You would nod if you could, but his grip is too strong, so you do what you can: just stand there as he subjects you to anything his heart desires. He doesn't move his hips, doesn't give you that satisfaction, only rubs his fingers on your tiny bundle of nerves so hard it almost hurts, but you'd never ask him to stop it.

"You'll take all of my cum, until your belly is swollen by how much of it I fuck into you. I'll put a baby in you so no one else will ever mistake you for anything other than mine."

You clench around him, time and time again, just like he wants you to. Sunghoon has you under a spell, and the more he talks, the more he flicks your clit, the less you think about what's rational and what's not. You only know what he tells you, and to you that's the only truth you need to hear.

"I'll put a ring on your finger, make you my pretty little wife. Maybe even make you stop coming in, I'll take care of everything. Yeah, keep milking me like that, baby. Let me make you a mommy."

ꕥ KIM SUNOO

ewb, hate sex, degradation, marking, one singular 'slut', condom comes off!

"You're—mhh, such a bad fuck," you say over your shoulder, wanting to see Sunoo's reaction despite the uncomfortable position. You're lying through your teeth, of course. You know how much saying things like this riles Sunoo up, and the only times you feel anything akin to like towards him is when he's rough with you. It's why despite the mutual hatred that makes up the entirety of your relationship, you two keep finding yourselves skin to skin, tangled in bed sheets. You always thought you needed someone to fuck you like they hate you, turns out, what you really craved was someone to fuck you because they hate you. And the right man for the job is right behind you, thrusting into you like he wants to hurt you, his hands leaving bruises on your hips like it's their right to do so.

"Then why are you here, wetting my cock like no one's fucked you in years?" His moves are relentless, and you have to try your best to not collapse on the bed because of the sheer force behind every stroke. Your legs are shaking, but you hang on a thread just to not give him that satisfaction. Instead, you push him further.

"That guy from—mph, yesterday. He'd—" you gasp as he gives you a harsher thrust, so deep you're sure you can feel it in your guts. The angle he starts fucking you in knocks the air out of your lungs in the best way possible, and even if you're trembling under Sunoo's weight and clawing at the cotton fabric next to you, you refuse to back down. "He'd do a better job."

You don't need to see his face, you hear the smirk in his voice, and it's the kind that sends a shiver down your spine each time. "But you're here." Another sharp thrust. "You don't even remember his name."

"At least he las– lasted while fucking me raw." You feel him halt all movement, and you know this is enough to get what you want from him, but you just can't help it. "You could never."

"You're such a little fox, aren't you?" He speaks calmly, but you can feel the storm brewing under the facade. He drags his fingertips across your spine, barely touching you at all. It's embarrassing how that's enough to have you bend under his touch. He reaches the plush of your ass, grabbing a fistful of it so forcefully you can feel his nails break the skin. He doesn't stop when you complain, doesn't care for your pained moans. "You think you're so smart, but you're just a little slut. You want me to fuck you raw?"

You try to shake your head to deny it, but he knows better.

"Yes you do. Say it." His grip on your ass only gets stronger, and tears line your bottom lashes.

"I do," you whine, finally. "Please."

"Good." Sunoo releases the death grip on your skin, soothing over the red spot with his thumb lightly, like it's not him performing the action. The Sunoo you know has no time for care. "Then take the condom off of me."

Your head snaps back at his words, but he makes no sign of moving. So you do what he says, this once. You reach for this length, then carefully slide the rubber off of it. And right when he thinks you're finally behaving, you squeeze his cock so hard his hips stutter forward and you actually manage to steal a surprised yelp out of him.

Sunoo's reaction is immediate. He grabs both of your hands, uncaring for the way your elbows are uncomfortably bent, and brings your wrists together behind your back. He slides into you again in one swift motion, not giving you even a second to savor the feeling of his bare cock pushing into your heat for the first time. All of your nerves feel on fire, and as he sets a breakneck pace while keeping you down and unable to move.

"Do I have to fuck a baby into you for you to finally behave?" He gasps when you squeeze him in response to his words. "You'd like that yeah? You'd love for the man you hate to get you pregnant? Is that gonna make you shut the fuck up for once? Oh, I bet it will."

ꕥ YANG JUNGWON

fiancé!won, they're obsessed your honor, love on the floor

"You can't wait to get me pregnant, but what will you do when you won't be able to suck on my tits for months, mhh?" You giggle on Jungwon's lap, right in the middle of the empty room.

The new house still smells like new houses usually do, dry and woody, like the windows are never open. There's no furniture yet, but it doesn't stop your heart from pounding in your chest as you look around. Your home.

Jungwon's eyes never leave you though, and when you look back at him and find him smiling at you like you hold the world in your palm, you know you would be happy with every house, no matter the size or appearance, as long as he's the one you share it with.

"What makes you think that's gonna stop me?" Your fiance replies, shaking his head to move the bangs out of his eyes. "I'll even get something more out if it."

"Won!" you exclaim, hiding your face in your hands. Your heart melts a bit when you hear that familiar boyish giggle leave him, light as air, and for once in your life you feel like you've found the right spot in the world.

The warmth you feel spreads further as Jungwon starts caressing your bare thighs, until he's gripping your ass, using it as leverage to push you on his crotch.

You gasp at the feeling, and your hands find their rightful place on his broad shoulders so you can keep yourself steady as he starts to roll your hips against his.

"Won… we shouldn't—"

He shuts you up with a soft peck, resting his forehead against yours. "Why not? It's our place. We worked so hard for it, we should celebrate."

You bite your bottom lip as you think about it, but Won doesn't waste a minute and flips both of you over so you're caged between the floor and his chest. He nibbles on your ear, knowing better than anyone else how weak it makes you when he does that. "I'll make you feel so good, doll." It's like he's put a spell on you because you nod before he even manages to finish his sentence. "Just lay back and let me do all the work."

Your clothes are soon discarded everywhere around you, and your legs are wrapped around his hips as he fucks into you like he never has before. You're both a sweaty mess, panting in each other's mouths, exchanging spit any chance you get.

"Your pussy was made for me, doll. You're sucking me in so well." Jungwon moans against your lips, and you watch enamored as his eyes shut close and his eyebrows furrow, a droplet of sweat running down from his hairline. "Can't wait to take you on every surface of this house. Fuck— just leave it to me, baby. I have so many surprises for you."

"I'm so close, please," you whine, sliding a hand down his back to push his hips into you further. It makes Jungwon's pace faster, more desperate to give you exactly what you need.

"Let go, baby. Come all over my dick— yeah, just like that. You're taking me so fucking well. Such a perfect doll for me." His praise goes straight to your cunt, and you squeeze him impossibly hard as wakes of pleasure rack through your body.

"My perfect angel, you're gonna look so good swollen with our baby. Am gonna give you all of my cum, just a little more. We'll have so many kids running around the house we built. Our home forever," Jungwon babbles in your ear, and you're so fucked out you can even barely make out what he's telling you. You just know you need him to fuck you full, over and over.

His hips never stutter, despite how drenched and slippery everything is by now, a puddle of wetness pooling underneath you on the hard floor, getting bigger and bigger the more Jungwon fucks you, and you suspect the floor won't be the only surface you'll wet that day.

[beloveds-embrace]

Feral getting to take the muzzle off for an extended time....but only because it's time for their check-up.

It was quiet in the infirmary. The sterile hum of medical equipment thrummed softly through the floor, and filtered light from the overhead fluorescents fell in wide, pale rectangles across the exam table where you sat, back straight, limbs still.

The muzzle had just been unlocked by John.

You could still feel it- a ghost weight, like an unwanted phantom limb. The pressure at your jawline, the cruel pinch where the corners had dug into the skin, the heat of synthetic straps made to outlast bullets. But now, it sat beside you in a reinforced case, untouched for the first time in days.

And still, you didn’t move.

“Easy, lass,” Johnny still murmured from your left, crouched low so he was level with you. “It’s just for the check-up, yeah? Will nae let ‘em hurt you.”

You blinked slowly, breath measured, tongue heavy in your mouth from disuse. There was no need to answer, not when your stillness spoke volumes and not when the slight tremble in your fingers told them everything they needed to know.

Simon stood at the door like a silent sentinel, arms crossed, shoulders tense, and Kyle leaned against the far wall, watching with something soft in his eyes.

But John moved in slow, deliberate steps to stand before you again, scent deep and grounding in the air “You’ve been good,” he said, voice low and sure. “Just gonna check your teeth before the doctor does, love. No surprises.”

Johnny was already fussing, soft hands tucking a bit of hair back from your temple, brushing his knuckles down your cheek.

��Won’t take long,” he promised, accent gentler than usual, all treacle warmth and protectiveness- reminded you of the candy and toffee pieces they slip you occasionally. “We’ll be right here. Me ‘n John’ll look after you.”

You tilted your chin a fraction, a gesture so small it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else. But Johnny brightened, caught the signal for what it was.

“Atta girl,” he whispered, a little purr in his tone. “Good love.”

The words shivered through you, low and sweet, a praise you hadn’t realized you wanted until it was given.

John stepped closer then, and though you could not smell it, his scent swept around you like a heavy coat of safety and familiarity. Alpha.

One gloved hand came up to cup your jaw, slow and careful. His thumb traced beneath your cheekbone while the other hand nudged at your lower lip, gentle.

“Open up for me, sweetheart.” He murmured, and you did as he asked.

There was no hesitation; not for him, and not for Johnny’s hand still brushing your nape in steady circles; not for the way Simon stood so still in the doorway, tension radiating like a stormcloud on your behalf, and not for Gaz’s watchful presence, ever your silent anchor.

John examined your teeth with the calm, clinical focus of someone used to being trusted with the most vulnerable moments. His brows furrowed slightly.

“Bruising at the gums,” he muttered. “Damn thing’s pinching too hard.”

“I told ‘em that muzzle’s too tight,” Johnny growled. “She does nae eat right with it on.”

You blinked again, slower this time, like a cat. So you could let them see how obedient you were. Let them see how calm you could be, how good, because you didn’t want them to worry.

But Johnny knew you better than that.

“Yer tryin’ to make it easy on us,” he said, forehead resting briefly against your temple, his purring deeper as it returned. He felt like an engine pressed against you. “Aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer because you didn’t need to.

John finished his inspection and leaned back slightly, his fingers still resting against your cheek. “You’re good,” he rumbled, low and deep. “You always are. But that doesn’t mean you have to suffer in silence, you understand me?”

You blinked once more, then a slight exhale until it was almost a nod.

He brushed his thumb along your chin, and for one precious moment, you felt… real. Not a weapon nor an asset.

Just theirs.

“When the doctor comes, I’ll convince him to let you have more days off from that awful thing.”

[kkoffin]

aside from your harmful transphobic views, what did kink ever do to you 😭

literally let me choke my boyfriend if hes into it lmao

to me personally, kink fucking ruined my relationship with sex and affection. people such as yourself always seem to assume i’m just some sheltered prude who thinks “anything other than missionary is the devil’s lust taking over!!”, but i was probably just as deep, if not deeper in it than yourself, and i’m still recovering from it, after years of trying to fix things.

sex was a performance, an act on both parts. sex wasnt a matter of what felt nice, and caring for my partner, wanting to share something, and be intimate. i felt exhausted after the act - sometimes it felt awkward returning to daily life. sex wasn’t really sex. it wasn’t intimate, it wasn’t loving, it was performing. I don’t know how to be intimate anymore. i can’t turn back time, and get my first times back, and recreate them as loving, and explorative. i was reliant on porn and kink, and now i’ve lacked any libido for years. I’m afraid to be intimate with anyone. I know that if i were still dating, many people i’d partner up with and have sex with would start choking me or hitting me without asking, or even if i explicitly told them not to.

it had much worse consequences too. sometimes, or eventually, it isn’t an act. sometimes it becomes real. you can’t act like one partner is superior, and the other is indebted or lesser-than without it seeping outside the bedroom. one starts always feeling like they owe the other, they must be obedient to the other, not question them. even when the other partner doesn’t intend this at all, and even where you might not notice it. after long enough of this, i spiraled into self-hatred, and complete reliance on my partner for any affirmation of my worth.

kink affected me before i’d even had sex, too. it was popular at my school, or maybe just amongst my group of friends, to take that “bdsm test” online. from the get-go, it wasn’t “cool” to be “vanilla”. before i had ever had sex, before i ever got to explore my own sexuality, what i liked and what i didn’t, i expected my partner to hit me, degrade me, etc, because that’s what was “cool”. it’s cool for women to let their boyfriend hit them. it makes the boys like you more, it makes you more fuckable. sometimes boys were the ones being hit too, or girls would be the ones degrading others, but either way, it certainly wasn’t cool to be a “vanilla wife”. i was maybe 13 when this started.

so that’s what kink did to me specifically, but that’s not the only reason i’m against it. refer to pavlov’s dog here: do you think it’s a good idea to condition yourself to be turned on when someone’s in pain, or when you hurt someone? look at the faces of many “submissives” in porn, see the fact that “painanal” is a hugely popular category - those faces are not happy, or in pleasure, or intimate and loving, or even aroused. they’re suffering. they even cry, or the video emphasises their pain. maybe they don’t say “no” or “stop”, but there’s a reason the video takes place in a situation they can’t escape from. that’s why “stuck in the washing machine” is such a popular category. it’s so they can’t escape. it’s an unsaid “no”. do you think it’s a good idea to condition yourself to be aroused when others suffer? hint: majority of misogynistic serial killers did just that. same with majority of serial rapists.

it is like a drug - you look for the next high, or the next taboo. whatever’s bigger and badder. i believe that’s scientifically proven; that porn addicts and people who engage with kink content always end up getting more and more extreme. it doesn’t stop at choking, or light “spanking”. it ends with CP and/or murder and/or rape etc. the only thing that really ends it is a prison sentence, or giving it up. vast majority of older men in the kink community have some sort of abuse or SA allegation against them. there’s a huge portion of men in prison for possession of CP who aren’t pedophiles, it was just their next taboo.

there’s so so so so so much more to address, and if you’re truly interested i can recommend books, but this post has gotten personal enough. i doubt you truly wanted to know “what kink did to me”, but that’s a peek into it. besides me, it’s worth note that kink has killed plenty people. choking can kill much easier than one would think - you can damage veins in the neck and die days after, just as one example

[spilledssojuu]

Study, Then Strip

Le Sserafim Chaewon

Words: 3.1k

3rd Year. Gangnam Private High.

The halls always smelled like expensive perfume and repressed rage.

Yejun lit a cigarette on the rooftop. Didn’t even look behind him when the teacher came up. The poor bastard just stared, sighed, and walked off. No one said shit to him anymore.

He was tall. Rough. Big fucking hands. Scar across his brow from beating some kid with a locker door in sophomore year. Dead eyes. Mean smirk.

No one fucked with him. Not unless they wanted their ribs shattered.

He flicked the ash off the edge, watching the smoke swirl. Down below, in the courtyard—her.

Chaewon.

Mini skirt too tight, legs like they were painted on. Her groupie bitches clung to her like she was royalty. But she kept looking up.

He exhaled slow. Knew she was waiting.

She liked the danger. The heat. The bruises under her makeup she never explained.

She wasn’t his girlfriend. Not really.

But he still owned her.

After lunch. Behind the music room.

Yejun had his back against the wall, one hand grabbing a girl’s hair—some second-year bitch who couldn’t say no.

“Your mouth better be tighter than your attitude.” he muttered.

She gagged as he pushed deeper. Eyes rolled up, tears streaking her face. He didn’t care.

He looked over—and there she was. Chaewon.

Standing there. Arms crossed. Chewing gum. Watching him face-fuck another girl like it was a movie. Her lip twitched.

He pulled out. The second-year dropped to her knees, drool dripping off her chin.

“You swallow that?” he asked.

She nodded quick. “Y-Yes…”

“Good slut.” He slapped her face hard, then pushed her away like garbage.

“Get lost.”

She ran. He didn’t even look.

But Chaewon was still there.

“Getting sloppy.” she said, walking closer. He could see the fire in her eyes.

Yejun shrugged. “She begged for it.”

“She’s ugly.”

“She’s got a better gag reflex than you.”

Chaewon stepped up, grabbed his collar, yanked him down. Their faces inches apart.

“You think I’m scared to suck your cock in the hallway?”

Yejun grinned. “Do it, then.”

She dropped to her knees like a queen lowering herself for war.

Yejun groaned as her fingers unzipped him, slow. She didn’t break eye contact. Her tongue flicked the tip, teasing. Then down the shaft. Then back up. She kissed it.

“Not hard enough.” she muttered. “Didn’t even miss me?”

He grabbed her hair tight. “I fucked you raw behind the gym yesterday.”

“Still not enough.” she hissed, and swallowed him whole.

“Fuuuck—” He leaned back, hitting the wall.

Her lips wrapped around him, messy, spit pooling at the corners. She moaned like she was hungry for it, deep hum vibrating through his cock.

Yejun gritted his teeth. “Fucking hell, Chaewon—”

She pulled off, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock.

“You like watching other girls choke, huh? That turn you on?”

He said nothing.

She slapped his cock against her cheek. “You want me to cry like that too? Or do you like when I smile while sucking it?”

“Keep going.” he growled.

“Say please.”

Yejun chuckled.

Then grabbed her by the throat and forced her back down. She gagged, hard, her throat bulging as he shoved in deep.

“Fucking brat.” he hissed.

She whined around him, drooling, tears spilling now—but she never stopped. Her hands gripped his thighs. She loved this.

Sloppy, wet sounds filled the space. Her moans muffled around his cock.

“I’m gonna cum.” he said.

She nodded—barely—and took it. Deep. Every spurt. Didn’t spill a drop.

He watched her swallow. Licked his lips. Smirked.

“Good.”

Chaewon stood up, wiped her mouth with her thumb.

“Now you owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“You don’t fuck anyone this week.” she said, cold. “No more sluts. Just me.”

Yejun scoffed. “Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because I’ll scream.”

He tilted his head.

Chaewon leaned in, kissed him slow, hot. “I’ll moan your name in the middle of the hallway. Let everyone know you fuck me stupid. Ruin that mystery of yours.”

He clenched his jaw. That dirty little smile of hers always got to him.

She turned around and walked off. Her ass swayed with each step. Her panties were in her hand.

“See you after school.”

The bell rang. Class ended. The halls buzzed.

Chaewon wasn’t listening.

She was already walking. Slow. Cold. Barely blinking. Her heels clicked across tile like warning shots. Past the classrooms, past the gymnasium. Straight into the girls’ locker room.

She locked the door behind her.

The room was empty. It was supposed to be. Practice had been canceled. Her girls had other plans. But she knew where he told her to go. “After class. Locker room. Panties off.” That was it. That was how Yejun texted.

So she waited. Alone.

Her skirt was short today—on purpose. Her blouse unbuttoned low. Lip gloss freshly smeared.

She leaned against the lockers and slowly peeled her panties down, letting them fall around her ankles. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside.

The air was cold. Her thighs warm.

She rubbed them together.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

Fifteen.

Still nothing.

Her throat tightened.

Where the fuck is he?

She grabbed her phone. No text. No message. No fucking excuse.

And then she heard it.

A voice. A moan. Not hers. Not his. But close. Familiar.

...no. no fucking way.

She stormed out of the locker room and turned the corner.

And there they were.

Him. Back against the supply closet wall, one leg up, pants halfway down, cock deep inside her.

A girl with glasses. Pale legs shaking. Soft moans dripping out of her. She was crying. Not saying no.

And Yejun? He was grinning. Big. Filthy. Loving it.

“Such a tight little brainy bitch.” he muttered, slamming into her. “Didn’t even fight me. Came looking for notes and gave me this wet little cunt instead…”

Slap. His palm hit her ass hard. The girl cried out.

“Sh-shut up—ahh—fuck—stop talking like that—!”

“You’re the one creaming on my cock, slut.” he growled. “Want me to pull out and let you feel empty again?”

“N-no! Don’t stop!”

Chaewon stood frozen.

Breathing heavy. Panties still off. Legs numb.

She watched her friend get used like a cocksleeve. Watched Yejun fuck another girl raw, like Chaewon never mattered.

She bit down on her knuckle.

Her cunt was dripping.

“FUCK—gonna cum in you. You like that? Want your little pussy stuffed with it?”

“Y-yes—please—cum inside me—!”

He groaned and pushed in hard. Real hard.

Thrust after thrust, deep and brutal. Then—

A deep moan. One final slam.

“Fuckkk… Take it all, slut.”

She whimpered as he pumped his cum into her, cock twitching inside.

Chaewon turned and walked away fast, back into the locker room.

Heart racing.

Panting.

Why the fuck did that turn me on?

She punched the locker. Her hand stung. She didn’t care.

Yejun used her. Lied to her. Told her to wait, then came inside another.

She sat down on the bench, legs open, no panties, and shoved her fingers between her thighs. Hard.

“F-fucking bastard…” she hissed. “Fucking cheating piece of shit…”

Her fingers slid inside easy. She was soaked.

She slammed them in again. And again. Imagining it was him.

“Chaewon, shut the fuck up and take this cock.”

“Moan louder or I’ll gag you.”

“You’re jealous? Good. I’ll fuck her again while you beg for it.”

Her hips jerked. She rubbed her clit rough. Fast.

“FUCK—YEJUN—!” she screamed, voice echoing.

Her legs clenched. Back arched.

She came hard. Alone.

Crying and wet and ruined.

She laid back on the cold bench, hand still between her thighs, twitching.

And then her phone buzzed.

> Yejun: "Busy. Clean up and wait for me in the stairwell."

No sorry. No explanation. Just another order.

She stared at the message.

Then typed:

> Chaewon: "If you fuck that whore again, I’ll make sure no one ever gets to ride you again. I’ll bite your cock off next time you put it in my mouth."

Delivered.

She smiled through the tears.

She was his.

But he was gonna fucking remember who made him bleed.

Fourth floor stairwell. That ugly little corner no one used except when skipping class. Dim lights. Cement walls. The smell of dust and sweat and silence.

Chaewon waited there.

Alone.

Back against the wall, arms crossed under her chest, skirt riding high on her thighs. No panties. Still.

Yejun kept her waiting again.

But not for long this time.

The heavy door creaked. Slammed behind him.

He walked in slow, hoodie hanging off one shoulder, belt undone, cock half-hard and lazy in his boxers. His eyes were blank. Dark. And when they locked with hers, her legs almost gave out.

She glared anyway.

“Had fun with the nerd bitch?” she spat. “Bet she cried when you came inside.”

Yejun didn’t answer. He just walked toward her, slow and silent like a storm rolling in.

He stopped inches from her face. His breath hot. His eyes locked on her lips.

“You moaned my name.” he muttered. “Loud. In the locker room.”

Her cheeks flushed.

“Fuck you.”

“Already did.” He leaned in. His hand slipped between her legs fast. Rough. Fingers sliding right into her soaked slit. “And looks like you liked it.”

She gasped.

Her head hit the wall behind her.

“Y-You fucking—”

“I own this cunt.” he whispered. “Say it.”

“No.”

SLAP.

His hand cracked across her cheek. Not hard. Not soft. Enough.

“Say it.”

Chaewon swallowed.

Her thighs clenched around his hand but didn’t stop him.

“I…”

“Say it.”

“…you own it.”

Yejun grinned.

“Good.”

Then he dropped to his knees.

Right there on the filthy stairwell floor, he shoved her leg up over his shoulder and buried his face between her thighs.

Chaewon screamed.

“FUCK—Yejun—!”

His tongue lashed her clit like a whip, fast, unrelenting, cruel. His teeth grazed it. Sucked it. Bit just enough to make her cry out, then soothed it with hot, wet licks.

She twisted against the wall, nails digging into the concrete.

His tongue slid inside her. Deep. Flicking hard.

Her body betrayed her. Hips rolling, whimpers pouring out of her mouth.

“You jealous little whore.” he growled between licks. “So desperate for my attention you finger yourself in the locker room?”

“Shut—ah—shut up—!”

“Thought about stuffing my cum back in you?” He pushed two fingers in hard while his tongue abused her clit.

“FUCK—!”

“Did you taste it in your head?”

“Did you moan like that for me?”

“Did you imagine me choking you while I came down your throat?”

Her hands grabbed his hair and yanked him deeper.

Her thighs trembled.

He flattened his tongue and sucked hard.

She screamed again.

“I hate you—I hate you—I f-fucking hate—!”

“Then cum on my face.” he growled. “Now.”

Her body listened.

Her back arched. Her cunt spasmed.

She came hard. Shaking. Soaked.

Her cum ran down his chin as he licked her clean like a dog.

He stood.

Looked at her—panting, legs barely working, skirt bunched at her hips.

“You’re mine.” he said. “And if you ever tell me who to fuck again…”

He grabbed her jaw. Tight. Hard.

“I’ll fill every bitch in your group while you’re forced to watch. You got that?”

Chaewon didn’t flinch.

She licked his chin. Smirked.

“Then you better fuck me first. Every. Time.”

After school. Empty AV room. Curtains drawn.

Projector whirring quietly. No lights. Only heat.

Chaewon slammed the door and locked it behind her.

Yejun was leaning back on the table, scrolling his phone, relaxed as ever. His hoodie was half off. His shirt loose. Arrogant. Unbothered.

She marched straight up and slapped it from his hand.

It clattered to the floor.

He looked up, slow.

“You’re pushing it.” he said flatly.

She didn’t flinch.

“You said you’d meet me after class. I sat there wet and waiting while you used my fucking friend.”

He smirked. “Are you jealous again?”

“I’m done playing with sluts who moan your name while looking at me.”

He raised an eyebrow.

She grabbed his waistband and yanked his pants down.

“Then show me I’m different.” she hissed.

Yejun didn’t stop her.

She dropped to her knees, no hesitation, and took him into her mouth—hard and deep. Her lips bruised, throat flexing, moans guttural.

But this wasn’t sweet.

It was war.

Spit dripped from her chin. She gagged loud and kept going, pushing until she was crying. His cock throbbed in her throat.

She pulled off and slapped it against her cheek.

“This dick’s mine.” she said. “Say it.”

He didn’t.

So she bit it.

Hard.

“FUCK—!”

He grabbed her hair and shoved her back.

“You crazy bitch—”

She stood, breathing heavy, eyes glassy.

“Use me. Now. Or don’t ever touch me again.”

Silence.

Then he grabbed her.

Spun her around.

Bent her over the AV table.

Her skirt flew up.

“No panties again?” he muttered. “Slut.”

“You love it.” she spat back. “Fucking ruin me.”

Yejun shoved inside her raw.

No warning.

She screamed.

“FUCK—!”

He pounded her fast, rough, brutal. Her tits slapped against the table. Her moans echoed in the dark.

He gripped her neck, slammed deeper.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I-I’m yours—!”

“Say it louder.”

“I’M YOURS, FUCK—!”

Skin hitting skin. Sweat dripping. Her legs shaking.

He pulled out and flipped her over, lifted her onto the table, and slammed back in.

Face to face.

She clawed at his back. He bit her lip.

“Beg.”

“Please cum in me.” she moaned. “Fill me. Breed me. Just don’t touch them again—please—I can’t fucking stand it—”

Yejun growled and slammed into her so hard the projector tipped. Her cunt clenched tight, fluttering.

She came—screaming, sobbing, nails digging into his arms.

He fucked her through it, didn’t stop until she collapsed against him.

Then—he came.

Deep.

Hard.

Filling her with every drop.

Her body twitched.

She looked up, dazed, ruined.

“I don’t want anyone else to touch you.” she whispered.

“I don’t share.” he said. “So don’t make me.”

The AV room was thick with the smell of sweat, cum, and her perfume. It clung to the dark curtains, the wooden table under her ass, the concrete floor where her knees had slammed earlier. Her panties were lost—somewhere between the door and his first thrust—and her phone had buzzed over a dozen times in her blazer pocket, but she didn’t move.

Chaewon lay back, legs still parted, his cum dripping slowly from her swollen cunt. She could feel every twitch inside her. Every bruise blooming along her hips. Every bite mark decorating her chest.

And Yejun was just standing there.

Watching.

Hoodie back on, pants still undone, cock semi-hard, glistening with her mess. One hand was on the table, the other still rubbing lazy circles on her inner thigh. Possessive. Like he owned it.

“…You’re gonna look like a whore walking back to class.” he murmured, low.

“I am your whore.” she whispered, eyes glazed. “So what?”

That stopped him.

He tilted his head, brow cocked.

“Say that again.”

Chaewon blinked slowly. Then she sat up—winced a little—grabbed his hoodie and pulled him between her legs.

“I. Am. Your. Whore.”

She licked his neck. Bit down hard enough to make him grunt. “So stop fucking other girls.”

Yejun grabbed her throat. Not tight. Just enough.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

Her thighs locked around his waist.

“And you don’t get to fill me twice and leave me empty.” she whispered against his lips.

He growled.

Her tongue slipped between his lips, hungry, messy, desperate.

He lifted her up—just like that—and laid her back onto the AV table again, but this time slower, like she was something worth savoring. His hands roamed her body, pressing down on every sensitive bruise, every red mark he left.

“You’re shaking.” he whispered.

She was.

“Then stop talking and fuck me again.”

Yejun’s mouth curved into a lazy smirk. But something shifted in his eyes. Less cold. Less cruel. Still dark—but focused.

He slid two fingers back inside her, slowly.

She gasped, hips bucking.

“Still full of me.” he muttered. “You liked it that much?”

“Fuck—yes—I want more—”

“You want me to breed you again?”

“Yes.” she moaned, clutching his shoulders. “I want your cum in me. All of it. I want you to ruin my insides so no one else can ever feel good again.”

He didn’t speak.

Just gripped her thighs, spread them wider, and slammed back in.

Chaewon screamed.

Her back arched off the table as he buried himself all the way, raw, thick, hot. Her cunt was wrecked, clenching weakly, but it didn’t matter. She needed it. Needed him.

Yejun leaned over her, hands on either side of her head, sweat dripping onto her face as he thrust deep, slow, grinding with every movement.

“You feel this?” he whispered.

She nodded, crying out.

“This is mine.”

“Yes—yes—yours—!”

His hand slid down and slapped her pussy.

“Who does this belong to?”

“YOU—fuck—it’s yours—!”

He picked up speed. The table creaked under them. His cock slammed into her over and over, thick slaps echoing, her juices soaking the edge, dripping to the floor.

Her voice cracked from moaning.

“I’ll fucking tattoo my name on your womb if I have to,” he muttered.

“Do it.” she whimpered. “Please—mark me—own me—”

Yejun leaned down and bit her collarbone, sucking hard until blood rose under the skin.

“Don’t ever flirt with those other guys again.” he growled.

“I won’t—fuck—I only want you—”

“You get wet thinking about me?”

“Every time—”

“You touch yourself when I’m not around?”

She hesitated.

He thrust hard.

“Answer me.”

“Yes—fuck—every night—!”

His hand grabbed her jaw, turned her face to look him dead in the eye.

“Then open your mouth.”

She did.

He spit in it.

She swallowed with a moan.

“You really are my fucking slut,” he said.

“And you’re mine.” she whispered. “So stop pretending like those other girls matter.”

Yejun stopped moving.

She blinked.

Then he kissed her.

Not rough.

Not dominant.

Not angry.

Just soft.

Lingering.

Like something broke.

And then he started moving again, slow and deep, fucking her through another orgasm that had her sobbing into his neck.

She didn’t beg this time.

She didn’t have to.

He stayed inside when he came, held her tight, kissed her temple while his cock pulsed and filled her to the brim again.

When it was over, they didn’t speak.

Just laid there.

Her legs around his hips. His fingers tracing circles into her hipbone. Her eyes fluttering closed.

“…You’re the only one.” he whispered against her skin. “You win.”

She smiled. Small. Satisfied.

“I know.”

[grayandthyme]

southbound | oneshot

dark!tommy miller x f!reader

masterlist

synopsis: After a small joy trip goes wrong, you're captured by a group planning to invade Jackson. Hours of torture follow—until Tommy finds you. Fueled by rage and something deeper he hasn’t said out loud, Tommy cuts through anyone in his way to bring you back. But getting home doesn’t mean things go back to normal. Not after what was done. Not after what he did. Now you’re both left with the weight of living, unspoken feelings, and the question of what comes next. warnings: Extreme mentions of violence, torture, blood, death, and gore. Reader gets mildly tortured, mention of sexual assault (doesn't happen), Tommy's a lil psycho ngl, Seattle!tommy vibes, 18+, Smut, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v, spitting, hair pulling, praise kink, body worshipping (f receiving). SoftDom!Tommy, Reader follows his orders.. (who wouldn't w him??)

The sky hung heavy, darker than usual—like the storm had been waiting, bidding for its time. Most of the town was in a rush, hammering and hauling, shouting over the wind that hadn't yet arrived but already threatened everything. Tommy was elbow-deep in the fields, swinging a hammer into wooden posts with practiced effort, lining the ground for crops for post-storm.

You had slipped away from the noise, announcing your scouting shift, “Just gonna check the generator by the creek,” you said. “Be right back.”

God forbid you just wanted to walk around for a lil'. Nothing has ever happened on your patrols. Not a single thing.

You’d smiled as you said it, pressing a hand to his chest—his white t-shirt soft with wear, pulled tight over his worn-down strength.

“Don’t wait too long for me, cowboy.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. That look—equal parts tired and fond.

The kind of look that said I know you’re full of shit but I’m gonna let you go anyway.

There was always something unsaid between you. Something warm and infuriating and inevitable.

Eyes lingering too long, fingers brushing like accidents, shared smirks in the middle of chaos.

That dance at the bar—your hands in his, laughter spilling into the space where words usually failed.

You were supposed to come right back. That’s what you told yourself. That’s what he expected.

But the rain came fast, heavy. You had to pull off the trail, guiding your horse toward a half-collapsed garage just off the road. The door creaked open under your weight, metal screeching like a warning. Shelter, at least. But when you pressed your hand down on the walkie, all it gave you was static.

Useless. Just like the signal out here.

Just like promises made in passing touches and stupid jokes.

Just like saying I’ll be right back.

“Stupid fuckin’ thing,” you muttered, voice low and bitter as you twisted the dial on the walkie.

Click. Static. Click again. Nothing. Not even a whisper from Jackson.

You fiddled with the receiver like it might suddenly change its mind. Like Tommy’s voice might cut through the fuzz and tell you to hurry back. But it didn’t. Just more silence.

With a sigh, you gave up, yanking a cracked plastic beer crate from the corner of the garage and flopping down onto it.

It groaned beneath your weight.

Just you and your horse now. She snorted gently from the shadows where she was tied, content and half-asleep, like she trusted the walls to hold. It wasn’t all bad, right? The quiet? The kind that only exists after the world ends. You could pretend it was just a road trip. Just a night alone in someone else’s mess.

Fingers drumming across your thighs in an offbeat rhythm—boredom or nerves, hard to say. Eventually, you stood with a grunt, your knees clicking like the old garage door had, slow, rusted, and reluctant.

You wandered. For funsies. Why the hell not?

The place smelled like rust and oil, maybe a little mildew. Tools lay abandoned on dusty benches, a couple of long-dead flies stuck to the surfaces like they’d been swatted mid-thought. Sticky. You trailed your fingers along the edge of a workbench, smearing clean streaks through the grime.

A magazine rack caught your eye—crooked and clinging to the wall like it had survived something it shouldn't have. You raised a brow when you spotted the stack of Playboy issues, their covers yellowed but still grinning like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

A soft laugh escaped you, the first real sound in what felt like hours. You let out a low whistle, nodding at the magazines like they were an inside joke you weren’t sure you should be laughing at.

"Classy," you muttered, then turned toward the photos taped to the wall beside them—family snapshots, curling at the edges.

A man and a woman. A kid in a Halloween costume. A golden retriever with a tennis ball in its mouth.

You smiled, faintly. This place wasn’t just a garage—it had been someone’s sanctuary. A father, probably. Someone who fixed things with his hands.

Okay, maybe exploring wasn't that bad.

Standing there for a while, just breathing, listening to the storm rattle faintly against the roof.

A low rumble in the distance made your horse stir, but she settled when she heard your voice.

“Yeah, I know,”

“Be mad at me all you want,” you said quietly, eyes still on the faded snapshots. “Wasn’t supposed to take this long.”

The words lingered in the stillness like dust in the air—settling into your chest heavier than you'd like to admit.

You clicked your tongue against your teeth, already imagining the guilt in your horse’s eyes. You’d owe her a carrot. Maybe two. Call it bonding. Or maybe a peace offering for dragging her into yet another mess that smelled like wet drywall and regret.

With a tired breath, you crossed the concrete floor, boots scuffing against the ground. You crouched at the edge of the garage, fingers curling beneath the threshold of the door. It was stuck, of course. Everything in this world resisted being moved. You gave it a tug—metal scraping, shrieking.

“Shit,” you muttered, cringing at the noise.

Subtlety was out the window.

From the crack in the garage door, the rain still poured—worse now than it had been when you ducked in. Sheets of water smacked the gravel and turned the air sticky and thick. A good old-fashioned Wyoming storm, like the kind you’d watch from midwestern porches when the world still made sense.

You glanced sideways toward your horse, her ears twitching beneath the wind. “Up for a little waterpark action?” you asked, lips twitching into something like a smile. She gave you a slow blink, unimpressed. As if she could even respond.

You didn’t have a choice, really.

Stay here, and you risk a lot more than getting wet.

Death. You were talking about death.

Out there, at least, you’re moving. And moving meant you had a shot—at getting back, at being useful, at not letting anyone down.

You pressed your palm flat against the metal and shoved the door the rest of the way up. It rattled into place with a reluctant clunk. The rain greeted you like a slap. Humid.

Beyond the garage, the storm swallowed everything—the trees, the trail, the space between you and the people waiting back in Jackson. But you stepped forward anyway, arm shielding your face, shoulders squared.

Your eyes flicked to the walkie as it crackled to life, static humming low like a warning.

Then came the click—brief, sharp—followed by the voice on the other end, strained and no-nonsense.

“Radio Two, copy. Make your way back to Jackson. Main trail’s gonna flood any hour now, and Tommy’s pissed. Over.”

You let out a breath through your nose, a soft nod to no one. Yeah. You figured he’d be pissed. Probably pacing the front gate with that jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes scanning sorta look. y’know, the one.

You pressed the button. “Copy. Making it back now. Holed up in the tan house—garage, ‘bout a mile or so out from the generator. Should be headin’ back any minute. Over.”

Slipping the radio inside your jacket, the static dulled, but not the unease humming beneath your ribs.

You turned toward your horse, patting her flank gently as you moved to mount up.

That’s when you heard it.

A crisp snap—the unmistakable sound of breaking branches. Not wind. Not rain. Something closer. Slower.

You froze mid-step, hand halfway to the saddle horn. Heart catching. Breath tightening. The kind of silence that followed wasn’t natural—it was listening.

Your hand instinctively brushed the grip of your pistol at your side. You didn’t draw. Not yet. You turned your head slowly, eyes scanning the tree line just past the edge of the open garage.

There—movement. A shape, or the idea of one. Just far enough to make your skin crawl. Not close. But not far enough either.

The rain pounded on, relentless. Somewhere behind it, the storm kept whispering secrets to the trees.

You stepped back, slow and quiet. The kind of quiet you didn’t breathe through. Your horse shifted beside you, sensing it too.

“Okay,” you murmured, barely a breath. “Time to go.”

Your horse reacted before you did—ears pinning back, a sharp snort ripping from her throat as her hooves scraped backward, skittering against the slick garage floor. That sound alone would've been enough to raise the hairs on your neck.

Crash.

The shattering of glass behind you came too fast to register. The world turned sideways, violently, as something—a bottle—cracked against the side of your skull. A burst of light exploded behind your eyes. Pain bloomed sharp and instant.

The concrete met you before you knew you were falling—your shoulder taking the brunt, your head bouncing once, twice.

Dazed.

Move.

Your instincts screamed louder than your head injury. You twisted onto your back, body slick with rain and blood—now panic, hand scrabbling across the ground—fingers numb, and desperate for your weapon.

A breathless grunt tore from your chest as you half-crawled, half-flung yourself into the open storm. The cold rain hit you like needles, soaking instantly through your jacket, but you didn’t have time to feel it.

Your horse screamed. That awful, gut-wrenching kind of scream that told you everything you needed to know.

A gunshot rang out. Crack. She dropped mid-kick, legs folding beneath her as she collapsed hard onto the wet gravel.

“No—!” you choked, but the word was lost in the thunder, in the horror.

Another shape surged from the garage behind you. You spun, but not fast enough.

The man was on you—his weight slamming into your torso like a freight train, sending you skidding across the mud. His hands clawed for your gun, your grip barely holding as the two of you wrestled for control.

Rain poured, turning your grip into a losing battle. Your desert eagle slipped between your palms, the cold metal slick with water and blood.

“Get off me, fuckin’ get—” You kneed him, hard, catching somewhere soft. He grunted, but didn’t let go.

You caught a glimpse—two women moving behind a rusted pickup in the lot. One was reloading. The other, already raising a rifle. Seven total. Maybe more. You’d lost count in the blur.

This wasn’t a robbery. This was an ambush.

The man atop you growled through his teeth, pressing his forearm against your throat as he tried to pin you. The barrel of your own gun now half out of your grip, half in his.

Your hand slipped—he nearly had it.

So you bit him.

You sank your teeth into his arm with everything you had, jaw clamping through soaked fabric and skin. He screamed, and you took the second he gave you.

Twisting your hips and threw him off-balance—enough to jam your knee upward and roll. Mud caked your palms, your fingers finally curling fully around your weapon.

You fired.

Point-blank. Right into his gut.

He didn’t scream this time—just choked. A wet, sputtering sound that would haunt you later if you made it out.

But you didn’t wait. You scrambled to your feet, backpedaling as more shouts rang out. You ducked behind a burnt-out car shell, breath ragged, blood dripping down your temple.

They were circling now. Organized. Too clean to be amateurs.

You checked your clip.

Half-full. Not enough.

Your horse was gone.

Escape, gone.

This wasn’t a fight. This was survival. They weren't shooting directly at you.

That means they wanted you alive. And, that's even more dangerous than dying.

You gritted your teeth, steeling yourself.

"Come on then," you muttered to the storm.

You barely had time to reload. Your fingers moved by muscle memory, slamming the mag home and cocking the slide just as another figure emerged from your right—low to the ground, fast, deliberate.

You turned, too slow.

He tackled you mid-pivot, dragging you into the gravel with a force that knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. You hit the ground hard, your spine lighting up with pain as rocks scraped skin and dug into your ribs.

Your gun skitteded from your hand, bouncing-tumbling somewhere out of reach into the dark of rain.

“Shit—” you gasped, but his knee was already pinning your chest, weight pressing down like a goddamn boulder.

You punched him—once, twice, knuckles splitting against the sharp edge of his cheekbone. Blood smeared, but he only flinched with a grimace, teeth knotted together tightly.

He grabbed your wrist mid-swing, twisted.

Snap.

White-hot pain screamed up your arm. You cried out, elbow buckling. He used the opening to slam his fist into your face.

Everything blinked white.

Then pain. Nausea. Another hit.

You tried to roll, but he caught you again—hands like vices, one in your hair, yanking your head back so your neck arched unnaturally.

“Shoulda stayed in that garage,” he rasped. His breath was sour and too close.

A deep purse of your lips, spitting blood into his eye. It bought you half a second—enough to scramble, wild and uneven, onto your knees.

He kicked you in the ribs. Then again.

You collapsed onto your side, arms wrapped around your middle as the air wheezed out of your lungs. Something cracked inside. Definitely cracked.

Still—you reached for your knife. One more chance.

But he saw it. His boot came down on your hand.

A sickening crunch.

You screamed.

Your fingers didn’t move after that. The knife stayed in the dirt, untouched, as he grabbed you by your jacket collar and hauled you up. You thrashed, but it was all desperation now—unfocused, sloppy, weak.

He punched you again. And again.

Until your knees gave out.

Until the rain became a blur behind your lashes.

Until you couldn’t tell what was thunder and what was your heartbeat.

The last thing you saw before the darkness claimed you was one of the women walking toward you, her rifle slung across her back and zip ties in her hand.

“Still alive?” she asked.

“Barely,” the man muttered, wiping his mouth.

“Good. They’re gonna want to talk to her.”

Your head lulled to the side as they pulled your arms behind your back. You couldn’t stop the cry that left your mouth—raw, broken. You tasted blood. Dirt.

Somewhere far off, the rain kept falling.

And Jackson felt very, very far away.

Though someone else’s mind was running fucking circles.

“I’m gettin’ on that damn horse, and I’m checkin’ that house.” Tommy’s voice rang out through the barn—sharp, low, barely controlled. His hands moved fast, looping the reins tight, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked under his stubble.

Rain was leaking through the old roof in steady drips, pattering off saddles and crates.

It didn’t faze him.

Nothing did right since the silence hanging on the radio.

Joel leaned against the stall door, arms crossed like the world was one big inconvenience. His brows were furrowed, deep lines carved between his eyes as he shook his head with that same goddamn annoyed look he always wore when he knew something was about to go sideways.

“You won’t be able to see five fuckin’ feet in front of you, Tommy.”

Tommy ignored him, yanking the saddle tight. “Then I’ll feel it out.”

“You’ll feel yourself off a damn cliff,” Joel muttered, pushing off the doors trim and stepping closer. His voice dropped, but it was no less sharp. “Storm’s not lettin’ up, trail’s already washed out. I told you she’d come back. She’s not stupid.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched tighter. “She’s not late unless somethin’ happened, Joel.”

“Or she got stuck somewhere and waited it out like we trained her to do,” Joel shot back, voice rising slightly, arms now gesturing with that same old exasperated flair. “Jesus, Tommy, it’s been two hours. You’re actin’ like we already dug the grave.”

Tommy whipped around, eyes sharp, voice low but laced with steel. “She ain’t just some fuckin’ scout, Joel.”

Joel paused. Just for a breath.

And that was all Tommy needed.

“She’s smart, yeah, but she’s kind, too. You know that,” he said, pointing a gloved finger toward him.

“She'd stop to help a family of strays if they looked at her sideways. If someone laid a trap, she’d be the one who tried talkin’ her way through it before pullin’ the trigger.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “What, you think she got jumped?”

“I know somethin’ ain’t right.” Tommy’s voice cracked there—just barely, like something was fraying at the edge of his usually steady tone. “And if she’s hurt out there somewhere while we’re standin’ around arguin’, I won’t be able to live with that.”

Joel looked at him for a long second, silent now. Studying. Judging.

Then, “You in love with her or somethin’?”

Tommy didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Joel huffed. “Jesus, Tommy," Hand raising up to clasp a pinch on the bridge of his nose.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

Tommy finally looked up, eyes hard, rain already starting to streak down his face as he pulled the barn doors open. “Then I guess I’ll die on the road she shoulda come back on.”

Joel didn’t stop him. “God damn, idiot."

The road there was half a river by now—nothing but slick mud and pooling floodwater, and Tommy’s horse fought every inch of it. He gripped the reins high, the leather soaked and sliding between his gloves, his thighs aching from the pressure it took just to stay on.

Rain didn’t fall—it hammered. Each drop sharp as glass, pelting his skin like it had a vendetta.

Branches whipped his face. Water bled down the inside of his collar. His boots were long past soaked, sloshing heavy with every rise and fall in the saddle.

Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but what he might find up ahead. He knew the route—every damn tree root and deer trail. But tonight, it felt unfamiliar. Wrong. The kind of silence that made your gut twist before your mind could catch up.

Then he saw it.

The house.

There she was.

Not You.

Your horse.

Laid out in the dirt like a forgotten carcass. Blood mixing with the rain, thick red ribbons vanishing into the brown runoff. Prints everywhere—boots, dragging marks, something heavy gouging through the dirt. Blood. So much blood.

And your pack. Just lying there by the edge of the garage, torn open. Tommy stood slowly. Chest heaving, lungs burning.

“Fuck,” he breathed. It came out like a growl.

His hand went to his holster. Fingers curled around the grip of his rifle like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. Then he started walking. The slow, agonizing piecing together of the scene.

Boots sinking ankle-deep in water, body soaked to the bone—but none of it touched him anymore. That dull ache in his ribs, the sting of open skin on his face, the whip of wind and thunder—they were just noise now.

Because he knew what this was.

This wasn’t someone gone off-course.

This was a snatch.

A deliberate, grimey thing.

A warning, maybe. A message. To who? He didn’t care.

You hadn’t gone down easy. That much was clear.

He imagined you, scrambling through this same mud, blood on her mouth, teeth gritted and wild-eyed. He practically picture your fingers fighting for a weapon, boots kicking through puddles, the sound of your voice in a scream.

He could hear it. And something inside him snapped. The last bit of patience. Of diplomacy.

Gone.

You came to with the taste of rust in your mouth and something cold pressed to your cheek.

Concrete.

Your eyes fluttered open, one already swelling shut from the hit previous. The room was dim, yellowed light flickering above like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to stay on or give up.

Everything fucking hurt—your ribs, your shoulders, your wrists strung tight behind your back with rough cord.

Knees raw from dragging.

Jaw tight from where they'd backhanded you hard enough to make your ears ring.

Voices echoed. Low. Male. Calm in that cold, practiced way that made your stomach twist.

“She’s awake,” one of them said.

Boots scraped across the floor. The sound had weight to it—intended, deliberate.

You blinked again, trying to focus, only for a hand to twist in your hair and yank your head back.

“There she is,” another voice cooed. A woman, this time. Syrupy-sweet in the worst way. “Was startin’ to think we cracked your skull too hard.”

You spat at her feet. Or tried to.

It landed short. Too dry.

She laughed anyway, crouching beside you. Fingers trailing along your cheek like a warning.

“We’re gonna play a game, sweetheart. Real simple.”

You didn’t respond.

Not at first.

The man beside her stepped forward—tall, broad, a scar carved deep into his forehead. The same one who’d pulled your gun from your grip. You remembered the weight of him. The fury.

He crouched too, grabbing your jaw tight between calloused fingers.

“Tell us how many people Jackson’s holdin’.”

You didn’t blink. Just stared. Your breath shallow.

“Fuck off.”

A pause.

Then the fist came. Swift. Precise.

You saw stars.

Your body twisted sideways, head spinning. Ears ringing again.

He didn’t even grunt. Just straightened and looked back to the woman.

“She’ll talk.”

“Eventually,” the woman said, turning now, pacing. “We’ve got time.”

Your vision blurred. The pain bloomed like fire through your jaw, but your heart? Still steady. Still stubborn.

Because you knew what this was.

They wanted Jackson. Something in Jackson, at least. Weapons? Food? Fuck, an army?

“They won’t come for you, you know,��� the woman called, her voice lighter now, taunting. “People like you? Disposable. Another cog in the little machine. Bet they’ll write you off by morning.”

Your mouth twitched—half a smirk, half a snarl.

“You don’t know shit about them.”

You don't know him.

She stopped.

“Oh? That a crack in the wall I hear?”

You just stared.

But your silence—stubborn as it was—would cost you.

The man grabbed you again. This time pulling you up to your knees. The cords at your wrists pulled harder, slicing skin.

“You wanna do it the easy way, or you want me to start takin’ pieces?”

You looked up at him, rainwater still drying in your hair, blood in the corner of your mouth, teeth bared—

“Start with my fuckin' di—"

He snarled.

And this time, the hit sent you fully into the dark.

Time became slippery.

It bled between moments—blinks and screams, boots and leather, the sound of dripping water somewhere above, and the sharp, sharp sting of electricity licking across your ribs.

You weren’t sure how long it had been.

Hours. Maybe more.

You’d slumped forward now, barely able to hold yourself upright. Blood had dried tacky against your cheek, cut along your temple still leaking slow and steady. Your wrists were numb, rope biting deeper with every twitch.

You couldn't feel your fingers. Couldn't feel your entire fucking body.

But you still hadn’t said a word.

“Un-fuckin-believable,” one of the men muttered, pacing now, wiping sweat from his brow with the edge of his sleeve. “She’s gotta be military trained or some shit. No way she’s just a scout.”

“She’s fuckin' stupid, that’s what she is,” the woman hissed. “They’re all like this. Built on fantasy and fucking self-righteous bullshit. She’ll crack. Just needs the right lever.”

Your head lulled to the side. You breathed—shallow, wet.

The scarred man knelt again. He’d been the worst of them. The ringleader. Always the one who came back in with something new in his hands.

A blade. A cigarette. The end of a belt.

This time? Nothing. Just his hands.

“I’ve broken tougher,” he said quietly. “You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

You met his eyes through the haze. One barely open, the other nearly swollen shut.

Your voice scraped low, dry, near-gone.

“Then you’re gettin’ fuckin’ slow.”

He chuckled. Actually chuckled. And then stood.

"One more round,” he said. “Then we take a finger. One at a time. She’ll tell us how many rifles Jackson’s stockpiling. Where the weak points in their walls are. How many patrols per shift.”

He looked back down at you. Smiled a little.

“And if she doesn’t? Well. We’ve still got use for warm bodies.”

Your face twists, an actual pang of horror driving straight into your bones.

It wasn't like the fear previous, no—this was nauseating.

The others started shuffling again—tools clanking, boots scuffing against concrete.

But even with your head pounding, your limbs shaking, your body giving out—you didn’t fold.

Because Tommy’s voice still lived behind your ribs.

"You get back to me, y’hear? You always get back."

"You always this sweet? Cookies before patrol? Aren't I fuckin' lucky."

"You.. You look real pretty t'night, Darlin'."

And he would come. He had to.

Because you weren’t dying in this fucking basement. And they were going to regret not killing you the second they had the chance.

The forest had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Even with the storm passing overhead—just distant rumbles now—something about the air had shifted. Gone still. Heavy. Like it knew what was coming.

Tommy had dismounted three clicks back. Left the horse tied near a broken fence line. Didn’t want to risk it panicking from the noise he planned to make.

His rifle was slung across his chest now, hands steady despite the mud smeared up to his knees, soaked shirt clinging to his skin. His face was stone—jaw tight, eyes flat, dark.

They took you.

And that was all it took.

Through the treeline, half-crouched behind a rotted shed, he finally saw movement. Flashlights. Voices.

A woman—one of the ones who dragged you off—stepped out to smoke. Just past the edge of the busted house. Relaxed.

Stupid.

Tommy adjusted his grip. Wind blew. And then, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.

The crack of the rifle shattered the stillness.

Her skull snapped back, burst like a rotted melon. A full exit wound painting the wall behind her. No scream. Just the wet, dull slap of her body hitting the dirt.

That was the first.

Tommy didn’t breathe as he moved, rifle already slung behind him, hand reaching for the sawed-off on his thigh. He moved like water—low, trained, silent. Every muscle coiled, honed from years of training across FEDRA lines, Firefly camps, and shit most men couldn’t dream of surviving.

He approached the corpse without even glancing at it. Just stepped over her boot and reached down, yanking the walkie off her hip. He clicked it once—static—and then again, waiting for a voice.

“You good out there?”

Tommy pressed the button.

“She can't come to the phone right now.” he exhaled, voice low, graveled.

A pause.

Static.

Tommy smiled, as if his own joke caught him off guard. Tossing the walkie to the side.

Let them know. Let them fear. Let them start running.

Because he wasn’t here to negotiate. He wasn’t here to threaten or barter or wave a white flag. He was going to paint the goddamn dirt with their insides. One by one. Until he had you back. And until the last of them bled for what they did.

You weren’t sure if you’d passed out or just shut down for a while.

Your head hung low, hair plastered to your face, soaked in a mix of sweat, rain, and blood. Every nerve felt frayed, twitching from hours of abuse.

Your left eye was fully swollen shut now.

Breathing was shallow—like your ribs didn’t want to move anymore.

You couldn’t feel your fingers, couldn’t tell how much blood you’d lost.

Still hadn’t talked. Didn’t plan to. Didn’t have much left to say anyway.

“C’mon,” one of the men barked from the back of the room—scarred one, mean and lazy with his fists. “She’s fuckin’ useless at this point. We should’ve done this quicker.”

“You’re impatient,” the woman replied coldly, leaning against the table across from you, arms crossed. “Everyone breaks. You just have to find the right crack.”

You chuckled. Or tried to. Came out wet. Hollow.

“You… talk too much.” She sneered, standing up straighter, and just as she stepped forward to hit you again— The shot rang out.

Crack.

Silence.

Then a splatter.

Something wet hit the wall—behind you, to your left. Outside of the house. You blinked, barely able to lift your head. The woman turned sharply, eyes wide.

“What the fuck was that?”

The scarred man swore under his breath, reached for his gun, and shoved the nearest other lackey toward the door.

“You, check it.”

The man went outside, pressing his body to the wall.

Another beat passed.

Then a scream from outside.

It was short.

Cut off.

Wet.

Panic started to grow now—real panic. You could feel it vibrating through the floor, in the footsteps pounding across the rotted wood. Someone was yelling for reinforcements. Another bolted from the room entirely. A door slammed.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t need to.

Tommy.

You felt him.

And so did they.

The scarred man was still in the room, pacing now, gun up, hand shaking. He looked at you, eyes narrowed—like this was your fault.

“You bring someone with you?” he spat.

You smiled, just a little. Blood pooled at the corner of your mouth.

“I told you,” you rasped, voice shredded, “you should’ve killed me sooner.”

Flickering.

And then the lights cut out.

Everything went black.

You heard it first.

The splintering of wood.

The crunch of a boot.

And then the wet, heavy choke of someone gargling on their own blood from right outside.

You didn’t know where he was.

But you knew who it was.

And someone was about to die.

The first body crashed through the open doorway like a sack of meat.

Throat slit wide. Eyes glassed over. The blood so caked, leaking into the floor it looked black.

Tommy stepped through right after—rifle hanging from one hand, his combat knife dripping from the other. His shirt was plastered to him, soaked in blood that wasn’t his. His face was unreadable. Cold. But his eyes—

His eyes were locked on you.

And then he moved.

The woman spun to fire—too slow.

Tommy’s rifle barked once, and the round ripped straight through her neck. It tore it open like wet paper, spine severed, blood spraying in a hot arc against the wall. She collapsed with a sickening snap, twitching, mouth gasping—but she was already dead.

Fuck, you've never seen him like this.

This was different than clickers, or strays. This was—murder.

The scarred man screamed, firing off a panicked shot—missed wide. Tommy dropped the rifle and charged.

It wasn’t clean.

Tommy slammed into him like a freight train, knocking the gun from his hands, and they went to the floor with a crunch of ribs and a snapped chair leg. He didn’t hesitate. One hand gripped the man's throat—squeezed—while the other brought the knife down.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The blade sliced into throat—fast, like muscle memory. Blood sprayed up across Tommy’s arm, hot and thick, pooling under them. The man tried to scream, but all that came out was foam and choking.

Then he shoved the knife up—straight under the jaw, the man spasmed—and stilled.

The final one—a younger guy—had dropped his weapon.

He was begging.

“No—no, please, I didn’t touch her—I didn’t—I was just following—”

Tommy shot him in the kneecap.

The scream that came out was feral.

He stepped forward, calmly, practically dragging the kid by the collar as he shrieked and sobbed, blood gushing down his leg.

“I don’t give a shit.”

He didn’t even use the knife. Just his boot.

Stomping.

The guy’s skull split, bounced once, then slumped limp. The floor was soaked now. The stink of death, copper, rot and terror.

Tommy finally dropped the blade.

Breathing hard.

And then—he turned.

He was at your side in three long strides, falling to his knees so fast it nearly hurt your ribs. His hands hovered, not even touching you yet—afraid to break something even more.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed. “Christ… look at me. Look at me, baby.”

Your eyes fluttered open. Purple, puffy. You barely smiled. Barely made a sound.

“You came,” you whispered, voice just a rattle of air.

Tommy’s jaw clenched so hard it looked like he might snap a tooth. His eyes were full of blood and murder and grief. And then, so gently it broke your heart, he untied your wrists. And held you like you were something sacred. Even covered in blood. Even broken. He held you like you were still his.

His arms were shaking. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

Because Tommy Miller had just painted a room in blood—and still, none of it had been enough.

Your hands were barely untied when you collapsed forward into him, and he caught you like instinct. Like he needed to. His arms wrapped around your middle, mindful of the cuts, the swelling, the way your body flinched at even the softest pressure. His voice was a whisper now. Hoarse. Words stuck in his throat like barbed wire.

“Shit, darlin’. Look at what they did to you…”

You didn’t answer right away. Your face was half-buried in the blood-soaked collar of his shirt, the tang of iron stinging your throat. It smelled mostly of blood. But his scent was still there—earthy, sweat, gunpowder, and something warm. Something safe. You gripped at his shirt with fingers that barely worked, nails caked in dried blood.

“Tommy…”

“I’m here,” he murmured, cupping the back of your head, pulling you in tighter. “I’m here, baby. Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

You were shivering. Shock. He knew it. Felt it in your bones rattling against his chest.

He shifted, adjusting his grip, one arm sweeping under your legs. You cried out—just a little—and that single sound shattered something in him. He looked down at you, eyes glassy, jaw locked.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

“You got here,” you rasped, trying to focus on him through the blur. “That’s… that’s what matters.”

Tommy nodded, lips pressed to your temple, forehead, anywhere that wasn’t broken. He stood, slow and deliberate, cradling you to his chest. Your blood smeared across his arms, down his knuckles, mixing with the gore on his boots as he stepped over the bodies.

He didn’t look at them.

Didn’t need to.

They weren’t people anymore.

They were just reminders.

Outside, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Mist rose off the dirt, the air heavy with the aftermath of violence. He carried you through it—shoulders squared, rifle slung back over him, blood dripping down one temple from a cut he hadn’t noticed.

His voice came low again as he moved through the trees.

“We’ll get you patched up. Warm. I’ll get you food, alright?”

He was just babbling at this point. Probably to keep you awake.

You didn’t respond, and that silence was a blade in his gut.

“Talk to me,” he said, quieter now. “Just… say anythin’, honey.”

You stirred against his chest, cheek brushing his collarbone.

“mmhmhm.. Food, yeah.” you mumbled, though it came out mostly as a hum.

Tommy exhaled. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t joy. It was grief, maybe. Or guilt.

But still—he held you tighter.

Through the trees.

Through the mud.

Back to the horse waiting down the path. Back to Jackson. And whatever would come next—for you both.

The forest whispered around you, leaves shivering under the rain’s weight. The storm had thinned to a quiet drizzle now, but the damage had been done—your skin was cold, damp, clinging to Tommy’s chest like it was the only place left on earth that felt safe.

He rode slow.

One arm locked around your waist to keep you steady, the other guiding the horse with a firm grip on the reins. His jaw was clenched so tight, it ached. Every breath that came from him was shallow, controlled. Like if he let it go too deep, he might snap in two.

You stirred a little, back of your head rolling against his collarbone. The bruises on your ribs lit up from the motion.

“Don’t—don’t move too much,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You exhaled a shaky breath.

“You know I’m in love with you… right?” Tommy didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Your head was still resting against him, but your fingers—weak, trembling—tightened slightly around his coat.

“I didn’t mean to say it like that,” you whispered. “Not like this. I just… I want you to know.” His chest rose slow, then fell. The hand at your side flexed once. Twice.

There was a long pause. Just the sound of the rain tapping leaves, the creak of leather, the faint huff of the horse beneath you. Then, in a quiet, fractured voice:

And then, after a long beat:

“Yeah.”

His voice was quiet. Tense.

“Yeah, I know.”

It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of answer that carried weight behind it—grief, fury, guilt. Love.

You didn’t say anything else.

You couldn’t.

The words had cost too much.

Only after being checked by multiple doctors, and Maria… And, Joel… Did you finally get time to yourself.

Or so you thought.

“Jesus, look at you,” Tommy muttered, crouched in front of you, his hands working a damp cloth over the dried blood on your temple. “You get into a bar fight with a goddamn lawnmower?”

You huffed, throat raw, the corner of your mouth twitching despite the ache. “That supposed to be funny?”

Tommy shot you a look—half a smirk, half a grimace. “Didn’t say it was good.”

The rag moved gently over your skin, but there was nothing calm in his movements. Not really. His jaw was locked tight, his shoulders coiled like he still hadn’t come down from the killing.

And you’d seen it. All of it.

The aftermath, the blood, the bodies—the way he’d taken out seventeen people like it was nothing. Like he was built for it. Not just angry. Trained. Efficient. A switch had flipped and turned him into something else entirely.

You hadn’t said a word about it yet. You weren’t sure you could.

“You always this mouthy when you’re patching someone up?” you asked, quieter now. Your voice cracked a little.

Tommy didn’t look up. “Only when I’m patchin’ up someone too fuckin’ stubborn to stay safe.”

You blinked, the weight of his words like a slap. He finally looked at you, eyes hard, burning low.

Tommy stood abruptly, tossing the rag into the bowl with a splash. He paced two steps away, running a hand down his face like he could scrub the blood off his memories.

“You look at me different now?” he asked, voice dry. “After all that?”

You paused.

“…Little bit.”

His back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder.

“I mean,” you said, softer, “you did paint the walls with someone’s brain.”

Tommy snorted, the sound bitter. “Yeah, well. They fuckin' earned it.”

He turned back, walked toward you again—but slower now. Tension rolled off him in waves, soaked into the floorboards of the house. He stood in front of you, silent for a beat, then lowered himself back down to one knee.

“But you’re not scared of me?” he asked. Quiet. Direct.

You looked at him. Really looked.

The blood on his shirt hadn’t dried. His knuckles were raw. There was a smear of something dark on his jaw—someone else’s, not his.

And still, even now, with your body broken and your head ringing, he was here. Holding you up. Keeping you whole.

“…No,” you answered honestly. And, even if you secretly were—your answer would always be no.

Tommy’s eyes flicked over your face, searching.

Like he was trying to find the lie in you and failing.

His voice dropped.

“You told me somethin’ on that horse.”

You blinked slowly. “…Yeah.”

“Still true?”

The air in the room changed. Thickened.

You nodded, slow. “Yeah.”

His jaw ticked.

He reached up and touched your cheek—just two fingers, light and fleeting.

“I know,” he said, voice sanded down to something close to regret. “I just can’t afford to say it back right now.”

A beat. Your heart stuttered.

“Why?”

He exhaled hard. “’Cause if I do, and I lose you again…” he trailed off, jaw pulsing for a moment, the tendon in his neck sparking alive.

“I ain’t sure what I’ll become next.”

And god help anyone who found out.

Tommy’s fingers lingered against your cheek, but he wasn’t really touching you anymore.

He was looking at you. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or run headfirst into a wall. Anger pulsating off of his muscles, like a thick stench.

Eyes dark, jaw tight. His thumb dragged gently over a smear of dried blood near your lip, and his touch slowed like he was memorizing the curve of your face.

Your eyes looming up his face, you made contact with those easy dark browns.

“You look at me like that again,” he said low, almost like a warning, “… and I ain’t gonna be able to stop myself.”

Your breath hitched. “Then don’t.”

That silence—the heavy kind, the kind that means something—settled for just a second.

Then everything snapped.

He surged forward, grabbing your face in both hands like he couldn’t bear another second of space between you. His mouth crashed into yours—all teeth and heat, desperate and rough around the edges. Not gentle. Not anymore.

It was hungry—like he’d been holding this in for years and something inside him had finally shattered. His lips crushed against yours, and you met him with equal fire, fingers tangling in his damp curls, dragging him closer, closer.

He groaned into your mouth, deep and gravel-thick, like the sound was ripped straight out of his chest. His hands slid down to your waist, yanking you forward off of the countertop, hauling you into his lap like he couldn’t get enough of your skin against his.

The kiss turned messier—your nose bumping his, your bruises sparking heat when his stubble grazed over your jaw.

None of it mattered.

You didn’t care. You wanted more. You wanted all of it. Pretty sure the split in your lip had come undone again, slowly gushing crimson.

His breath was ragged when he pulled back just an inch, lips red, messily and slick, forehead pressed to yours.

“Jesus,” You muttered, voice wrecked.

Your thumb brushed along his jaw, feeling the tension still buzzing beneath.

"Don't start preachin' now."

God can't save you.

His laugh was low, dark, his mouth already moving back to yours. And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t hunger anymore.

The rain outside hammered steady against the windows, but inside Tommy’s small, dimly lit room, everything else fell away. The sharp taste of his lips on yours was electric—like fire against bruised skin, dangerous and alive.

His hands didn’t hesitate, tracing every line and curve, memorizing every inch of you with an urgency that made your breath catch. Fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

You felt him—his body tense and trembling beneath your hands, raw and unrelenting. Fingers sliding beneath his shirt, tracing the hard planes of his chest—the steady thump of his heart racing in time with yours.

Every touch was desperate, like both of you were trying to make up for lost time, for the nights you didn’t know if you’d survive.

You arched against him, hands clutching at his shoulders as the tension twisted tighter and tighter inside you.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, voice rough and low. Tommy’s hands slid down, tracing the curves of your hips, pulling you flush against him.

The heat between you was fierce, bruising, alive—And in that small room, with rain pounding the windows and blood still drying on skin, you found a moment of something pure—something worth fighting for.

Tommy’s lips trailed lower, tracing a slow, burning path down your skin. His breath was warm, ragged, his hands gripping your hips like he’d never let go.

“Do you know what I would do for you?” he hummed, voice thick with something dark and fierce.

His mouth pressed kisses against your thighs, worshipping every inch like you were the only thing that kept him from losing his goddamn mind.

You shivered, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “Tell me.”

His fingers clenched tighter, pads of fingers digging just enough to remind you he was real, alive—dangerous in every way.

“More than what I did today,” he exhales, voice ragged, edged with something fierce. “More than tearing apart every son of a bitch who laid a hand on you.”

Your eyes met his—wide, soft, heavy with something unspoken in the dim, flickering light. Heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else. The way he said it—like your pain was the spark to his wildfire, the fuel to his recklessness.

Tommy’s gaze locked onto yours, and slow, deliberate, his hand gripped the hem of your shorts, peeling the fabric down with careful hunger—mindful of your bruises, yet ravenous.

“You’re all I’ve got left to fight for,” he exhaled against your skin, breath hot and uneven, ghosting over your bruised flesh. “I’d burn the whole goddamn world to ash before I let you go.”

His touch was fierce, demanding—but beneath that storm was something fragile, a desperate tenderness clinging beneath the surface. His lips trailed along the sheer fabric of your underwear, planting scattered, teasing kisses like soft gunfire.

“Say it again,” you whispered, voice hoarse but tender.

A low growl rumbled from him, thick with raw hunger and reverence. “I’m insane for you,” Tommy confessed, voice breaking on the words. “You’re the only thing keeping me from falling apart—and I’m fuckin’ lost without you.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, craving to drown in the wild heat that radiated from him.

His lips pressed back against the thin cloth, one rough middle finger slipping beneath the edge to pull it aside. Then, without warning, his tongue flicked along your folds—careful, reverent—stirring a raw, guttural moan from deep inside you. His tongue swirled slow around your clit, tender and unrelenting.

“Shit—” you gasped, thighs instinctively trying to close. His free hand caught your leg, palm wide, pressing it firmly back down.

His tongue danced, tracing small strokes up and down, lifting his chin to trap your clit between lips and teeth. A breathy, rough laugh slipped out as he slurped, lips and scruff slick with your essence—crudely beautiful, just like him.

Tommy’s mouth never left you, worshipping every shiver that his tongue milked from deep inside. His hands moved with the same reckless devotion—one sliding up your ribs, beckoning for any inch of your breast, while the other curled around your hip, forearm and elbow pushing against your thigh, anchoring you like he’d never remove his mouth from your cunt.

The heat pooling low in your stomach bloomed fierce, aching, and wild.

Your breath hitched as he deepened his ministrations, slow licks encircling, pressing harder, teasing, nibbling—pulling from you guttural sounds you hadn’t meant to give.

He looked up at you then, eyes dark and stormy, swallowing the sight of you with something feral, almost desperate. There was a visible deep lick up, tilting his head into the taste.

“Goddamn,” he muttered between strokes, voice low and ragged. “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your hands tangled in his hair again, pulling him closer as your body arched instinctively, desperate for more. As if stating, don't stop now, cowboy.

"Tastes like fuckin' heaven." It came out between vulgar slurping, and pebbling of his tongue.

Tommy’s lips parted from your heat with a pop, leaving a trail up your thigh, kisses wet, marking you with his hunger. His fingers slipped around your skin, tracing the raw edges of your pain and pleasure, making you forget the world—forget everything but him.

“Tell me,” he whispered hoarsely, his breath hot against your skin, “… Tell me what you want.”

You shivered, voice trembling, breath ragged. “You.”

"Shit, Doll," He leaned up on his knees, arm lifting behind to position his splayed hand across his back—fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt, and pulling it off.

If you died tonight, so fucking be it. The sight in front of you was enough to make you drool like a fucking dog. Tanned skin, scars peppered in random places, a dark inked sigil on his bicep, something you've definitely never seen before.

"… 'Makin be blush."

His voice came out sarcastic, almost unwavering in cockiness. His hands lowered, the clinking of his belt as he undid it—one hand pulling the leather slack until it fully slid out from his belt loops. "Roll on your back."

It came out more as a soft demand. Maybe, asking nicely if you squinted hard enough. He knew your condition wasn't tip top, his hands softly guiding around your waist to flip you on your stomach.

Leaning forward he lowered a hand to splay across your stomach, beckoning you to arch your back. His hand slid up from your stomach, rounding your ass, head tilting as if he was just inspecting you.

It felt a bit open, and airy. Never being on display for someone like this. "Gorgeous fuckin' girl." It rolled off his tongue like he was saying it to himself. Like you weren't even in the room.

"Cmon," He mumbled, it exhaled softly, slipping his free hand between your thighs, "Spread 'em wide." You obeyed without another beat, flexing your hips up to position against him—knees spreading open as they press into the plush of the mattress. As you move, he praises, "I know you're exhausted," A pause, "Yeah—That's a good girl."

"Tommy…" Your voice wavered, letting your face push into the plush of his comforter, a deep breath filling with his woodsy scent. It came out as a plea, and warning. His hands gently slide forward on the curvature of your back, fingers spreading heat across your spine. "I can't believe they touched you."

His fingers gently push your hair over your shoulder, back-bare—"I could do it a thousan' times over again,"

Kill them. He means slaughtering them.

Tommy leans forward, hand moving down to pull himself from his boxers, "You're lucky I don't lock you in this fuckin' room…" Breath coming out soft as his hand strokes up and down his cock, raising his hips to split you open. Sliding in with ease—a guttural clearing of his throat, and a whine so deep from your throat it causes him to let out a hoarse breath.

Hips sloppily grinding together at even the contact of penetration. "So fuckin' wet for me." His voice comes out grainy—bottom lip falling victim to the top row of his teeth. Hands coming down against your waist, holding you in place like some fucked-out pocketpussy. The shock rhythm of his hips starts slow, dragging his cock all the way out, and then slowly grinding back in.

"Fuck, sweet'girl," He rasps, deep hunger from his throat, "Take me so good…" One hand leaving your hips, sinking down to the back of your neck, a soft hold—hips jackhammering faster, and faster, until the echoing of skin-slapping fills the room.

At this point, you're spent. Head looming concussion from the event earlier, and his words eating at your braincells like fucking slop.

Babbles of his name, and whines slipping from your lips—muffled by the fabric shoved into your face.

"Look what they did to my poor fuckin' girl." He snarls, a deep exhale as he leans forward—his chest pressed against your shoulder-blades, rutting into from a deeper angle.

Tommy's tongue slides against a bruise on your shoulder, falling into an open-mouthed kiss along the lines of your traps.

"—if anyone ever puts their hands on you again," It sounds like a promise, relished in holy ink. That even a man who could bathe in the blood of others sins, could be so angelic to you. "Shit—Tommy," It's accidental, the twist in your gut coming all too fast.

"I know," He exhales, "I know, babygirl—" His hips stutter for a second, slipping out. You practically whine at the loss of connection, head tilting to the side to watch from your ass-up position. He's soft with the positioning, hands encircling your waist to flip you back over onto your back.

The breath comes out of his mouth in a deep, husky exhale. Eyes practically drinking in the sight of you on your back, legs tilted open for him, breasts on display.

"God—I'm one lucky fuckin' man," Leaning down, his lips trail around your chest, peppering soft nibbles and heated-healing kisses against your collarbones.

His face finally comes into your view, mouth inches from yours—so far in your space you could practically taste his breath.

You open your mouth, wanting to say somethng—anything—but you were so fucking tired. Just wanting to be used, below him as he takes out any ounce of anger he still has in his body.

"Wider." He nods to your mouth, leaning forward with a tilt of his head. You comply, lips parting wide, your tongue lulling out ever so slightly. It's slow, as he gathers the spit in his mouth, then moves his lips together, letting it dribble on to your tongue.

"My dirty fuckin' girl," It comes out as a husky laugh, before he glides his tongue against yours, taking in the spit, diving into a heated kiss—tongue and teeth.

His hand slid between your sweat-slicked bodies, grabbing on to his cock, guiding it to line up with your entrance.

Soft slide, as he buries himself hilt fucking deep inside you, tip of his cock pressing against the pink-and-reddened of your cervix.

"There she is," It comes out as a laugh. Like he was talking to it.

Panting entirely now, hips slapping and pistoning against your pelvis—huffs of groans, and pleas of your name as you flutter against him. "You're killin' me," Babbles from his mouth as he absentmindedly talks, plunging in all the way, and dragging back out. "Absolutely fuckin' killin' me."

The familiar coil in your gut comes back, that fresh blooming heat, pleas of his name, "Tommy—I'm gonna—" He swallows your voice whole, lips finding yours in another messy sloppy clash. Hand raising between you both, a palmful of your breast—thumb, and forefinger rolling the pebbling of your nipple in his grasp. Tommy's teeth sliding against your bottom lip, reopening the split from earlier—tongue swiping any inkling of blood.

"Cmon," He advised, "Let go, you're okay," Lips slowly making their way across your jawline, peppering down to your neck, "Milk me fuckin' dry." Boost of encouragement as his hand lifts from your breast, trailing against the back of your neck to take a fistful of hair.

The feeling washes over you, hot, and speckled—skin lit aflame as your stomach churns, insides tightening and fluttering against him. It elicits a cry from your throat, ripped of his name like a prayer, and pleasure. He smiles against the line of your jaw, delicate as he rides it out, making sure to hit the same spot over—and over—and over.

The feeling overwhelmed him, eyebrows knitting together as he leans forward on his palms—head tilted down to watch as he ruts into you. Watching the connection—messy, and slick as the mixture of precum and fluid coat his cock.

He's practically in a trance. It's not too long later that the image of you writhing underneath him sends a livewire to his brain. Hips stuttering as they sloppily slam into you, his fingers knotting themselves into the blanket fabric beside your head.

"Shit, Doll," He hums, eyes shutting tightly as he buries deep inside of you one final time—muscles tense, biceps spasming as he holds himself over you.

The hot wash of him spilling inside of you triggers a brainfucked giggle to slip, his eyes only slitting open to watch.

When the dust settles, he pulls out with a tight groan—collapsing beside you like a weary shadow. His hand rises slowly, tracing a slow, tired arc across his face before threading through his tangled hair.

The sweat cooled on your skin, as you both lay tangled beneath the plush sheets. The room was heavy with silence, the only sound the soft thrum of rain against the windowpane. Tommy’s breath was uneven, chest rising and falling close to yours, but his eyes were fixed somewhere just beyond the ceiling, lost in thought.

Leaning over, you traced a lazy line along his collarbone with a trembling finger, careful not to break the fragile quiet. “You’re not gonna talk about it, are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand found yours above the blankets, fingers curling around your wrist with a surprising gentleness. “What’s there to say?” His voice was rough, distant. “Not proud of what I am. Not proud of what I did.”

You squeezed his hand. “Doesn’t mean I’m scared of you.”

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking like it was tearing something inside him loose, “It means I’m scared for you.”

Your eyes locked. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slow and heavy, he rolled to his side to face you, his hand still holding yours as if it anchored him to something real.

Tommy’s eyes lit aflame with something fragile—something you hadn’t seen before. “You’re the only thing I want to keep safe. Even when I can’t keep myself safe.”

You didn’t speak.

You just listened to the rain.

authors note: i love seattle tommy.. like ughhyess hubby give me all your dark and angst.. lemme get that also?? that fight scene… okay baddie!! you fought like hell!!

masterlist

[botanicsoul]

Girrrrrrlllll I love your work! You are so talented i was gonna ask if you are down to write a hate sex type fic with bakugou :ppppp if you’re not down totally fine already eating up your work anyway so much love from Türkiye 💕💕💕

Yes yes YES!! im obsessed with this ;) Love you lots babe and thank you so much for this request 🙈💕

Spite & Sparks

timeskip | Bakugou Katsuki x Reader

. ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

You hated him.

You hated how fucking rude he was. How he talked to people like they were beneath him, like he didn’t have time for anyone’s shit. You hated that smug, arrogant smirk on his face whenever you opened your mouth to argue with him—like he loved watching you get worked up.

You hated how cocky he was, how his presence sucked the air out of the room, demanding attention without saying a word. You hated his stupid grenadier hero costume and how it clung to every inch of his hard, cut body like it was designed just to make you look.

But most of all, you hated that it worked.

You hated how easily he had you moaning his name, legs spread and hips tilted, back arching for more of him even as the words left your mouth—

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaky, eyes glassy as your fists balled into the sheets beneath you.

You were shaking. Your thighs were trembling from the effort of holding yourself up, from the way he hadn’t let up for even a second. He knew what he was doing. He knew how deep to hit, how fast to move, how to drag his hand down the curve of your back just to watch you arch for him even when you didn’t want to.

And you were fighting it—fighting him.

Your face was flushed, your teeth dug into your bottom lip to keep the sounds in. You were right there, right on the fucking edge—but you refused to give him the satisfaction.

Bakugou noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh, you holdin’ back now?” he growled, voice dipped in heat and arrogance. “Tryna pretend you ain’t about to come all over my cock?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just gasped, jaw tight, legs shaking.

He laughed—mocked you—rolling his hips deeper, angling himself just right. “Tch. That’s cute. Thinkin’ you got control.”

“I’m not…oh shit—” you cried out when he snapped his hips forward hard, hitting that one spot that made your whole body light up.

“Not what? Not gonna come?” His voice dripped smug satisfaction. “Baby, your pussy’s fuckin’ twitchin’ on me I can feel you milkin’ me.”

“I hate you,” you panted, a sob threatening to break through the words. “I hate you katsuki.”

“Oh yeah?” he smirked against your neck, voice low and dangerous. “Then fine. Don’t come.”

He fucked into you harder. Meaner. Grinning when your hips bucked back against him, desperate. “Don’t come, if you hate me that much. Be a good little brat and hold it aaaaalllll in.”

You whimpered—your body betraying you in the worst fucking way. You were right there, teetering.

“What’s the matter?” he cooed, mocking. “Pussy too weak? Huh? She don’t hate me like you do?”

His fingers dragged between your legs, found your clit, started circling it—slow and cruel. “Oh god,” you gasped, body lurching forward, a broken moan ripping out of your throat.

“Go ahead,” he growled, voice strained now, too turned on to hide it. “Let go. Make a fuckin’ mess on me. Come like the hate-filled little bitch you are.”

You wanted to fight it. You wanted to keep the hate on your tongue, not the moans. But when he whispered your name in that low, possessive voice, and slammed into you just right—

You shattered. And Bakugou felt it. Felt the way you clenched and cried and shook beneath him, heard the way you sobbed his name like it was a curse.

“Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, voice rough, thick with lust as he watched you fall apart beneath him. “Look at you, princess. You fuckin’ love me.”

You were still trembling—hips twitching, jaw slack, your whole body flushed from the orgasm that ripped through you. And you hated that he could see it. See how wrecked you were. How much he affected you.

He slowed his hips, grinding into you with slow, punishing rolls that kept you teetering on the edge of overstimulation. But then—his hand left your hip.

You flinched when you felt it on your face. His thumb pressed gently to your cheek, trailing up to brush under your eye. Tender. Almost sweet. The contrast made your chest tighten.

“Look at me,” he muttered.

You tried to resist, tried to keep your eyes squeezed shut. But he gave your cheek the softest little tap—not hard, just enough.

“C’mon, baby. Gimme those eyes.”

And you did. Slowly. Hating the way your gaze met his like gravity was pulling you in.

His thumb rubbed over your cheek again. The pad of it was calloused, warm, achingly careful.

“You fuckin’ hate me, huh?” he said, softer now. His tone still had that edge, “That why you come so fuckin’ hard for me?”

You swallowed, breath catching. “I hate you,” you whispered one last time.

But the way you leaned into his touch? The way your lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy?

He smirked like he already knew the truth.

“Yeah, baby?,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss your temple, cock still buried deep inside you.

“Well I fuckin’ love you.”

He knew the truth. The way you were still grinding against him, still begging for more?

“I love you too,” you whimpered lowly, voice cracked and ruined.

. ݁ ˖.𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖ .𖥔 ݁ ˖𓂃.☘︎ ݁˖

[wendichester]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ two winchesters walk into a bar³,

summary. making a quick stop at harvelle’s has never been more fun

pairing. dean winchester x jo's cousin!reader genre. filty smut ( mdni )

wordcount. 1816

notes / warnings. explicit sexual content, semi-public sex (in the impala), unprotected p in v, dom!dean whooop!!, overstimulation, manhandling, body fluids yuck, still shitty cousins 🤭

ᯓ★ read part 1, part 2

The moment the Impala door slams behind you, you’re already climbing into his lap like you’ve got a death wish.

Dean’s hands find your hips and grip, yanking you down against the hard line of him, dragging a groan straight out of his throat. “Goddamn,” he pants. “You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me.”

You grind against him shamelessly, still wet, underwear shoved aside like it was never supposed to be in the equation. His jeans are rough under you, the zipper dragging, and all you can think about is how fast you want them gone.

“You owe me,” you hiss, breath hitching as he presses his mouth to your throat. “You started this shit.”

“And I’m gonna finish it.” His voice is wrecked. “Turn around.”

You blink. “What?”

He leans in, breath hot against your cheek. “Backseat. Now.”

Oh.

Oh.

You crawl awkwardly into the backseat, dress hiked, hair wild, heart threatening to detonate. The leather sticks to your thighs. Your pulse is in your mouth.

Dean follows fast — climbing in after you with a speed that’s almost feral. His hands slide up your thighs again, spreading you wide with zero shame, and he curses under his breath when he sees just how soaked you are.

“Shit, sweetheart… this all for me?”

You nod into the seat, breathless. “Dean—”

His fingers are back inside you before you finish. Two. Deep. Crooked just right. And you cry out — loud, unfiltered.

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

You’re not quiet. Not anymore. Not when he fucks you with his fingers like he’s starving, palm grinding against your clit, other hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back just enough for him to watch your face in the window’s reflection.

“You feel that?” he hisses. “That’s how bad you were teasing me. Dripping. In public.”

“Dean—fuck—” you gasp, hips rocking back into his hand.

“I wanted to bend you over that table, didn’t even care who was watching.”

You cry out again as he curls his fingers hard, and your whole body shudders.

He pulls his hand away suddenly and you whimper at the loss — until you hear it.

The sound of his belt.

And then the unzip.

And then—

“Gonna fuck you now, baby,” he breathes.

Dean growls like an animal and shifts beneath you. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already leaking. He grabs you by the hips and drags you down onto him — one long, slow, burning slide that steals your air completely.

Your nails dig into his shoulders. “Oh my God—”

He lets out a groan so deep you feel it in your spine. “That’s it. Take it, sweetheart.”

The stretch is maddening — delicious and overwhelming. He fills you completely, buried to the hilt, and neither of you moves for a second. Just panting. Just shaking.

Then he snaps his hips up.

You wail.

“Shh, baby,” he hisses against your ear, even though there’s no one around now. “Don’t wanna get caught, do you?”

You shake your head, but you’re lying, and he knows it.

He fucks up into you hard, fast, merciless — and the car rocks with every thrust. His fingers are bruising your hips now, guiding you, making you ride him with all the rhythm of a man on a mission.

“You were so cocky in there,” he pants, biting down on your earlobe. “All that mouth. Now look at you.”

You’re moaning into his neck, trembling, barely able to keep up with his pace. His cock hits deep — deeper than anyone ever has — and your clit drags against the edge of his pelvis just right.

“Dean—oh, fuck—I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?” He’s wrecked, voice low and mean. “Come? Already?”

You nod, dizzy, desperate.

“Do it.” He licks into your mouth like he owns it. “Come all over me. Right fucking now.”

You shatter.

Loud. Shaking. Pussy clenching around him so tight it pulls a snarl from his chest.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Just like that. Jesus fuckin’—you’re unreal.”

You slump against him, boneless, but he’s not done.

He shifts — one hand on the small of your back, the other gripping your thigh — and starts fucking up into you with brutal precision. Sharp, fast, punishing thrusts.

You’re a mess in his lap, hands clawing at his shoulders, slick dripping down your thighs as he pounds up into you like he owns every inch of your body — and God, maybe he does. You’ve lost track of everything. Time. Space. Language. It’s just the stretch of him, the slap of skin, the sound of his voice wrecking your name over and over again.

“Fuck—feel that, baby? Hear how wet you are for me?” he groans, lips brushing your neck, “You’re drippin’ all over me—fuck, you’re so tight—squeezin’ me like that—”

You can’t speak. Can’t think. The Impala’s windows are fogged over, your dress is hiked up to your waist, and every time you drop back down, it feels like you’re splitting open on his cock in the best way.

His hand sneaks between you, thumb brushing over your clit, and you jerk — body spasming with another wave crashing through you. He doesn’t even slow down, just catches your whimper in a kiss and keeps thrusting, harder, faster, chasing it now.

“Look at you,” he pants against your lips. “Taking it all like a good girl. Riding me so fuckin’ sweet—fuck—”

You feel it — the tension in his thighs, the way his hands grip your hips like he’s trying not to lose control. And just when you feel him throb inside you—

He curses under his breath and pulls out, fast, groaning deep in his chest.

One stroke.

Two.

And then he’s spilling across your stomach and thighs, hot and heavy, jaw clenched tight as his body convulses beneath you. He watches the whole thing with hooded eyes, lips parted, chest heaving. It hits your skin in thick, messy spurts, dripping down where your bodies were just joined, a filthy echo of how deep he’d been.

You collapse forward, boneless, your hands braced on his chest as you pant against his collarbone.

Dean swipes a hand across your stomach — not even with a napkin — and lifts his fingers to your mouth, letting you suck them clean like you’re starving.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

You grin, wicked and glowing. “That was a prayer, right? Sounded like one.”

He kisses your cheek, surprisingly soft. “You okay?”

You nod, dazed. “Ruined. But yeah.”

Dean tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, still smug as hell. “Next time, you’re riding me in the front seat.”

You raise a brow. “And if Jo sees?”

He chuckles darkly. “Let her. We both know she already wants to kill me.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re still not moving. Neither is he.

His palm drifts down your thigh, lazy now. No rush. Just that warm, lingering touch that says he’s not quite ready to let go yet.

Outside, the cicadas buzz. The Impala ticks as it cools.

And you? You’re sitting half-naked in Dean Winchester’s lap, smeared with his come, pulsing between your legs, and feeling more alive than you have in months.

You’re still breathing heavy, thighs shaking, when Dean tucks you closer into his chest — like you didn’t just ride him into oblivion in the backseat of his car.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, grabbing an old flannel from the floorboards — soft from age, smelling like him and motor oil and sweat. He dabs gently at your stomach, cleaning you up with the kind of reverence that makes your throat tighten.

You glance down at the mess — at the streaks of him painting your skin. “This is disgusting,” you whisper, but you’re grinning.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers. “Nah. This?” He looks down at your belly, at the sticky evidence of what just happened. “This is fucking art.”

You swat his chest, cheeks burning. “You’re impossible.”

“Mm. And you’re beautiful when you’re wrecked,” he says, eyes roaming your face like he’s already thinking about round two. “Especially knowing you’re sore ‘cause of me.”

Your stomach flips.

Once you’re cleaned up — as much as two people can be in the back of a ‘67 Chevy with no wipes and a sin problem — Dean helps you climb off his lap, hands lingering a second too long on your hips.

You fix your dress. Or try to. The hem won’t stay straight, your panties are MIA (God help them), and you’ve got that freshly-fucked glow that no amount of blotting powder’s gonna hide.

Dean’s already zipping up his jeans, smug as sin, one hand running through his sex-mussed hair. “You ready?”

“Absolutely not,” you mumble. “My legs don’t work.”

He throws his head back and laughs — big and unbothered. Then he leans in, kisses your cheek, and says it low enough that your bones vibrate:

“I’ll carry you if I have to.”

By the time you both step out of the car, you’ve almost composed yourself. Almost.

Your hair’s down now to cover your neck, your lipstick’s half-gone, and you’ve got that dazed, “I just got railed in a national treasure of an automobile” look written all over your face. Dean’s no better — shirt still rumpled, pupils blown, that crooked smirk barely contained.

“You good?” he murmurs, offering his arm like a gentleman from hell.

“Do I look good?” you hiss, adjusting your dress.

He winks. “You look like you had a religious experience.”

You glare. “You made me leave my underwear in your car.”

“And I plan to frame them. Next to my fake FBI badge.”

You swat him. He grins.

When you walk back into Harvelle’s, the jukebox’s still whining a classic rock ballad, and Jo’s still behind the bar, scrubbing at the counter like it insulted her mother.

She clocks you instantly. Her eyes narrow. Then they narrow more.

Dean strolls in like he just got back from buying a pack of gum, snagging a beer from the cooler and popping it open one-handed.

You trail behind him, trying not to limp.

“Where the hell did you two go?” Jo asks, flat.

Dean doesn’t blink. “Smoke break.”

Jo glances out the window. “Neither of you smoke.”

Dean sips his beer. “We do now.”

You shoot him a look. He just smiles over the rim of his bottle, like he didn’t just wreck you six ways to Sunday in the backseat of his car while Jo was twenty feet away.

She turns to you slowly. Eyes narrowing.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Dean gave me a tour. Of the Impala.”

Jo stares at you. “How thorough was this tour?”

Dean raises his brows. “Very.”

You kick him under the table.

Jo sighs like she’s aged a decade. “I need a fucking break.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[h1nanii]

Having zoro as your boyfriend Headcanons

Pairings: Grumpy! Zoro x Soft girl! Reader

[Warnings: NSFW 18+ at the end]

Minors dni

It was no question that you & zoro held massive differences between each other, but it was surely a shock to everyone else to see the two of you together.

Zoro’s not soft by nature — but he tries. He roughs up your hair too hard the first time he tries to give you a head pat. When you giggle and call him “adorable,” he growls under his breath and turns red.

You’re His Compass (Literally and Emotionally)

You’re the only one who can get Zoro un-lost on an island. You gently take his hand and lead the way, and he just silently follows — not because he needs the help (he swears), but because he trusts you.

You get nervous in big crowds or loud towns? Zoro’s already standing behind you like a wall, one hand on a sword, eyes scanning everything, saying, “You stay close to me.”

Zoro’s favorite activity with you is napping. He likes when you curl up next to him like a little warm bundle, your head on his chest, your breath slow and even. It’s the calmest he’s ever felt.

Secretly Loves When You Patch Him Up

You’re always ready with bandages, soft words, and that serious “nurse face.” He acts like it’s unnecessary, but he never refuses your touch. In fact, he looks forward to it.

Protective Without Admitting It

Zoro doesn’t say “be careful,” he says “don’t get in the way.” He doesn’t say “I missed you,” he says “what took you so long?”

But god forbid anyone looks at you wrong — he’ll “accidentally” unsheathe Wado Ichimonji.

NSFW/SPICY headcanons

[I Had a blast writing this 😛😛]

He tries to be gentle—but damn, you make it hard.

Zoro starts slow. He doesn’t want to hurt you, especially with how soft you are. But the second you let out a needy whimper or tug at his shirt shyly?

All restraint goes out the window. He’s got you pinned, panting against your skin, growling, “You don’t know what you do to me.”

Size kink, 100%.

You’re smaller, softer, and his body dwarfs yours.

He loves watching his length stretch you, your pretty little hole struggling to take all of him, his thumb rubbing your clit while he growls, “You can take it ‘pretty girl c’mon..”

The grunts, the groans, the growls.

Zoro isn’t loud—but the low, primal noises he makes while buried inside you are filthy.

He’ll grunt, “So damn tight,” in your ear as he drives deeper, hand on your lower back to keep you in place.

Quickies during training breaks.

You bring him water or a towel mid-workout, and he’s already pulling you into the shadows. “Just a quick one,” he says.

But you’re bent over a bench seconds later, sweating and gasping, your voice bouncing off the walls while he mutters, “Couldn’t wait ’til tonight.”

Morning wood? You’re his favorite way to deal with it.

Waking up with you warm and sleepy next to him? He doesn’t even wait.

He’s rutting against you, lips on your neck, half-asleep voice mumbling, “C’mere, baby. Need you. Now.”

His favorite meal? Get on that damn table girl.

And when you do?

“Been thinking about this all damn day,” he growled, breath hot against your inner thigh. “Training, sparring, even while talking to Moss-For-Brains Cook.”

Your soft gasp made his smirk deepen.

“You’ve got no idea what you do to me, Princess. All that cutesy shit, that soft ‘lil smile… ‘gon get me a taste alright?” His hands—big, calloused, strong—eased your thighs apart as he kissed up your leg, slow and savoring.

And when his mouth finally met your soaked heat?

It wasn’t gentle. It was focused. Obsessive. Like a man starved. Just how long did it take for him to crave you that much as if you weren’t riding his face that same morning.

You loved it. Every rough, filthy, loving second of it.

________________________________________________

[visual representation of me writing this btw, hoped you guys liked it ]

[pooksamiras]

- amira. 5/18/25 8:51 PM

Simon’s arms are canvases of ink — dark, intricate tattoos that twist along his skin like smoke, etched into him long before he ever imagined someone like her, entering his life. Wrapping around his forearms, crawling up his biceps, disappearing beneath the sleeves of a tight black shirt that clung to every sculpted ridge of his body. Faded scars interrupted the flow of ink — reminders of life spent in combat, discipline forged through years of military service. His hands rough, calloused. — hands made for breaking, but now, for holding, her.

He hadn’t come to that grimy little dive bar looking for anyone. Least of all someone soft, so bright-eyed, and warm. He stays tucked in the shadows, the glow of the neon barely catching the matte ink of his skin. People usually know to keep their distance. But, then she walks in. — curious, unafraid, drawn to something dangerous like a moth to a flame.

“Nice tattoos,” she murmurs, voice soft and intimate as her fingers graze the lines on his arm. Her touch light, almost reverent, but enough to make his muscles twitch beneath her fingertips.

He’s never been one for indulgence. Self-restraint is second nature — ingrained, necessary. But she is a temptation wrapped in softness, and something in him gave way.

—

Now, hours later, she’s pressed against the cold wall of his apartment, dress hiked up over her hips, tits spilling free. He drags her panties down with little ceremony, letting them dangle around one ankle. The air was thick with heat and tension, the dim light casting theirs bodies in an amber shadows.

“Wanna know something about my tattoos, darlin’?” Simon’s voice low and gravelly, vibrating against her skin as he pressed the heavy weight of his cock along her slick folds, teasing, coating himself in her arousal.

“They’re older than you, sweetheart.”

She whimpers, biting her bottom lip hard enough to sting, a breathy moan escaping as his words sank in. But she doesn’t pull away — no, she pushes back into him.

“Didn’t think you were into that,” he muttered with a smirk, and then he pushed inside — slowly at first, then all at once. The room echoed with the obscene squelch of him sinking deep into her soaked heat, her walls fluttering around him.

“Didn’t take you for someone who had a thing for older men,” he groaned, wrapping a large, inked hand around her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her eyes flutter. “Turns you on, yeah? Getting filled up by a man with tattoos older than your ass?”

Her legs tremble as he began thrusting, each snap of his hips sharp and precise. She could barely breathe, let alone speak, her brain melting under the weight of his cock.

“Already gettin’ dumb on me?” he cooed mockingly, his voice laced with dark amusement as tears welled in your eyes. “Fuckin’ hell, look at you. Cryin’ like a good girl.”

He watched every twitch of her body with greedy eyes. This — this — is more real than any night he’s spent fisting his cock in a lonely bunk, teeth gritted behind a balaclava, imagining something softer than his own rough palm. Now he has her, warm and wet and real, and he isn’t letting go.

He speeds up, fucking into her like he needs her to live, slick sounds loud and messy between them.

“C’mon, darlin’,” he murmured, tapping her cheek gently, coaxing her out of her haze. Drool trickling from the corner of her mouth. “Give the old man some respect, yeah?”

She moans brokenly, while he grins — all teeth and hungry — before burying himself deeper, like he wants to leave something behind inside her.

And maybe, he already has.

[enimsiyobeht]

thinking about .... enhypen ft. dilf reader x bp jungwon !!

a/n : def didn't just start this because i couldnt write a genuine drabble on it (im not that good at writing dilf/milfs 💔💔). i know damn well my anon disappointed, sorry babe.

synopsis : some headcannons/hard thought on dilf reader x boypussy jungwon!! big dick reader (hehehe 😼😼). virgin jungwon. use of pussy, lips, folds, clit, and cunt as jungwon’s gential. mention of reader having an older son, minor jealousy/bratty jungwon, subtle manipulation if you squint, minor guilt on reader’s end, size kink/difference, spit as lube, baby trapping if you squint, breeding kink, unprotected sex (wrap it up buddy), minor choking.

Jungwon who can’t help the years of your only son moving out of your house for college abroad for him to move in himself—offering to keep you company “so you’re not alone,” and conveniently doing all the little things your son used to, like leaving the porch light on or making you tea when you come home from work.

Jungwon who acts like the most respectful, well-mannered boy to your face, always offering to clean up, do chores, or massage your shoulders after work—only to blush and bite his lip when your hand brushes his hip just a little too close to that warm spot between his thighs.

Jungwon who starts calling your house "home" before even realizing he’s saying it, and laughs nervously when you raise a brow—but doesn't correct himself. Instead, he starts leaving his things there: toothbrush, cologne, soft little pajama shorts you swear are too short.

Jungwon who flinches every time you go on a date or mention someone your age, then clings to you more than usual for days after—more touches, more smiles, longer eye contact. He keeps proving he's good, loyal, grown... better than anyone else.

Jungwon acts bratty just to get your attention. Talks back. Gets mouthy. Then when you pin him with a firm voice or a hard stare, he folds instantly. Looks down, whispers a soft “sorry, sir,” with a little too much heat in his tone. You always brush it off. He always bites back a smirk.

Jungwon who casually lounges around in oversized shirts and loose sleep shorts, but never bothers with underwear underneath—spreading out on your couch in suggestive positions that he swears are “comfortable,” while giving you a clear view of his soft thighs and bulge.

Jungwon who looks at you with those wide, pleading eyes whenever you try to keep your distance—like it hurts him that you won’t touch him. Like your restraint is the cruelest thing you could do to him. And eventually, you stop saying no.

You should’ve pushed him away.

Should’ve told him to go back to his room and forget all of this.

But when Jungwon kissed you—soft, shaking, lips full of longing—you lost every last shred of control.

You kissed him back, deeper. Rougher. He whimpered into your mouth like he’d been waiting for it his whole life.

You grabbed his waist and lowered him back against the couch. He spread his thighs with no hesitation, heart pounding in his chest, already flushed beneath the oversized T-shirt he’d stolen from you.

“I shouldn’t want this,” you muttered, dragging the fabric up his trembling stomach.

“But you do,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Just like I do.”

When you pulled the shirt over his head, your breath caught.

Smooth, pale skin. Perky little nipples. And between his spread legs—pink, glistening, untouched—his pussy was soaked. Lips slick and parted, pulsing for attention.

You hissed. “You’re wet already?”

His thighs trembled.

“Been thinking about you all day,” he admitted, breathless. “Fantasizing… Touching myself and pretending it was your fingers.”

You groaned, hand sliding down to press against his swollen folds. He cried out when your thumb teased the hood of his clit, hips twitching toward your palm.

“So sensitive,” you muttered. “You’ve never had anything inside here, have you?”

Jungwon bit his lip and shook his head. “Only my fingers. Never… not like this.”

Your cock was hard—aching. You freed it from your pants and slicked it with your spit, letting him watch. His eyes widened when he saw how thick you were.

“That won’t fit,” he breathed. “It’s too—”

“It’ll fit,” you growled, moving between his legs. “You’re gonna take all of it, baby.”

You hooked his knees up, spreading him wide, and rubbed the tip of your cock against his dripping folds. His pussy twitched with need, fluttering against your head.

Then you pushed in.

His hands flew to your shoulders, back arching as your thick cock split him open for the first time. Tight, hot, wet—so fucking tight.

“F-Fuck—” he sobbed, legs locking around your hips. “So big—hurts—”

“You’re doing perfect,” you grunted, slowly rocking deeper. “This little pussy was made to take me.”

You bottomed out with a groan, balls snug against him. Jungwon gasped, tears slipping down his cheeks from the stretch, but his pussy clenched around you hungrily.

“Y-You’re inside,” he whimpered. “So full—feels so full—”

You started to move, rolling your hips in slow, grinding thrusts. Jungwon’s hands gripped the couch cushions as he moaned louder with each one, his slick folds sucking you back in every time you pulled out.

“Look at you,” you growled. “So fuckin’ needy. You begged me for this, remember?”

“Please—” he cried. “F-Fuck me harder—want it all—need you to fill me up—”

You snapped your hips and he screamed, back arching as your cock pounded deep into his virgin cunt. His pussy fluttered, clenching around you with every thrust, soaking your cock in slick.

You leaned over him, one hand grabbing his throat, the other rubbing tight circles on his clit.

“Take it. Take everything.”

He came like that—legs shaking, lips parted, clit throbbing under your fingers while his tight little cunt spasmed around your cock.

You didn’t stop.

You flipped him over, pulled his hips up, and shoved back into him from behind. His face was buried in the cushions, hands clawing at the fabric, voice hoarse from crying out your name.

“Breed me,” he sobbed. “Please—put a baby in me—I need it—need to feel you drip out of me—”

You growled and fucked him faster, harder. He was so soaked now it was filthy—wet sounds echoing through the room, his slick cunt drooling around your cock with every thrust.

You reached under him, spread his lips apart with two fingers, and watched your cock disappear into the soaked heat of his pussy again and again.

When you came, it was with a snarl—hot spurts of cum flooding his clenching pussy. It leaked out almost instantly, dripping down his trembling thighs and onto the cushions.

You didn’t pull out.

You leaned down, pressed your hand to his belly, and whispered in his ear:

“You’re mine now. I’m not letting anyone else have this pussy.”

Jungwon whimpered.

“Good,” he whispered. “I never wanted anyone but you.”

(thanks for 400 followers by the way, i swear i had 300 a few days ago 👉👈).

[mysteriousxgirls]

Jasmine’s chest loosened the second he said it—that it was okay, that there were no expectations. Her eyes, which had been clouded with doubt and shame, softened visibly. That simple kindness… it was everything. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding herself until then. Not just physically, but emotionally, too—bracing for some unspoken shift, for that all-too-familiar flicker of disappointment she’d grown used to seeing in other people’s eyes when she pulled back. But not with Dan. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t even blink. He just… stayed. Her gaze met his, and this time, there was something deeper in it—gratitude, affection, relief. She gave him a small, wry smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her lips but made it all the way to her heart. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice tender, barely above the sound of her breath. “For not making me feel like I’m ruining the moment. For not needing more from me than I can give.”

When his fingers curled around hers, grounding her in a different kind of intimacy, she squeezed gently—silent confirmation that she was still with him, still in this. Just in her own way. Her breath hitched slightly when his hand brushed up her side, not from fear this time, but from how gentle it was—like he wasn’t just touching her body, but reading her silence, her pauses, and answering with care. And then he kissed her neck. Soft. Measured. Like a secret passed between them. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel it, letting herself be felt. The way he held back, the way he gave her space even in the closeness—it made her want him more, not less. When he pulled back and made his nervous little joke, her smile widened into something warmer, more real. She let out a soft laugh, brushing her fingers through his hair again, her nails lightly scratching his scalp. “If anyone’s gonna leave marks on me tonight,” she murmured, “it will be you..” she said and looked into his eyes now. "Have you.. ever experienced a blowjob before?" she grinned now, knowing how blunt her question was.

Dan’s hands froze the moment she spoke, as though the words had reached straight beneath his skin. His expression softened, the playful glint in his eyes giving way to something gentler. He understood, more than she probably knew. There had been a time, not so long ago, when even glancing in the mirror made his stomach twist. Back when he carried extra weight, he’d practically trained himself to keep his shirt on at all costs—at the pool, during gym class, even in front of himself. The idea of being seen felt more like exposure than intimacy. So no, he wasn’t going to push her. He couldn’t imagine anything more sacred than the courage it took to admit what she just had. “That’s totally okay,” he said softly, a reassuring smile pulling at his lips. “It’s not like a requirement.”

He released the hem of her shirt and instead, gently curled his fingers around hers, offering connection in a different way. His mind buzzed, flipping through mental files of every article he'd read about sex—some medical, some suspiciously Reddit-y—but none of them had said what to do in this scenario. He frowned briefly, glancing down at the floor as if an answer might materialise in the carpet fibres. Then slowly, instinct kicked in. He let his hand glide up her side, deliberate and gentle, until it reached her jaw. With a soft touch, he tilted her chin sideways with his thumb, giving himself just enough space to lower his lips to her neck. He kissed her there, his lips brushing against her skin. A few light pecks, slow and steady. Then he parted his lips slightly, placing another kiss, this one lingering just a little longer. But then he drew back, eyes flicking up to meet hers again. “I, uh—I didn’t want to leave a mark,” he mumbled, sheepish but sincere. “Unless, you know, you want me to. I don’t want it to look like a vampire attack” He grinned, awkward and endearing all at once.

[revelboo]

Them looking at our eyes must be fascinating. For me looking at someone eye is intimidating feels like im invading them and might see what their feeling

I love the idea of mass displaced mechs getting lost in their human’s eyes. The little flecks of color, the striations entrancing them.

This is a sandbox fic-a world other people can write in if they want and a vehicle for me to do oneshots with various Cybertronians and a willing human partner looking for a one night stand or something more. Want to be sandwiched between Megatron and Optimus? Rodimus and Tarn? The war’s over, come play. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Interludes- Part 1

Trailbreaker

• Hand rubbing over the back of his neck, the pulse of the bass in the mixed species bar thrums through him, the low lights interspersed with flashes from the strobe lights playing havoc with his optics as another Cybertronian catches his optic and he pointedly turns away. Just needs a distraction. A partner that doesn’t know him or his reputation. Who won’t want him for a pity frag, Trailbreaker, the one trick force-field bot.

• Stilling at a soft moan, his head turns. The shadowy booth tucked into a corner and too dark to make out much except the glow of optics and biolights, a smaller form straddling a Cybertronian, bodies moving against each other. Doesn’t need to see when the musk of interfacing is thick in the air. A human, then. There’s plenty of them here, curious enough to give him a night for the thrill of saying they fragged an alien. And he can hold someone in his arms, give them a wild ride and pretend he’s not so damn lonely.

• Jaw working he makes his way deeper into the bar watching the humans flitting from the bar to the dance floor, looking fragile and ethereal in the pulsing lights. Servos trembling slightly as he swings by the bar and Blurr slides some engex his way, he tosses it back and eyes the little humans. Do they have to be clustered in little groups? How does he get one alone? Sees a former Decepticon he can’t remember the name of approach a dancing human, leaning down to whisper in their ear. Then leading them to the back. Because on the surface Interludes is meant to foster intergalactic goodwill between their highly compatible species. But everyone knows it’s where you go for a one night hook up.

• Bass thumping so hard you feel it in your bones, you smile nervously as your buddy grins and shoots you a thumbs up before following some scary looking Cybertronian into a shadowy alcove. Because scratching fucking an alien off your bucket list had sounded fun on paper, but you’re a bundle of nervous energy. Out of your depth and not nearly drunk enough to actually approach anyone. Warm servos brush your arm and you nearly spill your drink on yourself, turning to find a huge mech standing right there. And one corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

• Jumpy little thing. You’re staring up at him with wide eyes, tense like you’re about to bolt. Making him think of a bird about to take flight. “Looking for some company?” He asks, reaching out a hand. Doesn’t know how to do this. What to say. Can’t make himself say ‘hey, want to frag in the back?’ But you lay a tiny, soft hand in his. “Trailbreaker. My name, it’s Trailbreaker,” he says, servos closing around your hand and completely engulfing it even mass displaced. You whisper your own name so softly it’s almost lost under the music. Gently tugging you in the direction of the back rooms, he half expects you to change your mind. Come to your senses and realize there’s better looking mechs.

• Are you really doing this? Sleeping with a stranger? Heart racing, you remind yourself that it’s just harmless sex. You can’t pick up anything from these guys, so you don’t have to worry about that at least. Maybe if you just think of him as a big, walking talking vibrator? Grimacing at yourself as he stops by the bar, tapping a servo against the counter and a short red and white mech slides him a little, puck looking thing. Then he’s leading you into the back and holding the thing up to a door to make it slide open. “Have you done this sort of thing before?” You ask as he turns your way, expression a question.

• “Never been with a human before. You interfaced with a Cybertronian, sweetspark?” And you shake your head at him, that at least reassuring him. That you’re both going into this blind. He’s heard other mechs gossiping about fragging humans. That you’re tight and wet and so incredibly responsive. And best of all? You don’t know him. “Alright. We’ll figure it out together then.” Head lifting as he surveys the plush little room. There’s not much here but a padded, oversized berth piled with blankets and pillows and a little fridge of water, energon, and snacks. Because even if Interludes is a bar catering to interspecies hookups, the hope is making lasting bonded pairs that can save their dying race. “What do you like? Top? Bottom?”

• Dying a little inside because this guy is so damn nice and the talking is making this way too real. “Can we just do this?” Because you’re going to panic and chicken out if you get to know him. Fingers trembling, you start stripping and your breath hitches when he hooks an arm around you, warm frame at your back as his mouth slides against your neck to make you shiver. Grabbing his hand you tug him to that big bed and he turns you, hands cupping your face. It’s too intimate when his mouth covers yours and he backs you up to the bed until you sit suddenly when your legs hit it. And he’s going down on his knees, insinuating himself between your thighs.

• “Can I touch you, sweetspark?” Head lifting, he growls, servos gently nudging your thighs open. And your breath hitches when he leans to vents against you to pull the scent of your need deep into himself making you tremble. Shy? You’re not saying no, so he brushes his mouth against you, tasting you. And that noise you make? It’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard. Little hands land on his helm as his glossa and lips slide against you.

• Laying back on the bed because you’re overwhelmed watching him, your thighs tremble as his glossa tunnels inside you. Honestly, you’d figured he’d just push you down on your belly and fuck you. Moaning as his mouth slides on you, licking and sucking until you’re so close and you whimper a priest when he stops, mouth sliding up your body. More like a lover than a stranger. Aren’t even aware that he’s freed his spike until you feel the heat of it branding your inner thigh. “You’re so sweet,” he growls, the head sliding against you as he shifts over you. That visor brightening when he slowly stretches you and he’s big, making you squirm at the slight burn of him sliding deep. Filling you. “Okay?” He asks, deeps voice rough as his venting shifts, grows ragged.

• It’s killing him to hold still. To wait for you to nod, because they hadn’t lied. You’re silken heat inside, wrapped so tight around his spike and you moan when he moves against you. Finding a rhythm as you hang onto him. Making those needy little noises for him. And there’s no bar, nothing but the sounds you’re both making as his hips pump, the wet sound of you taking his spike. Knowing he’s lost as those eyes lock with his visor hidden optics. When you whimper a breathy plea for more, he begins to rut against you, losing himself in you. Letting the way your breath catches, your moans guide him.

• Arching as that thick spike stretches you, drives deep, you know how screwed you are. That you’re probably going to be addicted to alien sex after this, one of those people that are here every night, desperate to get lucky. Whimpering his name as he moves against you and you’re coiling tight, begging as you come apart feeling him lose control, hips snapping against you as he groans, shuddering and driving deep when he overloads to fill you. And you slowly become aware of the muffled noise of the club on the other side of the wall, of his ragged venting. Before his hips curl, spike pushing deep and you realize he’s still hard when he starts rocking himself against you, one corner of his mouth twitching at your surprise. “Go another round?” He asks. Fuck, you might just be in love.

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 8 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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Wednesday.

My chest tightens and I instinctively drop to my knees to make myself smaller.

Shit, shit, shit, shit. 

This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. How could I let this happen? I was being so careful! And I was making sure she wasn’t anywhere near when I came here, so how did she find it? And how the hell does she know about it in the first place? 

I hear her shuffling around, and press my back against the dusty bookshelf behind me. I’m out of sight for anyone who enters the library because I’m in the back part of it where no one ever really goes, but knowing her and my luck, there’s a good chance she’s going to find me, so I have to do everything in my power to stay hidden. Even if it means crouching in the dust and getting covered in cobwebs.

I hold my breath when I hear her move closer, right on the other side of the bookshelf I’m hiding behind.

She moves away again a moment later, and I let out the quietest exhale of relief, but then I hear some tapping on the floor and my head snaps to the right.

Thing.

He freezes when he sees and my heart drops. 

Oh no.

I hug my book close to my chest and just stare at him pleadingly. He stares right back for a moment, and I almost expect him to scurry off to alert Wednesday of my presence. But then, he simply curtsies ever so slightly, almost as if acknowledging my silent plea, before hurrying away when Wednesday calls out for him.

She must have found what she was looking for because I hear some pages rustling and her heartbeat skipping in delight, so I relax slightly, knowing the chance of her stumbling upon me now that she’s got what she came for is significantly smaller.

I have no idea why Thing isn’t saying anything, but at the end of the day it doesn’t actually matter. All that matters is that she doesn’t know I’m here because if she did, she’d know that I lied about knowing about this place and the Nightshades’ symbol. She’d know I lied again, which would make her question everything I’ve ever told her, and make her, once again, want to dig deeper into who I am and what I have to hide, which I can’t let happen.  

I continue to cower behind the bookshelf, listening to her stuff the book into her bag before she turns on her heels and leaves. Thing, as always, hot on her heels.

I wait a couple more minutes to make sure she doesn’t return, keeping my ears trained on her heartbeat which is slowly but steadily moving further away, and only then do I get back to my feet again.  

With shaking hands, I brush the dust and cobwebs off my clothes, keeping my grip on the book tight before darting out of the library myself. 

I know it’s dangerous to take the book with me, but I have to know what’s going on with me and the pendant and I can’t risk returning it and then running into Wednesday again.

I come across a handful of students on my way to my room, most of them completely oblivious to me as they chat about the Poe Cup tomorrow. They are making bets and talking about all the canoes’ designs, but I don’t linger to hear any details.

My heart is still pounding in my chest from the almost run in with Wednesday when I finally reach my room, and I exhale as I close the door behind me, but then I jump again when I realize I’m not alone.

“There you are!”

I drop the book, and scramble to pick it up again, hiding it behind my back. Then I realize it’s just Enid though, and relax slightly, sliding it onto my nightstand. 

Enid’s never been one to pry and judging by the tears shining in her eyes, I know she’s too preoccupied to wonder about why I’m acting all skittish at the moment. 

“What’s wrong?” I ask with a frown, worry instantly weighing on my chest as her sadness and despair washes over me.

My run in with Wednesday and the book are momentarily forgotten as she flings her arms around me and sobs into my shoulder. 

I freeze for a second, not used to this level of affection from her. Yes, she’s a hugger with all her other friends, but she’s somehow figured out that I’m not the biggest fan of it myself even though she does hug me on occasion when she just can’t help herself.

It’s not because I don’t like it, because I do– I crave it like everyone else sometimes– but because hugging someone usually makes it harder for me to keep their emotions from completely spilling into me like they are right now with her. 

“I don’t know what to do,” she hiccups, her hands curling around the fabric of my sweater as I hesitantly hold her back. Despite the circumstances, it feels nice and makes me realize how starved for affection I am.

“Yoko’s in the infirmary,” she goes on. “G-Garlic bread incident…After you left.”

“Is she okay?” I ask with a frown, holding her tighter. My fingertips tingle, and I feel warmth creep through my hands and up my forearms, momentarily distracting me, but then Enid nods against my shoulder, bringing me back to reality.

“She had an allergic reaction, but she’ll be fine,” she says quietly, and just as another wave of warmth travels through my hands and up my arms, she sags against me and exhales shakily. 

Huh.

“But she’s out of the Poe Cup, and now I don’t have a copilot,” she cries, her sobs dying down to sniffles. 

I have no idea what just happened, and why her anxiety and dread have seemingly almost completely disappeared by simply hugging me, but I have a suspicion that it has something to do with my powers.

Add it to the list of things I’ll have to read up on, I guess.

“I’m sorry, Enid,” I say honestly.

She exhales against my shoulder again and lessens her grip on my sweater. 

I know the Poe Cup means a lot to her, and if I could be her copilot, I would do it in a heartbeat, but I’m not part of Ophelia Hall. I’m pretty sure Weems would also consider my competing cheating because of my enhanced strength and speed. 

“Can’t you just–?”

“You know I can’t,” I cut her off gently.

She sighs and I genuinely feel bad for her, but then a thought strikes me that actually makes me actually snort. Not because it’s funny, but because for some reason, I could actually see it happening.

“Why don’t you ask Wednesday?” I suggest, which makes Enid break the hug with a bewildered look.

“Are you serious?” 

I nod and shuffle backward, taking a seat on the edge of a bed because I’m suddenly feeling a little lightheaded. 

“She… kinda hates Bianca,” I explain. “I bet she’d love a chance to take her down.”

Enid frowns. “I mean, I guess, but do you really think she has what it takes to beat Bianca? She is pretty tiny.”

I chuckle softly and absentmindedly touch my pendant. “She may be small, but what she doesn’t have in muscle mass she makes up for with her brain. She’s whip smart, that one.”

It slips out before I can stop myself and Enid eyes me weirdly for a moment before nodding slowly.

“You’re right…You’re right,” she mumbles, hope and re-kindled excitement flickering in her eyes. She darts to the door, probably to go and ask Wednesday to help her right away, but then she stops and turns again as her hand closes around the door handle. “Thank you.”

I smile gently and dip my chin in acknowledgement, and then she’s gone, her excitement lingering in the room as I lay back on my bed and kick my shoes off. 

I wake with a start and sit up as a sharp knock echoes through the room. 

It’s followed by a thump that makes me look down to see my book on the floor. I must have fallen asleep shortly after Enid left while I was trying to read up on my abilities some more. 

It’s strange how drained I felt after she left, and I know it has something to do with my powers and this thing called Heartstill I read about, but I don’t really remember what it actually does now. I want to reach for the book and flip it open again, but I can’t because another knock sounds on my door, followed by Ajax’s urgent voice.

“Y/N? You in there? The cup is about to start and Enid is looking for you!”

I grab my phone off the nightstand. It’s 9.53 and the cup starts at 10. 

Shit.

“Uh, yeah, I’ll be right out!” I shout, hastily getting out of bed. Ajax says something about hurrying back to the others and I tell him I’ll be right there too. 

I pick up the book and wedge it between the other books on my bookshelf, thinking it’s best to hide it in plain sight, before slipping my shoes back on and scrambling to the bathroom.

No matter how late I’m running, I still want to brush my teeth and splash some water on my face, so that’s exactly what I do, taking advantage of my enhanced speed while doing so. I also change out of my sweater and into a clean shirt and my striped uniform jacket to show some school spirit, before darting out of my room.

The hallways are empty and my footsteps echo all around as I hurry through the empty school until I finally make it to the river where everyone else is already assembled.

Just like at the fair, there’s excitement in the air, but for some reason, unlike at the fair,  I’m numb to it. Yes, I still feel the buzz, but it doesn’t get to me like it normally would and although it’s a little alarming, it's a nice change for once. 

“There you are. Just in time.” Ajax comes up to me with a smile, already dressed in his own team’s costume, and nudges me before leading me to the Black Cats’ tent.

Enid is anxiously pacing in front of it, but when she sees us approach, she stops and smiles. It looks a little pained, and forced, but it’s a smile nonetheless and before I can say anything, she pulls me into another hug.

Wow. Okay. So we’re doing this. Two hugs in less than twelve hours…

“How are you feeling?” I ask when she pulls back, waving shyly at Ajax who returns it, equally timid, before excusing himself to go back to his own team.

“I feel like throwing up,” she says with a grimace which makes me chuckle while also taking a subtle step back in case she’s being serious.

“Oh come on, you’ll be fine,” I reassure her, wanting to ask whether she managed to get Wednesday to agree to join her team when –speak of the devil– Wednesday steps out of the tent behind her.

My jaw almost drops at the sight of her wearing a similar cat costume just like Enid’s. She’s even wearing cat ears, but unlike Enid, she doesn’t have any whiskers painted onto her nose or cheeks. 

She looks even tinier than usual, and her stoic face is in stark contrast to the goofiness of her costume which makes me have to bite the inside of my cheeks to stop myself from smiling.

No matter how close she came to finding me in the library last night, this is truly a sight to see and one I won’t forget that quickly either.

Enid notices my distraction and spins, her nervousness momentarily forgotten as she takes Wednesday in with a beam.

“OMG, you look purr-fect!” she gushes which makes me snort quietly. 

Wednesday sighs softly with a bored look and lets her eyes roam over the sea of students around us.

“Wait, where are your whiskers?” Enid asks with a frown, which makes Wednesday’s eyes snap to her. 

“Ask again, and you’ll be down to eight lives,” she deadpans and even though her delivery is cold and seemingly cruel, Enid just smiles because she, just like I, knows Wednesday doesn’t actually mean it.

She’s all bark and no bite at the moment, and if she was really upset about the whiskers, she wouldn’t have let Enid somehow convince her to wear the rest of the costume  in the first place.

Seeing that the race is about to start, I step up to Enid again which makes both her and Wednesday look at me, the latter of which makes me a little nervous because her face goes from seemingly bored to unreadable.

Oh no. Did Thing tell her about me being in the library after all?

No. I’m sure that’s not it. Why would he?

I avert my eyes for a second to smile at Enid. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.” She squeezes my arm, and when I look at Wednesday again, she’s still looking at me, so I repeat the sentiment to her as well, but she doesn’t thank me like Enid did.

I frown, only to notice that she’s not answering because she’s distracted—her eyes keep darting from my face to my chest, and when I look down, I feel my stomach drop when I realize she’s looking at my pendant, which rests over my shirt.

It must have slipped out from under my shirt while I was hurrying through the school.

I panic a little and shove it back under my collar, but it’s too late. Wednesday’s already seen it, and for about the millionth time now since meeting her, that familiar spark of curiosity lights up her eyes. But what’s worse than that is that it’s not just curiosity I see in her eyes. There’s something else there that I don’t even dare to name. 

Shit, shit, shit. This piece-of-crap pendant is causing me nothing but trouble.

I know panicking and tucking it away as quickly as possible is just making me look more guilty or suspicious, but what else am I supposed to do?

Wednesday’s lips part as if she’s about to say something, but then Weems gets up on the stage by the docks with a megaphone and asks the teams to head to their canoes.

Enid squeals, completely oblivious to what just happened between Wednesday and me, and drags the raven-haired girl to the docks, leaving me behind with an uneasy feeling. I try to push it down and focus on supporting the Black Cats, but it lingers no matter how hard I try to ignore it.

The Black Cats actually won. I still can’t believe it, but you best believe they did it. I know it’s solely because of Wednesday and Thing, whom I saw crawling out of the river after the race, but it does matter. They won, and Enid couldn’t be happier. She’s already made me take a bunch of pictures of her, Wednesday, and Mina next to the cup in the Quad after Weems gave it to them, before proceeding to post them, much to Wednesday’s dismay even though she doesn’t even have social media or a phone for that matter.

The celebrations are still in full swing, with fruit punch being poured out and snacks being passed around, but I’ve excused myself a moment ago and am now heading to my room for some peace and quiet.

My emotional radar is starting to recover, and I no longer feel numb to everything, so I’ve decided to escape before things get too overwhelming. I also have to get away from Wednesday because I keep catching her eyeing me. Unlike so many times before, she hasn’t actually done anything other than look, which is somewhat unnerving on its own, but I don’t want to give her the chance to do something else either, hence why I left.

I enter my room and just stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what I feel before I impulsively take off my necklace and stare at the pendant.

It looks so unassuming, but it’s made it difficult for me to stay under the radar lately, especially with Wednesday, so without thinking, I grab a small wooden box from under my bed and stuff it in there.

It makes my heart ache, not only because I feel strangely bare without the weight of it against my chest, but also because I swore to myself I’d never take it off in case I lose it. But my life is literally at stake because of it, so it has to go.

I should have taken it off earlier, I know, but until I saw that unnerving glint in Wednesday’s eyes when she actually saw it properly for the first time, I didn’t realize how much it’s actually putting me at risk.

I sigh, staring at it amidst some fair tickets, guitar picks, and little doodles Lara drew on scrap pieces of paper before shutting the box and putting it back under my bed.

It’s not exactly valuable for anyone except me because of sentimental reasons and looks unassuming enough, so I doubt anyone will take it should they, for some reason, stumble upon it.

I have way more valuable things to be taken from me, like my mason jar piggy bank on my desk.

I absentmindedly touch my chest where the pendant is supposed to rest when I lie down on my bed, suddenly overcome with a surge of emotion.

I hate how I have to hide what I am… how I have to hate who I am because if I don’t, I lose everything.

Being an Ægyrin puts a target on my back, but I have to be honest, I’m not only afraid of being hunted but also of losing everything I know again– Enid, Nevermore, Weems.

There’s so much at stake, but I don’t know how to stop my unraveling when Wednesday is nearby because for some reason I can’t help but be drawn to her.

I’m not talking romantically, because God knows she’s the least romantic person on this planet, but there’s something about her that sets all my senses and worries on edge.

If I had to describe the feeling, I’d call it instinct because worrying about her or saving her is like reflexively pulling back when getting burned by something and–

Should an Ægiryn form a soulbond…

Soulbond.

I sit up abruptly.

No… No, that can’t be… How cliché would that be?

I turn and reach for the book from the Nightshades' library, only to freeze when I see the space I wedged it into earlier is vacant.

It’s gone.

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

Hi! Sorry for taking this long to update, guys. Life just got in the way and I had to re-read the entire story to decide what direction to take this thing in.

This part is only 3k words long, and I know it’s a bit of a filler chapter, but it's been a while since I last updated and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too long. To make up for it, the next part is gonna be longer again, I promise. <3

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy @mamas-evil-hag @theallseer97 @hellenheaven @iwshemj2 @jizzuo308

[hyukalyptus]

prove it. — yeonjun x fem!reader

cw. yeonjun is implied to be an idol but it's not super relevant to the story, reader is jealous of another woman, established relationship, chubby!reader implied, friends to lovers implied, kissing, cunnilingus, nipple play, fingering, use of a butt plug, penetration (protection not mentioned), eating ass (f. receiving), a bit of exhibitionism, multiple orgasms, hickeys, marking, edging, masturbation, joi, "fat" as a positive descriptor, "I love you," pet names (baby, babe, love, my love), swearing, lube, mostly porn w little plot tbh, aftercare. notes. hello! i haven't posted in forever and i feel like i haven't written smut in a while so i may be a little rusty, lol. wc. 6.3K

Looking down at the city through the glass railing that lines the rooftop, you draw your knees to your chest. No matter how hard you try, staring at the city isn’t enough of a distraction to divert your mind from the images of them. But your jealousy is unwarranted; you know that. You weren’t even dating him at that time, but he knew how you felt and he felt the same way about you, but the timing simply wasn’t right. You were about to leave for three months and that’s no way to start a new relationship. He did anything and everything to try and get you off his mind—drinking, partying, sleeping with strangers, dyeing his hair, and…dating her.

Thinking about you sitting in endless hotel rooms, longing for him while he was kissing, hugging, fucking another woman is too overwhelming. That’s why you’re here. You’d wanted to surprise him after a long work day, but instead of finding your Yeonjun taking a coffee break alone in a dance studio while he scrolled Instagram, you found her all over him. 

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. It didn’t matter if he was calling after you. You just ran and found yourself on the roof. But he knew where to find you. He explained he was trying to put a stop to it, but it still hurt. You couldn’t stop yourself from asking who she was even if you tried. But he always told you about his relationships and dates. He was your best friend; you told each other everything. But he kept her a secret from you.

“We never overlapped, did we?”

“Of course not. You know I wouldn’t do that.” Reaching for your hand, he brushes his thumb across your knuckles and asks, “You okay?” You nod, but he knows you too well. “Stop lying.” 

“I dunno…” you shrug. “I can’t sit here and say I didn’t hook up with anyone while I was gone, but I never dated anyone. Just kinda stings.”

“I’m sorry,” he says seriously. “Listen,” he sighs. “I know it’s weird I dated her then, but I love you more than anything. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.” And you want to believe him, really you do. Especially while you look into his eyes only a few inches away from yours while on the rooftop of his agency, stories above anyone else, alone as the breeze chills your nose and he looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

“Prove it,” you say softly. He hums. “Prove it. Prove you love me more than anything.” 

Seconds pass before he pulls you by your ankles, wrapping your legs around his waist and his lips fall into yours, kissing you so amazingly. His kisses still make you dizzy. Then he guides your body to lay on the ground, trailing his lips down your neck and chest, pulling down the hem of your shirt to access your skin, all while working at the button of your jeans. 

“What if someone sees us?” You ask, breath heavy. There’s a low chance of that happening, but you can’t help but think about it. 

“Let them.” Fully pulling your jeans off your legs, goosebumps prick your skin as it makes contact with the cold air. Stuffing his nose into your pussy over your panties, he inhales while his hands wrap around your thighs. Shaking his head to dive deeper, his nose teases your clit. 

“Yeonjun…” you groan, letting your head fall back while his hair slips between your fingers. He’s not wasting a single second. Desperately moving your panties to the side, he spreads your pussy lips, dragging his tongue up your pussy so deliberately you may faint. The tip of his tongue teases your clit forever, never quite touching it.

When he finally flicks his tongue over your clit, you gasp and your back arches off the roof while your hip rolls accompany his movements. God, he’s so fucking good at eating you out. Sometimes you can’t believe it. It’s genuinely the best oral you’ve ever had. Slow at first, getting you all worked up and wet, then he dives right in, making your head reel. 

Then he slides two fingers inside you, curling them up, perfectly hitting the exact right spot. He is absolutely gonna be the death of you. You moan, blissfully watching as a plane goes by thousands of feet above you. Can they see you? You’re not quite sure. Either way, it’s thrilling to think about. A couple hundred people watching as the sexiest guy in the world makes you feel like the sexiest woman in the world. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you say, your chest heaving. He comes up for air, but doesn’t take his fingers out of you. As he makes his way back up to your face, he kisses you slowly, letting you taste yourself on his mouth, and finishing it off with a lick across your bottom lip. 

“Let me take you inside,” he suggests. “I wanna worship your body for hours,” he whispers against your lips, nudging your nose with his own. “Wanna show you how much I love you. How much I crave you. How much I need you,” he says, punctuating each power word—love, crave, need—with a stroke against your g-spot. “Wanna make you feel things you’ve never felt before. Wanna make you forget every word you know except my name,” he keeps adding on to this incredible list, leaving wet kisses all over you. “Wanna make you so wet you drip all over my bed. Wanna make you cry from how good I’m making you feel. Wanna make you cum so many times you’re begging me to stop,” he says. “And then I’d make you cum again. Wanna taste every inch of you.” Finally taking his finger out of you, he sucks and licks every last bit of you up. “Wanna leave marks on you that stay for days so you never forget how much I love you.” 

Which is more delicious? Him whisking you off to his bedroom to fuck you raw or him fingering you on the roof? The way your heart races at every glance of each glowing window across the street is almost too good to give up but the thought of him filling you to the brim with his cock is too tempting. And when he pulls his face away just enough to look down at you with those gorgeous-as-fuck eyes and his black hair barely hanging in front of his face and asks—

“Is that okay?”

Your body crumbles to dust. That contrast of whispering the dirtiest shit you’ve ever heard along with the sweetest form of gaining consent—literally asking—is overwhelming. Part of you scoffs at how something so bare minimum, something so basic decency as consent, turns you on so much. 

But fuck you need him more than ever. 

“Fuck yes,” you say confidently. 

He barely gives you enough time to slip your jeans back on before lifting you to your feet to lead you to the roof access door, down the elevator, into his bedroom, and onto his bed. 

While you wait on his bed for whatever��s about to happen, you watch as he takes his time unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. What shall he do with you? So many parts of him want to rip your clothes off and ravage you with fast, hard, and dirty sex; cover you in spit and sweat and cum until you’re trembling and begging for rest. But another part of him wants to do exactly what he said: worship your body for hours. Slowly, carefully, intentionally, tenderly. 

Ditching his t-shirt, he smiles at you—not in an I’m gonna fuck you so hard way, but in a You’re perfection kinda way. Letting him take your clothes off so carefully like he’s unwrapping a vintage book waiting to be adored is one of the best parts of it all. Showered in love and kisses and attraction and compliments for who knows how long. 

“I love your body so fucking much,” he says as his lips brush your collarbone, but his hands are everywhere else—your tits, tummy, hips, ass, thighs. Taking a beat to look into your eyes, he says, “I meant it.” You nod. “I’m gonna worship your body for hours.” 

“I don’t know if I can wait that long to come, babe…” you trail off. 

“Hm…” you can feel his smile against the sensitive skin under your breast. “Who said you have to wait? You can come as many times as you want.” 

Relief floods every part of your body. You could already tell you weren’t gonna last long but he absolutely loves making you wait. Edging you until you’re begging him to let you—wait. His words from earlier, Wanna make you cum so many times you’re begging me to stop—echoes in the back of your mind. A couple orgasms is exactly what you need right now. 

“Lay on your tummy, love,” he says gently. Face down, you hear him rummage through his bedside table drawer. The smell of eucalyptus lavender massage oil fills the air before his strong hands work through your tense shoulders, back, and ass. Perhaps you dozed off because the next thing you know, he’s turning you over to lay on your back. Then his fingers work through your arms, kneading your tits so good your breath hitches in your throat, then up and down your waist. 

As you start to drift off again, his hand carefully slides up your thigh to gently cup your pussy—nothing vulgar or pushy, just resting his hand there while his other hand brushes all over your skin. You succumb to him, letting your hips roll as gentle as his touches. Then your body slowly welcomes his middle finger inside, no deeper than his first knuckle. 

Are you floating? Flying? Spinning? You can’t tell—just that it’s warm and dizzying and that you can’t get enough of it. Then his fingers spread your pussy lips with slow precision and your breath catches. Your eyes burst open, but he shushes you, brushing his thumb across your brow, coaxing your head back onto the pillow. Your lashes flutter closed, the weight of everything melting under his hands. You ache at the loss of his finger from inside you, only for him to circle your pleading clit with a maddening patience. The touch is slick and deliberate, then his other hand finds your breast, palm gliding over your nipple in slow, teasing spirals. Every nerve is tuned to him as everything shrinks and dissipates like he has all the time in the world.

No more than three lazy circles later, he stops teasing your clit. One thumb stays on your nipple, warm and firm, while he leans down to flick his tongue over the other. Oh. He knows how much you crave this—how nipple play drives you crazy—and this time, he’s drawing it out. Every touch, every word, every slow stroke leading up to now has left you raw in the best way, so keyed up you don’t know whether to squirm away or pull him closer.

It doesn’t take long until you’re gasping, rolling your body involuntarily, and feeling so on edge you’re about to fall off something. And all he’s doing is playing with your nipples—rubbing then circling, biting then licking, teasing then soothing. Spit covers your nipple before he backs off, blowing cold air to perk it up. Gentle bites flicker your body like sparks, subtly like fireflies. Internally begging for something—his cock, his tongue, his fingers, anything to be inside you—but you don’t say a word because this alone feels too good to stop. 

Then it sneaks up on you, a shiver that starts somewhere deep and unnamed. You’re holding it, but only for a second. Then you let it overcome your entire being. It crashes over you, an orgasm so strong it’s hard to believe it came from nipple play alone shocks you until you’re seeing stars. But it’s no longer those gentle fireflies. It’s lightning—bright, electric, and unstoppable. 

While you catch your breath, he waits patiently and silently, not daring to ruin this moment. Giving you space to relax for a moment while he hums against your collarbone, skating his lips across your skin while he leaves tiny kisses that make your ears burn. 

And fuck. It finally sinks in. You came. Just from him playing with your nipples. He’s never gonna let you live this down after tonight. And you know he’s gonna beg you to try it on him. 

Right now, though, he doesn’t care about himself. You’re the only thing on his mind. And he’s ready to get back to it. 

“That’s my girl…” he murmurs, smug and low. “You’re so fucking sexy like this. I want to memorize every way your body falls apart for me.” And fall apart you do. Your legs are still trembling from the last orgasm, but he’s already bringing you back up for another. “I just want you to feel good for me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “That’s all I care about.” His middle finger finds your clit again, slow and careful, drawing soft circles that make you melt all over again. “You feel that?” he asks. 

But there’s no way you can form a sentence, but he doesn’t really need an answer—he can feel it in the way your body responds. You simply nod with a blissed out, closed-mouth smile across your lips and he chuckles, basking in how right he is—he makes you feel so fucking good. 

It’s almost embarrassing how much you crave this: slow, gentle, sweet, simply caring for you in the best way possible. Is it selfish that you want this to last all night long? Are you not allowed to be selfish once in a while? And it’s not like he’s not enjoying this—you can tell he loves this from how hard he is alone. But his subtle hip thrusts make that even clearer. 

“Baby…” you whine pathetically. 

“What is it, love?” He asks sweetly. “I’ll do anything you want, just tell me what it is.” 

“Your mouth,” you murmur. 

“Of course,” he hums, placing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, then your arm, and makes his way down toward your pussy where your clit is begging for his tongue all on its own. It doesn’t take long before you’re edging on euphoria again. You’re chanting his name, which then makes you chuckle as his Wanna make you forget every word you know except my name, plays in the back of your mind again. And you suppose he noticed too because you feel the smile tugging at his lips against your core.  

How was he able to get you here again so quickly? Your body craves his touch and it surrenders to him every time. The heat builds low and fast, curling and billowing in your stomach like a firework ready to fire. There’s no point in holding back. Not only has he proved how much he loves you, he’s proven he can pull another orgasm out of you like it’s nothing. 

But that doesn’t make this one any less intense. It’s sharp and deep and crashes through you in an insistence that leaves your fingers clawing at the sheets and your breath caught in your chest. The fireworks fill your body like a night sky—sudden, bright, and everywhere at once. 

“How many orgasms are you planning on giving me tonight?” You ask breathlessly. 

“Hm…at least five,” he says. Can you even handle five of his orgasms in one night? You’re not even halfway through and you’re exhausted. But who are you to say no? “I’m just trying to figure out what to do with you next.” 

Still breathless, you mumble, “My plug—” trying to support yourself on your elbows, but he slyly encourages you to lay back down; he’s not letting you lift a finger tonight. 

“Oh…” he says cheekily. “Oh, fuck,” he chuckles. You hum in question. “Just thinking about it in your little asshole. Made my cock twitch,” he says matter-of-factly as he starts looking through his bedside table drawer. It doesn’t take him much time to find it but first, “Get on your knees, my love.”

You do as you’re told, shaking your hips to put on a bit of a show. Well, as good of a show as you can give when your legs feel like jelly. Then his big hands grab your hip fat. To simply feel and squeeze. You can’t hear, “I love your body so fucking much…” enough. Your heart flutters every single time as if it's the first time you heard it. And, “I love you so fucking much, baby…” 

And he’s continuing to prove it, you’ll give him that. Then he spreads your cheeks, shoving his face right between them while his tongue circles your hole, earning an insatiable moan as you resist the urge to double over in pleasure. How do you always forget how good it feels when he eats your ass? 

It’s simply so vulgar—going from him worshipping your body in such a loving way to absolutely devouring your asshole with his strong hands on your hips, squeezing so harsh you’re certain he’ll leave marks and groaning as if you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted. 

He’s always had a thing for your taste, even outside of the bedroom. Can’t help it; you’re too yummy…he’d whisper after licking your neck once the elevator door closed you off the world. Or leaving the tiniest kitten lick on the back of your hand before a kiss. Just a little secret between the two of you. But when you’re in bed, his fascination is on full display. So many parts of you glisten with his spit—tits, thighs, collarbone, lips, clit. One harsh spank to your asscheek wakes you up again, fueling the need for more. 

“Baby, please…I feel so empty.” 

He chuckles—low and amused—and you hear the soft click of the lube bottle opening. A beat later, the coolness hits you as he rubs the gel around your hole with his thumb. It jolts you, making everything feel hotter in comparison—your skin, your breath, his body behind you. But he’s not rushing. He never does. You picture his face: focused, patient, and just a little smug.

Then you feel him shift, and you know he’s slicking up the plug, almost certainly more than necessary. You relax as best you can, bracing for what’s about to happen. It always takes a bit of time. There’s the stretch, the sting, that moment where your body wants to resist—but he knows how to help you through it. And fuck, it’s always worth it in the end. The way it makes you feel full, needy, desperate—like he’s taking care of you in the filthiest way possible. 

“Tell me when it hurts, love.”

“I know,” you say with a smile, voice soft but sure. He always checks, always looks out for your comfort. He presses in slowly, carefully, the plug stretching you open millimeter by millimeter. At first, it’s fine—just pressure—but then the burn edges in and your breath catches. “Okay…hurts a little,” you murmur, not quite wincing but close. 

Immediately, he pauses and pulls back just a bit. “Take a few deep breaths for me,” he says, his voice low, grounding. One hand stays on your hip, steadying you, the other rubbing soothing little circles along your lower back while you focus on your breath. 

It becomes a rhythm. A slow, patient dance of pushing in, holding still, easing out, and beginning again. Each time he sinks in a little deeper, your body adjusts a little more, until the edge dulls and gives way to something warmer, thicker, heavier. Then it’s finally fully seated inside. You let out a sigh of relief, giving yourself time to adjust to the feeling of it with more breathing and relaxing. He’s perfectly content watching the shimmer of that cute pink heart gem poking out of you.

Then he rubs soothing strokes down your hips and asks, “What now, hm?” 

“I told you I feel so empty,” you whine. 

“I’m not fucking you yet.” A strangled noise escapes your throat, unintelligible yet unmistakably disappointed. “You’re getting at least one more orgasm before I’m inside you.” Rummaging through his side drawer again, you know he’s going for a dildo but—

“I don’t want anything else inside me before you,” you say. “I want the first thing I feel with the plug in to be you—just you, nothing else.” Moving awkwardly behind you, he’s unsure of himself for the first time tonight. “Guess you’ll have to figure out another way to make me cum…” you sing. 

“Get on your back,” he says, voice smooth but firm. His hands trace the curve of your hips, obviously killing time while he brainstorms. “Hmm…” His eyes search everywhere, and you can’t help but giggle. You’ve got him stumped. But then that smirk appears, slow and wicked. “Touch yourself.”

“What?” Your voice is higher than you’d like, breath catching in your throat.

“You heard me.” He tilts his head, eyes darkening. “Touch yourself.” Heat blooms across your skin, embarrassment and arousal twining together. You haven’t felt this flustered since the very first time he undressed you—that same nervousness, that same raw vulnerability. “Don’t be shy.”

You bite down on your lip, dragging your hand lower, fingers trembling. You’re caught in that delicious limbo, equal parts exposed and excited, your face hot as you fight the urge to hide under the covers.

“It’s okay, baby,” he coaxes, voice low, a little rough. “Why are you nervous?”

A shaky breath escapes and you look away. “I dunno…I liked you being in charge,” you say, the words slipping out in a rush. 

“What if I told you how to touch yourself? Would that be better?” Reaching for your dominant hand, he kisses your palm, closing his eyes to savor the feeling of your skin against his lips before turning your hand over to kiss the back of it. Once he flips it back over and his lips meet the pulsepoint of your wrist, your spine tingles. Then he sucks on your thumb before letting spit pool in his mouth to douse your first two fingers, making them slippery and wet. “As if you need any help getting wet.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask with a laugh. 

“Touch your nipples for me,” he whispers, dodging your question while you do as you’re told. With the fire your body’s been feeling all evening along with the shyness you feel, they’ve become soft and tired. But, under your touch, they spark back to life, pebbling once again. “That’s it, baby.” It’s silly how much of an affect those three words have on you. “Look at you…” he groans, tilting his head to look at your pussy. “Check.” 

“Huh?”

“I made you so wet you’re dripping all over my bed,” he says, casual as anything. “Just checking that off my list from earlier.”

You roll your eyes, a smug smile playing on your lips. “Pretty sure I did this to myself.”

“The first two orgasms didn’t contribute?”

You shrug, playing coy. “Nah. You just warmed me up.”

He snorts, brows lifting. “Oh, is that right?” He moves like he’s about to stand, brushing his hands off dramatically. “Well, if you’re so good at it, I guess you don’t need my help.”

“Wait, come back,” you say, the words slipping out before you can catch them. He turns around immediately, grin wide and shameless. “You’re still missing something off your list.”

“What’s that?”

“You haven’t left any marks. I might forget how much you love me.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he says, drawing it out, his eyes bright with that mischievous gleam. “You want me to leave some marks while you touch yourself?” You nod, perhaps a little too eagerly. His grin widens as he leans in, his lips a whisper away from your neck. “You’re not touching yourself yet, are you?” he asks, voice all slow and syrupy. You hum, shaking your head. “Good,” he says, sinking his teeth into the soft curve of your shoulder. 

He takes his time, leaving one dark mark, then another, each hickey followed by a slow, soothing lick. “Start moving your hand down to your pussy,” he says. “But don’t touch yourself yet.” He nips at your ear, hot breath making you shiver.”Just drag your fingertips across your skin.” Your stomach jerks at the tickle and it makes your breath hitch. “Now the insides of your thighs.” Your hand inches closer to your center, your breath coming out in shallow, shaky puffs. 

“Tell me you love me,” you gasp. 

As his expression softens, his thumb traces slow circles over your hip. “I- love- you-” he says, each low and velvety smooth word punctuated by a kiss. He closes the gap between his lips and your neck again before whispering against your skin, “And I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget it.” He sucks gently, then harder, a deep, deliberate mark blooming just above your collarbone. His tongue soothes over it, slow and lingering. “Want everyone to look at you and know how good I make you feel,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin.

“Can I touch myself yet?” you ask, your voice barely more than a whimper.

He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes, his gaze heavy and intense. “No. Not yet.” He pauses, his thumb stroking over that fresh mark. You nod in defeat. “Remember earlier when I pressed my palm over your pussy, baby?” You nod again. “Do that again.” You follow his instructions, your palm pressing down, letting relaxation spread through your body as you sink deeper into the mattress. His lips are a paintbrush, each hickey blossoming like a petal against your skin. Some marks are soft, faint as the blush of a rosebud. Others are darker, deeper, rich as crushed violets, spreading slowly beneath his mouth like flowers unfurling in the dark. “Feel how wet you are.” 

“I’m so fucking wet for you,” you say, a whimper escaping you. 

“I know you are,” he says. “Cup your pussy again,” he whispers. “Grind your hips against your palm,” he says, telling your body exactly how to move. “But that’s still not what you want, is it?” You shake your head. “I know,” he soothes. “I’ll get to your clit in a bit.” 

Clenching your jaw, it takes everything in you not to touch exactly where you need most. He chuckles evilly. “Please…” 

“Not yet, babe,” he chuckles. “Touch just around your clit, not right on it. I love hearing you whine and beg for me.” He takes a few deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

“Baby, please let me touch my clit. Please…” 

“Go ahead. Touch your clit.” You finally indulge in yourself, letting your moans and body rolls roam freely. “That’s it.”

“God, you feel so good,” you say, throwing your head back.

“That’s all you,” he coaxes.

“I love it when you talk to me like this.” The knot in your stomach tightens—his voice along with your fingers are delicious. “I’m so close,” you say, close to being out of breath.

“Don’t stop,” he insists. You don’t change anything—you don’t need to. You know your clit better than anyone and the way he’s playing with your body and leaving marks adds that much more pleasure. 

“Cum so good for me,” he says and you push yourself over the edge for the third time that night, moaning loudly through gritted teeth, letting the sparks fly, lighting your whole body ablaze once more. “Just like that,” he praises, along with all kinds of sweet things. 

“I could do this to you forever…”

“Look how well you listen…”

“You’re such a good girl for me…”

When you finally open your eyes, your vision is hazy, your body weightless above the sheets. His gaze is waiting for you, dark and warm. He’s leaning over you, hair tousled, chest heaving like he’s just as wrecked as you are.

“That was fun,” you say, a breathless laugh spilling out, caught between a moan and a sigh.

He smirks, his thumb tracing one of the love bites on your chest. “Yeah?” he asks, voice dipping low. “Liked being good for me, huh?” You nod, a shiver running down your spine when his thumb presses a little harder, enough to remind you how each mark got there.

Two more left. 

And thank fuck because he’s  finally on top of you, stroking your pussy lips with his hard cock. If you thought he’d finally jump straight into it, you’d be wrong. He teases you with his words and hands, brushing your most sensitive spots and whispering dirty shit to you. 

“Can’t wait to feel you squeeze around me like you don’t want to let go…”

“I’m so lucky I’m the only one that gets to make you feel like this…”

“You belong to me and me alone…”

But he’s still just teasing. “How long do you think I should make you wait again?” He hums, watching you writhe. “How long should I keep my cock from you?” You whine while he circles your clit with the tip of his cock. “Right there?” You shake your head. “No? You were begging me to let you touch your clit ten minutes ago and now you don’t want me to?” He tsks. 

“Please,” you practically shout. “I can’t take it anymore…”

“Yes you can, baby,” he smirks. But he places his cock right at your entrance and his own confidence falters, groaning at the slightest touch of your pussy. “Shit,” he chuckles. His hips inch forward so slowly, letting his head inside, his mouth falling open. Already full from just his head and your plug, you feel everything just that much more. Then he pulls back out. You groan again, throwing your head back in a fit. 

“Fuck you,” you laugh, resting your forearm over your eyes. He snickers but doesn’t know if he’ll last much longer than this himself. But you’ve still got two left. Either he needs to get you to cum as fast as possible—which might be difficult after three orgasms already—or he needs to pace himself significantly. Teasing you again, he lets his head prod your pussy, but then he finally pushes in as slow as he can physically force himself. It’s exhilarating and sensual and romantic and dirty. 

The way the plug makes you feel along with him inside you is incredible, perhaps a bit too much but in the best way possible. You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full and so his. Your eyes go wide at the sudden intensity, your body caught off guard by how overwhelming it is. But then you exhale slowly and surrender to it and let yourself bask in the feeling, relaxing all your muscles to feel everything—the shape of him inside you, the way his cock presses onto your plug, his hands on your hips. 

The muscles in your body melt like glass in a fire, slowly and gently as you relax into the sensation of the thick weight of him inside you. The plug is tight inside, pressing just right while his cock shifts and nudges against it with every slow thrust, sending sparks through your spine. His hands are firm on your hips, grounding you, guiding you, worshipping you. 

Speechless. That’s the only way you know how to describe this. You let him fuck you slowly and deliberately, succombing to the feeling of him and nothing else. Your body is slack as you let your throat react by itself, not holding any sounds back—you can’t even hear yourself over the immense amount of pleasure he’s giving you. 

There’s this intense sense of trust and security in it, in letting him overcome your body; you know you can let your guard down with him. He’d never do anything you wouldn’t want. Everything is sparks and glitter and sugar. You can’t even hear him, if he’s even talking at all.

Then he rubs your clit with his thumb and you wake back up. “Fuck—” you gasp. It must’ve been a bit more sudden than you realized, because it made him pause, but it wasn’t long before he started back up with a smile. When he adds his other thumb to your nipple, that’s it. An echo of an orgasm is in the distance, like he’s calling you from across a valley, urging you to jump, telling you you’ll fly. 

And you believe him. You answer him, doing what he’s asking by jumping off your cliff, but you don’t fall. You fly just like he said you would. Your orgasm is swift like a tornado and carries you through it, gusts of pleasure and want and need swirl around you as you let yourself trust him in the rawest way possible. 

The tornado settles into a gentle breeze, bringing you back down as he holds you there, letting you feel everything gently, knowing exactly when to stop pushing your buttons so you don’t get overstimulated and it becomes impossible to make you cum again. 

“How was that?” You can only muster up a lazy nod. “Can you give me one more, baby?” He asks, rubbing soothing strokes up and down your thighs. Blissed out, you nod happily. “Of course you can.” 

He might start out slow, but once you’ve adjusted again to the feeling of him sliding in and out of you, along with the plug stretching you comfortably, he picks up speed, finding the speed that both of you like. The way his demeanor shifts once he’s taking what he needs takes your breath away. His eyes darken, his brows furrow, and his jaw is clenched tight with desperation. 

It’s fast and rough and downright nasty the way he fucks you. He’s got your legs spread wide open while he holds them in his arms, thrusting into you fast and hard, skin slapping on skin making it sound that much more desperate, and he’s breathing so fast you know he’s not holding himself back any more. 

And this new dirty way of fucking you makes your pussy and ass feel so full and sensitive and overstimulated after the four orgasms tonight. Your nipples are tired and spent, clit’s worn out and puffy, lips swollen and red from kissing, hips and neck and chest covered in hickeys and love bites, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t want more, more, more. 

It should be impossible to come again after all that’s happened tonight, no? How the fuck does he do it? How does he still make your pussy clench around his cock after hours that should’ve left you immobile? You can’t help but give credit to the amount of care he’s taken with you. Not just tonight, but every single time you’re together. The way he looks at you—it’s the same whether you’re across the room or spread open right underneath him: an aching adoration that you feel in your core. Like literally nothing could ever tear you two apart. 

But it overcomes you once again. Bursts of pleasure whip around your body as he fucks you right through your fifth orgasm that night. Five. What the fuck? Sometimes you don’t even cum five times a week, let alone five times a night. And to make it even more delicious, he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop thrusting into you until his hips stutter while he spills inside you, filling you with cum while his mouth drops open, groaning like it’s the best he’s ever felt. 

And it very well could’ve been. Fuck, edging himself for hours to lead up to one of the best orgasms he’s ever had. It was all so worth it, worshipping your body for hours, showing you just how much he loves you and can’t imagine being with anyone else but you. 

You’re still coming down from your high when he pulls out, the sudden emptiness makes you miss him already. His hands are firm on your hips, but these are gentler squeezes this time. The room is thick with the scent of sweat and sex, the silence heavy before he presses his forehead to yours, still slightly out of breath. He says confidently, “I love you so much, baby.” You may be the giddiest you’ve been all night—doesn’t matter how many times he’s said it tonight.

It doesn’t need to be said how exhausted you are. You whimper as he eases the plug out of you, and his hand immediately returns to your thigh, steadying, soothing. “I know,” he murmurs, voice thick with something more than lust. “You did so well.” It’s worship in its quietest form—soft touches and whispered reminders that you’re his favorite person in the whole world. He moves slowly, gently. Not just because you’re weak and spent, but because you’ve given him everything, and he knows it.

The towel is warm and damp when he presses it between your legs, and you can’t help the soft sigh that escapes you. “Up,” he says gently, patting your leg, and you groan in protest. “I’ll carry you if I have to, but you’re going to the bathroom.” You try to glare at him, but your body is too soft, too pliant, too thoroughly taken apart. Still, you shuffle up onto wobbly legs, bumbling to the en-suite. 

By the time you’re back in bed, he’s already waiting, holding out a glass of ice water and you can’t help but think that maybe this is what true love really looks like—your body aching, your heart steady, your mind blissfully blank—because he knows how to care for you even when the sex is over. Especially then.

You curl onto your side, and he’s there immediately, pulling you back to his chest, tucking you into the warmth of his body. You belong here. His fingertips trace lazy paths along your arm, slow and soothing, like sand slipping through fingers—gentle, rhythmic, grounding.

Up and down. Over and over.

The world fades. Your muscles unwind. And with his breath against your neck and that soft, steady touch guiding you, you sink into sleep—safe, satisfied, and loved all the way through.

[mintyys-blog]

Hi!! This is my first time requesting in your blog and I saw one post that being specific with the request helps you to write it better. This is more of a personal experience but main+variants reactions to accidentally find out that the tomboy best friend they have been trying to date for months has a very curvy body (big boobs-big butt) but she hides her body with baggy and ugly clothes because, in the past, each time she wanted to wear something cute that she loved the people would look at her and whisper horrible things like "attention wh*re" or "s*lt". Sorry if this one is uncomfy to write or something! Hope you have a nice day!

HEADCANONS | variants with tomboy best friend or s/o who is curvy but hides it

invincible masterlist

warnings ; body insecurity, getting walked in on while getting changed, mentioned bullying

MAIN MARK

You’d only meant to try on the jeans.

That was the plan. Just see if they still fit, maybe pair them with something new if you were feeling bold. You weren’t expecting to get stuck in front of the mirror in just your bra—hesitating. Second-guessing. Staring at the parts of your body you still hadn’t made peace with.

Then the door creaked open.

“Hey, I brought food—”

Mark’s voice cut off.

You spun around in slow-motion horror. There he stood, in the doorway, holding a crumpled takeout bag like his soul had left his body. His eyes widened, then darted away so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

“OH MY GOD—I’M SO SORRY—”

He turned around, shielding his eyes. “I knocked! I thought you were in the kitchen! I didn’t see anything! I MEAN I DID, but I DIDN’T MEAN TO—”

You dove for your hoodie, heart racing as you yanked it on.

“Mark! What the hell!”

“I swear to God I didn’t know! I wasn’t trying to—that!”

You paused when you saw how red his ears were. Face flushed, hands up like he was surrendering to the authorities.

“I wasn’t expecting visitors,” you muttered, trying to smother your embarrassment with sarcasm.

He turned back around slowly, checking first like you were a landmine that might explode again. When his eyes met yours, he was completely serious.

“You looked…” He stopped. Swallowed. “Wow.”

You gave him a look. “Don’t.”

“No, I mean it,” he said. “I wasn’t trying to make it weird, I swear. It’s just… I didn’t know you—”

He gestured vaguely at your whole body. “That.”

You snorted. “What, that I have boobs and an ass? Real shocking.”

“That’s not—no, I mean—it’s not just that,” he said, tripping over his words. “You looked—confident. Even for just a second. Before you covered up.”

You hesitated. That hit deeper than it should have.

“I used to like clothes like that,” you admitted. “Fitted stuff. Cropped stuff. Bras that weren’t just plain beige garbage. But every time I tried to wear anything remotely cute, someone would look at me like I’d just committed a crime.”

Mark’s smile faded. His shoulders tensed.

“People called me stuff. ‘Slut,’ ‘trying too hard,’ ‘just wants attention.’ It got to a point where it wasn’t worth it anymore. So I stopped.”

There was a long silence.

Then, quietly, Mark stepped in and set the food on your desk. His voice was low. Steady.

“Those people were assholes.”

You looked away.

“No, I’m serious,” he said. “They saw you existing—looking good, being confident—and they decided to punish you for it. That’s not your fault.”

You didn’t answer right away. But your hands tugged at the sleeves of your hoodie, like you weren’t sure if you wanted to hide or be held.

Mark stepped closer, more careful this time.

“I’ve liked you for a long time,” he said. “Before any of this. Before today. And if you never wanted to wear anything tight or revealing again, I’d still think you’re the hottest person in any room. But if you ever do want to show off—because you want to, not because someone said you should—I’ll be the guy staring with hearts in his eyes and threatening to fight anyone who looks at you sideways.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. I will start throwing hands at brunch.”

Your lip twitched. “Even if someone just glances?”

“I will glare at grandmas.”

You laughed. And somewhere in that laugh, the shame started to slip off your skin like an old coat. Because he hadn’t made it about your body. He made it about you.

MOHAWK MARK

The wine stain started at your chest and slid downward like a crime scene.

You barely made it two feet into the guest room before stripping the ruined dress off and tossing it into the sink. The fabric was thin, slippery, the stain so deep it looked like blood. Just one drink. One dumb accident. One more reason you should’ve just stayed in your usual tomboy hoodie instead of trying to look like the kind of girl who fit into Mark’s world.

You were in the middle of blotting it out with a towel—barefoot, braless, teeth clenched in frustration—when the door behind you clicked open.

“Hey, you kinda ghosted on—oh.”

You froze. Your heart stopped. You turned, and there he was: Mark, in his black-and-blue uniform, mohawk slightly mussed, expression very interested. His eyes dropped. Then dragged up. Slowly. “Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe like this was the best moment of his week. “This is a sight for sore eyes.”

You flinched, scrambling for a towel to cover your chest. “Seriously, Mark?! Knock much?”

He raised both brows. “I did. Twice. Then I thought maybe you fell in and needed rescuing, so I heroically barged in. You’re welcome, by the way.”

You glared at him, clutching the towel to your chest. “I was trying to clean it.”

“I see that.” His voice dropped a note. “And the view’s fantastic.”

You wanted to throw the towel at him. Or the ruined dress. Maybe both.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me like this,” you muttered.

“This?” He gestured lazily toward you, still leaning in the doorway with that annoying little smirk tugging at his mouth. “The underwear, or the whole ‘I have curves and forgot to tell Mark for six months’ thing?”

You stared at him. “Are you actually—flirting—right now?”

He grinned. “Not my fault you look like a secret goddess who cosplays as a couch on weekdays.”

That earned him a slap with the towel. He took it like a champ, even caught it when it slid off your hand.

“Damn,” he muttered, glancing down at the ruined dress. “You were killing it in this thing. What happened?”

You sighed. “Wine. Elbow. A very smug Viltrumite diplomat who was definitely not sorry.”

He stepped closer, holding your gaze now—not teasing, but curious. Still intense, still smug, but softer under the surface.

“Why’d you never wear stuff like that before?”

You hesitated. Your fingers curled at your sides.

“Because people talk,” you admitted. “When I wear things like that. I’ve heard it all—‘attention-seeking,’ ‘trying too hard,’ ‘must be desperate.’ It’s easier to just cover up. Baggy stuff, boring colors, no one looks too long.”

Mark’s face shifted—not angry, but sharp. Focused. Like the part of him that could tear a person in half without blinking just quietly filed away every insult ever thrown at you.

“They looked,” you added, bitterly, “but not in a nice way.”

His eyes dropped again—this time to your body, still mostly bare—but the look in them wasn’t gross or mocking. It was reverent. Like he was piecing something together.

“So you thought if you dressed down, no one would stare.”

You nodded.

He hummed. “Too bad. Because if you’d worn stuff like this from day one, I would’ve ditched diplomacy way sooner.”

Your jaw dropped. “Mark—!”

He grinned, stepping close enough that you had to tilt your head up. One hand lifted, fingers brushing your jaw. Gentle. Grounding.

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’ve been hiding this from me. All of this. The body, the blush, the way you look when you’re flustered and half-dressed in a random spare room? Kinda unfair, honestly.”

You swallowed. “You’re not… weirded out?”

“Babe.” His grin softened, voice turning low. “I’ve literally crushed a guy’s skull for insulting someone weaker than him. You think I’m gonna side-eye you for being hot and traumatized?”

You laughed—half disbelief, half breathless. Mark leaned down, his lips against your ear. “Next time,” he murmured, “wear something like this on purpose. For me. I promise I’ll appreciate it way more than those stuck-up bastards out there.” Your skin prickled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hell, I’ll start a war over it if someone so much as frowns in your direction.”

You bit your lip. “…Even if I go with lace next time?” His eyes darkened. “Now you’re really testing my diplomacy.”

SINISTER MARK

The laughter downstairs turned sour the moment the wine hit your chest. Someone brushed past too fast, too careless—your glass slipped, shattered against your stomach, and red bloomed down the front of your dress like a wound. You felt it before you saw it. Heard the whispers as you turned, face flushed, hands shaking.

“Of course she wore that.”

“Desperate.”

“Look at her—who is she trying to impress?”

You didn’t wait for Mark. You slipped away—out of the main hall, through corridors you didn’t recognize, into the safety of some guest bedroom where you could strip the stained dress off and blot it under trembling hands.

Now, barefoot, in your bra and underwear, you stood at the sink scrubbing at wine like it was blood. Your heart hammered. Your stomach turned. You wanted to be invisible again. Back in hoodies, back in jeans, back in safety. You didn’t hear the door open. But you felt the shift. You turned, and he was there.

Mark. Not smiling— Not mocking. Mark didn’t do small talk or casual glances. He looked at you like he was reading every thought you’d ever had. Like he was already five steps ahead of the situation.

But now?

He just… stared.

Unmoving. Unblinking. His black-and-blue suit hugged every inch of him like a second skin. He looked powerful, perfect, in control. But his eyes— They burned. You instinctively moved to cover yourself, but his voice stopped you cold.

“Don’t.” It wasn’t a command. It was a quiet plea. An ache. You dropped your hands, pulse still racing. “I—I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.” Mark stepped into the room and shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Why not?”

You hesitated. “Because this isn’t how I’m supposed to be seen.”

“Says who?”

“The people downstairs. Everyone, always. Every time I try to wear something nice, it’s like I’m asking for judgment. For labels. Slut. Attention-seeker. I get stared at like I did something wrong just by existing in the wrong outfit.”

His expression didn’t change, but the air around him shifted. He was still. Too still.

Then, finally, he moved toward you.

You stayed frozen, like prey watching the predator close in—but he didn’t touch you.

He stood close enough for you to feel the heat coming off him. His gaze dropped again—to your body, barely covered—and lingered there for one long, unbearable moment.

Then:

“So this is what you’ve been hiding from me.” His voice was low. Unsettlingly soft. Like he couldn’t decide if he was angry or in awe.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you whispered, “I was��protecting myself.” His head tilted, eyes flicking to yours. “From who?” You didn’t answer.

He reached out—not roughly, but with a calculated slowness—and took the ruined dress from your hands. He held it up, examining the stain, then let it fall to the floor like it was garbage. “You don’t need this,” he murmured. “You never did.” You swallowed. “You don’t get it, Mark. I don’t wear stuff like that because it brings out the worst in people.”

“No,” he said. “It reveals the truth.” You looked up at him. His eyes were fire. Controlled. Contained. But not cold. “You were never meant to hide,” he said. “Not from me. Not from them. You’re the only thing in that room worth looking at. And if they can’t handle it? They don’t deserve to look at all.” Something trembled in your chest. “And what if I’m not ready to be seen like that?” you asked, voice thin. “What if I’m scared?”

He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear. “Then let me look. Until you’re not.” His hand skimmed your bare shoulder. Reverent. Worshipful. Dangerous. “I don’t want anyone else to see,” he said softly. “But me? I’ll never look away.”

OMNI MARK

The dress was tight. Too tight, maybe. It hugged your curves in ways you weren’t used to showing. The neckline dipped lower than your comfort zone usually allowed, and the slit in the side revealed a flash of thigh every time you moved.

But when you first saw yourself in the mirror? You liked it. You looked strong. Beautiful. Bold. You were proud of yourself—for once. Until the room turned. Until the whispers started. You caught the looks. Women narrowing their eyes. Men nudging each other. The words you couldn’t hear were worse than the ones you could.

“Trying too hard.”

“Look at her. She knows what she’s doing.”

“Must be sleeping with someone to be here.”

You laughed it off at first. Brushed it aside. But after a while, your smile got tighter. Your posture changed. Your arms folded in, hands tugging the hem lower. You stopped meeting people’s eyes. You started to shrink. He saw it.

Across the gathering—Mark stood like a monolith. Unmoving. Untouchable. Just power. But when he saw you falter, something in him snapped. He didn’t storm across the room. He appeared. One second there, the next in front of you. “You’re uncomfortable,” he said—low and certain. You flinched. “No, I’m fine, I just—”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your mouth parted. He wasn’t angry at you. But his tone left no room for masks. He glanced around once. Slow. Measuring. Calculating. You didn’t have to tell him who said what. He already knew.

Mark’s hand rose, fingers brushing your jaw—then dragging lightly, purposefully, down your collarbone. Over the curve of your shoulder. His thumb rested at the edge of your neckline. “You chose this,” he said. “You looked at yourself. And you knew.”

“Knew what?”

“That you’re stunning.” You swallowed. “Maybe I overdid it.”

He leaned closer—his voice just for you. “No. They just understand that they don’t measure up. And they hate you for reminding them.”

Your breath caught. His fingers slid down your arm, grounding you. He didn’t smile. Not really. But his gaze was fierce. Possessive. Almost worshipful. “You never lower your eyes for insects,” he said.

You blinked. Mark stepped behind you, hands firm at your waist, posture straight. His presence loomed, undeniable. Every head in the room turned—because they could feel it. Him. You. The silent gravity between you. “They want to look?” he murmured against your ear. “Then let them see who you belong to.”

VILTRUMITE MARK

You’d stared at the outfit for twenty minutes.

It wasn’t scandalous—just fitted, flattering. It hugged your waist, showed some cleavage, accentuated your curves in a way that made you feel like the strongest version of yourself. You looked in the mirror and thought: maybe today, I’ll let myself be seen. So you wore it. And for a while… it felt good. Until you arrived. Until the looks started. Not the ones from strangers. Those you expected.

No—it was the ones from people you knew. Allies. Team members. People who were all too happy to accept you in shapeless clothes and background roles… now eyeing you like you’d committed a crime.

“Did you see what she’s wearing?”

“She’s never dressed like that before.”

“Thirst trap behavior, honestly.”

The words cut deeper because they were meant to. Quiet enough to be deniable. Loud enough to be felt. You smiled less. Pulled your arms over your stomach. Stopped laughing. And then you looked up—and saw Mark watching you from across the room. He wasn’t blinking. In the next second, he was at your side.

“You’re uncomfortable,” he said—softly. Not accusing. Just… noticing. You gave a forced smile. “No, I’m okay. I think I overestimated what I could handle.”

Mark looked at you for a long moment. Then, he said simply: “…You look beautiful.” You laughed under your breath, eyes darting down. “Don’t say that just to make me feel better.”

“I’m not,” he said flatly. “I’m saying it because it’s true. And because you’re clearly starting to forget.” Your breath hitched.

He stepped closer, his voice low and even. “I’ve flown across galaxies. I’ve seen species with skin like fire, wings made of plasma, voices that ripple time. And I have never once,” he said, “seen anyone who made me want to come home the way you do when you walk into a room.”

You looked up at him. Your throat tightened. His eyes dropped to your outfit. He admired it, but he wasn’t leering. He wasn’t claiming. He looked at you like a man who couldn’t believe someone this powerful could be afraid to take up space.

Then: “You wore something that made you feel strong,” he said. “And now you’re trying to make yourself small again because people couldn’t handle it.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “Don’t let cowards decide what you’re allowed to feel beautiful in.”

You whispered, “But what if I can’t ignore them?” He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. His hand cupped your cheek. “Then let me remind you. As many times as it takes.”

His thumb brushed beneath your eye—catching the doubt before it spilled over. “You don’t have to earn the right to be seen,” he said. “You already exist. That’s enough.”

PRISONER MARK

You hadn’t seen him in almost four years. Not since the day he was taken—dragged off in chains, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched. Not since Earth fell, piece by piece, under the Viltrumite regime.

Now, they were calling it a new age. A time of peace. You didn’t believe it. But you still showed up to the gathering.

You still stood in the far corner, clutching a glass you hadn’t sipped from, wearing a fitted dress that had made you feel powerful in your mirror at home. A little low in the chest. A little high in the leg. You didn’t wear things like this before. Not back when you were just the tomboy friend at his side. But things changed. You changed. Or at least, you thought you had. Until the stares came. Until the whispers returned like knives to the ribs.

“Trying too hard.”

“She wasn’t like that before.”

“No wonder he came back—look at her.”

And just like that… You started folding into yourself again. You were halfway to tugging your jacket closed when his shadow fell over you. You didn’t even hear him approach. But you felt him.

The air shifted when Mark walked into a room now. Quiet and dangerous, dressed in black from boots to collar, no cape, no symbols. Just presence. Years older. Eyes sharper. Shoulders heavier. And when he looked at you— God, he looked like the war never ended.

“…Take your hands off your waist.” You startled. “What?” His voice was low. Measured. A rasp that used to be smooth.

“You were about to cover yourself up,” he said. “Don’t.” You laughed—nervous, unsure. “Mark, it’s not a big deal, I—”

“You think I didn’t see it?” he asked, voice just above a whisper. “You walked in glowing. Smiling. Feeling strong. Then they saw you. And now your head’s down and you’re ready to disappear.”

You froze.

“I didn’t come back just to watch you shrink,” Mark said. There was no heat in his tone. Just cold, hard truth. You swallowed. “You’ve been gone a long time, Mark.”

“I know,” he murmured. “And in all that time, I never forgot the sound of your laugh. The way you lit up a room. And the way you always made yourself invisible when people didn’t know what to do with you.”

He stepped closer. “…I never wanted that for you.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Then, softly: “I wanted to feel beautiful.”

“You are.”

You looked up. His expression didn’t flicker. Not with lust. Not with pity. Just reverence. “You wore that for yourself,” he said. “And they turned it into a weakness.”

You lowered your gaze again. “Don’t you dare let them win.” Your throat went tight.

Mark reached out—slowly, giving you the chance to stop him. His fingers brushed your bare arm, warm and real and here.

“You were the only soft thing left in me,” he said. “And I’ll burn this whole goddamn room down before I let anyone make you ashamed of that.”

You laughed then—just a little. His eyes lit up like it was the only thing he wanted.

[inwithrin]

ᓚ₍⑅^..^₎♡ abby + dacryphilia

i really do think abby loves seeing you cry. not in a mean or twisted way—just something about it makes her soft in the worst way. your pretty eyes are all glassy, lashes heavy with tears, that little quiver in your lip when you're trying so hard to be brave. she eats it up.

cw: dacryphilia, fingering (reader!receiving), soft dom!abby, there's aftercare and she helps you take a bath ପ(๑•ᴗ•๑)ଓ ♡

seeing you cry pulls something deep in her chest. she’ll cup your cheeks with those rough hands, wipe your tears with her thumbs, and murmur all gentle like, “you’re okay, baby. i’ve got you. no one’s gonna hurt you while i’m here.”

but she’s possessive about it, too. your tears do something to her. make her need to be the only one who gets to see you like this, all vulnerable and sweet. she doesn’t say it out loud, but it’s written all over her face when she tucks your head under her chin and holds you tight while rubbing your back.

and yeah… maybe sometimes—if it’s her name you’re crying through, voice all wrecked and airy—maybe then, she gets a little filthy about it too. maybe she doesn’t mean to enjoy it like that.

maybe it starts innocent—your eyes glimmering, your mouth parted, that soft sniffle as you cling to her. but then you're in her lap, shaking a little, thighs pressed tight together, and she feels the way your body leans into hers. the way your breath hitches when she calls you “baby,” in that low voice.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

“aw, look at you,” she murmurs, thumb brushing under your eye, catching a tear before it falls. “so fuckin’ pretty when you cry.”

and it should be comforting. it should be sweet. but then she’s tilting your chin up, kissing your damp cheeks, your forehead, your mouth—and her right hand? it’s sliding down between your legs.

“you gonna cry for me again, sweetheart?” she whispers against your lips, already pushing her hand into your lace panties. “gonna let me ruin you?”

and god—when she feels how wet you are? her jaw tightens. her breath catches. because you’re dripping, needy, shaky just from the sound of her voice and the weight of her body around you.

“fuck, baby… you like this, don’t you?” her voice is darker now, laced with need. “all worked up from crying. from me sweet talking to you?”

“mmh, abs,” you nod—pathetic, breathless—and she smiles.

“that’s my girl,” she whispers.

and then she’s got you laid out, spread open, tears drying on your cheeks while she fucks you slow and deep—fingers circling through the mess she’s already made of you, her mouth all over your neck, your chest, your whimpering mouth. she doesn’t stop. not even when you’re begging. especially not then.

because nothing does it for her like seeing you cry because of her—tears mixing with moans, hands clutching at her arms.

“such a pretty crybaby for me,” she groans, pushing her fingers deeper inside you. “fuckin’ perfect like this—ruined and mine.”

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────

you’re still shaking when she finally lets you rest.

your body is spent in the most delicious way. thighs sore, lips kiss-bruised, mind floating somewhere. you’re a mess. a teary, blissed-out mess. and abby’s right there, arms already pulling you into her lap like you’re weightless.

“shhh,” she murmurs, pressing kisses to your hairline, your cheek, the corner of your swollen mouth. “you did so good for me, baby. so fucking good.”

her voice is softened by satisfaction, thick with affection. one of her big hands strokes your back, the other smoothing down your thigh, grounding you. she wraps you up in her body like she wants to keep you warm and safe.

“you okay?” she asks, voice right at your temple.

you nod into her chest, clinging to her shirt. she chuckles—just a little—and shifts to kiss your forehead again.

“never seen anyone cry that pretty,” she teases gently, but there’s nothing mean in it. her voice is laced with a possessive wonder that clouds her mind when she looks at you like this. “fuck, you’re beautiful.”

and then she moves—carefully. she lifts you up like she always does, carries you to the bathroom, and runs the water with one arm still holding you against her. she tests the temperature with her hand, checks it twice, and settles you in the tub.

she washes you slowly. not a word about the mess between your legs or the bite marks on your thighs. abby is silent as she runs a soft cloth over your body and whispers praises in your ear.

“i’ve got you,” she says again, rinsing your shoulders, kissing the curve of your neck.

when she lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed, she doesn’t bother pretending she’s not staring at you. she slips under the sheets behind you, arms around your waist, chest to your back, and just holds. thumb stroking slow circles on your stomach. kisses pressed into your shoulder.

“gonna take care of you,” she whispers against your skin. “always.”

and you believe her. because when abby loves, she loves with everything she has. even when you’re crying. especially then.