#is it shallow? of course. will that stop me? no <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[lovebugism]

A request for the Thunderbolts (if you're interested no pressure <3)! - being caught/interrupted having sex

ty for requesting! :D below you will find four separate blurbs for the thunderbolts (bucky, john, yelena, and bob), each with their own separate summaries and a whole lotta smut!! enjoy :D

BUCKY BARNES X READER — you and bucky try to have some alone time after a mission gone wrong but, like most things, it doesn't go as planned (0.9k words)

Bucky Barnes has been waiting for this all day.

The need within him borders on primal now. Adrenaline and yearning course through his blood like fire and ice water in his veins; a near-lethal concoction of anger and want and craving. It’s the job that makes him this way, Bucky always tells himself — if it wasn’t always so life or death, and if you weren’t always so willing to throw yourself into the line of fire, he figures he’d be as even-tempered as they come.

But this latest mission wasn’t nearly as easy as Valentina made it out to be. The six of you scattered for safety, and somewhere in the gunfire, Bucky lost sight of you. It took four hours for the dust to finally settle, and for you and John to stumble back to the rundown motel in the middle of nowhere that your boss mistakenly called a ‘safehouse.’ Neither of you sported anything more than couple scrapes and a bruised ego, but Bucky hugged you with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs, anyway.

“You’re okay…” he mumbled into your hair within a sigh of relief.

“I was,” you joked. “Until you started suffocating me.”

Bucky loosened his hold but never quite let you go, while John shifted uncomfortably behind you. “I’m okay, too, guys. Thanks for asking.”

Bucky channels all that stifled grief and rage into you now, in each of his rhythmic thrusts into your pulsing pussy. The thin motel bed creaks beneath your bodies with every roll of his hips. A lewd sort of symphony swells within the walls of the dark, dank motel room accordingly — a sinful orchestra of squeaking, panting, clapping, and moaning.

He feels the very beginnings of an orgasm tightening in the pit of his lean stomach. His hands ball the pillow into his fists on either side of your head, and you smile deliriously up at him.

“Close?” you pant, fighting back a moan when he slides into you just right, the coarse thatch of pubic hair above his cock rutting perfectly against your swollen clit. 

Bucky nods obediently, then ducks his heavy head to your shoulder. The ends of his hair tickle your jaw while he exhales quiet grunts into your neck, right over your racing pulse. 

“I know you are,” you coo through labored breaths, nails etching crescent shapes into shoulders. “I know you need it, Buck. C’mon— Cum for me.”

His hips stutter against yours. His rosy mouth parts to exhale a broken whine. He nearly lets himself go until a knock at the door brings him to — urgent, rapid, and unable to be ignored.

Yelena’s deep voice comes muffled from outside. “T-minus five minutes before the military shows up! Whoever’s not outside is getting left behind,” she announces far too casually, then strolls to knock on the next door. “So much for a safe house,” you hear her grumble as she goes.

Your legs lock around Bucky’s hips when he threatens to pull out of you. You meet his subtle look of shock with something stern and mischievous, an unstoppable force to an immovable object. 

“Did I say you could stop?” you ask him.

Bucky blinks like an owl, then shakes his head in response.

“Then cum for me.”

He buckles down over you again, resting the bulk of his weight on top of your pliable body, while his thrusts turn shallow and irregular. 

He cums inside of you much sooner than he would’ve liked, because he had every intention of dragging this out until daybreak — until the only words you could think of were his name and the pleas to let you orgasm. But you have far too much control over him for that, and he quickly turns into putty in your hands. 

Upon his release — quick, unshared, and premature, like a total teenager — neither of you shares a word while you hurry to get dressed. You help each other put on your tactical gear and rush out the door in time to find the rest of the team piling into the rusted van parked outside.

The tin can was supposed to be inconspicuous enough to carry a team of so-called New Avengers, but nothing could be discreet with Alexei behind the wheel.

“Just in time!” the older man shouts when you and Bucky pile into the back seat.

The door slams behind you, and Alexei peels out of the pitch black parking lot, old tires squealing. His wide smile makes his eyes squint at the edges when he peers at you through the rearview mirror. It makes you wonder if he’s slept.

You shift uncomfortably, sandwiched between a pair of broad shoulders, trying hard to ignore the sensitivity between your thighs. 

“We were about to leave you,” John deadpans from beside you, voice gruff with leftover sleep. 

You squint at him while he props his tired head against the window. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Walker.”

Yelena twists in the passenger seat, smirking at you over her shoulder. Her box-dyed locks are wild from the sleep she never got. “What were you two doing in there?” she lilts, Russian accent deep and gravelly.

“Sleeping,” Bucky monotones.

Ava scoffs from the row in front of you, though you can hardly see her from here. She takes up most of the room in the middle seat, resting her head on her backpack and her legs in Bob’s lap. “Yeah, I bet,” she laughs.

“We were!” you try to argue, though the break in your voice is hardly convincing.

Even Bob turns around with a suspicious squint in his kind eyes. “The walls were criminally thin, to be fair,” he mumbles, almost apologetically.

“Sorry…” you waver.

“Hey! Do not apologize!” Alexei shouts from the front seat, waving his pointer finger in the air. “There is nothing wrong with needing a little bit of release—”

The van fills with a chorus of annoyed groans before he can properly finish his sentence.

JOHN WALKER X READER — you and john try to have a quickie on a mission, but mistakenly forget to turn off your comms (1.1k words)

John Walker saw it coming.

He knew what he was in for the moment the idea fell from your mouth — the blueprint of an elaborate heist to return the smuggled vibranium back to Wakanda, for which each of the New Avengers had their role.

Alexei had been honored to be a distraction, to brush elbows with the wealthiest people in the world and get his fill of complimentary champagne. John, however, was slightly offended that his only part in the whole thing was to woo the woman running the gala long enough to catch her in a lie.

“That’s it?” he laughed from the opposite end of the long table. “You want me to… flirt with some woman I don’t even know?”

You nodded. “Yes. I want you to flirt and look pretty— That’s what you’re best at.”

Yelena fought back a laugh. John shifted uncomfortably in his seat, swallowing through a pang of mild embarrassment. “And it won’t make you jealous?” he wondered aloud.

“Why would I be jealous?” you scoffed.

“Well, what if she doesn’t give in right away?” the blonde man challenged, folding his strong arms over the table to lean in close. “What if she thinks I actually want to have sex with her—? What if she doesn’t want to tell me anything until I’ve had sex with her?”

You hesitated, for only a fleeting moment, then shrugged a lazy shoulder in response. “Whatever it takes.”

John nodded slowly and leaned back again, as though he were taking your words as some kind of dare.

Alexei, unable to read the room, then offered, “Well, if Walker’s too scared to do it, I would be happy to take one for the team and sleep with this strange woman—”

The plan went exactly as you thought it would.

Maybe a little too well.

John Walker plays his part to perfection, the only way he knows how. Turns out, you were right — he was best at flirting and looking pretty, it seems — because it takes very little work on his part to get what he wants.

He dials his charm to eleven, like he knows you’re watching over him; and the drunk woman, worth more money than Walker will ever see in his life, fawns over him with ease. He gets the intel and then some, sporting a smirk and a pink lip print on his cheek.

“Did ya get that, honey?” he asks into his comm, smiling at the nearest security camera because he knows you’re watching him from there.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse in his ear. “Meet me at the rendezvous point when you’re done gloating.”

John’s able to sneak his way into the basement, thanks in part to Alexei’s Russian drinking game that he’s roped a group of drunken elites into.

He finds you waiting for him in the security room, all dolled up to blend into the party you never actually attended. The thin, emerald silk of your dress drapes over your body like soft, summer rain.

John loses his breath at the sight of you, quickly forgetting that he came here to gloat, as the door clicks shut behind him.

“Where’s everybody else?” he asks, walking to stand behind you in front of the wall of security cameras. You can see the entire gala from here, every bustling body filmed in black-and-white static.

He stands close enough behind you for you to feel the warmth radiating from his body. He can smell the vanilla perfume in your hair the same way you can smell the oaky cologne on his neck.

“Ava and Bob are tracking down your new girlfriend,” you quip, pointing to the screen at the bottom left corner where the two of them rush down the hallway. “And Yelena and Bucky are jetting off to the super luxurious private island your girlfriend really wanted to take you to.”

“She still waiting for me in her room?” John wonders, eyes flitting across the screens ahead of him.

“Yep,” you nod without looking back at him. “You can probably still catch her before the others if you’re fast enough. You know, if you were serious about that good time you wanted to show her.”

John laughs. You feel the exhale of the warm breath against your shoulder, right before he leans in to press a kiss to your bare skin.

“You’re so jealous,” he croons lowly into your neck.

You fight a shiver when his scruff brushes against you there. “I’m not jealous,” you insist proudly, shrugging your shoulder and dipping away from his touch. 

You spin on your heel and brace yourself against the table to slide yourself on top of it. John migrates instinctively towards your parted thighs.

“No?” he presses sarcastically with his head tilted like a puppy.

“No. ‘Cause she’s about to go to prison,” you say, nodding towards the camera where Ava leads the confused woman, dressed in nothing but a silk robe, out of her hotel room. “And you’re about to fuck me.”

“Really?” John hums, despite settling in between your spread legs like he was made to do it. “That’s very presumptuous of you.”

You use his tie like a leash to pull him closer, smiling with a sadistic look in your eye. “Don’t keep me waiting, Walker.”

It’s a mess of scrambling limbs. John hurries to free his cock from the confines of his slacks while you lift the skirt of your dress to slide your panties to the side. 

You watch with lidded eyes, propped against the square screens behind you, while John works himself the rest of the way hard with his fist. You inhale the sweet scent of his cologne when he leans over you, and bite back a whimper when he slides slowly inside of you.

The quiet security room fills quickly with the sounds of heavy breaths and quiet moans — but before John can fuck you the way he wants, the door swings suddenly open.

Bob stumbles in, mouth already parted to say something, but his eyes widen in shock before he can.

“Jesus, Bob!” John shouts, jerking out of you and tucking his stiff cock back into his pants.

The curly-haired boy falters for a moment. He knows he should leave, but his brain isn’t working properly. He turns around to face the corner instead. “Sorry!” he squeaks. “I’m sorry!”

“What are you doing in here?” you pant.

“You said to meet at the rendezvous point!”

You and John share an anxious look. Both of you have forgotten about the in-ears and the live microphone inside them. “You’ve been hearing us on comms?” you waver, distantly fearful of the answer. “Like, this whole time?”

Bob nods. “Yeah…?”

“Why didn’t you say something?” John snaps.

Ava’s voice crackles suddenly through the microphone. “Well, we didn’t want to be rude—”

YELENA BELOVA X READER — walker almost catches you and yelena having a "late night snack" in the kitchen (1k words)

Yelena Belova can’t help herself.

It’s the whiskey running through her veins, maybe, or the way you look in the yellow refrigerator light. She forgets all about the movie paused upstairs and the late-night snack the two of you came searching for at three in the morning.

You bend at the waist, reaching for something deep in the fridge, and your t-shirt rises to reveal your underwear. Modest. Cotton. Pale pink and decorated with so many cream-colored stars.

It drives Yelena wild. 

You leave the carton of milk on the counter and stand on the tips of your toes, reaching for the boxes of cereal Walker always keeps on the highest shelf. You just barely manage to grab the Cinnamon Toast Crunch container when you feel Yelena press herself against your back, caging you between her body and the counter’s edge.

“Excuse me,” you giggle and struggle to spin in her hold.

You just barely manage to catch Yelena’s lazy smile before she leans in closer. “You’re excused,” she murmurs, voice low and smooth as honey.

She kisses you once, twice, and then a third time — longer and more languid than before — then begins to trail her lips down your jaw. 

You grin when she licks over your pulse point. Her fingers ball the hem of your shirt into her fists. “I really want to finish that movie, Lena…” you lilt knowingly.

“We will,” she hums, half-muffled against you. “Right after I make you feel good.”

She goes to sink to her knees in front of you. You hold tightly to the outsides of her elbows to stop her, eyes wide and glittering with panic. “Not here,” you scold with a shake of your head.

Yelena’s face scrunches in a stubborn, girlish pout — far too cute to be a world-class assassin. “Yes, here,” she argues.

“What if someone walks in?”

“No one will walk in. I promise.”

She smiles when your hardened gaze refuses to waver. She leans in close, trailing the tip of his nose over the bridge of yours. Her breath fans over your cupid’s bow. “It’s late, everyone’s sleeping. And I’ll be quick, okay?”

Her fingers dip beneath your shirt, curling over the hem of your panties. She doesn’t know how wet you are for her already. You don’t know how her mouth is watering for a taste of you now.

You huff and turn to the side, finding the blinking green numbers on the stovetop: 2:57 a.m. 

“Fine,” you cave. “But I’m only giving you three minutes.”

Yelena falls slowly to her knees. “I only need one,” she smirks, pressing a chaste kiss to your clothed stomach as she slides your pretty underwear to the side with an expert hand.

You scoff. “That’s very presumptuous of y—” She licks a fat stripe up the length of your pussy. You sigh a broken moan. “—Oh…”

Her hands carress the backs of your thighs, just beneath your ass, as she kisses your cunt the way she would your mouth.

Your knees threaten to buckle when her lips lock with your sensitive clit, sucking gently there until you keen. You feel her smiling against you when you brace yourself on the counter’s edge to keep from falling.

Yelena’s mouth is a merciless thing. She has every intention of making you cum in a minute, just like she promised she would. She focuses mostly on your swollen clit — licking, then sucking, then sucking and licking — to pull a swift and powerful orgasm from your body. 

You think she would’ve broken a record if Walker hadn’t walked in at the absolute worst time.

You tense when the hall light turns on. His steps are slow and heavy, like he’s barely lifting his feet off the ground. John turns the corner, dressed in sagging sweatpants and a tank top, and flinches at the sight of you there — leaning awkwardly against the counter. 

With the kitchen island in the way, he can’t see Yelena from where he’s standing — or how she’s sucking an orgasm most devilishly from your body.

You’re grateful when he stops short in the doorway. You’re less grateful when your girlfriend refuses to cease her merciless assault on your pussy.

“What are you doing up?” John asks, voice gravelly with sleep.

“Oh, you know, just—” You clear your throat when your voice wavers. “Just getting something to eat.”

He nods politely and takes another step.

Panic swells within you the same way your orgasm does.

“Did you need something?” you blurt, fighting back a whimper when Yelena's teeth scrape gently along your clit.

John’s brows furrow, but he makes no mention of how strange you’re being. “I was just getting some water—”

He takes another step. You reach for a rogue water bottle and chuck it across the room, perhaps more forcefully than you mean to.

“Here you go!” you shout with a wavering smile, feeling your orgasm tightening in the pit of your stomach.

John catches the plastic thing against his chest. He scoffs a tired laugh and shakes his head. “Thanks, weirdo…” he mumbles and walks away.

You don’t relax until the hall light has turned off and you’ve heard his bedroom door click shut again. Then you deflate against the kitchen counter — one hand propping yourself up and the other holding tight to the back of Yelena’s head.

You give the short, blonde tendrils an especially sharp tug and she moans into your pussy, heavy eyes fluttering shut.

Your thighs tremble on either side of her face when you cum. You bite your lip until it hurts in a feeble attempt to keep yourself quiet. The kitchen fills with the sound of your subdued whimpering as Yelena sucks the remnants of your orgasm from your weeping cunt.

She doesn’t stop until you’re pushing her away.

Yelena leans back, wiping her glistening mouth with the back of her hand. She smiles while you catch your breath. “How was it?” she quips.

“I’m so getting you back for that,” you pant. “Just so you know.”

“Oh…” she croons sarcastically, rising to full height again. “Are you now?”

You nod once, lidded eyes glinting with something stern and mischievous.

Yelena tries not to cower at the way you look at her, like you’re some kinda succubus who can’t wait to swallow her whole.

“The entire tower is going to hear you screaming before I’m done with you, Belova.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS X READER — the one where alexei finally learns to knock before entering your bedroom (1k words)

Bob Reynolds is having the most amazing dream.

It’s of you and him, all tangled in an unmade bed, and bathing in the morning glow of a golden sunrise. You’re pressed against the side of him, heavy and warm, with your arm tucked under the blanket. You rub his half-hard cock over his boxers and press chaste kisses up and down the length of jaw. Bob’s mouth tugs upward in a lazy smile as he exhales slowly through his nose.

His eyes flutter open on their own accord. 

He finds his bedroom soaked in the same orange glow he was dreaming about. He blinks the haze of sleep from his eyes, and only then registers your body pressed against his — and the way you knead his stiff, clothed cock with a gentle hand. 

Bob wakes from one dream only to enter the next. His sigh of contentment leaves in a grumbled moan in his throat.

He feels your smile curl against his jaw. “Good morning,” you hum against his skin.

Bob nods until the words catch up to him, chestnut curls in a frizzy halo around his head. “Yes, it is…” he jokes, words weighed down with sleep.

Your body trembles with a quiet laugh from where you’re lying along his side. “Well, you were poking me in the back to be fair,” you say, punctuating your murmurs with another kiss to his neck. “So this is kinda your fault, if you think about it.”

Bob might’ve argued if he wasn’t already so close to his orgasm. Your hand dips beneath the hem of his boxers, using his pearly pre-cum as lubricate while you glide your fist up and down his cock.

His stomach tenses — there’s a knot at the pit of it he feels tightening, bound to snap at any moment.

His mouth parts to speak, but a pathetic whine escapes instead.

“You don’t care, do you, Bobby?” you coo to him, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “You just wanna cum, don’t you?”

He nods wordlessly, eyes squeezed shut.

“Use your words.”

“Yes,” Bob squeaks obediently, right before he sighs. “Yes, please…”

With his eyes still shut, he feels the mattress dip beside him as you crawl on top of his body. The blankets shift to accommodate you as you settle between his legs.

“Where do you wanna cum, then?” you ask, too innocently for how demoniacal you're being just now. “In my hand or in my mouth?”

“Your mouth,” Bob answers instantly, voice breaking as cock jerks in your fist. “In your mouth, please— In your mouth.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you, and smile wide at the broken look on his face. “Good boy,” you hum, just to make his cock drool, before you dip beneath the covers. 

You tuck the hem of his boxers beneath his balls, keeping the base of his cock in your fist as you lick gently at the tip. You savor the salty tang of his pre-cum when you suckle at his sensitive head with no warning. Bob tenses immediately beneath you. A moan escapes from his parted mouth, filling the quiet bedroom.  

“Sorry!” he squeaks when he realizes how loud he’s being, exhaling a trembling breath and squeezing his hands into fists. He yearns to touch you, but not without permission. “I’m sorry, baby…”

If you’re angry with him, you don’t show it.

You just take is cock down your throat and until he keens. You work at him swiftly and mercilessly — knowing that, at any moment, it’ll be seven in the morning, and the rest of the tower will be up and recruiting for the latest mission.

You need Bob to cum before then.

So you swallow around the length of his cock and cup his sensitive balls in your hand. It’s a near-lethal combination that you only use during your quickies — or when you’re especially trying to torture him. 

“Can I cum?” Bob pants when he feels the knot tightening in his stomach. “Please, can I cum?”

You don’t answer him with words. You can’t with your nose buried in his pubic hair and his cock stuffed down your throat. You hum affirmatively around him instead, “Mhm.” 

The added stimulation makes him burst. Two salty ropes of warm cum pool in your mouth.

“Oh— shit!” 

His moans turn into something more urgent, fearful even, as your bedroom door clicks suddenly open.

Both of you jerk into upright positions — you on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and Bob cupping his palms over his still twitching cock.

You find Alexei standing in the doorway, with a steaming breakfast burrito clutched in his fist. He blinks hard, like he’s trying to discern exactly what it is he’s looking at.

He swallows down his mouthful and fights back a sudden wave of nausea. 

“Team meeting downstairs in five,” is all he says, half-detached and strangely robotic, before turning back the way he came.

“Shut the door!” you call to his disappearing figure.

He doesn't seem to hear you.

“Lenaaaa!” he shouts over you, Russian voice booming throughout the quiet tower. “Never make me do that again!”

You and Bob are only slightly late to the team meeting in question.

The room is deafeningly silent, heavy with a nameless tension. Neither of the team seems to look at you with anything other than sleep in their eyes — other than Alexei, of course, who sits slouched at the head of the table.

Yelena pets unenthusiastically at his shoulder, begrudgingly comforting the pouting man.

You take your designated seats at the long table without a word — you at the opposite end, and Bob sitting most adjacent to you.

Alexei’s eyes harden into a pitiful glare. “Is there anything you two want to say to me?” he wonders dramatically, accent sounding deep in his throat. “An ‘I’m sorry,’ perhaps?”

Bob shifts uncomfortably, gaze averted. “Sorry—”

“Learn how to knock,” you deadpan, then flash a cynical smile that makes the man cower. “Or I’ll show you something a lot worse than what you saw this morning.”

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

Everybody who's voting "smash" on transmetal Tarantulas, but "pass" on his initial form are WEAK /lighthearted

Color me a fuckin weakling then.

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

M I N D T H E T A G S

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[maskedbyghost]

part 2 to thisss

You thought you were good at pretending. So good, in fact, that even you believed yourself sometimes. But as the days dragged on and the weight in your chest grew heavier, it became harder to keep up the act. It was like drowning in slow motion—every moment a little harder to breathe, every glance from him a little more suffocating.

You tried to be strong. You really did. You went about your days with a smile that felt more like a grimace, a laugh that was more habit than genuine, pretending his presence didn’t unravel you. But the truth was, it hurt. God, it hurt.

There were moments when you caught yourself watching him, and you felt the ache so deep it almost made you dizzy. The way his eyes softened when he was focused, the way his voice turned quiet when he was serious, the rare moments he looked at you and you felt, just for a second, like you were the center of his universe.

But you weren’t. You were his friend, and nothing more.

And you kept telling yourself that was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

It was a mission gone sideways—something you’d both done a thousand times before. But this time, it was different. The gunfire was louder, the smoke thicker, and when you found him, there was blood. So much blood. His uniform was dark with it, and he was slumped against the wall, breathing too shallow, his eyes fluttering.

“Simon,” you whispered, dropping to your knees beside him, hands fumbling to press against the wound. “No, no, no—you’re gonna be fine. You hear me?”

He coughed, the sound wet and awful, and his eyes found yours, glassy and unfocused. “Hey,” he rasped, his lips barely moving. “You’re here.”

“Of course I’m here,” you said, voice breaking as your hands trembled. “I’m always here. Just—just stay awake, okay? Help’s coming.”

But his head lolled, his breath shallow, and you felt panic claw at your throat. You pressed harder against the wound, desperate, but the blood kept coming.

“Simon,” you said, voice rising. “Please. Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this to me. You can’t—”

You stopped yourself, the words catching on your tongue. But he was fading, slipping through your fingers, and you couldn’t keep it in anymore.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words trembling and broken as they fell from your lips. “I love you, I’ve always loved you, and I’m sorry I never told you—I was scared, I thought it would ruin everything, but I can’t—I can’t lose you, please, Simon, please stay with me—”

His eyes fluttered shut, his breath stuttering out in a soft exhale.

“Simon,” you said, shaking him gently. “No. No, please. Wake up. Just open your eyes. Please—”

But he was still.

And in that moment, you understood what it meant to lose someone before you even got the chance to have them.

PART 3

-----------------------------------------------

guysssss i made it worse...

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! Reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

You twirled.

Of course you did.

You took Simon’s hand, held it above your head, and slowly spun around; a low whistle leaving his lips in appreciation.

His grip tightened on your fingers when your back faced him, stopped your movements dead in their tracks. Kept you in place, ass arched for his viewing consumption. It was only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Your heartbeat drowning in your ears, hands clammy against his, inhaling shallow breaths like you had just gotten back from a run.

Except you hadn’t.

You were just showing your ass off to your mechanic. Your dirty mechanic. Filthy mechanic.

And it left your underwear a sticky mess, cotton fabric molded to your aching pussy in anticipation. He could bend you over the hood of your pick up right then and there, hitch the fabric of your pencil skirt over your hip, show off your glistening pussy, and slide right in with no resistance.

You would take it— god, would you take it.

Let Johnny see the whole thing, wouldn’t really care if he did because you would be too distracted with Simon’s dirty hands, filthy cock and balls, pungent sweat staining your body. Ruining your pretty flesh, clean and pristine, freshly washed just for him, shaved just for him.

Give him such a pretty and warm cunt to ruin, taint with his grime.

Except he didn’t, and you weren’t one to beg.

Just let him twirl you around until you faced him again, eyes dilated, pools of his irises settling dark. A better image than you; you were sure.

Left it at that, drove home with an unnecessary oil change and panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin. Laid in bed with an insistent craving, an unbound fever that ruptured, seeped out of your control, and lead to the front steps of Simon’s dinky shop. Suffocated you to your wits end; a hunger that demanded more. More than two slender fingers attached to your wrist.

So, you sought out more.

The time in between felt endless. You spent the days hoping your shitty pick-up would break down, the engine light would come on, your tire would go flat. Any excuse to see him again, but your lemon of a truck suddenly decided it didn’t have any problems, wasn’t a nuisance in your daily life.

You were so close to sabotaging your own vehicle, slashing a tire yourself, fucking up the engine on purpose. But you weren’t that desperate— yet.

You would have to bite the bullet. Bury it deep in your mouth, crack your molars against the lead, claim it as your own, and show up at the foot of his shop with minuscule problems. But by some miracle, Simon didn’t seem to mind, if anything, he melted the bullet into rubber, made the bite chewable.

Your air con’s not workin’? No worries, sweet’art, just needs some coolant and a new filter. Wouldn’t want ya melting in this heat, would we?

Yeah, you nodded weakly, yeah, we wouldn’t want your core to burn, pulse in agony, trail molten lava against the curve of your back, would we now?

Need me to rotate your tires? Easy ‘nough, and when’s the last time you replaced ‘em? Don’t worry, I’ll get some ordered to the shop, have ya sorted in no time. Can’t be drivin’ round with no traction, ‘t’s dangerous, pretty bird.

Headlight’s gone, is it? Simple fix, won’t take more than a few minutes. Go on, take a seat in my office, yeah? Glad you brought it to me— wanna make sure you’re safe, after all.

Pay him? What are you on about? Don’t even think about it. These are easy fixes— no need to worry, sweet’art. He’s just takin’ care of ya, that’s all.

Maybe it was a bit pathetic, a little out of sorts for your character, but if he wouldn’t accept your money, you would pay him back in other ways. A shirt that was a little too deep, a skirt that was a little too tight, heels that were a little too obnoxious. Never all at once, you had a little more dignity than that.

It was the same routine each time; a weak excuse to park in his service drive, then he would order you to sit in his office. To which you always did, obediently, more than content to watch him from the solitary confines of his office when Johnny wasn’t there. And when he was done, you would try to negotiate a payment, but all he would accept was a twirl.

Maybe it should’ve made you feel like an object. Objectified, paying for a fucking air filter with a sway of your hips, but it doesn’t. You can’t even describe how much you like it, can’t even explain why you do.

You just do.

In an excruciating way, everything you can’t say by words, too much and absolutely not enough at the same time. Painfully embarrassing from the way it leaves you a shaking mess, how it dampens your panties— soaks them through.

The day he places his free hand on your waist when you twirl, using his large palm on your hip to stop your spin instead of tightening his fingers in your grasps your knees almost buckle under you. A quiet gasp leaving your lips in surprise, squeezing his fingers tightly.

You think you might be imagining it, that your hopes had become so grandiose that it conjured the feeling, until it moves.

A rugged hand, scarred and calloused sweeps up in one careful motion. It sends shivers over your spine, jolting straight. But it’s gone as soon as it’s there, facing him once again as if he wasn’t carving the shape of your hip seconds ago.

When you stumble back to your truck, your stomach twists when there isn’t a grease stained imprint of his palm on your shirt, no remnant of his touch.

That becomes the new step in the routine. You should hate it, but you fucking love it. Like it’s a reward for sitting so calmly when your body is waging a war on the inside. A gentle pet against soft flesh to accommodate the few minutes you sat hot and bothered, untouched.

You think about his heavy hand grazing your figure any chance you get, stings and weeps in the absence of his touch, the lack of his dominant eyes.

You try to convince yourself that’s enough, that he would’ve asked you by now if he wanted more than fleeting glances and featherlight touches. That was before your truck broke down one day. You had been hoping, manifesting for your engine light to flick on, but not like this. On the side of a small country road, sun setting behind you, dirt flying around you on a Saturday night.

You should probably call a tow truck instead of Simon, but you don’t. You don’t entirely want an expensive bill to pay. Maybe you’re a little spoiled by his free services at this point, but he answers the phone in seconds, tells you he’s on the way within the same breath.

When his work truck pulls up beside you, and he steps out, you think your lungs collapse in your chest. You’re used to mechanic Simon, uniform soiled in sweat, reeking of a days of work.

Now, a clean Simon? It practically sends you over the edge, stumbling forward, stuttering over your words.

A black leather jacket and a white shirt covers his broad chest, blue jeans framing his long legs. His hair lays flat, damp, like he just got out of the shower; it makes you feel guilty, like you interrupted his private time. Not guilty enough that it stops your panties from soaking through when he gets real close and you can smell his body wash on him, mossy forest, redwoods.

“You okay, bird?” He asks, palm finding your waist in concern.

It’s practically out of a movie scene; it’s almost comical, but you feel like doing anything but laughing. Pressing your thighs together instead, trying to regulate your breaths so you’re not panting in his face like a dog.

You nod aimlessly, staring up at him with wide eyes, hoping that it was the correct response because you hadn’t really comprehended what he asked you. All you can focus on is the shape of his hand on your waist, fucking massive, thick and warm. His clean skin, free of all sticky and dark stains you’ve begun to associate with him, shaving cream wafting off of his smooth jaw.

“Le’s get ya in my truck, yeah?” He continues, voice firm and rich.

He guides you to his truck, opens the passenger door for you, just like you’re sure he would on a date. All cleaned up and a gentleman, a picture from your fantasies. And just like you do at his shop, you watch him hitch your truck to his through the rear view mirror. Admiring the way his wide back stretches the leather material taut.

When he gets in the driver seat you’re all strained voice and nervous laughter. The fabric of his seats smells like the Simon your used to, car oil and musk, but he smells like a shower and his cologne, woody and pine. You barely have the strength to listen to what he’s telling you, explaining that he can’t work on your truck tonight, that he’s busy, so all he can do is drop it off at the shop and drive you home when the combined scent is intoxicating.

You think about inviting him in, drenching your sheets in his clean scent when he walks you to your front door, but you don’t, can’t when he’s busy. He’s apologizing, you know that much, mumbling his sorry’s because he can’t fix the problem that night, but you don’t mind; it’s just another excuse to see him tomorrow, even if you’re shit out of a vehicle.

Can’t find it in yourself to care about anything else when your back is pressed against your door, trapped between the wood and his hulking frame.

“Goin’ to the pub with the lads, would ditch ‘em to help, but Johnny’d never let me hear the end of it.” He explains, tucking his hands into his leather jacket.

You smile with a shake of your head, “No, no it’s okay.”

“Gonna need a ride to work in the mornin’?” He asks.

“Are you offering to take me?” You lilt, tilting your head teasingly.

“Course I am.” He says so matter-of-factly, like it doesn’t make sense for him not to.

“Then, yes,” You agree, leaning forward on your tippy toes to press a chaste kiss to his cheek, “Thank you, Simon.”

It’s supposed to be a sweet moment, a tease of your feelings, warm and soft. Everything and more you could pay him with for his services, but he has your jaw cupped in seconds, lunging forward to capture your lips in his, your head knocking against the door from the sheer force. You gasp, fingers hooking into the collar of his shirt, fisting it tightly in your grasps.

It’s harsh, fierce. All clashing teeth and bumping noses, exactly how you pictured a man like him would kiss. Bruising the shape of his lips on your mouth, branding them red and swollen between his teeth.

You’re not sure how long the two of you stand there, destroying your modesty on your porch for all your neighbors to see, but it doesn’t seem long enough. He tastes like toothpaste, minty and sweet, a little like aftershave. You lick the taste fucking clean from his lips, clawing at his chest, panting into his mouth for more, more, more.

Johnny can fucking wait.

But he pulls away anyways, a pathetic protest spilling from your lips as you cling to him; you’re not ready to lose the sensation of his lips yet.

“Easy there, baby.”

God.

It’s a bit embarrassing the way your eyes flutter at the word, the way he has to ease you off your tippy toes, coax you back down. Opening your door for you as you stand there a little dumbfounded after a searing kiss.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow, okay?”

He leaves you at that like he didn’t just tilt your world on its axis, lips throbbing in his wake, skin still pulsing where he gripped your face, thick arousal pooling in your panties— your fingers definitely aren’t going to be enough tonight.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[lqveharrington]

In Sickness & Health | R.L.

summary: you and remus after a full moon <3

pairing: remus lupin x fem!reader

includes: fluff, comfort, normal post full moon things

a/n: i’m in love with him :(

“Hey, Moony,” you murmured, settling onto the edge of his hospital wing bed. Your fingers gently threaded through his hair, careful not to press against any fresh bruises or reopen wounds. His hair was soft despite the sweat from the full moon’s toll. “How was tonight? Sirius told me it was… bad.”

“It wasn’t too bad,” Remus replied, though his voice was strained, and the attempt at nonchalance didn’t quite mask the pain lacing his words. He shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position on the stiff white sheets, but winced as he moved. “Jus’ got a little out of hand, that’s all.”

You frowned, your gaze lingering on the fresh scar just above his eyebrow. Without thinking, you brushed a few strands of hair away and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of the wound. His skin was warm beneath your lips, radiating both the fever of healing and the exhaustion of survival. “I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“It’s not your fault, dovey,” he murmured back, eyes still closed, breathing shallow.

“But it is,” you sighed, your voice cracking under the weight of guilt. Your fingers found his hand, lacing through his as your thumb sought out the steady beat of his pulse—a quiet reassurance that he was still here. Still breathing. “I shouldn’t have gone with Lily and Dorcas earlier. I should’ve been there when—”

“Stop,” Remus cut in gently, squeezing your hand to pull you out of the spiral. His amber eyes opened, hazy but sincere, locking onto yours. “You know it’s not your fault. These things… they happen. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life, yeah? Tonight was just a rough night, nothing you could’ve prevented.”

But you couldn’t shake the ache in your chest. Couldn’t stop the image of him curled on the hospital bed, covered in fresh scars that would never fully fade. You bit your bottom lip, emotions swirling, and brought his hand to your lips, pressing a tender kiss against his knuckles. “I’m still sorry.”

He chuckled, though it came out more like a breathy exhale. “I’ll get Madam Pomfrey to kick you out if you don’t stop with all this guilt,” he teased, squeezing your hand again. His eyes softened. “Besides… you’ll be here to help me afterwards, yeah?”

“Of course, Rem,” you nodded, voice thick with emotion.

He smiled—small, tired, but genuine—and tilted his head just enough to look at you properly. His gaze narrowed playfully until you finally cracked a smile, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, the weight of worry momentarily lifted by his warmth. Remus shifted again, letting out a slow sigh as he tried to settle his battered body. You reached up to run your fingers through his tousled hair once more, the rhythmic motion calming both of you.

“Think you’ll be able to attend classes by Monday?” you asked softly. “We’ve got those tests in Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

He hummed thoughtfully, leaning into your touch like a cat basking in the sun. “We’ll see… Might just have to fake my way through them. Not like Flitwick hasn’t seen me half-asleep in class before.”

You glanced at the old clock hanging above Madam Pomfrey’s office door and sighed. “You should rest,” you murmured, though the last thing you wanted was to leave him.

“Dovey,” he mumbled, voice low, “you need to get to bed, too.”

You nodded reluctantly, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead. His skin was warm, his pulse steady beneath your fingertips. “Do you want me to bring anything tomorrow? A change of clothes, books… chocolate?”

“Just yourself,” he grinned, eyes fluttering shut. “The boys already made grand plans to raid my side of the dorm for me.”

“Figures.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. Squeezing his hand one last time, you whispered, “Goodnight, Rem.”

“Night, love.”

As you slipped out of the hospital wing, the cool corridors of Hogwarts seemed colder than usual, the stone walls echoing with your thoughts. You kept replaying the night in your head—the ache in his voice, the scars on his skin—and you hoped, with everything in you, that he wasn’t downplaying the pain.

Remus spent most of the weekend recovering, pushing through the stiffness and soreness until, by Sunday afternoon, he managed to hobble out of bed with his cane, taking slow, measured steps. You stayed by his side every moment you could, abandoning weekend plans with the girls without a second thought. James and Sirius, of course, had already tried to rope him into plotting pranks, but Remus waved them off with a lazy grin. Next time, he promised. For now, he just wanted quiet.

The two of you ended up by the Black Lake, settling beneath the sprawling branches of a tree that overlooked the shimmering water. The late afternoon sun dipped toward the horizon, casting streaks of gold and pink across the sky. Remus lay back with his head in your lap, eyes closed, his breathing even as you idly ran your fingers through his hair.

“Did your dad make this?” you asked softly, tracing the intricate carvings on his wooden cane. The designs were delicate, swirling patterns framing his initials at the top—R.J.L.—surrounded by tiny etched stars.

“Yeah,” Remus nodded, opening his eyes halfway. “He started working on it after… after he realized how much I was struggling to walk after full moons. Didn’t say much—just handed it to me one morning.”

Your fingertips brushed over the stars, heart tugging at the thought of the quiet, steadfast love behind each carved detail. “It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “And it suits you.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating softly against your leg. “I’ll owl him that. He’ll be pleased someone appreciates his handiwork.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of the lake and the distant calls of students on the castle grounds. Remus turned his head slightly, letting the fading sunlight warm his face. For a moment, you saw beyond the scars and fatigue—to the boy who loved books, who smiled despite the weight he carried, who found peace in the little things.

“Help me up?” he asked after a while.

“Of course.” You shifted, careful as you helped him sit up. His muscles tensed under your hands, but he didn’t complain. Steadying him, you passed him his cane. He gripped it firmly, testing his balance.

“Thanks, dovey,” he murmured, his gaze catching yours. There was gratitude in his eyes—deep, unspoken, and profound.

You smiled, falling into step beside him as you wandered back toward the castle, the horizon painted with the colors of the setting sun. Whatever challenges lay ahead—tests, pranks, full moons—you’d face them together. Always.

The following week passed in a blur of classes, missed notes, and whispered conversations between you and Remus when Madam Pomfrey wasn’t hovering over him. By Tuesday morning, he was finally released from the hospital wing—still sore, still leaning on his cane, but stubbornly insistent on returning to classes despite your protests.

“Professor McGonagall’s going to have my head if I miss another Transfiguration lecture,” he grumbled as you walked beside him, his pace slow but determined. “Besides, I’ve already got Sirius taking notes for me. Not that I can read half of his scribbles.”

You snorted. “You’d have better luck asking a Hippogriff to write in cursive.”

Remus chuckled, the sound warming your chest. Even with dark circles still under his eyes and his movements careful, it was good to see him returning to his usual self—sarcastic comments, fond exasperation at his friends, and all.

By Wednesday afternoon, he was exhausted. You could see it in the way he slumped against the library table, one hand lazily turning the pages of Advanced Defensive Spells, the other propping up his head.

“Rem,” you whispered, nudging his leg under the table. “You’re not going to absorb any of that if you’re half-asleep.”

“M’fine,” he mumbled, though his eyelids drooped.

“You’re reading the index,” you pointed out.

He blinked down at the book. “…Shit.”

Smiling fondly, you reached over and closed it for him. “Come on. Fresh air might wake you up.”

Reluctantly, he let you tug him away from the library and out toward the Black Lake. The March wind was crisp, biting at your cheeks, but the sky was clear—a perfect gradient of pale blue bleeding into amber as the sun started its slow descent. You walked in comfortable silence, his arm occasionally brushing against yours.

“Here,” you said, guiding him to a familiar spot near the small cliff overlooking the water—the same place you’d been the weekend before. The grass was still damp, but neither of you cared. Remus sat with a quiet sigh, stretching out his legs as you settled beside him.

“I don’t deserve you, you know,” he murmured after a long pause, voice soft and a little too serious.

You turned your head toward him. “Where’s that coming from?”

He shrugged, gaze fixed on the shimmering surface of the lake. “I know how hard this is for you. Worrying. Waiting around for me to pull myself back together after every full moon. Most people wouldn’t bother.”

“Well, I’m not most people,” you replied, nudging his shoulder. “And you don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

His lips quirked into a half-smile. “Stubborn.”

“Pot, meet kettle,” you shot back, and he laughed—really laughed—head tilting back, eyes crinkling. It was a sound you wished you could bottle up and keep forever.

Falling into a companionable quiet again, you watched as the sun dipped lower, casting golden ripples across the lake. Seagulls cried overhead, distant and fleeting.

“You know,” you started, tracing random patterns in the grass, “I don’t stay because I have to. I stay because I want to, Remus. You… you matter to me. Scars and all.”

He went still beside you, the weight of your words settling between you like a warm blanket. Slowly, cautiously, his hand found yours in the grass. Fingers entwined, familiar and safe.

“I’m lucky to have you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, though your cheeks burned.

The sky bled into a soft lavender as the first stars began to peek through. Remus leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder. “This… this helps,” he murmured. “Being with you. Makes it easier to breathe.”

You smiled, resting your head against his. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The wind picked up, sending ripples across the lake and rustling the trees behind you, but neither of you moved. For now, the world could wait.

Here, in this quiet pocket of Hogwarts grounds, with his hand in yours and the stars beginning to glow above, everything felt… right.

And you’d hold onto that feeling—for him, for you, for as long as it took.

©lqveharrington - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms

[mcflymemes]

AS SAID BY ASTARION ANCUNÍN *  assorted dialogue from baldur's gate 3

you are mine. no one can change that.

i wish... to drink. and be drunk.

you haven't earned the right to stare at me like that.

you could scream bloody murder out here and no one would ever know.

we should find a tavern and celebrate.

do my eyes deceive me? the gang really is all here.

i'd rather be the only dark power inside your body, if it's all the same to you.

you're cute, you know. in another life we might have been friends.

i don't hate you. because this is not you.

we just have to be vigilant. keep our wits about us.

you can try, but i will stop you.

do what you like. it's none of my concern.

i simply do not care.

we could do it, you know. we could rule the world.

i... i don't know what to say. thank you.

well that's just disgusting.

listen to me, damn it! i'm trying to save you, even if you're too stupid to see it.

believe what you want. i'm done with you.

you have no idea what i can do.

sounds like a delightful dinner plan. perhaps i'll join you.

forgiveness? you've never forgiven anything.

i don't need anyone to speak for me.

i don't owe you a damn thing.

don't worry. i'll keep watch tonight.

just don't ask me again.

is there anything else? any new and interesting ways you can waste my time?

i'll come to you tonight, when you're snugly wrapped in your bedroll and we can have a little privacy.

this time i'll make sure i'm quiet.

you're lucky i'm such an open-minded person.

why send anyone after me? i'm hardly a threat out here.

what are you waiting for? help me!

"you can do whatever you want" sounds terrifying, and it is, but there's opportunity in it, too.

i am so much more than what you made me.

hold very, very still.

i'm sorry, but could you excuse us a moment?

get out of my way. i'm in no mood to talk.

you didn't think i could do it? i'm hurt.

i appreciate your loyalty, darling, but i don't think you understand.

fair? nothing about this is fair.

i don't know who they are, but i have plenty of questions.

i'm glad to hear it.

i do believe you. i know you only did what you thought was best for me.

i just need some time to let it sink in.

you're so good to me.

safe? how can i ever be safe now?

well, hello. looking for a cuddle?

now that you're back with us, we need to have a talk.

how flattering. and disturbing.

please tell me this is important.

there's also gold, sex, revenge... quite the list, really. but failing any of those, i will always settle for shallow praise.

now just tell me i'm beautiful and we can call it a day.

i want to thank you.

you're a vision. and you're so much more than that.

this is all a game to you, isn't it?

for as long as i can remember, i've been used by others.

of course i was attracted to you. look at you, for goodness' sake!

i will forever remember what you did for me today.

that's what you've been waiting to hear, isn't it? that's what you want?

i have been waiting so long for you.

come, give yourself to me.

i'll take care of everything.

it's time to try living again.

i feel safe with you. seen.

we don't have to rush into anything tonight.

would it kill you to dispense a compliment?

looking for something?

honestly, you have no sense of fun.

i do appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's try to restrain ourselves a little.

would you like a tour? we can start with my tent, if you like.

everything was taken from me, too.

well, that could have gone better.

i don't know what you mean.

were you actually worried i was angry?

so what was it like? tell me everything.

i hope i'm not interrupting.

some day that soft heart of yours is going to be torn out of your chest.

what a party. we should do this again.

there you are. i've been waiting. waiting since the moment i set eyes on you. waiting to have you.

you've seen enough already.

i didn't want to lose control.

oh, don't be like that. not every problem has to be beaten to death, my dear.

wait! don't interrupt them!

let's not make trouble for some stranger.

my, this place is fun.

my past isn't exactly a happy story.

that was amazing.

it won't happen again. you have my word.

so many people need killing.

remember who saved you.

don't worry. i'm here.

[moonlight-alexia]

uneven ground | a.p./p.g.

alexia putellas x reader (platonic) + patri guijarro x reader (platonic) | 3.5k | grief is hard to navigate, but your friends are there to help you

ˏˋ°•*⁀ this came out of nowhere. it's somehow 3am and i wrote 3.5k through my tears...this is very personal and written completely because i express through writing and my own grief has been overwhelmingly consuming me, especially at night lately. always here for you all <3

any and all feedback, comments, reblogs etc are very appreciated and welcome <3

The locker room is loud again, which was nice in its own way. Almost comforting in the way that the loudness could distract you from everything that’s happened. But at the same time, it felt suffocating to be around it all, watching everyone’s lives go on while you just sat there.

Laughter bounced off the walls, music filling any other moment that would have otherwise been silent, boots clattering against the floor. Within these walls nothing had changed, not for the team at least, but your entire world had been shaken up, changed forever with no clue on how to move forward or feel like yourself again.

In these moments, it felt the most isolating. It felt like you were the only one who would ever feel this way. That’s the funny thing about grief, about losing someone you held so closely, it was both loud and quiet. Loud in the way that it consumed your entire being, all of your thoughts and feelings, but quiet in the way that it physically made you quiet. Like you had so much inside you that wanted to be let out, but you couldn’t find the words or you didn’t want to burden them anymore with your grief.

You hadn’t let yourself deeply feel the loss of your sister. The first few weeks that followed you were engulfed with so much love, constant conversations, and busy planning the funeral. Even though you’d just lost someone you never imagined losing so soon, your biggest problem was what kind of flowers, what songs should be played and trying to pick the right photos to capture everything your sister was in her life.

The weeks after the funeral, after you’d come back to training, everything seemed to slow down. After you stopped being busy is when it began to fully process, it’s when you started to feel just how greatly your loss had hit you. Your heart ached. It ached for your sister, for the life you had to now live without her, it ached for someone to see past whatever mask you had on, it ached for someone to just see you.

The locker room was loud, but it was missing one voice that normally always added to it. Yours. You didn’t think anyone would notice. But you miss Alexia across the room, talking quietly with Patri and how her eyes flicker towards you every now and then. Everything you thought went unnoticed, your two best friends picked up on.

Alexia thought you had come back to training, to playing, to the team too soon. But everyone is different in how they process and with what they need. Truth was, you had forced yourself back quicker than you should have. The silence was more suffocating than watching everyone else move on and feeling like you were sitting on the sidelines of your life watching it pass by. 

You tied your laces too tight but you didn't fix it. It gives you something to feel, something other than the insurmountable grief coursing through your body. You went through the motions of training. Physically you were fine, how you felt mentally hadn’t gotten to the point of impacting your game, how you play or train. You could crack a joke, force a smile, just pretend.

Everyone else was fooled. Except Alexia noticed the way the light had stopped shining in your eyes, the dark circles underneath that hadn’t been there until the last week or so, the way your smile never reached your eyes anymore. Patri noticed how your jokes were shallow, not much thought like you used to and instead just general quips back, how you wouldn’t joke or mess around any further than just surface level. 

Today during training, it wasn’t the first time they’d noticed the changes. It just took them a bit to figure out how to approach it, how to approach you. 

‘Something’s wrong with…,’ Patri had nodded in your direction when she brought it up with Alexia, she’d known you longer outside of football, to the point Alexia knew and was close with your entire family. Out of anyone else on the team to also notice how you really were, Patri knew it’d be Alexia. 

You never noticed them talk about you, no one else did. They did it in a way that didn’t bring attention, in a way that they could figure out the best way to 

Alexia didn’t argue or disagree when Patri first brought it up with her. Instead a hum of agreement, her eyes watching your interactions with everyone else, and a deep sigh before tearing her eyes away from you and towards Patri. Grief wasn’t easy. They both couldn’t take it away from you. No matter what they did. And they definitely didn’t want to make you feel like they were trying to rush you through the process

They just wanted to give you a space where you could just be. A space you and your grief could exist together without the worry that you were burdening others too much. A space that told you that you, your memories of your sister, and the way you were feeling weren’t being forgotten or left behind.

So their way of showing up for you, to tell you that you were seen, that your grief was real and that there was no timeline or deadline that you’d have to finish grieving by, manifested in small ways. 

After training, you were sitting in your cubby, still in your kit, right down to your boots still laced too tight. You were watching the rest of the team file out. Your gaze was distant, you were seeing everyone but not really. You barely registered when Alexia had dropped down sitting beside you. 

She didn’t talk at first. She let you both exist there in the silence of the change rooms until she heard your breathing become a little unsteady. Alexia had been your friend for a while, she knew how to read you, this might be the first loss she’s seen you witness in the time of your friendship but she’s seen you struggle mentally, she’s seen you go through heartbreaks so similar in terms of how deeply it made you feel.

So Alexia notices the change in your breathing, she already saw the distant gaze your eyes held. She spoke up before she could let the silence, let your thoughts and grief wrap around you and pull you under, ‘I saw the photo your mum posted. You and her, last year in Mallorca,’ Alexia’s voice was soft, quiet, enough to break through the silence without deafening her surroundings. You didn’t say anything, but she knew you were listening, ‘Both completely sunburnt, your smiles so big, lighting up your whole face,’

You kept your gaze in front of you, you felt your throat closing up a little. You remembered that trip like you were still living it. You’d do anything to relive that, to relive it all before you got that dreaded call from your mum. The call you could barely understand between her own tears that felt like they soaked through the phone. 

‘I remember you telling me that she couldn’t swim, refused to learn when she was little no matter how hard your parents tried, but she still insisted on diving in anyway,’ Alexia leaned forward, her arms resting against her thighs, she was talking out in front of her seemingly like she was talking into the void. You didn’t need to talk back.

You nod, the memory hurts, remembering her hurts, but this is what you had secretly been hoping for. For someone to see you, to see your hurt, to remind you she wasn’t going to be forgotten, ‘I had to dive right in to save her, like always,’ Your voice cracked, you hadn’t really used it much, hearing it almost felt foreign.

‘Didn’t you say she used to sing to your dog? To try to lull him to sleep? But it would just make him run around barking instead,’ Your eyes stung a little, tears filling, your eyes a little glassy. The way Alexia was talking to you, talking about your sister, it was so gentle, so easy and it hit you hard.

Not in any kind of dramatic, lung collapsing way but in a way where your breath shakes a little before composing again, the way you lay your hands flat against your thighs so they stop trembling. For the first time since the funeral, you felt seen. 

‘Yeah, I think she made up half the songs. Or they were that off-key they were unrecognisable,’ Alexia smiles softly when she hears a ghost of a laugh escape your lips. Your lips barely resembled a smile but in that moment it felt like your sister was alive again. That you weren’t alone.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

One morning, a few days after that first interaction with Alexia, you’d arrived to training far too early, dark circles more prominent than ever before. You were curled up in a corner, already on your third coffee before anyone arrived. 

You had a rough night, but most nights were like that now. This one was just worse. Ending up in yet another sleepless night that you hoped to forget about. You were starting to get used to it, used to barely sleeping, used to feeling so far disconnected from your body.

You stared outside, the coffee barely able to warm your body, barely able to make you feel just quarter of being alive. Outside the sun started to shine brightly, you were starting to resent the sun. How could the sun still shine when yours no longer did. Some days you felt like the sun was mocking you and the coldness you felt inside, some days you felt like the sun was a sign from your sister to tell you to get out and keep moving forward. You always compared her to the sun, she was your sun, that was just who she was.

Today you felt like the first one.

‘What number’s that one?’ Patri joked, nodding towards the cup in your hand. She’d started coming to training a bit earlier, in case you were already there and you might need someone to make sure the sleepless nights weren’t catching up to you too much. Even if today was the first time you’d turned up to training abnormally early. Patri would still be there.

‘First one,’ You mumbled lowly, tapping your finger against the side of the cup a few times. Patri smirked, you had some quirks when you were lying, your sister would always throw you under the bus and told your teammates all your weird quirks and things you do in certain situations.

‘You’ve always been a terrible liar,’ Patri had occupied the seat across from you now, her own cup joining yours on the table, ‘The first time I met her she told me how to tell when you’re lying,’ 

Your breath hitches slightly at the mention of your sister. Casually dropped into conversation, like it always belonged. Patri never stumbled, trying to take back mentioning your sister like some people tend to do. You were a bit surprised, but it was mostly due to the fact that everyone had stopped mentioning her. 

Everyone tried to avoid any and all conversations that involved her. It was like they were afraid to say something that might make you break. But you were doing a good job at breaking on your own.

Your eyes caught Patri’s, you smiled a little, it was lopsided but it was still a smile and rolled your eyes playfully, ‘She did love spilling those things about me,’

Looking down at your cup again briefly, your chest didn’t ache as much, your shoulders felt a bit lighter.

‘Want to go sit in the sun? Get coffee number, what, four or five before the loud ones burst in?’ Patri nodded outside where she caught your eyes briefly drifting off towards.

‘You say that like you aren’t one of them,’ 

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

Everyone was celebrating. You’d won an important match, you’d scored and dedicated it to your sister. Even you were celebrating, you looked so free for the first time in a while. For the first time since you felt free, you felt the joy that everyone else was feeling around you.

Just like a lot of things lately, your burst of happiness, burst of freedom from grief, was cut short when someone shouted, ‘Let’s go out tonight! To celebrate!’ 

You froze. Suddenly all you could hear was your sister’s voice. She’d find any small thing to drag you out of the house to ‘celebrate’. Your eyes darted around, you were sure if you focused long enough on one spot you would be able to see her standing there in front of you. A cheeky grin on her face, pulling you up from your bed to your wardrobe. 

Throwing all different outfits at you. Laughing so loudly, so freely, every time you complained about having to try on another outfit. You could feel your sister's hands on your face trying to keep your head still while she did your make up, she was always much better at it than you. 

The endless photos, the way you’d both dance until you felt like your feet were going to fall off, all of it. It consumed you and you struggled to tell what was real and what wasn’t. The cheers around the dressing room felt like they were worlds away while you sat down, slowly untying your boots, too slowly, your fingers feeling each strand of the laces, each ridge of your boot, trying to ground yourself back to reality.

While the room was lively, you weren’t, Alexia was near you now taking off her own boots and socks before she leaned over, her hand gently on your shoulder making you flinch but firmly pulling you back to reality, ‘We can skip the celebrations,’ 

‘Come over, I’ll make us something, we can watch some terrible movie thats so bad we don’t know whether to love or hate,’

‘But–’ You looked around the room, celebrations weren’t stopping or lulling any time soon. Alexia caught your gaze and understood what you were trying to say. But you knew deep down, without Alexia needing to tell you, that they’d all be fine without you for one night. 

Your absence might be noticed but they’d understand. You were starting to learn that you didn’t always need to be who you were before you lost your sister, and you didn’t need to push yourself to be a version that was digestible for others, one that wasn’t holding an insane amount of grief and pain. Your friends would still be there, even if you chose a quiet night in with one friend over a night out with many of your friends.

‘Captain’s orders,’ You shook your head in disbelief at Alexia, she just smirked and walked away to grab her things. 

You didn’t fight Alexia, you went back to her place. She cooked you the food that you would talk for hours about whenever your sister made it for you. It might not have tasted exactly like your sister’s but it felt like a piece of her. You held your bowl close while eating, like it might vanish if you let go, but you held it close and you felt like you had her back with you. 

As momentary as it was. When Alexia told you what she’d made you almost cried. You didn’t though, but you thought that you might finally be able to sleep through the night again.

ₓ˚. ୭ ˚○◦˚.˚◦○˚ ୧ .˚ₓ

However, healing wasn’t linear. No matter how many good nights you had started to have, there were still plenty of rough nights that you didn’t think you’d mentally make it through. Tonight was one of those emotionally draining nights, the kind that left you wide awake until sunrise, everything and everyone slowly reappearing to make the world lively again. And you’d feel out of place, like some weird juxtaposition.

It all started with accidentally playing a voice note your sister had sent you, after finding out you’d made it to the champions league final again. How happy and excited she sounded, the warmth she always gave that could fill up any space, it made you smile a little hearing her voice again. Until the end. Until the ‘I can’t wait to see you win it again, I’ll be right there. I love you,’ 

She never did make it to the champions league final, and neither did you. The girls went on to win it, they said they won it for you. They won it for you and your sister. Amidst their on pitch celebrations they had a moment of silence, huddled around in a circle, close together, heads bowed. They took that moment for you. 

You watched that video over and over. You listened to that voice note over and over. You didn’t care right now if it sent you spiralling, you just needed to feel it. Like trying to claw your way into a moment that had already passed, or hoping that if you listened enough times you’d never forget your sister's voice. Like that video and that voice note could pull you back in time. Back in time, in a universe where the video didn’t need to exist. Because she made it to that final

It wasn’t healthy, you knew this loop would pull you under. That was the kind of pull grief could have over a person. It had its own gravity and you were stuck in its orbit, caught in its pull with no clear way out.

Then out of nowhere, cutting through your inevitable spiral, your phone buzzed in your hand. It took a few seconds for your eyes to adjust to a different kind of lighting coming from your phone and for your brain to register the interruption.

Patri [12:15am] Have you seen or heard? It’s absolutely pouring outsideYou’re still up, right?

You [12:20am]

Yeah

Patri [12:22am] Come outside, don’t forget a jacket

Your eyebrows scrunched together and you hesitated momentarily. You could’ve ignored it, but you pulled yourself out of your bed, grabbing your rain jacket in the process. Your confusion didn’t falter, even when you peeked outside seeing Patri’s car in your driveway. 

It was pouring, and you’re back in real time, not inside your head, where you can actually hear how loud the rain sounds even from inside your home. But you threw on your jacket, hands shoved inside your pockets, and stepped outside.

The rain against your body felt jarring, the cold swept through your body and settled into your bones. It also felt like it shifted something inside you. Like it had cracked the heaviness that was inside you, open just enough to let some air back in. To let some life back into you.

‘What are you doing here?’ Patri leaned against the side of her car, lightly tapping her foot against one of the puddles the rain had already made appear. Patri was soaked already, but she didn’t seem to care. She didn’t say anything, instead she looked up at you with a small smirk on her face before she kicked her foot against the water. 

‘Hey!’ You shrieked, laughing out a little, kicking some water back at Patri. 

Your laughter got louder the more you messed around in the rain together. You were kicking water at each other, running away, slipping over on the wet grass. If anyone saw the two of you right now they’d think you were sisters. It’s exactly something you’d be caught doing with your sister, especially when you were both younger.

And then it hit. Out of nowhere, all at once. Just how rain can, ‘I’m scared that I’m going to forget her laugh, or the way her dimples would only show when she smiled to someone she cared about,’ You didn’t know when your laughter turned into sobs or when the rain on your face turned into tears, ‘I’m scared I’m going to forget her. I’m scared to live in a world where she doesn’t exist anymore,’

Everything you’d been holding back out of fear of burdening those around you with your pain, you let out. Patri never promised that you wouldn’t forget the sound of your sister's voice or that way she laughed. But she also never said that you would forget.

Instead she just said, ‘Tell me the one thing she did that always made you laugh, no matter what,’ 

You told her and Patri laughed. She laughed and you laughed with her. Patri didn’t need to reassure you that you wouldn’t forget. Because even if you did forget how your sister sounded, you’d always remember the way she’d make you laugh. Her laughter, her happiness, it was all remembered through you. Through everyone who knew her and, for now, that was enough.

[jamminvroomvroom]

Now hear me out… Lando with a daddy kink. I rest my case (and send in my request).

heart to heart.

ln x fem!reader

in which you’re heartbroken and lando knows exactly what you’ve always wanted.

oh, anon. how i love you. ngl haven’t written this trope much before so this was a baby-steps attempt… but it’s intense smut lmao. keep sending in requests guys, i’m getting through them (slowly)!! anyways enjoy, love you, tell me what you think <3

songs to set the mood: heart to heart by mac demarco

warnings: 18+ minors DNI!! smut, language, daddy kink (help), breeding kink (lord forgive me), friends to lovers (implied), mentions of cheating (not reader or lando), dom!lando, sub!reader

1.4k words

you’ve been friends for years.

sometimes it felt like the door was open for more, only to be quickly slammed shut when a cute barista handed you his number, or when lando slid into a bikini models dm’s. bottom line: it never ended up crossing that line and becoming more.

you’re crying on his couch when the line finally blurs.

“i just- i just thought…” you choke out a sob that cuts you off.

“what, honey?” lando coos, brushing some damp hairs away from your streaming eyes.

“i thought i’d marry him. how stupid is that?” you whimper. this is the worst breakup you’d gone through to date, and just like when anything goes wrong, lando is there with a spare shoulder for you to cry on. he always knew that your ex was a piece of shit but his warnings fell on deaf ears. “we talked about kids and houses. he asked me my fucking ring size.” you spat. all of this happened, of course, before you found out he’d been cheating on you with his boss’s assistant.

“you’re not stupid, honey.” lando pulls you in closer to his side.

you stay there for a while, letting the tears fall until there are no more left to cry and your face is drying up. your head rests on his shoulder, and when you turn it to look up at him, he’s already looking down at you.

pink lips are parted, slicked with a swipe of his tongue. two blue eyes turned to an icy grey dart between your own lustful pair and your lips, parted only to expel shallow, shaky breaths.

“kids and a nice big lawn, is that what you want?” he whispers. you shift against the couch, trying to hide the shiver the low gravelly tone of his voice shoots down your spine.

“mhm.” you nod slightly, sinking into his side and his eyes.

time speeds up for a moment; the hand he has wrapped around you finds your waist, and somehow he manoeuvres you onto his lap. it feels odd. odd, because it’s right. it’s new and yet it feels… familiar.

“why’d you waste all that time with those assholes, hm?” his voice is mocking, and your knees squeeze around his hips. “could’ve given you all that years ago. fucked a baby into you and put a nice, shiny ring on this finger.” lando pulls your ring finger between his lips, holding eye contact as he swirls his tongue around the digit. you tremble against him, his filthy words almost sending you slack against him.

“didn’t know you wanted me.” you pant.

“i’m gonna do things to you that will make sure that you never doubt me again.”

and he does.

you’re crying on his mattress, overstimulated, yet desperate for more. these are the only kind of tears he ever wants you to cry. he’s been between your legs for what feels like so long that hours could have passed and you wouldn’t question a thing. his tongue works over and over your throbbing clit and your hands rake through tangled curls.

“lando, please.” you chant, over and over again. you don’t know what you’re asking him for, but he seems to get it, because he doesn’t stop.

two fingers find your entrance, sodden with the remnants of more orgasms than you can count. in slides one, twisting deliciously before it’s joined by the second. you ascend, pretty much instantly, so overwhelmed by how good he’s managed to make you feel. your orgasm builds too quickly, and you’re dripping down his wrist before you can even tell him you’re close.

lando chuckles, tongue tracing the mess you’ve left as he shuffles on his knees between your legs. then, he’s hovering over you, balancing on one of his forearms whilst his other hand traces the curve of your body.

“having fun, honey?” he bumps his nose against yours, lips meeting yours a brief second later. it feels as good and as right the first time he kissed you earlier, and he licks into your mouth, deep and sensual. you moan into the kiss when you taste yourself on his tongue.

you can feel his cock brushing against your folds and you melt into the mattress, keening at his the feeling of him everywhere. your shaky hands skim his torso, feeling every dip and ridge under your fingertips. golden skin tenses, rippling flesh taut against your palms. your hips buck into his.

“tell me what you want, honey. need to hear you say it.”

“fuck me.” you mutter, rolling your hips once more. the angle you create means that his cock catches your folds and you can’t help but whine his name.

“how?” lando smirks, your chin trapped between his fingers. he makes you look at him, and you curse yourself for not doing this sooner.

“what you said earlier…” you choke out, trailing off.

“what did i say earlier?” he tease. you groan in frustration.

“please, lando.” you’re too hot, blush stains your cheeks and your neck.

“is my sweet girl getting shy?” he pecks your lips, kisses down your neck. when he reaches your ear, he tugs on the lobe. all you can feel is sharp teeth and warm breath. everything is slick.

“it’s okay, honey.” lando continues. “i remember. remember those wide eyes and pouty lips when i told you what i can give you. gonna make me a daddy, baby? finally gonna be mine?” he whispers, right into your ear. all you see is white.

finally.

“daddy.” you pant, when he finally slides into you, hard and deep.

“that’s it, baby.” lando grunts, hooking your thigh over his hip. you can feel the way his fingers dig in to your flesh, stopping him from falling apart instantly. his other hand takes your wrists, pushes them up the mattress until they’re pinned right above your head and he’s hovering over you, perfectly level. chest to chest, heart to heart.

shallow thrusts aid the deep grind of his hips, rolling slowly into yours. he’s everywhere, nothing separating your needy, flushed bodies. he never pulls all the way out, stays buried as deep as he can, and repeatedly hits that spot inside of you that allows you to see every star in the sky. you’re breathless, soundless, utterly helpless as you drown in him and everything he has to offer you.

you wonder if he’ll actually spill into you, mark you as his. it makes you dizzy, makes you shake, the idea of nothing stopping him from making such a mess between your spread legs. you want to beg for it but you can’t, the raging, wet pleasure in the pit of your belly rendering you speechless. all you manage is a dry plea of half of his name.

“lan-“ you begin, but he kisses the rest of the word out of his mouth.

“no, honey, that’s not my name.” he rasps, talks down to you in a way that pushes you even closer to sweet release.

“daddy. want you to be daddy.” you slur.

the reaction you get from him is worth every heartache you’ve ever suffered. his rhythm changes and now he’s slamming into you, and the sensation makes you cry some more, thick tears sliding down your neck which he tastes, licks away.

but then everything is soaking. you gush around him and his abs glisten. your throat burns from the scream, and then there’s silence, just for a moment.

“fucking hell.” he shudders, transfixed on the thin layer of you that seems to be everywhere.

he’s wrapped around you tight when he lets go, muttering unintelligible filth in your ear as he does. you stay intertwined for a moment, trying to piece together what you’d just done.

when lando eventually rolls off of you, he takes every inch of you in, a beautiful canvas covered in a memory. his eyes are warm again, soft. whatever had possessed him is long gone and he’s just lando again. your lando.

you attempt to wriggle across the mattress, seeking refuge in your forgotten pile of clothes on the floor. he stops you in your feeble attempts to peel your lifeless body off of his bed.

“hey, it’s okay, honey. let me look after you.” he coos, gentle sitting you up. “you okay?”

“thank you.” you whisper. your lips meet, fleetingly, delicate.

“‘m gonna take care of you, baby.” he promises. you believe him.

-

i don’t know what came over me lmao whoops

-

taglist

@boysthatgovroomvroom @thegirlinthefandoms @welld0nebaku @mcmuppet @japanesekel @vinvantae @ggaslyp1 @dr3lover @smiithys  @rachstash @infinitebells @multilovebot @fizzpopsnap101 @gaily19 @icecoldtires @mysticalnightenthusiast @thatchickwiththecamera @oyesmendes @disneydaydreameralways @canyouseethesainz @ferrarifwendvale @fcbformulaeri @tony-stank3 @maih23 @nokiaholland @soleilgrec @carolineworld @anthonykatebridgerton @allywthsr @iamasimpingh0e @ophcelia @lovelynikol16 @coffeehurricanes @jennx03 @blueflorals @lqvesoph @sidcrosbyspuck @better-dead-than-smeg @buendiabebeta @pjofics @kovalcin @wintergilmore3 @for-writing-shit @youdontknowmeshh @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @darleneslane

removed any tags that weren’t working! lemme know if you wanna be added or removed <3

[darlingdreadwrites]

The Blade

pairing: Jeff the Killer x Final Girl!Reader

part: 1, 2, 3

summary: Jeff has you pinned to a tree, and you have an unexpected reaction. Stabbing is supposed to end someone's life, right?

contains: smut, thigh riding

warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, violence, stabbing, knife kink?, implied character death, degradation and praise (felt this was super important), pet names and name calling (baby, sweetheart, bitch)

word count: 2.2k

masterlist

Your movements are growing erratic, desperation flaring with every rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. You’re spinning, stumbling – caught between the frantic need to fight or flee, and the undeniable pull of his presence. Jeff’s eyes blaze as he watches you, amusement dancing across his features – until you make the mistake of rushing him.

He’s got you – his hands lock around your waist, and he pins you both until your back slams against the rough bark of a tree. Pain lances through your spine, but it’s nothing compared to the terrifying proximity of him. His breath is hot on your skin, the chill of his knife barely grazing the delicate skin of your neck, the cool steel teasing just above your pulse. Your heart races beneath the pressure of it, until you’re met with another pressure.

“Stay still for me, girl,” his voice drops, and it’s almost soothing in the way it promises control.

There’s that familiar, traitorous ache between your legs. You can feel your clit throbbing, screaming for his thigh to move against it and save you from an urge you’ve been hiding for months. You moan – unintentionally – your hips shifting forward, pressing against the hard length of him. You don’t care anymore, you need this—you need him.

A smirk dances on Jeff’s lips, his knife barely moving, just a slight inch of its edge pecks at your skin. He pulls back slightly, eyes flicking from your trembling body to your face, curiosity curling the edges of his lips.

“Oh?” His voice is quieter now, full of jeering. “What’s this?”

You stare up at him, hoping to god that he would just leave it be. But a louder part of you silently begs him to take this further.

Before you can respond, his leg slides between yours, pushing against you. His proximity – the heat radiating from him – is suffocating. His breath is searing against your ear as he leans in closer.

“Go on,” he whispers. “Let’s see how fucking desperate you are.”

You could cry. From embarrassment or appreciation, you don’t fucking know. But you can’t stop the roll of your hips, the relief you’re suddenly feeling almost makes you want to thank him. The friction sends a shiver through you, warmth pooling low in your stomach. The edge of the knife rests just above your pulse, its sharpness still present. You can tell, though, that he’s not going to hurt you. Not yet.

“Look at you,” Jeff taunts, adding more pressure against you. “Grinding on me like a bitch in heat. Is this what gets you off, sweetheart?”

You don’t know what to say. His words stroke a heat in your chest, flush creeping up your neck. The rush of humiliation is overpowering, but your body – and the way your underwear sticks to your cunt – betrays you. You whimper, unable to suppress the sound, your hips moving more urgently.

Your breath is coming out in shallow bursts, and you turn your face away. You want to hide the way his words make you ache, but Jeff won’t allow it. His free hand shoots up, gripping your chin with a startling force. He forces you to meet his gaze, his eyes holding a malicious delight.

“You know,” he murmurs, his cock twitching inside his pants when you moan. “I’ve thought of you, too.”

The brush of his thumb against your bottom lip sends a jolt through you, your breath hitching involuntarily. The need to taste him – the heat and salt of his skin – becomes too much. Your mouth opens, and with a whine, you take his thumb into your mouth.

His breath catches at the feeling, his brows furrowing briefly. The slight pressure of your tongue against his skin makes him shudder. He grunts at the sensation of you sucking his thumb, at the warmth of your muscle.

“I’ve thought about how much I’d love to have that pretty mouth of yours choking on my cock.” You feel him push his thumb deeper, your mouth accepting the intrusion. He coos mockingly, his bottom lip jutting out as you choke pitifully. The heat of his skin is intoxicating, and you moan against his thumb – a helpless sound that only fuels him.

“You’re trembling, baby,” Jeff purrs, a laugh escaping his lips as you struggle to regain control. “What is it? Fear? Or something else—Oh, you’re so pretty like this.”

He watches you closely, occasionally pressing his hips against yours so you can feel his erection. He loves being the thing that tears at your composure and adores how needy you are for him to do it. You can feel his words wriggling their way inside your head, making it hard to think clearly. The pulse of his knife at your throat is the only thing that’s keeping you roped to reality.

His thumb slides out of your mouth with a wet pop, and you glare up at him. But the incessant throb at the apex of your thighs feels far too delicious for you to deny how much you’ve been wanting this. You hold back any more sounds, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Shut up,” you hiss, the words barely escaping between gritted teeth. You shift, pressing harder against his leg.

Jeff’s eyes narrow, his voice dropping to a hushed whisper, filled with cruel delight. “You’re fucking perfect when you’re desperate. Keep going, sweetheart. Show me how bad you need it.”

With each drag of yourself on him, a hot spark shoots through your whole body. Despite the cold, you can feel the sweat on your skin from the heat just underneath it. Mewling, you fight the instinct of tilting your head forward, choosing to painfully press it deeper against the tree trunk.

Your chest tightens, and you can feel your knees threatening to buckle beneath you. Your orgasm is building swiftly as you move faster against him, moans turning into short, quick gasps.

You whisper, barely audible, “I hate you.”

And yet your hips grind against his thigh, stuttering as you’re chasing the peak of your orgasm. The tension between your bodies builds, electric and undeniable. You huff as tears swell in your eyes, blurring your vision. You’re quivering against him, and a whimper comes from you, which he responds with a moan of his own.

Your pussy clenches around nothing just as your knife slowly sinks itself into his abdomen, your mouth opening to let out a loud, guttural moan as he grunts.

The flesh gives way to a sickening squelch, the blood pooling around the wound as it seeps into the fabric of his hoodie. You can feel the warm wetness of it on your fingers, the sticky heat clinging to your skin as it spreads across his chest.

But Jeff doesn’t flinch. Instead, he growls, his eyes flicking down to where the knife is buried in his body, before lifting to meet yours again. His grin returns, but it’s softer now – almost impressed, like he’s savoring the moment. The blood seeping from his wound doesn’t seem to faze him, not with the way he laughs.

“Damn, baby,” he rasps. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

You’re breathing hard, the buzzing high starting to settle in your bones. The pain of the cut you took earlier is a distant pulsation now, joining the throbbing of your heat, and replaced by the charge of power surging through you.

Instead of pulling back, instead of retaliating with that sick smirk or another violent move, Jeff drops his knife on the ground next to you both. He leans closer, his breath warming your already flushed cheek. His hand moves to cup your jaw, his fingers firm against your skin.

His touch is gentle, far too gentle for the chaos that’s ensued, and it sends a strange chill through you. He tilts your head slightly, brushing the bridge of his nose along your jawline in a move that should feel tender, but instead only adds to the tension between you both.

His proximity makes it impossible to think as your chest heaves from exertion. The world narrows down to just the two of you – the sharp pain of the knife lodged in his flesh, the blood still seeping out in small rivulets, and the warm press of his body against yours.

His lips are on yours, crashing into you in a bruising, open-mouthed kiss that leaves no room for hesitation or mercy. His warm tongue slides against yours, taking everything from you with one smooth, hungry movement.

The kiss is intense, a clash of lips and teeth – the sounds of your exhales resonant into the night. You can feel every rasp of his breath, every pulse of heat from his body, as it mingles with the blood from the wound beneath his hoodie. It’s too much – and yet – you don’t want it to stop. Your body melts against his as you lose yourself in the ferocity of the kiss.

But your grip on the knife doesn’t waver. You twist it slightly, the motion intentional. It’s enough to remind him that you’re still in control here.

The kiss lingers, both of you breathing heavily, and unwilling to pull away just yet. When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

He doesn’t break eye contact. He whispers against your wet lips – slick with spit – his voice challenging you in dark admiration.

“Do it.”

Five Months Later

Days slip into one another, marked only by the lingering sense of anxiety that clings to you. The silence of your apartment is louder than you ever realized, the absence of the usual noise – your breath, your pulse, the relentless ticking of the clock – replacing the sound of him. Jeff – the fucking bastard that had gotten under your skin in ways you never wanted, but who you knew would never leave.

The night of the fight feels like a distant memory, though every time you close your eyes, his face flashes behind your eyelids. And it was just as mocking and cruel as ever. But you were sure – so sure – that he was dead. You remember how his body had gone slack against the tree as you helped him sit down on the dirt. He didn’t move – not a twitch. Not a sign of life. You had left him there, slumped and lifeless – convinced that it was over.

The cops didn’t find him, and they hadn’t found him since. No news reports, no searches, nothing. And that never sat right with you.

You had told yourself that you were free – you were safe. But that left a disappointing taste in your mouth. You didn’t want it to end despite you telling yourself that you should.

But still, every corner you turn, every quiet moment spent in the dark, there’s a nagging feeling in the pit of your stomach that you can’t quite shake. It lingers, a reminder that not everything is as it seems.

You’ve tried to move on. But it’s hard to let go when his presence is so ingrained in your mind, when you wish it was his fingers inside of you instead of your own. You’d been forced to carry on with the mask of normalcy, each day the same as the last – each breath a little shallower than the one before.

Then one evening, just when you think you’ve finally gotten used to the quiet, when you think maybe – just maybe – he’s really gone; you walk into your apartment and find it.

You set your bag down as the door closes behind you, you lock it and breathe out. Another night of pretending. You’re about to make your way toward the kitchen when something catches your eye – a small, simple envelope. Its edges are crisp and clean, lying innocently at your feet.

You freeze.

At first, you think it’s from Miller. There’s no return address, no hint of who might have left it. The weight of it seems to drag your entire body toward it. It’s a magnetic pull that you can’t resist. Hesitantly, you bend down, the envelope smooth under your fingers. The breath you didn’t realize you were holding finally frees itself as you tear it open.

Your heart hammers in your chest when you pull it out, your whole body going cold. Inside, nestled carefully within the folds of the paper, is your hunting knife. The one you used on him.

The one you thought you’d left behind, buried in his body as he bled out against that tree.

The blade is pristine, spotless – no blood. No sign of the chaos that had unfolded that night. Just cold, gleaming steel, as though nothing had ever happened.

You stand there, staring at the knife, your pulse pounding in your ears. Every nerve in your body is on high alert, your instincts screaming at you that this is a warning – a sign. But of what?

Now, as the envelope crinkles in your hand, the strange thrill you thought would be gone forever – the one you had missed dearly – was starting to buzz under your skin again.

The blade is a reminder. It is an invitation. It is a promise of what’s to come.

He’s still out there.

[inkieun]

Pretty Mouth 3 — Geum Seong Je x F!Reader x Na Baekjin x Park Humin

“Want me to tell him?,” Seongje said, rising from the leather couch like a serpent uncoiling, “I mean, I think he should see what kind of girl you really are.” Baekjin gave a low chuckle. “She’s been visiting a lot lately. I think she likes our company.” My stomach dropped. “Baekjin, stop.” But Seongje stepped between us before I could say another word. He turned to Baku with that familiar venom-smile. “Actually, let me show you something.”

cw: dark!seongje, dark!baekjin, dubcon/noncon, forced oral, hair pulling, praise kink, degradation, blackmail and voyeurism.

Link to part one and two

"Hey, missed you at school today. Is everything okay?"

Sieun’s name flashed across the screen, and my stomach flipped. Oh god no.

I didn’t answer. Just stared at the screen until the words blurred into a glowing fuzz. Then I turned the phone off like that would somehow undo everything. But silence didn’t make it go away. It only made the memory come back louder.

His voice.

"We should do this again." Baekjin’s words echoed in my head, smooth and casual, like we’d just had lunch. Like I hadn’t just stumbled out of his office, red-faced, barely holding myself together and Seongje? Laughing behind me, voice teasing like it was some kind of joke.

“Very soon!” 

My nails bit into my palms. What the fuck am I going to do? I groaned and pressed both hands over my face, heat creeping up my neck. My skin still burned with the memory.

Because seriously… what was I going to do? I dropped to the floor beside my bed with a dramatic flop, curling into myself like the shame might melt away if I made myself small enough. My chest was tight, but not just from panic but the embarrassment. 

But their presence clung to me like smoke I couldn’t wash off.

I should be pissed. I should be yelling, throwing my phone, punching a pillow or something. But mostly? I just felt... stupid. Because I hadn’t said no. Not clearly. Not loud enough. I’d just kind of… gone along with it. Frozen. Like some idiot with no spine. And the worst part? Part of me wanted them to..Nope. Nope nope nope.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling like it could erase the last 48 hours. I wasn’t heartbroken. I was mortified and that felt even worse.

My alarm screamed, slicing through the silence.

“What the hell…” I mumbled, blinking up at the ceiling.

It took a second to realize I wasn’t in bed. I shot up, breath shallow, body stiff. It took a few seconds to realize I was on the floor. My cheek had a faint red mark from where it was  pressed against the hardwood. I sat up slowly, groggy, disoriented, and more than a little sore.

I must’ve passed out here. Didn’t even remember falling asleep. The room was dim, grey with early morning light, and for a second, I just sat there—frozen in the wreckage of last night. 

But then reality came crashing back. School. Midterms. Fuck.

I couldn’t miss them and as much as I wanted to disappear into my blankets and never return to society… I couldn’t. So I dragged myself off the floor like a resurrected corpse and told myself the lie I needed to believe:

You’ve got this.

Fake a smile. Say something normal. Don’t look like you’re actively spiraling. Then you can come home and be alone. But not yet.

“Hey!” someone called as I stepped through the school gates. Of course I didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. I plastered on a smile so fast it probably looked suspicious. “Oh—hey, guys!” Hyun-tak jogged up first, grinning. “We missed you yesterday. Everything okay?” 

“Yeah, just a bad cold,” I said, trying to sound casual and not like I had been emotionally face-planting for twenty-four hours straight. Baku squinted at me. “A cold, huh?”

Uh-oh.

I gave a weak shrug and a laugh that came out way too high-pitched. “Yeah. Totally knocked me out.” “Mm.” He didn’t press, but he didn’t believe me either. I could feel it.

Hyun-tak ruffled my hair like I was some scruffy stray. “Well, glad you’re not dead.”

“Same,” I muttered, managing an actual laugh this time. Sieun fell in beside me, swinging his bag over one shoulder. “Midterms are next week. You picked the worst time to get sick.”

“I know,” I said, dragging out the words like I hadn’t already mentally dropped out of school. “I’ll catch up.” Then Jun-tae appeared, bright-eyed and ridiculously sweet. “You always bounce back,” he said, nudging my arm. “But, like… if you need help or wanna study together or whatever…” He trailes off.

I kept walking, nodding like I was totally tuned in and not just running through every socially acceptable response on loop. They chatted around me—exams, lunch, gossip—and I let the noise cover me like a blanket. I wasn’t really listening. I was just trying not to look like I’d completely short-circuited.

“Well, here’s to hoping I passed,” I groaned, throwing my head back dramatically. “Because I blanked out so hard during that exam, I think I left my brain at home.” Baku snorted, slapping my shoulder. “You always say that shit, and then somehow you end up with better marks than me.”

“Manifesting failure is my coping mechanism,” I said, and that got a laugh out of him. For a moment, everything felt normal—easy. The kind of dumb banter that made school almost bearable. Then Baku’s phone buzzed.

His whole expression shifted, going from light to sharp in a blink. He answered without a word, turning slightly away from me.

“Okay… I’ll be there,” he said quietly, then hung up. “Everything okay?” I asked, eyebrows knitting. Baku didn’t look at me. “I have to go,” he muttered, already turning away. “Wait, where are you—”

But he was gone before I could finish.

Hyun-tak came up behind me, frowning. “Where’s he going?”

“I… don’t know,” I said, still watching the direction Baku disappeared into. “He just got a call and left.” And then I felt a buzz against my thigh.

I pulled out my phone.

Baekjin.

My entire body tensed. I stepped away from the others, turning my back as I answered. “What do you want?”  His voice was smooth, calm, like we were talking about lunch. “Meet me at the bowling alley. Now.” I froze. “What—no. No, I’m not doing this.” His tone darkened instantly. “If you don’t, I’ll just assume you want that picture sent to everyone.” My stomach dropped. “Fine,” I whispered, teeth clenched. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. Hurry up,” he said, then hung up. I stared at my screen, heart thudding in my ears, the warmth from before completely gone like it had never been there at all. “You good?” Sieun asked, his voice snapping me back. “Yeah,” I said too fast. “I just remembered I had an errand to run. I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, okay?”

Before anyone could stop me, I was already walking off. Behind me, I barely caught Jun-tae’s voice, light but puzzled: “Well… that was weird.” He had no idea.

I walked down the stairs of the bowling alley, head down, shoes clicking softly against the floor. The air smelled of cheap cologne and sweat. Then I heard a whistle. I looked up.

A dozen eyes locked onto me.

“Is that the boss’s new toy?”

“Shit—look at her.”

“She’s pretty. Think he would let us have some fun with her”

The heat of their stares pressed against my skin, filthy and smug. My heart kicked up hard against my ribs, breath catching. Every instinct screamed run—but my legs refused to move.

They were watching me. I forced my head up, eyes forward. But their words crawled after me like spiders.

“She’s shaking.”

“Scared little thing.”

I broke.

My shoes struck faster now—sharp, panicked taps echoing through the hallway as I sprinted down the corridor toward the one door I knew would be opened. Of course it was.

I didn’t knock. I pushed it open—and walked straight in. I opened the office door, expecting Baekjin to be alone.

“Baku?” I gasped, startled. 

Baku was there—standing tense, arms folded, anger simmering under his calm exterior. And Seongje, lounging in the corner like a shadow that could never leave you alone, smirking as if he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

My heart stopped.

Baku’s eyes locked onto mine the second I entered. “What are you doing here?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t cold—it was confused. I blinked, breath caught. “I… didn’t know you were here.”

“Want me to tell him?,” Seongje said, rising from the leather couch like a serpent uncoiling, “I mean, I think he should see what kind of girl you really are.”

Baekjin gave a low chuckle. “She’s been visiting a lot lately. I think she likes our company.” My stomach dropped. “Baekjin, stop.” But Seongje stepped between us before I could say another word. He turned to Baku with that familiar venom-smile. “Actually, let me show you something.” 

“Seongje,” I warned, my voice breaking. But it was already too late. “She’s been real nice.” Seongje sneered. “No.” I stepped forward, panic clawing up my throat. “Don’t—” He reached into his pocket. So casually. Like he wasn’t about to destroy me. My legs moved before my brain did, hands flying toward his phone but Seongje was faster. His fingers twisted in my hair, yanking my head back with a cruel snap. I gasped, stumbling into him, trapped.

“Don’t touch her,” Baku growled, stepping forward—but he stopped cold. Because he saw the photo. The phone screen glowed with it. Me. In the stall. Legs weak. Clothes askew. My mouth parted, my expression dazed and used. A snapshot from after the bathroom. After Seongje.

Baku’s expression collapsed. He looked at me like I was a stranger. “No,” he whispered. “That’s not… That’s not real. Tell me that’s not real.”

I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But Seongje was on me, breath hot on my neck, whispering in my ear like a devil with all my secrets. “Tell him, baby,” he murmured. “Tell him how good it felt. Tell him how you didn’t stop me.”

His words made me flinch. My shame was loud. I stared at Baku. His eyes were begging—Please. Please say it isn’t true.

And I shattered. “…It’s true,” I whispered. “It happened.” The silence crashed like thunder. Seongje’s grip loosened, satisfied. Baekjin just leaned back, arms crossed, watching it all with quiet amusement.

And Baku? I would never forget the way he looked at me.

Baku turned sharply toward Seongje, jaw clenched, fists shaking. “Delete that,” he said, voice low but dangerous. “I said delete it now!” His roar echoed through the office. I flinched, my stomach twisting. I’d never heard him this angry. Not even close. Baekjin let out a soft laugh, like he was watching a movie. “If you want that picture gone,” he said casually, “you’ll have to join the union.”

Baku hesitated. His breathing ragged. “Fine,” he growled. “Just… delete it.”

Seongje grinned slowly, wolfish and cruel. “Sure,” he said. “I will.”

Then his smile deepened. “But on one more condition.” My heart dropped. “I want to see you fuck her.” The words punched the air out of the room. “What?!” Baku barked, face darkening. “Fuck no!” ‘No’?” Seongje tilted his head, mock-innocent. “That’s what she said too… at first.”

I choked on my breath, my skin turning cold and hot at the same time.

“But if you say no…” Seongje waved the phone lazily. “Well, I guess I’ll just send this to every group chat on campus. Oh, maybe I should post it online with a nice little caption. Something like ‘slut in bathroom begs for more’…”

“Seongje, please.” My voice cracked. “Don’t do this.”

He turned to me, amusement glittering in his eyes. “Aww, baby, you think I’d listen to you?” He stepped closer, whispering like it was a joke meant just for me. “I own you now. And you know what? I know for a fact Baku’s been dying to fuck you since day one.”

“No, he—”

“Right, Baku?” Seongje cut in. “Tell her.”

I turned slowly. My throat closed when I saw him.

He wasn’t looking at me.

“Baku?” My voice was barely a breath. “Is that true?”

He said nothing. Wouldn’t meet my eyes. That silence was louder than any answer.

“Wow,” Seongje giggled. “Look at you two. It’s like a fucking tragic love story.”

I wanted to scream. To runaway and disappear. Instead, I stood there stupid as Seongje stepped behind me again, brushing my hair aside like he had every right to touch me. 

“I mean, what’s the big deal?” he whispered. “You let me fuck you, remember?” His fingers slid down my arm, slow and deliberate. I jerked away, but it was too late. The heat, the shame—it was back. Burning under my skin. “And you liked it,” he added. “Didn’t you?”

I couldn’t speak. “Tell him,” Seongje said, louder this time. “Tell Baku what happened that night.”

“Don’t,” Baku muttered, eyes dark. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes. She does.” Seongje leaned into me again. “Or I press send.”

My lips trembled. My shame, thick in my throat, tasted like betrayal.

“I didn’t stop him,” I whispered, eyes fixed on the floor. “I… let it happen.”

No one spoke. I couldn’t look at Baku. Couldn’t bear what I might see in his eyes.

“See?” Seongje said, smiling like it was a gift he’d just unwrapped. “She’s already halfway there. Might as well finish the show.” He turned to Baku. “So what is it gonna be? You finally get what you’ve wanted since freshman year… or I ruin both of you?”

Baku still hadn’t looked at me. I was still frozen as Seongje waited with a grin carved into his face, watching us like a director about to yell “action.”

“You’ve wanted her for years, haven’t you?” he said, voice syrup-thick and full of poison. “I saw how you looked at her. Don’t act all noble now.”

“Shut up,” Baku muttered. But he still didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Didn’t look away. That was what terrified me most. “I…” I began, but the words trembled into silence. Then finally—finally his eyes met mine. They weren’t hard. They weren’t angry. They were full of something worse.

Hurt.

And under it, something I couldn’t name. “Tell me you don’t want this,” he said, barely louder than a whisper. I opened my mouth. I wanted to lie. I wanted to say no. But the words didn’t come. “I just don’t want it to be like this,” I whispered. He stepped closer. His hands were shaking when they touched me cupping my face like I was made of glass, like if he held too tight, I’d shatter.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he murmured, his forehead resting against mine. But I leaned into him anyway. I needed something soft. Something real. And for a moment, the rest of the world disappeared.

Until Seongje’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Aww, how romantic,” he drawled. “Bet she’s dripping already.”

I flinched, but Baku’s hands didn’t leave me. His lips brushed my cheek, barely there. “Ignore him.”

“I can’t,” I admitted, voice small.

“You’re with me now.” His hands found the hem of my shirt. He hesitated, eyes searching mine. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

I didn’t. And when he pulled it up over my head, he did it like he was undressing a wound—slow, careful, reverent. “Oh, she’s really letting you?” Seongje snickered. “I choked that little slut last time but I guess now she wants missionary with eye contact. Cute.”

I trembled, my fingers curling into Baku’s sleeves. Baku kissed my forehead, my temple, the bridge of my nose. His lips were soft. “You don’t owe me anything,” he repeated, his voice thick. “But if you want me, I’m here.” And I did. God, I did.

Because even with the shame curling hot and thick in my chest…Even with Seongje’s venom soaking the air like poison…Baku’s hands on my body felt like safety. He laid me back on the couch gently, brushing hair from my face. Every kiss he left on my skin was slow, as if he was trying to replace every ugly word Seongje had spat with something soft. “She makes these little sounds when you touch her right,” Baekjin murmured from across the room. “She did for me. You hear that hitch in her breath? Yeah. That one.”

I turned my face away, burning. He pressed a kiss to my collarbone, my shoulder. His fingers tangled with mine like he was grounding me. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You always were.” I couldn’t speak. My throat was too tight. But I arched into his touch, wordless, needing him to keep going.

Baku kissed me softly, his lips brushing mine like a promise. He hovered above me, his forehead against mine, our breaths tangled. But when I shifted beneath him, spreading my thighs to welcome him in, I felt the sharp twitch of his control fraying. His breath stuttered. His fingers dug a little harder into my hips.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I do.”

“Tell me again.”

“I want you.”

And then he kissed me like he was starving. The soft, trembling man who touched me like glass suddenly gripped me tighter, mouth rougher, body pressing harder. Somewhere between kisses and gasps, he pushed his pants down to his knees, the movement clumsy and desperate. He didn’t even fully remove them—just enough to free himself, to feel more, to press closer. I gasped as he shoved his hips between mine, his cock thick and hot against me, sliding through the slick heat between my legs.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, dragging his mouth across my jaw. “You’re already soaked.”

“I… I can’t help it.”

I was ashamed of how wet I was.

how much my body betrayed me.

But when he pushed inside me, slow at first, then deeper—harder—I cried out.

Not from pain.

From need.

He growled against my throat, fucking into me with long, deep strokes that had my legs shaking. Every thrust drove the air out of me, and yet I still begged for more.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his hands locking under my thighs and spreading me wider. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

Behind him, Seongje laughed.

“Look at her—already gone. That’s how she was with me too. Like a bitch in heat the second you get her open.”

I whimpered.

Baekjin let out laugh.

“Damn, she’s dripping like a leaky faucet.”

A chuckle followed.

“Fuck, this is better than porn.” 

Baku looked into my eyes—and something snapped.

His thrusts grew rough, urgent, his rhythm punishing. I cried out again, but not in fear.

In release.

In desire.

“You like it like this?” he asked, breath ragged. “Yes,” I gasped. “Please—don’t stop.”

He grunted, slamming into me so hard the couch creaked under us. “Say it again.”

“I want it,” I moaned. “I need it.”

His fingers tangled in my hair as he thrust harder, deeper, my body bouncing with every movement. My nails scratched down his back, legs locking around his waist, trying to keep him in me.

Every inch of me burned.

I was full of him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he said, breath hitching. “Taking me so fucking well.”

Even in the roughness, I felt it.

His hands gripping me tighter.

His lips crushed against mine.

His hips pounding into me like he couldn’t get deep enough.

And when I came, I came hard—back arching, mouth open in a silent cry, shaking around him. “Oh fuck—baby,” he groaned, losing control. “Gonna come—where do I—?”

“Inside,” I gasped. “I don’t care—just don’t stop.”

With a low, guttural sound, he buried himself deep and came, body trembling, face pressed into my neck as he spilled into me. We stayed like that—locked, panting, shaking.

Baekjin’s voice broke through the silence again, teasing and gleeful.

“Damn, Baku, you bred her like a fuckin’ animal. Hope you at least made her see stars.”

Another laugh.

“She’s gonna be limping for days.”

Seongje clapped mockingly from the other side of the room.

“Well,” he sneered. “That was hot. Not as sloppy as the bathroom, but I’ll give you points for passion.”

I closed my eyes.

But Baku didn’t let go.

He held me tighter.

“So the picture’s safe... for now.”

Baekjin said, low and cruel.

“No one’s gonna know how big of a slut you really are... unless you give us another show.”

My heart dropped.

Baku stiffened above me.

Seongje leaned against the wall, grinning like the devil.

“She doesn’t need a camera,” he sneered. “Girl practically wrote ‘fuck me’ on her skin. Didn’t take much, did it? Spread so easy for you, I almost feel left out.”

I turned away, heat rising to my face—not from pleasure this time. From fear.

But Baku—he didn’t move away. He gripped my waist tighter, held me.

Baekjin whistled again, slow and mocking.

“Baku,” Then he smirked wider.

“Welcome to the union.”

[chris-prank]

Ya i need to punish Dr. Seraph for ruining my plans/ripping my hero suit. Clothes are very expensive these days :(

So we tear his off and pound into him :3 !! ^^ ❤️❤️💯💯😍😍🔥🔥

Sub Yandere villain sidekick x Top GN hero reader

CW: NSFW, doggy style, top reader and slight teasing

So I got carried away and ended up writing around 1K words of smut…

Just like last time the reader is GN, it’s vague enough so you can choose if the reader has a dick or a strap-on.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

“Do you know how much it costs to make a superhero suit? And don’t even get me started on the anonymous fees!”

Real frustration could be heard in your voice as the unpleasant memories of dealing with your supplier came to mind. But you swiftly chased them away to focus back on the man tied up under you.

“I’m s-sorry, if I k-knew I would ha—”

You placed your finger on his lips, shutting him up immediately.

“I don’t want shallow excuses or explanations, I want you to repay me properly.”

Dr. Seraph looked up at you with confusion. He knew what your intentions were, you had made them abundantly clear, yet he couldn’t connect the dots. How is him being tied up with bondage tape directly related to destroying your suits? Furthermore, he was wondering why you even had bondage tape in the first place! The mad scientist wasn’t complaining of course, but it’s not like it was efficient to apprehend criminals in any way, except…

You must have brought it with you just for this specific outcome! That’s it! You had planned on taking him for yourself! Oh, how quickly he convinced himself this was the truth and how flattered he was about it. And no matter how insane this conclusion was, he was indeed right.

He waited for you to take your finger off him to ask for clarification, but before he could open his mouth you effortlessly flipped him on his stomach, making the man yelp. You weren’t finished as you grabbed his hips, pressing his backside against your pelvis. That was enough to make this genius's brain go blank. He was already turned on by the predicament he had found himself in, but now a primitive desire had taken over any sense of logic he still possessed.

“Since you seem to love ruining my superhero suits, I think it's time for me to do the same with your uniform. That's the only punishment I’ll accept.” You caress his waist back and forth before adding, “I’m sure you’re fine with that, right?”

“Mm..y-yes.” He responded with a feeble voice.

You smiled to yourself, happy that he was so responsive. You took a handful of the fabric in your fist and pulled. His pants ripped apart like paper, making you feel like you were unwrapping a birthday gift. You tore until every inch of his private parts was exposed. The man gasped at this vulgar sight and buried his head back into the pillow.

You, on the contrary, admired your work. In this position, Vincent had the most perfect arched back and his ruined pants gave him a particular disheveled look. Soon enough, you had taken off your suit from the waist down, tossing it to the side without a care. A rush of excitement came to you when you felt Dr. Seraph pressing himself against your groin while letting out subtle whimpers.

You grope both of his ass cheeks as a response, before spreading them apart. With precise movements, you poured lubricant on top of it and prevented it from leaking all the way down by spreading it on his asshole. You stopped and instead rubbed your tip against his entrance to make it wet as well. After you were done, It was slightly glistening in the dim light of the room. By now, his noises had gotten louder, his legs trembling in anticipation.

“Are you ready Vincent?”

Hearing you say his real name made his cock and hole twitch.

“P-please, p-put it in.” He whined, impatience filling his voice.

He had already put aside the fact that this was supposed to be a punishment. He didn’t care if you destroyed his clothes, he had other ones, but there was only one you. Hell, he would let you tear down his entire wardrobe if it meant he could be fucked by you every night.

You grab his hips with one hand, making sure he would stay up right, and you positioned yourself with the other to stuff him full. Vincent threw his head back and cried out a lewd moan as your cock disappeared in his ass. You weren’t even down to the base that he was already gripping the sheets, nails digging through it. You also noticed it had gone in easy, a bit too easy even considering the lub.

“Someone has been preparing himself for me.” You teased, sinking deeper inside him.

Blood shot directly to the man’s face and to his cock, much to his embarrassment. He was already rock-hard, but the simple fact of implying that he has been stretching his insides for you, almost made him cum on the spot.

“Nggf…I-I didn’t…A-aahh! Mng—”

“Oh but you’ve been fucking yourself at the thought of me, haven’t you?” One of your hands grabbed onto his dick, giving it a few strokes while you added, “don’t worry I’m not mad.”

Vincent tried to hold in a sob by biting down his lips, as the mix of both different kinds of pleasure assaulted his nervous system. Though, nothing could prevent the tears from rolling down his eyes and into his mouth while he tried to answer you, emphasis on “tried”.

“Y—Mngh…” He couldn’t finish his sentence, as he felt your pelvis against his butt, meaning ou were completely inside him.

You waited until the mess of a man had visibly relaxed, before pulling back and thrusting inside again with more speed. The sounds of flesh smacking together and Vincent’s moan filled your ears like a melody. The way you bucked against him without mercy was contrasted with your thumb gently rubbing his hips in a praise like gesture.

There was one thing that was bothering you, as you glared at the upper half of his body. You had rolled up his coat a little when you were massaging his waist earlier, yet it wasn’t enough. You took the base of his uniform and ripped it in half all the way to his neck, the roll of your hips never faltering. Satisfied, you bent down and kissed his newly bare shoulders.

“That’s much better, don’t you think?” You took the chance to nibble there too, “And now your outfit is ruined, just like all my suits.”

“Nnhg Uh-uhh.” Whines and moans, mixing together as Vincent wished to speak.

You smile against his skin, satisfied with this little punishment.

･*:.｡..｡.:*･*:.｡..｡.:*･

I tried to match your freak, so I hope you enjoyed it 💅🏻

(Oh and I can tell you that Dr. Seraph will have a lot of explaining to do the next day when he arrives in a wheelchair at a meeting.)

[lowkeyren]

FOR HIS HEART CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!

in which — dan feng can’t imagine a life without you. so even when death takes your hand, he'll hold on to your other and do anything to get you back in his embrace, no matter the consequences.

pairing — dan f/heng x gn!reader

wc: 2.5k, lovers to enemies, you both are lowkey bad with feelings LOL, i lied when i said there's an alternative ending for hurt/comfort enjoyers, now suffer. (reblogs w comments are appreciated, pls enjoy <3) ps. dividers aren't working cus tumblr is being mean to me so using dashes instead ARRHGHGHG

—

lying in your shared bed, your breathing grows increasingly shallow, your hands tremble uncontrollably, signaling another episode of your deteriorating condition. the dim, cold room feels oppressive as you catch the distant echoes of the best physicians from all around xianzhou, their hurried steps reverberating against the walls as they hasten to your side.

dan feng tightens his grip on your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, his expression etched with concern. the smell of herbal remedies and the sharp scent of sickness fills the air, mingling with the mustiness of the stone walls; a familiar sense of dread washes over you as you struggle with each breath.

his brows are furrowed, and his lips are pressed into a thin line, his knuckles turning white from the tightness of his grip on your hands. the pressure is so intense that it almost hurts —almost, but not quite enough to cause you (more) pain. he would never hurt you, not even over his own grave.

despite the best efforts of your personal caregivers, the limitations of medical knowledge, and the uncertainty of your treatments are harsh realities you have to face. it fills him with anguish to witness your episodes almost daily —suddenly collapsing in his arms, gasping for breath; moments like these are where he feels like he's standing right beside your deathbed, desperately hoping for signs of improvement each time you open your eyes again. 

it kills him that there's nothing he can do but watch over you, he watches as you waste away before his eyes, feeling a piece of himself wither away in tandem. 

dan feng’s eyes search yours the moment you regain consciousness, the doctors respectfully step back, bowing before hurriedly exiting the room. his heart breaks into a million pieces when he sees your eyes that were once bright with joy, now clouded with tears. the sight pierces through him, stirring a deep ache in his chest.

"dan feng," you whisper hoarsely, your voice fragile with pain. “it hurts, it hurts so much…” he presses a soft kiss against your entwined hand, his touch a soothing balm amidst the storm raging within him. “don’t worry,” he murmurs softly, “i’ll make it go away soon, i swear.”

“thank you.. but promise me, if i don't make it, you'll find a way to move on.” you manage a weak smile through the pain. his eyes glisten with unshed tears, he shakes his head slightly, "i won’t let that happen." 

of course he won’t. you were the kindest, most lovely soul before this godforsaken unknown illness with no definitive cure stole your life away; he sees your smile slowly losing its radiance, and your eyes dulling as each day passes. 

“this body… it’s useless, i’m useless. i’m sorry, i—” dan feng places a finger against your lips. his touch tender yet firm, stopping your words. "don't say that," his voice choking with emotion. "you're not useless, in fact you're the strongest person i know."

hearing you utter such self loathing words is like a dagger twisting in his heart, tipping him over the edge. you, who have always been his anchor in life's turbulent seas, slipping away feels like fragile glass shattering into countless shards, leaving him scattered and irreparable, each piece cutting deeper into his core with every breath.

he can't face the idea of losing you. it destroys him from within, even more so now that time is running out. but he won’t let anyone else have you, not even the cold hands of death. for you, he’s willing to pay any price, even if it means he has to break the highest laws of xianzhou.

—

you wake up feeling unusually energized, a stark contrast to the persistent aches and pains that have haunted you for so long. as you sit up, the familiar discomforts are no longer present, instead replaced by an almost surreal sense of vitality.

but something feels strangely off, an unsettling sensation gnawing at the edges of your awareness. your eyes dart around the room, frantically searching for your boyfriend’s presence; he has never left your side without a word (his protectiveness wouldn't allow it anyway), especially not for this long. 

panic flares as you look down at your body. the surgical wounds that once marked your skin have vanished without a trace. your breath catches in your throat as you run your fingers over the smooth, unblemished surface where scars should be.

you push back the covers and swing your legs over the side of the bed, struggling to piece together what could have happened.

where is dan feng? is he in trouble? and, why do you feel so... alive? 

then, a chilling realisation dawns on you. you try to shake the thought from your mind, but no matter how hard you try, you aren’t able to find any other explanation that fits your condition. as the high elder, dan feng should know better than anyone that such an act is a sin —a disgrace...

the truth begins to settle in, he really did sacrifice everything to grant you immortality.

—

“you’re literally the high elder for god's sake, what have you done?!” you exclaim, your voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and anger.

dan feng's expression is pained as he meets your gaze, his own eyes filled with a desperate resolve. “i’m only trying to help you. you don’t understand, i—”

“help me?” you cut in sharply, scoffing. “you betrayed xianzhou! you betrayed me. i was ready to let go, so why?” 

he reaches out to you, his hand stopping, and hovering in mid air as if unsure whether to touch you. "i can't bear to lose you," he confesses, his voice barely a whisper. "i can’t just stand by and watch you suffer when i have the power to save you."

tears well up in your eyes, the room feels suffocatingly small as you stand in front of him. for the first time, you find yourself on opposite sides of the battlefield, the weight of his transgression hangs heavy between you, tearing apart everything you once knew. 

“by defying everything we stand for?” you choke out, your words laced with venom. “do you realise just what you’ve done?” he takes a step closer, his face etching with anguish. "i know i’ve made a grave mistake." he admits, “but will you believe me if i say that i didn’t regret it one bit?”

“how can you do all this… for love?” your eyes search his for answers that seem unfathomable. “no, my dear, for you.”  he steps closer, his breath warm against your skin, gaze locking onto yours with an almost desperate intensity. 

"but how can i ever love you again after this?" you whisper, your voice trembling. his heart shatters at how your eyes taint with fear and betrayal, the sight wrapping around his chest like a vice. the mere thought of losing you, of seeing you banished because of his desperation, is a torment he can hardly bear —but now one that he has to face.

"if you can't accept what i've done, i'll grant your wish, whatever it is.” he murmurs. “for you, i’m willing to pay any price." 

though when bound in chains, his title of high elder does little to shield him from the repercussions of breaking the sacred laws. he’s taken away; his fate sealed by the very rules he broke. and you, the one he tried to save, find yourself exiled, cast out for the sin you never chose.

as you wander, lost and alone, the realisation of what he gave up for you lingers, a bittersweet reminder of his love that defied everything, yet cost you both so much. 

—

the land of xianzhou is something dan heng is strangely familiar with; he walks through the maze of narrow alleys and crowded squares, every corner seems to whisper fragments of memories long buried. 

“dan heng! look, isn’t this so cool?!” the excited voice of a pink haired girl reaches his ears. her eyes sparkle with enthusiasm as she animatedly gestures towards a nearby market stall with hand-carved trinkets. she continues to gush over the intricate designs while holding the hand of her grey haired companion, eagerly dragging them towards the stall.

his eyes follows them as their silhouette grows smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing amidst the crowd. just then, another figure in the distance catches his attention.

it’s a brief glimpse, a fleeting moment where your eyes meet across the street. perhaps it's your mannerisms, your familiar gestures, or simply the way you carry yourself —whatever it is, it stirs a rush of adrenaline, a sense of déjà vu that he can’t quite shake.

dan heng pushes through the bustling throng, eyes darting frantically in search of you. the world blurs around him as he focuses solely on catching another glimpse of you; he spots you slipping into a narrow alleyway, and without hesitation, he follows.

the noise of the market fades into a distant hum as his footsteps echo softly against the alley walls. he turns a corner and sees you up ahead, your figure outlined by the dim light filtering through cracks in the buildings.

you soon reach a dead end, but as you turn to leave, you bump into someone’s chest. the world seems to stand still for a moment, dan heng's breath catches in his throat as he looks down at you. although your face is partially obscured by a thin veil, your features are still discernible. 

“oh? it seems you still remember me.” you finally meet his gaze. those eyes he cherished so dearly still hold a spark of life. “[name]?” he murmurs, the sound of your name still so intimate on his lips after many years.

“you haven’t changed one bit.” he reaches out to gently push the veil covering your face aside. a flood of memories rushes through his mind, one a sharp pang in his heart. seeing you again triggers a vivid recollection of the exact place and position you were in years ago, a memory that stings to recall.

“i wonder whose fault it is?” you tilt your head, if only he knew the trouble you went through to find him again; given that goodbyes were never exchanged between you, it seems fitting to offer one now.

before he can say a word, you swiftly grab his collar and wedge him firmly against the wall. he doesn’t resist even when he feels the cold sharp edge of your dagger pressing against his throat, his gaze still fixing firmly on yours. 

"have you ever felt remorse?" you lean closer into him, your voice is barely audible through your gritted teeth. he ignores your question; unexpectedly, he grips your hand, dragging the blade down to his chest, positioning the point directly over his heart. 

"as long as my blood is on your hands, go ahead, do it." he whispers, his voice steady despite the tension. "my heart has always been yours anyway." his eyes bore into yours as if daring you to follow through. 

his grip on your hand tightens, urging you closer. "and if this is what it takes to ease your pain, then i'm ready."

"...what? you must be out of your mind if you think this way of making amends will work." your disbelief is clear in your voice; you try to shake his hand away, but he refuses to budge. 

dan feng couldn’t imagine a life without you, so when death takes your hand, he holds on to your other —and finds you again as dan heng. even as he gets on his knees and begs for your forgiveness, he still holds on to your hand as tightly as he can, afraid that any moment you might slip through his fingers.

“i’m sorry, i just couldn’t accept the thought of you leaving me.” and i still can’t, so please don’t leave me again.

you feel your willpower wavering, his very being melting away at your resolve. it's too much to bear, and you feel yourself slipping under the weight of his words. even still, you find yourself struggling to deny him. to deny yourself. to deny your own feelings. 

you fight the urge to simply give in, torn between the desire to just let go and fall into the sweet oblivion of his embrace, and the fear of getting sucked back into a cycle of destruction and pain. the weight of all that history, all those memories of your bittersweet love, it's overwhelming, nearly crushing.

“i know.” your heart aches, but you still deny the crave of the comfort of his arms. “and you’re not wrong,” the dagger clatters to the ground, the metallic sound echoing through the alleyway. 

“your heart is mine.” you push the veil to cover your face, placing your hands on his shoulder, leaning in. the cool silk brush against his parted lips, and oh… he’s been waiting so, so long for this moment.

though you pull away just as he comes to his senses. for the first time in years, he sees your smile again —the same smile that first captivated him, the one he had cherished and sought to preserve over the years. 

"remember the wish you owe me?" he nods, unable to find words. the memory of his promise resurfaces with startling clarity, his mind racing with the possibilities of what you might ask for. 

—

dan heng looks in the dagger's reflection; a dishevelled and broken man stares back.

the cold metal digs deep into his palm, the sharp edge slicing into his skin. in that moment, he wants nothing more than to be free of it, than to plunge the blade into his own heart. he feels the pain all over again, the pain of not being able to hold you, to touch you, to be with you.

for he knows that no matter how tightly he grips the dagger, it will never be the same as holding your hand. he knows that no matter how deeply it cuts into his flesh, it will never feel the same as holding you close.

“i wish i never loved you.” your words echo painfully in his mind. “and i hope we never cross paths again. goodbye, dan feng.” he releases the dagger with a sudden twist of his arm.

if choosing you over xianzhou was wrong, then consider him a sinner, and if loving you this much is his downfall, then consider him already on his knees.

but was it worth everything? was it worth it to see the look of utter desperation on his face? was it worth it to see him break apart in front of you? you feel only resentment and satisfaction; you made him feel what you wanted him to feel, you made him suffer for you.

the blade falls from his grasp, he stands amidst the shards of shattered illusions; the pain of your absence cuts deeper than any blade ever could. 

perhaps in another lifetime, he can find you again. 

for now, he honors your wish and only watches as you live on from the sidelines, yearning to be a part of your life again, even if only in his thoughts and dreams. he remains steadfast in his longing, a silent witness to the unspoken ache that lingers in the wake of your parting words.

—

masterlist

©lowkeyren 2024 only on tumblr. please do not plagiarize, translate, repost on other platforms, or feed my works into ai.

author's notes!! (my line of thought when writing this lul)

1. you made him suffer for you. -> irony. vengeance. he made you suffer BECAUSE of him granting you immortality. 2. dragging the blade down to his chest, positioning the point directly over his heart. = "my heart has always been yours anyway." -> which reader says with “your heart is mine.” 3. “and i hope we never cross paths again. goodbye, dan feng.” -> reader refers to dan heng as dan feng, i wonder what that means. 4. perhaps in another lifetime, he can find you again. -> you're both evil asf ngl, yes he will find you, you can't die aka you can't leave (him). ^ the only reason why he doesn't keep pursuing u now is cus he promised to grant your wish which is "to never cross paths again". (wow, he's such a man of his words.) 5. reader kisses dh over the veil, deliberately denying him the satisfaction of any intimacy. can be seen as a form of "punishment", leaving him yearning for more.

ty for reading xx for each reblog i will write 100 words for pt2 /j (BUT DO REBLOG IF U ENJOYED!! and it might not be a slash jay after all heuehehheh)

[writers-potion]

The Pirate's Glossary

Ahoy - an interjection used to hail a ship or a person, or to attract attention.

Arr! - an exclamation

Avast! - a command meaning stop or desist

Aye (or ay) - yes; an affirmation

Becalmed - the state of a sailing vessel which cannot move due to a lack of wind

Belay - (1) to secure or make dast by winding on a cleat or pin (2) to stop, most often used as a command

Bilged on her anchor - a ship holed or pierced by its own anchor

Bilmey! - an exclamation of surprise, short for "God blind me!"

Blow the man down - to kill someone

Boom about - when a ship turns in the wind the boom can swing violently enough to injure or kill a person on board. "Boom about" may be shouted to warn others the boom is about to move.

Bring a spring upon her cable - to come around in a different direction, oftentimes as a surprise maneuver.

Careen - to take a ship into shallower waters or out of the water altogether and remove barnacles and pests such as mollusks, shells and plant growth from the bottom.

Chase - a ship being pursued, or the act of pursuing a ship.

Code of conduct - a set of rules which govern pirates behavior on a vessel.

Come about - to bring the ship full way around in the wind. Used in general while sailing into the wind, but also used to indicate a swing back into the enemy in combat.

Crack Jenny's teacup - to spend the night in a house of ill repute.

Crimp - to procure (sailors or soldiers) by trickery or coercion, or one who crimps.

Dance the Hempen jig - to hang

Davy Jones' locker - a fictional place at the bottom of the ocean. In short, a term meaning death.

Dead men tell no tales - standard pirate excuse for leaving no survivors.

Deadlights - (1) strong shutters or plates fastened over a ship's porthole or cabin window in stormy weather. (2) Thick windows set in a ship's side or deck. (3) eyes.

Fire in the hole - a warning issued before a cannon is fired.

Furl - to roll up and secure, especially a ship’s sail.

Give no quarter - the refusal to spare lives of an opponent. Pirates raise a red flag to threaten no quarter will be given.

Handsomely - quickly or carefully; in a shipshape style.

Haul wind - to direct a ship into the wind.

Heave down - to turn a vessel on its side for cleaning.

Heave - an interjection meaning to come to a halt.

Ho - used to express surprise or joy, to attract attention to something sighted, or to urge onward.

Letter of marque - a document given to a sailor (privateer) giving him amnesty from piracy laws as long as the ships plunders are of an enemy nation.

List - to lean to one side

Long clothes - a style of clothing best suited to land. A pirate, or any sailor, doesn't have the luxury of wearing anything loose that might get in the way while climbing up riggings.

Marooned - to be stranded, particularly on a desert isle.

Me - My

No prey, no pay - a common pirate law meaning a crew received no wages, but rather shared whatever loot was taken.

Overhaul - (1) to slacken a line (2) to gain upon in a chase; to overtake

Parely - a conference or discussion between opposing sides during a dispute, especially when attempting a truce, originating from the French, "parler," meaning "to speak." The term was used in "Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl" as part of Pirate law.

Piracy - robbery committed at sea.

Quarter - derived from the idea of "shelter", quarter is given when mercy is offered by pirates. Quarter is often the prize given to an honorable loser in a pirate fight.

Reef sails - to shorten the sails by partially tying them up, either to slow the ship or to keep a strong wind from putting too much strain on the masts.

Run a shot across the bow - a command to fire a warning shot.

Sail ho! - an exclamation meaning another ship is in view. The sail, of course, is the first part of a ship visible over the horizon.

Scupper that! - an expression of anger or derision meaning "Throw that overboard!"

Sea legs - The ability to adjust one's balance to the motion of a ship, especially in rough seas. After walking on a ship for long periods of time, sailors became accustomed to the rocking of the ship in the water. Early in a voyage a sailor was said to be lacking his "sea legs" when the ship motion was still foreign to him. After a cruise, a sailor would often have trouble regaining his "land legs" and would swagger on land.

Shiver me timbers! - An expression of surprise or strong emotion. In stormy weather and rough seas, the support timbers of a ship would "shiver" which might startle the crew. The phrase may have been less common during the Golden Age of Piracy than it had become later in fictional works.

Show a leg! - A phrase used to wake up a sleeping pirate.

Sink me! - An expression of surprise. Many pirate exclamations used exaggerated imagery to highten a point. Ye might say the sailors were punchy or a bit melodramatic after a lengthy stay at sea.  

Smartly - quickly

Take a caulk - To take a nap. On the deck of a ship, between planks, was a thick caulk of black tar and rope to keep water from between decks. This term came about either because sailors who slept on deck ended up with black lines across their backs or simply because sailors laying down on deck were as horizontal as the caulk of the deck itself.

To go on account - A pleasant term used by pirates to describe the act of turning pirate. The basic idea was that a pirate was more "free lance" and thus was, more or less, going into business for himself.

Warp - To move (a vessel) by hauling on a line that is fastened to or around a piling, anchor, or pier.

Weigh anchor - To haul the anchor up; more generally, to leave port.

Ye - you

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

Reference:

https://www.pirateglossary.com/

[vandme12]

I hope your doing well make sure to be eating and staying hydrated! I was wondering if I could request Roninxreadee Who’s having a panic attack, if this makes you uncomfortable you can skip :3

The first breath won’t come. The second barely scrapes through.

It creeps up slow—like a noose tightening in your chest. At first, you can pretend it’s nothing. Just a bad day. Just a little heavy. But then your hands start to tremble. Your vision tunnels. Every breath feels too shallow—too thin.

And suddenly, the whole world’s caving in.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall, nails digging into your palms like it’ll hold you together. The walls feel too close. Your heart’s hammering too fast, too loud. You can’t stop shaking.

Somewhere in the blur, your phone buzzes—once, twice. Ronin’s name flashes across the screen. Goreboy. Of course it’s him. You can’t even think about answering, not when your hands won’t stop trembling.

But Ronin doesn’t wait.

A knock slams against the door—sharp, impatient, and so him.

“Darlin’,” his voice drips through the wood, rough and low and already too close. “I know you’re in there.” A beat. “Lemme in, or I’ll make my own way.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

The lock clicks a second later. Guess you didn’t need to.

Ronin steps inside like the devil kicked him through—scuffed boots, torn leather jacket, and burgundy hair falling in his eyes. Blood stains his knuckles, bright against his skin. Whatever mess he just crawled out of, he didn’t bother cleaning up before coming here. And the second he spots you—curled small against the wall—his whole expression shifts.

Not soft. Not exactly. But the teasing edge fades, and something sharper takes its place.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping to a low rumble. "What’s goin’ on, darlin’?”

Your throat locks tight. You shake your head. It’s too much—it’s everything. And trying to explain feels impossible.

Ronin doesn’t press. Doesn’t move closer. Not yet. He just watches you for a second—eyes too dark, too focused—before he crouches down, slow and easy.

“Breathe,” he says, quiet but firm. “Come on, sweetheart. Breathe with me.”

You try. You can’t.

When you don’t respond, he moves—closing the space between you in one smooth motion. His hands—still blood-specked, still warm—find yours. Carefully prying your fingers open, like he’s untangling something fragile.

“Gimme your hands,” he murmurs, and it isn’t a request. “Let me hold ya.”

You let him.

He presses your palms against his chest, right over his heart. Solid heat. Steady rhythm. It’s grounding in a way nothing else is.

“Feel that?” His voice softens just enough to cut through the noise. "Ain’t goin’ nowhere, darlin’. You’re safe."

You nod—barely.

“There ya go,” he breathes. "Doin’ so good for me." His thumb strokes slow circles over your knuckles—just enough pressure to keep you here. “Now, c’mon. Deep breath. With me.”

He inhales, slow and exaggerated. You try to follow—struggling at first, but he waits. Patient in that quiet, dangerous way only he can be. And when you finally match his rhythm, something inside you starts to loosen.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Knew you could do it.”

The worst of the static fades—just a little. Enough to feel his warmth anchoring you in place. He doesn’t let go. Not for a second.

For a while, it’s just that—his heartbeat under your hands, the quiet sound of his breathing, and the steady weight of him beside you. Enough to remind you that the world isn’t falling apart. Not while he’s here.

When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “What happened, darlin’?”

You shake your head again, biting the inside of your cheek. “I… I don’t know,” you admit, the words barely scraping out. “I just—couldn’t stop it.”

His jaw ticks. Not anger—something else. Something raw.

“Don’t need a reason,” he says, like it’s that simple. “If it’s got claws in you, it’s real. Don’t care if it makes sense or not.”

It shouldn’t help, but it does.

And because it’s him, he leans in—mouth brushing against the curve of your jaw. “Wish I could tear it outta ya,” he murmurs. “Wouldn’t even hesitate.”

A shaky laugh breaks out of you—small, breathless, but real. “That’s… not how panic works, Ronin.”

He chuckles—dark and low. “Nah, but it’d be fun, wouldn’t it?”

God, he’s impossible. But the panic’s fading—replaced by the warmth of his touch and the weight of his body against yours. And maybe—just maybe—that’s enough.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper.

“And you’re still breathin’,” he counters, lips curling against your skin. "So I must be doin’ somethin’ right."

You roll your eyes—but it’s easier to breathe now, easier to think, and Ronin knows it. Smug bastard.

Still, his grip stays firm. He keeps you exactly where he wants you—right there against his chest, like letting go isn’t even an option.

“Listen close, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice rough with something too fierce to be playful. “Next time this happens—you call me. Don’t care when. Don’t care why. You call.”

Your heart stutters, a different kind of ache rising in your chest. The kind that’s harder to ignore.

“You mean that?” Your voice is small. Too open.

His smile fades—replaced by something realer.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I mean it.”

You don’t know how long you sit there—wrapped in his warmth, held steady in his arms. But the next time your breath hitches, it doesn’t feel like drowning.

And when you finally speak again, it’s barely above a whisper. “Thanks, Ronin.”

His lips brush your temple—gentler than he has any right to be.

“Anytime, darlin’,” he murmurs, like it’s the easiest promise in the world. “You’re stuck with me.”

[fear-less]

₊˚⊹˚ 𐙚 led by blind faith

pairing: harry potter x reader

warnings: smut, first time, ngl ending is rushed, use of y/n, fem reader lol sorry, p in v, unprotected sex oops, hand & blow job, first time writing smut…😭, somewhat jumps right into it, let me know if i missed anything

1.3k words ^_^

a/n: first time writing smut…so it’s not that good but the ending is cause it’s fluffy :3😭 also, false god lyrics as the titled we r cheered (i cant come up w titles so they’re always taylor inspired 🔥)

You and Harry were in your bedroom, after a few days of convincing him to come to yours during the holidays he had finally said yes.

It was 20 past 10, you were on top of him, kissing, the movie playing in the background long forgotten. Kissing was always the farthest thing you two have done, only dating for a few months.

But as the months have gone by, you have slowly been wanting more, more than kissing. nonetheless, you never brought it up to Harry afraid he would not want to go that far just few months into dating.

But now, you didn’t want to stop at just kissing, you wanted to go all the way. so now, here you were sitting on Harry’s lap, legs around his torso making out, few minutes in you started moving your hips, dry humping him.

“Mmm, Y/n, what’re you doing?” Harry said, catching his breath.

“do you want me to stop?” you said smirking knowing he probably wouldn’t want to stop, feeling him get hard beneath you.

“No, please don’t stop” Harry said whining, bringing you back into the kiss. His hands roamed your body, igniting every nerve with a tingling sensation. The soft sighs and gasps that escaped your lips mingled with the sound of heavy breathing, creating a symphony of desire.

Your movements became more urgent and rhythmic, each grind of your hips against his eliciting a low growl from Harry’s throat. The friction between your bodies sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, heightening every touch and kiss

Harry felt the tantalizing edge of release drawing near, his breaths shallow and ragged with anticipation. Just as he was on the brink, you abruptly halted, leaving him whining in frustration as the waves of pleasure ebbed away.

“Why’d you stop?” Harry’s voice cracked with need, his eyes pleading for the blissful sensation to continue a little longer.

You met his gaze with a mischievous smirk, relishing in the power you held over his pleasure. As Harry huffed in mild annoyance, your smirk deepened, knowing the effect your actions were having on him. With a deliberate movement, you peeled off your shirt, revealing a sight that made Harry’s annoyance evaporate into thin air.

Harry’s eyes widened in awe as he took in the sight before him, his breath hitching at the sudden rush of desire that engulfed him. The soft glow of the room cast a tantalizing sheen over your exposed skin, accentuating every curve and contour in a way that left Harry spellbound.

Without a word, Harry reached out, his fingertips tracing the outline of your bare shoulders, a silent plea for permission and affirmation. You met his touch with a subtle arch of your back, inviting him closer, igniting a primal hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface.

The air crackled with electricity as Harry’s lips found yours once again, a fervent urgency driving their movements. Every kiss was a symphony of longing and exploration, each touch a declaration of unspoken desires.

With trembling hands, Harry continued to explore the canvas of your skin, his touch tentative yet eager, as if afraid to break the spell that bound you together. But there was no turning back now, the floodgates of passion had been opened, and both of you were swept away in the torrent of raw, unbridled need.

Soon enough, you found yourself laying on your stomach, in between Harry’s legs. His pants off and left in his boxers, palming his hard on through them.

After a few seconds, you took his boxers off, his cock now in your hands, dragging your fist up and down. Loving how Harry was reacting, seeing him like this made your panties wet, embarrassingly wet.

“Please, use your mouth,” you hesitate for a moment before taking him into your mouth, exploring the length of his cock with your tongue.

His hands finding their way to your hair, pulling at it when wants you to go deeper.

"Oh fuck yes...", he moans, biting his lower lip. His cock throbs against your tongue, wanting more attention as he leans against your bed frame for support.

You take him deeper into your mouth, sucking gently on the head while your hand strokes the rest in time with your bobbing actions. “Mmm, just like that, baby...", he pants, his hips starting to move in rhythm with your mouth.

Harry’s grip in your hair tightens more, jerking his hips foward. "Please keep going... I'm close," he whines, his voice strained. "Don't stop now."

You keep going, taking him deeper into your mouth. The thought of making him cum making you eager.

Harry’s breathing is ragged now, his body trembling of pleasure. "I'm gonna cum princess...," he warns, his voice rough from need.

He groans, his hips jerking forward as he empties himself into your mouth. His hot cum fills you up, causing you to gag a little bit as he fills your mouth up, you swallow it and pull your mouth off his still hard cock, you sit up slowly.

Harry grabs your waist and pushes you down onto the bed, your legs now wrap around his waist and your arms around his neck. He takes off your sleep shorts and moves your panties to the side, revealing your glistening pussy.

“You’re so soaked sweetheart..” He whispers, sliding two fingers in you making you moan his name. He pumps his fingers in and out of you in a slowly before taking his fingers out and putting them into his mouth, groaning at the taste.

He loved the sight of you in nothing but your panties, laying underneath him, everything about you would be just so perfect to him, it makes his stomach flutter.

“I need more, Harry, need you inside me” you panted softly, rocking your hips against his hand.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he laughed breathily,

rolling his hips against you again, coating his cock in your already leaking juices before catching on your entrance and achingly slowly sinking into your plush walls and making you arch your back.

“I love you,” he murmured against your neck feeling your wall already fluttering around him. Pulling himself almost completely free of you but thrusts back into you lazily, setting a slow but steady pace that was driving you crazy with each stroke. “I love you so much.”

“Harry, I love you too,” you almost sobbed as your climax washed over you your walls clenching around him tightly.

“I love you more” He grinned, he gives a few more thrusts before allowing himself to fall over the edge and fill you with his warm seed.

In the quiet aftermath, a serene calm settled over the room, punctuated only by the soft sounds of your synchronized breathing. Harry’s arms wrapped protectively around you, his touch gentle and reassuring as he traced soothing circles along your back.

With whispered words of affection and reassurance, you both savored the intimacy of the moment, basking in the warmth of each other’s presence. The tenderness in Harry’s gaze spoke volumes, a silent promise of care and understanding that transcended words.

As the world outside remained oblivious to the shared intimacy you had just experienced, you found solace in the cocoon of love and trust that surrounded you both. Harry’s fingers trailed lazily through your hair, his touch a soothing melody that lulled you into a state of contentment.

In that sacred space of aftercare, boundaries dissolved, and vulnerabilities were embraced. The unspoken bond between you deepened, strengthened by the shared vulnerability and tenderness of the moment.

Together, you reveled in the simple yet profound act of caring for each other, finding solace and comfort in the gentle aftermath of passion. It was in these moments of intimacy and aftercare that the true essence of your connection blossomed, a testament to the depth of your love and the unspoken emotions that bound you together.