#obey me relationship dynamics

[devildomwriter]

can you talk more about Mephistopheles and Thirteen I love their dynamic

Sure here’s a few things I know about them/interactions they’ve had off the top of my head

• She once made him go to a cafe with her to discover why he thinks the way he does

• Mephistopheles mistakingly assumed Thirteen was interested in dating him when she asked why he didn’t have a partner. She called him a fossil.

• Mephistopheles thinks she is reckless, an example is when she wouldn’t follow directions to a potion and it blew up in their faces

• Mephistopheles thinks Thirteen has a horrible sense of names

• Thirteen was surprised to find out Mephistopheles is traditionally gentlemanly. When it was raining he held her umbrella and bags and didn’t complain once.

• They seem to be relatively close and call each other out on things. When Mephistopheles told MC them looking good in their outfit was proof anyone could look good in the right clothing, Thirteen immediately called him out and said what he meant was he thinks is MC looks gorgeous. He stammers in response.

• Thirteen insisted on giving Mephistopheles a dame makeover and he caved in, so she’s done his make up before.

• Thirteen accidentally shot a bazooka at him. This is how they met.

[sketch-guardian]

Is it alright if I ask for all the RAD classmates with a child reader who’s kind of creepy

Like child mc wears maybe morute or Shiro Lolita and just doesn’t respond much, like everyone barely hears their voice because all they do is just stare and watch you with this creepy bear in their hands. It’s kinda like those creepy kids in horror movies

Of course it's alright✨there's no problem with such ask☺As usual, although I don't think there is any need to specify since it should be obvious, the headcanons with child MC are platonic and contain family dynamics, so the OCs in question are like child MC's legal guardians. Now let's start:

"RAD CLASSMATES+NEW EXCHANGE STUDENTS WITH A CREEPY CHILD MC"

DEMYA

I'm not sure how to explain this without trigger warnings, but Demya in the past, and even currently depending on the case, has devoured both humans and other demons, she was also raised in a tribe of bloodthirsty and flesh-eating demons, therefore she can be defined as...occasionally cannibal and it's very unlikely that a mere creepy child like MC would actually manage to disturb her, indeed Demya would even find child MC cute like a doll or they would remind her a bit of herself when she was welcomed by Azul and Domnra a long time ago, barely able to speak, with disheveled hair, deadpan eyes and mouth dripping with blood. Furthermore, Demya would instinctively understand what child MC would try to mean even if they don't communicate much, having personally experienced a non-verbal phase for a period of her life. Demya would also believe that child MC's staring is equivalent to studying a prey before attacking, a little like an animal, behavior that makes sense to her, even if Demya is more impulsive. If child MC would like to, Demya could teach them how to run on all fours or train them to be flexible, which for her would be pretty fun, in fact it would be hilarious to see people like Mammon or Levi terrified running away from child MC who chases them like a spider-

DOMNRA/MOBIM

Domnra has a fairly gothic/emo look so to speak, so although in terms of style it might seem at odds with child MC, he would appreciate the horror air that surrounds them, even if it would take him a while to get used to child MC's intense staring, which would sometimes make him uncomfortable. Domnra would have no problem understanding child MC's quiet way of communicating, used to Mobim expressing itself solely with gestures and squeaks, sometimes the three of them could even not speak at all and simply enjoy time together listening to some music or perhaps with some workouts, but very light things, like Domnra doing push-ups with Child MC and Mobim on his back. Furthermore, Domnra is still friends with Azul and Demya, which makes him automatically a dumbass, so in a rare playful mood, Domnra might find funny letting MC walk around with Mobim in their arms like a teddy bear, only to scare other people as soon as they realize the little curse moves and is alive. Speaking of which, Mobim would love to cuddle with child MC, not finding them creepy and it would play with their toys

AZUL

Azul floats around, walks through walls and some of his acquaintances are literally ghosts, plus he raised Demya when she was in her most uncivilized and feral state, so the silence wouldn't be a problem (he talks enough for both-) and child MC could never result disturbing for Azul, in fact since their clothing styles are similar, it could seem that they're trying to match or they could be really mistaken for a father with his child, which Azul wouldn't mind at all, he would find the opportunity to show off their family photos that he has in his wallet. Azul and child MC would go on little trips to haunted houses, he would also make their toys dance or float, and paint Victorian-style portraits of the two of them together. Would Azul make the pictures move to scare those who come to visit for shits and giggles? Obviously-

ZURI

Zuri would immediately notice child MC's peculiar behavior and that most would find it creepy, especially due to the intense staring and silence, however as long as child MC is healthy and happy, Zuri would pay no mind to it, she would also provide a plausible explanation to impertinent questions regarding MC's behavior. Zuri would be able to appreciate child MC's style and would contribute to the buying or weaving of clothes of their taste, then walking together through the streets of Devildom like two fashion icons. Zuri is the type to spoil child MC with gifts and trinkets, without exaggerating of course, but she would also make sure to decorate child MC's room to their liking. Moreover, Zuri would buy a notebook for child MC with which to communicate through writing or drawing

ODON

Odon involuntarily terrifies almost everyone they meet and their wide smile has often creeped out those around them. Odon has also been compared to the boogeyman several times and their past precedes them, instilling fear in beings who remember them, even though they have changed for the better, therefore a disturbing child MC would not even appear as such to Odon, on the contrary they would simply be surprised by the fact that child MC wants to spend time with them and that they aren't afraid, in a certain sense Odon could understand being judged for their own ways of acting. Odon likes to observe people as well, so them and child MC would share such hobby, spending time together. Odon's eye-like creatures would act as little bodyguards, understanding what child MC needs even before they attempt to communicate. Also Odon's style seems similar to dark cottagore, but they don't have a clear opinion on styles, whatever child MC likes is fine

REMIEL

Remiel, as an angel of death with little experience with the world of the living, has no idea what according to human custom is normal or not for a child and is hardly impressed by what people would deem scary, in general she's still slowly learning feelings and how to experience or show them, so she would treat child MC as she would any other child. Child MC's habit of staring at people would be fine for Remiel, because she also likes to learn how the world works and to do so sometimes you have to limit yourself to observing. Not gonna lie, a creepy child MC with Remiel, who looks as a corpse-like angel of death, would be disturbing to almost anyone, a real shame since both Remiel and child MC are innocent precious treasures. Despite her somber and gloomy nature, Remiel is very empathetic, although blunt, therefore she would understand when child MC tries to communicate. Remiel and child MC could occasionally be seen together wandering around libraries or graveyards to check if there are lost souls to help

NATHANIEL

Nathaniel in some ways wouldn't be too different from this version of child MC, both being taciturn and seemingly stoic enough to give off creepy vibes. Nathaniel would have boundless patience with child MC when they try to express themselves in words and if someone dared to interrupt them in the process, Nathaniel would politely but firmly remind that child MC was talking and would let them continue with some soft encouragement and reassurance. Nathaniel would probably teach child MC his way of communicating through gestures and nods, going so far as to understand each other even with just a glance, making others wonder if they are actually having a conversation telepathically. Nathaniel would also find child MC's style curious, almost reminding him of how some young angels dress

URIEL

The warrior angel would have no idea whether child MC's behavior is normal by human standards or what is typically creepy, however the question she would ask herself most frequently would be why child MC bothered to become attached to her, someone who doesn't have a very understanding attitude, but Uriel would be able to live with the idea with time. Uriel wouldn't care if child MC stares at her or other people, she doesn't know that it's usually rude and she honestly thinks it's just child MC's way of admiring those they deem worthy of esteem and their way of dressing would remind Uriel of the concept of purity, which she would approve of. Uriel might seem harsh sometimes as she would try to push child MC to speak more often, since she wouldn't know how to interpret all their actions, however if she notices that child MC risks withdrawing even more, then Uriel would swallow her pride and make an effort, taking advantage of her years of experience with Nathaniel to communicate better. It would also be quite funny to see Uriel believe that child MC's teddy bear is a strange unpractical soft shield at first and give them a wooden toy sword after, because it's unsafe to go unarmed

[rebel-dritch]

The Odyssey AU 🫶 Scroll down for additional notes and information!!!

Reasoning + information below :D

Long story short, Penelope's impressive and outstanding faithfulness and loyalty to Odysseus reminded me of how Barbatos is loyal to Diavolo.

Long story below incase anyone wants to read my ramble on the two :) 💞

He's always there to support him and find solutions to his problems (with some.. suspicions admittedly). He never falters on serving him, and he always follows Diavolo's orders no matter what. He's always there to defend him and his side, and Diavolo has him if he wanted something accomplished that goes beyond the limitations of time and space.

Penelope in Greek mythology is often idolized to be a cunning weaver that symbolizes faithfulness and loyalty. She tricks the suitors, buying more time for Odysseus to come home. I think Barbatos would do the same for Diavolo as his loyal steward and as someone who believes in him wholeheartedly. He can manipulate time after all. That's what attracted me to their dynamic—Barbatos would do everything for Diavolo.

I do like to believe that Diavolo does care for him too, in a way. He is the one who kept Barbatos inside the kingdom in the first place. They dynamic tickles at me truly <3 I love to see more of them

[666writingcafe]

The Angel's Halo

Once MC and I give my brothers the medicine and supplies they need to get through the day, we decide to spend some time out of the house. After all, there's not much more we can do there at the moment that would be beneficial to my brothers.

"Do you want to grab a bite to eat?" MC asks as we begin walking.

"Good idea," I tell them. "Azzy was going on and on about this new cafe that's supposed to be opening today. He mentioned it's not too far from here."

"What's it called?" Normally, names don't really stick in my brain, but this particular one stood out to me so much that it's practically engraved on there.

"The Angel's Halo." MC snorts in amusement. "Yeah, that was kind of my reaction, too."

Here's the thing: I figured that someone from the Celestial Realm was gonna be following us close behind once we got settled here in the human world. I mean, from my understanding, MC was more or less blessed by Michael to wear Lucifer's old ring; he probably wants to make sure he made the right decision, which means keeping an eye on both them and us to make sure that they remain "pure" enough.

If he's smart, he would have sent Simeon. He's the one that would raise the least amount of suspicion. And I suppose the little chihuahua would have to tag along. It would be cruel for his owner to leave him behind.

Sure enough, as we approach the entrance to the new cafe, Luke's outside, twirling a sign around.

"I'm surprised he's able to do that," MC quietly observes. "He's never been the most coordinated."

"He probably needs a break," I reply. "Who knows how long he's been doing that trick." MC playfully glares at me before walking up to the young angel, who accidentally hits them in the face with the sign. I silently watch to make sure MC's alright, but once the two of them begin catching up with each other, I duck inside.

"Well, hello there, Mammon." Simeon looks up from wiping the counter. Despite the smile he gives me, I can tell something's off with him.

"It's Mason around here," I reply, sitting down on one of the stools in front of the counter. "And you're lucky I'm here. If Azzy came like he wanted to, he'd be freaking out about the bags under your eyes." Simeon gently throws the towel he was using over his shoulder.

"I haven't been able to get much sleep. Getting this place set up has been a lot more work than I had anticipated."

"Clearly." He's hiding something. I've never seen him look this exhausted, not even when we were living together in the Celestial Realm and he was still one of the Seraphim.

"I'm sure you're wondering why we're here." I shrug.

"I mean, Michael probably sent ya down here, right?" Simeon hums affirmatively.

"Officially, we've been appointed to help coordinate relations between the human world and the Celestial Realm." He's given me an opening. If he didn't want me to dig further, he wouldn't have said "officially".

"And unofficially?" He glances outside, presumably to make sure that MC and Luke are still preoccupied.

"He's testing me," he whispers.

"Testing you? For what? A promotion?" Simeon sighs, shaking his head.

"I've gotten into a bit of trouble. One of my notebooks was discovered." Okay...

"But you're a writer, right? Like, you've gotten permission to do that."

"Yes, and if that was what was found, nothing would have come of it, but this particular one was more of a personal journal. The contents inside are, shall we say, things that no angel ought to even be thinking about, let alone express into words."

"They shouldn't have been snooping in the first place."

"You forget, the Celestial Realm believes that nothing should be kept secret. Everything must eventually come to light." Simeon pauses. "Plus, I accidentally left it in a public space. The person who found it was merely trying to discover whose it was so that they could return it to its rightful owner."

"Dude, what exactly were you writing about in there?" He sighs again.

"In a word, corruption." Oh shit. Well, no wonder he's in trouble.

"Of yourself, or someone else?"

"Technically both, but I'm the active party."

"Please tell me it isn't Luke." Simeon widens his eyes.

"Absolutely not. He's merely a child. I wouldn't do that to him."

"Then who..." Right as I begin asking the question, I answer it for myself. "Oh, Simeon." He gives me a tired smile.

"I know." He glances outside once more. "Believe me, I've tried to keep these thoughts at bay, but I can't help it. I mean, how can someone's soul grow brighter after spending a significant amount of time with all seven Avatars of Sin? It makes no sense, Mam--Mason."

"And it upsets you, doesn't it?"

"It's more frustrating than upsetting. I know it's wrong, but there's a part of me that feels like..." He trails off, trying to regain his composure. "If I were to fall, I'd want to take them down with me." Oh my...I had no idea that MC made him feel that way.

"You're lucky that you're merely getting tested."

"Yes and no. This little test of his will determine the severity of my punishment. If I behave myself, then I simply have to be supervised when I'm writing. And do a few extra tasks, but that's not a big deal."

"And if you don't?"

"You mean, if I succumb to temptation?" I nod my head. I hear the door open. Simeon leans in close, trying to make sure that neither Luke or MC can hear him.

"Then I might as well not be an angel anymore."

[jessamine-rose]

So I finally found the time to read Chapter 5 + the Hades event of What in Hell is Bad? and AAHHH LEVIATHAN?!! God, his character is so interesting and I can’t wait to see more of him.

Idk I just find his personality and cold attitude towards MC quite refreshing. Not to mention that he has such a lovely voice and beautiful appearance…….aaahhh he’s so intriguing <3

AND LEVIATHAN’S H SCENE?? Let’s just say that my inner sadist was very happy with how it turned out. Honestly, we need more characters who are masochist + power bottom ψ(｀∇´)ψ

[thesubswhisper]

Real talk and that bite of self-respect you need to hear

Them: Na I’m good thx

You: ok 😕

Me : “yeah, this stings, but damn, you’re too good to wait around for someone who can’t see it.”

In any dynamic or scene, finding the right partner means going through the process of vetting, and trust me, that’s a damn good thing. Vetting helps us filter out the people who aren’t meant for us, leading us closer to those who actually get us. But here’s the catch, babe: not everyone we feel that spark with is going to feel it back. And yeah, sometimes it’s the people we’re drawn to the most who just don’t share that same vision.

So what happens when that dreamy, dazzling connection you felt with someone doesn’t go the way you thought it would? It’s even tougher when everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction… only to find out it’s a dead-end. This is where we need that solid belief in ourselves, that quiet reminder that we’re still damn amazing, that we’re gonna be just fine.

Rejection? It’s just redirection, pushing you closer to someone who actually aligns with you.

Think about it like this: if a person tells you, “We’re not compatible,” believe them. Why? Because you deserve to be happy and fully appreciated. There’s no use wasting your energy waiting around for someone to change, like sitting at a pizza place hoping they’ll magically start serving Piña colada margarita ham pizza 🍕 when all they offer is Pepperoni. Walk out, baby, and find what truly satisfies you.

Self-awareness is your weapon here. Take a hard look at what you need, what you want, and what you can genuinely give in a relationship. Do the inner work, figure out your non-negotiables, and you’ll find yourself aligned with someone who respects and matches that energy. You’re going to come to find that the people that rejected you that yeah they were right you have nothing in common. Nothing that they have or that you have would ever be compatible.

So keep moving forward remind yourself how amazing you are even if other people don’t see it because there are gonna be people who don’t see a damn thing but as long as you know, nothing else matters.

*A message from KreeKree ❤️

You’re a catch, and anyone who doesn’t see it? Their loss. Sometimes the best reminders are the ones we end up giving ourselves, Rejection’s a nasty beast, but it’s also a blessing in disguise—it clears out the people who don’t deserve a second of your damn time. 😘

[gifti3]

How does mc spread their attention among 7+ people??

[goofygubegubler]

‘𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒚, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓.

Spencer eating you for your dear life, ‘cause baby, he’s a giver.

wc: 2.4k | F!Reader (Established Relationship) | cw: explicit sexual content, cunnilingus, fingering, vibrator use, overstimulation, sleepy sex?, mild power dynamics, teasing, implied age gap

A/N: Spencer is absolutely a giver in my mind, and I hope you all enjoy this! This is my first one-shot and my first time writing smut, so please feel free to share any feedback—I’d really appreciate it! My asks are always open.

Spencer is a giver—there's no doubt about it. He has studied you with a scholar's precision, but his devotion is deeper, almost reverent. He knows where to touch, how to kiss—his mouth slow and consuming, savoring every second, unraveling you with the deliberate slide of his tongue against yours. His teeth scrape over your bottom lip, a teasing sting that he soothes with a lingering press, a soft contrast to the hunger simmering beneath his touch.

And his hands—God, his hands. They move over you like he’s composing something exquisite, mapping each curve, each tremor, each stuttered breath with an intimacy that feels instinctual. He knows how to dismantle you, how to wind you so tightly in pleasure that you shatter in his grasp. His words pour into your ear, dark and teasing, igniting a heat that pools low and aching, leaving you breathless beneath him.

Sleep clings to you in slow waves, pulling you under, weaving you into something intoxicating, something inevitable. His hands find you first—fingertips gliding over your skin like a whisper of possession, tracing your curves, teasing, promising. The heat of his breath spills against your neck, the hushed murmur of your name curling like smoke in the thick air.

Then, his mouth—God, his mouth—claims yours, slow and insistent. His tongue sweeps over your bottom lip before his teeth catch, a bite of sharp, deliberate hunger.

You’re not in bed anymore. You’re pressed against the bookshelf, trembling under his touch, the rough wood biting into your spine, grounding you in the feverish haze. A book slips from your hands, forgotten the moment his lips trail lower, marking their path with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

He hums against your skin, his voice dark, indulgent. "Keep reading for me."

The command slithers down your spine, igniting something helplessly wanton inside you. You try—God, you try—to obey, lips parting, voice trembling, but the second his fingers sink deep, curling just right, the words unravel, lost in a gasp as he drags you under.

A sharp inhale rips you from the dream, the ghost of his touch still imprinted on your skin, heat curling deep and insatiable. Your thighs clench in a feeble attempt at relief, but it isn’t enough. It’s never enough—not when you wake up to find him lying beside you, lips parted, his breathing slow and steady, a cruel reminder that the hands you crave are just beyond reach.

Biting your lip, you slip a hand toward the nightstand, fingers grazing the smooth edge before you pull the drawer open just enough to reach inside. Your fingers find the well-worn spine of your favorite spicy book first—the one Spencer pretends to roll his eyes at but listens to whenever you read aloud in bed.

Beneath it, tucked away like a secret, is the small vibrator you keep for nights just like this—when Spencer is working late, when the ache refuses to fade, when his absence leaves you restless and wanting. You know better. You should just use your fingers—quieter, safer—but this? This is too good to resist. The way it hums against you, the way it sends pleasure curling through your veins in thick, decadent waves.

It’s never been a replacement for Spencer, not really, but God, it’s close enough to take the edge off when you need it most. Your pulse quickens as you wrap your fingers around it, the cool plastic a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in your belly. You hesitate, casting a glance at him—his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths, lips parted slightly in sleep—before exhaling softly, determination settling in your bones.

You start slow, pressing the toy against your clit through your panties, barely turning it on, letting the low hum tease you like the ghost of his touch. A quiet gasp escapes, your hips tilting into the sensation, but even this—God, even this—isn’t him.

Frustration coils tighter in your belly, the need for more gnawing at you, demanding. With a shaky exhale, you lift your hips, sliding your panties down, the cool air a stark contrast against the heat between your thighs. The vibrator follows, gliding against slick, sensitive skin, sending pleasure rolling through you in slow, deliberate waves.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening around the toy as you sink into the feeling, chasing the edge, knowing it won’t ever feel as good as Spencer but unable to stop yourself from trying. The quiet hum of the vibrator is nearly drowned out by your own heavy breaths, the way your body trembles beneath the weight of your own need. Maybe if you just keep quiet, if you move slow—

But then—a shift. The bed dips. A sharp inhale from beside you.

Before panic can settle, warmth floods your senses—a heavy hand pressing against your stomach, grounding you in the moment. His touch is slow, deliberate, fingers splayed, sliding lower until they brush against yours, still gripping the toy. He hums low in his throat, voice thick with sleep yet unmistakably amused.

"Couldn't wait for me, could you?"

Spencer’s fingers curl over yours, his grip firm as he slowly pries the vibrator from your grasp. The moment it’s in his control, the pressure changes—subtly, precise, his touch calculated in a way that makes your breath catch. The sudden shift sends a sharp jolt of pleasure spiraling through you, tearing a gasp from your lips.

"Spencer—" It’s barely a whimper, swallowed by the way his body shifts closer, his breath hot against your neck.

"Shh," he soothes, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your jaw, soft and teasing. "Let me help."

His focus is singular. Unwavering.

"Besides," he murmured, pressing another kiss higher, teeth grazing sensitive skin just enough to make you shiver, "it’s only 5:17 a.m." Another pause, another deliberate press of his mouth. "I don’t have to get ready until six." His breath is warm, teasing, wicked. "Plenty of time to enjoy myself."

You let out a breathless laugh, fingers weakly carding through his hair. "You are such a giver, Spence."

His lips curve against your skin, and without missing a beat, he hums, "I do pride myself on my generosity."

Before you can reply, the aftershocks of your last orgasm still making your thighs tremble, he licks a slow, teasing stripe up your center. A full-body shudder ripples through you, your nerves still alight with oversensitivity. His hands tighten around your thighs, thumbs pressing into your skin, keeping you spread open, fully at his mercy. His mouth is warm and relentless, his tongue flicking, circling, pressing just right—like he’s savoring every tiny whimper and every shuddered breath.

He hums against you, the vibration sending another sharp spike of pleasure through your overstimulated body. "Still shaking," he muses, voice muffled against your slick skin. "So sensitive, but I think you can take just a little more, don’t you?"

He shifts, sealing his lips around your clit, sucking with slow, deliberate pressure, his fingers digging into your thighs to keep you from squirming away. Your breath stutters, hips twitching involuntarily as pleasure coils hot and sharp in your stomach, overwhelming, dizzying. It’s too much and yet not nearly enough.

"Fuck—Spencer—"

He groans against you, the vibration sending another sharp jolt of pleasure through your oversensitive nerves. "Mmm. Say my name like that again."

His tongue presses deeper, his pace unrelenting, his hands gripping your thighs to keep you from squirming away. He’s thorough and determined, making sure every flick and swirl sends you hurtling toward that inevitable edge. And just when you think you might catch a break, his fingers join in—sliding inside you, curling just right, stroking in rhythm with his mouth.

You gasp, arching into him, hands flying to his hair, gripping tight. "Spencer, oh my—"

"That’s it," he coaxed between teasing licks. "Give me another one, sweetheart. I know you can."

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, keeping you in place. His mouth never wavers, his fingers never falter, dragging another sharp cry from your throat as another orgasm crashes over you, leaving you breathless and shivering. You’re still gasping for air when he pulls back just enough to murmur, "Still with me?"

You manage a weak, trembling nod, half-lost in the afterglow, and for a second, you think he might give you a reprieve.

But then he moves again—this time, slower, more deliberate. His fingers stroke along your inner thigh, coaxing, teasing. His breath is warm as he presses a kiss just above your knee, then another, trailing higher, the anticipation making your skin prickle.

"Spence—" you whimper, voice barely above a breath. "Sensitive."

He hums, and you can feel his smirk against your skin. "I know. That’s what makes it fun."

Then, without warning, his mouth is on you again, softer this time, but no less devastating. His tongue moves with careful precision, his fingers pressing deeper, curving just right. You writhe beneath him, overwhelmed, and when your hand weakly pushes at his head, he merely chuckles against you.

"That’s not our safeword, sweetheart."

You whimper, unable to do anything but surrender as he drags you to the edge again, slow and thorough, relentless in his devotion. The pressure builds again, unbearable, and when you finally shatter beneath him for the third time, he groans, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your lips.

You barely have time to recover before you feel him again—his hands smoothing over your trembling thighs, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, "One more. Just one more."

You shake your head weakly, though your body betrays you, already arching into his touch. Your mind is hazy, barely clinging to the waking world, but Spencer? He’s focused, singular in his intent.

His mouth is on you again, lazy and indulgent, his tongue dragging slow, torturous circles that make your stomach tighten. His fingers press inside, stretching, teasing, working you open with practiced ease. You whimper, toes curling, every nerve alight.

"Almost there," he murmurs, voice frayed, breathless. "Come on, sweetheart. Give it to me."

Your release crashes over you like a tidal wave, pulling you under with no hope of resurfacing. Your body trembles, shuddering apart beneath him, and this time—even Spencer groans, his breath hitching as if he’s feeling it just as intensely as you are. His hands flex against your hips, tightening like he’s holding himself back, resisting the urge to take even more.

He presses one last, lingering kiss to your thigh before letting his head drop against you, exhaling a shaking breath.

Your vision wavers, the edges smudging into deep, inky black as the pleasure crests and breaks. The last thing you register is the warmth of Spencer’s mouth, the reverberation of his voice against your skin—low, coaxing, reverent.

Then, everything fades.

You resurface gradually—like wading through molasses, every inch of you weighted, sore in the most indulgent, well-earned way. The sheets are a tangled wreck around you, clinging to your overheated skin, undeniable evidence of everything Spencer just did to you. Your limbs are useless, your thoughts thick and sluggish, your body still humming with the aftershocks of him.

And yet.

Spencer is already awake.

“It’s 6:37 AM,” he announces smugly, from somewhere near the foot of the bed. “In case you were wondering.”

You groan, throwing an arm over your face. “Oh my God.”

“No, just Spencer,” he corrects, voice warm and teasing. “But I appreciate the enthusiasm.”

When you manage to blink your eyes open, the sight that greets you almost makes you laugh—if you had the energy. Spencer stands there, utterly unbothered, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers covered in tiny owls. His curls are a disaster, sticking up wildly, and his lips are still pink from pressing them against every inch of your body.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself.

“Are you—” You swallow, voice hoarse. “Are you gloating?”

Spencer tilts his head, considering. “I’d say it’s more of a… reasonable acknowledgment of my achievements.”

You make a weak sound of protest. He grins.

The mattress shifts as he crawls back toward you, his hands finding your waist with practiced ease. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to your shoulder—sweet, affectionate, in direct contrast to the way he ruined you not even thirty minutes ago.

Then, with an absolutely insufferable level of satisfaction, he murmurs, “Four times.”

You let out a wheezy breath, still not recovered enough to fight him on this. “I know, Spencer.”

He hums, trailing his lips up the side of your neck. “Just making sure it’s fully processed.”

You blindly shove at his shoulder, but it’s weak. He barely moves.

Instead, he settles beside you, tucking you against his chest, fingers idly stroking along your spine. He’s quiet for a moment—until he glances at the clock. And then, you see it. The exact moment he realizes his mistake.

His smirk flickers.

A pause. Then, lightly:

“I may have miscalculated.”

You snort. “You think?”

Spencer lets out a thoughtful hum, completely unrepentant as he presses a soft, lazy kiss to your forehead. “In my defense, I failed to account for… the lingering effects.” He shifts, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Or my own overwhelming enthusiasm.”

You lift your arm just enough to glare at him. “You have work in an hour.”

He nods solemnly. “I’m aware.”

“I have work in two.”

Another nod. “Yes.”

“You owe me.”

Something flickers in his expression—thoughtful, determined. Then, without a word, he slips out of bed.

You frown. “Spencer?”

“Fixing it,” he calls, already halfway to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, he returns with a steaming cup of your favorite coffee and a plate with a perfectly toasted bagel. He sets them on the nightstand with the precision of a man delivering an official peace offering before climbing back into bed and wrapping himself around you again.

You eye him suspiciously. “This is your plan?”

He hums, pressing a kiss to your hair. “It’s called positive reinforcement.”

You sigh, taking a sip. It’s perfect. Of course, it is.

“You’re still in trouble,” you mumble, though the warmth of his body and the way he’s lazily stroking your back suggest otherwise.

Spencer just grins against your skin, utterly unbothered. “That’s fair.” A beat of silence. Then, far too pleased with himself, he murmurs, “But just so you’re aware… I already have a plan for making it up to you.”

You groan. Spencer just tucks you closer, and you don’t even have the energy to argue.

Then, after a moment of quiet, his voice comes soft and smug against your ear:

“You know, I am a giver.”

You huff a laugh, exhausted and hopelessly fond. “Shut up, Spencer.”

But all he does is press another kiss to your temple, grinning against your skin.

[sketch-guardian]

I feel like I need to start adding a -___ anon because of how much I send requests now, I would love to send them without anon but it’s honestly so scary to post or comment anything 😞

I don’t know if you’re very comfortable with writing certain types of mental illnesses, like I saw on your boundaries post that you were fine writing mental and physical conditions but I just wanna know if you’re comfortable with a request where child mc has like ptsd or depression and always seems to be sad and gloomy (turns out it’s from bullying back in the home realm.) I really like seeing posts where child mc isn’t very energetic since I didn’t really get that very happy experience and can’t relate (〃▽〃)

Also I wish there was a snow leopard emoji, that’d be so cool. I love snow leopards

SORRY IF THIS IS A LOT OF WORDS, IM STILL REALLY NEW TO SENDING STUFF THAT ISNT TO PEOPLE I KNOW 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Well, there's no obligation to add a -___ anon, only if you feel like it🤷🏻and don't worry, I know how scary it can be to write openly to people you don't know or are close to🙈so it doesn't matter the number of asks you send, if you prefer to stay anonymous, so be it, it's not a problem☺As a (hopefully) future psychologist (I'm still studying at university-), it doesn't make me uncomfortable to talk about such topics, I just hope to write them well and not make too many mistakes😖so your ask is perfectly fine and I thank you for asking anyway just to be safe💜Furthermore, as a child I was very quiet and lazy, I was sometimes compared to a doll even though I was content, so more or less I can relate and I hope you are doing better now✨Also I agree, more animal emojis should be added💕(perhaps you could be snow leopard anon?🤔). Now let's get started with the platonic headcanons, I assumed you wanted all OCs btw🙈:

"RAD CLASSMATES+NEW EXCHANGE STUDENTS WITH A CHILD MC WHO HAS DEPRESSION/PTSD"

DEMYA

Demya didn't spend an exactly normal childhood, firstly due to the type of environment in which she was born as a demon, part of a bloodthirsty tribe, and secondly due to the events that characterized her turbulent past, that is, having seen her family die in front of the her eyes and then being imprisoned in a human circus as a freak, chained and malnourished, only later when she was freed was she able to begin her journey of recovery. Demya might seem brash and prone to violence, in some respects she is, however she softens towards children and with child MC in particular she would be very protective, especially considering what they had to go through. Demya would not tolerate abuse towards child MC and would ask them to give her all the names of those who bullied them on Earth, not to kill them, not wanting to get child MC into trouble and considering that most likely the bullies are children as well, but simply to scar them for life and thus prevent them from finding other victims, the sight of her bloodied on the ceiling should be enough. Demya would also feel sorry for child MC being miserable most of the time and would try in her own way to make them happier, to make them overcome their trauma, because together they are stronger, Demya would always welcome child MC into her arms in case of need of comfort and they could stay in her nest (of blankets and pillows) for as long as they need to

DOMNRA/MOBIM

Domnra had a fairly normal childhood, according to celestial standards at least, given that as a soldier, he was trained to fight from a young age. The most difficult period of Domnra's life began after his fall from the Celestial Realm and after Mobim's birth, it took him time to metabolize and get used to the new situation. Child MC would remind Domnra of Mobim during its first days of existence: small, weak, helpless and afraid. Having matured over time and having learned to take care of Mobim, Domnra would try to help child MC learn how to defend themselves, both physically and emotionally, from bullies or fears, because they would have the full right to assert their own person. Domnra would become like child MC's shadow, always at their side in case of danger, as a figure to hide behind or as a shoulder to cry on, anyone who mistreats child MC should pass through Domnra first if they have the courage. Mobim would also help make child MC feel less sad, becoming their friend, playmate and comforting them, without the need for words and showing child MC that crying is good for letting off steam

AZUL

Azul was a happy and energetic child, who enjoyed running among flowers along with colorful butterflies, without a care in the world, his mood management problems began in adulthood, after his fall from the Celestial Realm. Azul is a very empathetic demon when it comes to feelings, especially those of people he cares about, so when he would sense child MC's sadness, his colors would change from light blue to dark blue in a sense of recognition and Azul would carry child MC in his arms, to comfort and console them. Azul would be worryingly quiet at the news of child MC being a victim of bullying and it's likely that one day, in the form of a spirit, he will enter the bullies' bedroom and scare them so much that they will never repeat such actions again. Azul would try to help and support child MC to find a way to express themselves, such as drawing or photography and as he is better trained in managing emotions, he would try to help child MC overcome their depression, one step at a time, always by their side, showing pride at every small milestone achieved

ZURI

Since she was a child, Zuri has always followed a rather rigid discipline and had to meet very high expectations from other angels towards her, therefore she didn't spend much time playing or having fun as perhaps it would have been more appropriate for a young angel, too busy excel and show herself as a symbol of purity. Old habits die hard, so even after she became a demon, Zuri remained a perfectionist, however she would never want something like that for child MC, after the way they have already suffered. With Zuri, there would be no expectations of happiness and joy to respect, but rather a probable professional therapeutic path, for child MC's sake, to provide them with the tools to process their trauma and work on their depression. Zuri would probably explain to child MC that the bullies who bothered them have likely been through difficult situations, however that doesn't excuse their actions and child MC would not be required to forgive them, but rather to move on with their life and heal. Anyone who has any comments to make about child MC's behavior should respond personally to Zuri and while not often very loving, Zuri would cradle child MC in her arms during depression or ptsd episodes

ODON

Odon had a bizarre childhood due to their ancient eldritch nature, they don't know what it means to have a family and as a child they did anything to feel a single emotion, even if it meant committing genocide. Over time Odon got "bored", because suffering became repetitive and they realized that showing kindness received much more interesting and varied reactions, that was the reason for the beginning of Odon's change for the better, however difficulties weren't lacking, since everyone was too afraid of them. Odon knows what it means to be marginalized and isolated, they also know sadness although they don't show it, therefore Odon would be very understanding and patient with child MC's issues, accompanying them step by step during their growth. No sane person would be stupid enough to bully child MC given Odon's reputation, so they would stop being teased, while as for the rest, Odon would read stories with child MC on their lap while they drink a hot beverage, to make them feel protected and safe for once, with even the eye-like creatures in tow as silent guardians. Odon would go back to being the monster they were in order to ward off the evil that afflicts child MC, after all, how could pain approach child MC, in Odon's even scarier presence?

REMIEL

Remiel had a lonely childhood and not exactly by choice. As a half angel-half nephilim, many angels, the most conservative ones, have always seen Remiel as a sin, an impure angel not worthy of being called such and having always been very literal-minded, despite the reassurances from her mother Azrael and her father Death, Remiel could never help but see such statements as the truth, because after all they weren't entirely wrong, she wasn't a pure celestial being, she have learned to live with it, however Remiel would see child MC's situation as unfair, being different. Since both child MC and Remiel are often gloomy and somber, they could actually be mistaken for related. As an angel of death, Remiel would frequently face issues such as depression and negative feelings, therefore she would be quite capable of making child MC feel better, having comforted several human souls in the past. One thing that child MC would appreciate before going to sleep would be, for example, having Remiel embrace them with her wings while softly humming them a lullaby that her mother Azrael used to sing to her when she was a child

NATHANIEL

Nathaniel, although he has always been a quiet angel even as a child, who let himself be carried away by the course of events, has always felt as if he was not in control of his actions, as if his destiny was in the hands of someone superior who controlled his every move and emotional response. As an extremely patient angel, caring for and managing a child MC with depression or ptsd would not necessarily be a problem, if anything a challenge, which Nathaniel would not intend to give up or abandon for any reason. Nathaniel would try to teach child MC how to let non-constructive criticism and insults slide over them, using failures as material to grow and improve, killing with kindness when possible those who show resentment towards them for no reason. Nathaniel is chill, but when annoyed he would be quite scary, so people would hardly bother child MC in his presence, also Nathaniel would show child MC the wonders of the world, trying to rekindle the spark of life in them. Nathaniel would always be child MC's guide

URIEL

Uriel's childhood was characterized by continuous attempts on her part to show her worth of becoming a warrior angel and by seeking compliments to feel valid, no matter how many times she fell and felt inadequate, she always got up in order to reach her goals and Uriel would like to help child MC achieve their dream whatever it may be, however she's aware that first they should be motivated enough and that currently it would be too soon. Uriel would see child MC being a victim of bullying as a real violation of justice and as an angel who represents it, she would go straight to the bullies, making them regret and reconsider every choice in their life and she would force them to apologize to child MC personally, with the threat of them going to hell if they act bad again or even worse, even if they ended up in heaven, then they would have to deal with Uriel. Uriel would act as child MC's shield and sword, promising that when they're unable to fight, she will protect them, for as long as they need, that she'll be the rock on which they can lean when they don't feel well

(also here's a small bonus of some OCs reaction to child MC fighting back against a bully):

[lay-z]

Based on this bitch

Pairing: alpha!Phillip Graves x fem!omega!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Omegaverse AU | established romantic relationship/bonding; knotting; squirting; a/b/o dynamics; praise kink; aftercare/fluff

This ended up so much sweeter than I intended it to be, but eh. The amount of times I've listened to that audio is... alarming. 😩😵‍💫💦 @goatgoesmbe

The dimly lit, lushly furnished bedroom is filled by the obscenely wet sounds of your cunt getting fingered, the frantic rustling of covers, and your alpha’s husky praises while your needy moans are the gasoline to an already blazing fire.

“Come on, baby. Come on, baby,” Phillip repeats, pumping three of his fingers into your sopping hole and curling them up deliciously to hit that little special spot not too far inside your quivering cunt. “Come on, baby, give it to me–fuck.” 

He’s nestled between your trembling thighs like a sniper, one of your supple legs draped over his broad shoulder to accommodate him as he fingerfucks your drooling pussy with perfected precision; feeling your warm, gushing slick dripping down his wrist and soaking into the soft bedsheets. Sheets he will be huffing for days after tonight to remind himself that you’re his now. 

Forever his to protect, his to love, his to fuck. 

“Phil... please,” you mewl desperately, writhing beneath him on the large mattress and canting up your hips to try and make his fingers plunge��deeper into your velvety walls—the need to be filled and stretched by his fat knot becoming unbearable as your heat threatens to consume you. “Please, baby, just f-fuck me.” 

It’s the first heat you’re spending with him as your mated alpha, expecting him to be less mean now that you’re in this vulnerable state of your cycle—and being dead wrong about it. 

“Shhh, darlin’,” he coos at you roughly, his fingers never losing their rhythm nor vigor, “–gotta make sure you’re ready for my cock first. Ya gotta gimme one more, hm? Can you do that f’me, honey?” 

The heel of your foot digs into his back, sinking into flexing muscles as your spine arches again, chasing the friction of his fingers, though Phillip doesn’t care about the pain—too distracted by the succulent smell and precious sounds his omega is making, along with the mind-numbing pressure already building up deep in his balls as he humps and grinds against the mattress for some relief. 

“Atta girl,” he snarls, nipping and kissing the inside of your thigh as he feels your walls tighten around his thrusting fingers, knowing you’re about to obey and give him another orgasm like he told you.  

Your whole body convulses with a yowling moan when he latches his plump lips around your swollen clit, flicking the tip of his tongue over the sensitive bud with a low groan while his free hand wraps around your other thigh to keep you somewhat still—strong fingers digging into giving flesh, short nails leaving crescent moons on your dewy skin as he laps at your clit like a sloppy dog having a drink of water; sucking and slurping up your slick until your eyes roll back into your skull. 

Each lick of his tongue and pump of his finger into your fluttering cunt pushes you closer to your release; liquid fire pumping through your veins and spiking your pheromones with something burnt as the passion mounts to a crescendo. 

Your body tenses, your mind blanks with white hot pleasure, spine arching sharply as you come with a silent scream before crying out his name while your greedy hole clenches and convulses around his fingers, trying to suck them in deeper. 

His movements slow as he milks your cunt for every tiny spasm, peppering open-mouthed kisses over your swollen flesh while his chest rumbles with a pleased purr. 

“Good girl,” he hums against your warm, sweat-slicked skin while you slump against the mattress, your limbs feeling heavy and mind comfortably fuzzy as the heat fever begins to recede. “My sweet, sweet darlin’ omega.” 

Phillip crawls up your body, boxes you in with his forearms braced next to your head while his hips nestle against yours like a perfect fit. You gaze up at him with glossy, heavy-lidded eyes, admiring his handsome features, a dopey smile tugging at your lips.  

“My sweet, sweet alpha,” you whisper hoarsely, tracing the prominent scar on his cheekbone with featherlight fingertips.  

He leans in, grinds his hips and murmurs against your lips: “Sweet enough to fuck you slow, darlin’.” 

The thick shaft of his cock glides between your puffy folds as he slicks himself up with your cum before he lines his weeping tip up with your hole, popping it past the rim with a guttural moan while his eyes flutter in bliss. His head tips forward to rest against your collarbone and his brain short-circuits at the feeling of your welcoming heat wrapping around his cock in a way that feels like coming home—like he should spill deep inside you and stretch you thin with his throbbing knot to let his potent seed take root already. 

“Fuck my life, sweetheart,” he groans into your neck, breath puffing and tongue flicking out to lick along your scent gland just to feel the mating scar he’d left there. 

“You fit me like a fuckin’ glove.”  

He growls softly when you whimper his name in return, lithe fingers roaming over his flushed skin and carding through his short hair in a way that leaves him breathless while he starts to move and grind his hips; sinking his long shaft deeper until he bottoms out with another uttered curse, his heavy balls nestling against the curve of your ass. 

The bed starts rocking as Phillip fucks you in a deep, sensual pace; causing your breath to hitch and dissipate in keening mewls while you cream and quake around his plundering cock until he dips down to swallow your needy moans by kissing you with fervent passion, tongues tangling and drooling sloppily as he groans into your mouth when your nails rake down his back, leaving your own red-hot marks. 

“That’s it, baby,” he rumbles with approval, panting against your lips while his pelvis grinds against yours, stimulating your swollen clit with each thrust. “Mark me up. Show ‘em who’s yours.” 

“Fuck, you’re mine,” you whimper, sounding utterly wrecked, “–m-my alpha.” 

Phillip has the audacity to chuckle before he folds you up in a heartbeat, heart thudding inside his chest when he has you in a mating press underneath him. He can feel you trembling when he changes the angle and fucks you harder, more purposeful; cunt squelching around his thick cock when his thrusts become harsher, balls slapping against your sticky skin with each roll of his hips. 

“I need to feel you cum, baby,” he rasps and trails his lips along your slack jaw, down the column of your throat to inhale your heady scent. “You’re gonna cum on my cock, yeah? Make a fuckin’ mess on me,” he snarls, feeling his own climax building hot and rapidly at the base of his spine. “Fuck, baby, come on–” 

All you can do is nod furiously, eyes squeezed shut while Phillip ruts into you with increasing urgency—your own climax sneaking up on you like a paid assassination, not giving you a moment to prepare, to gulp another breath before it wrecks through you violently. 

The pressure is immense, choking you momentarily while Phillip’s body blankets you completely, his buff chest pressing against yours as you squirm and writhe in his grip. It’s too much as you feel your pussy gush and squirt around his cock, so you muffle your cries of ecstasy by sinking your teeth into his shoulder, incisors piercing through skin and muscle, drawing warm blood—thus triggering his own release. 

“FUCK!” he roars, fucking into you with sharp, shallow thrusts as you soak his cock with your cum before slamming his hips forward one last time, burying himself to the root inside your rippling channel as his knot begins to swell. “Fuck, yes–yes, baby.” 

His cock jerks and pulses as he spills thick ropes of his hot seed deep into your clutching channel—the force of his climax tearing through him as he continues to grind his pelvis against yours sensually, making sure that every drop of his cum stays inside your gummy walls when his swollen knot pops past your hole, lodging into place. 

Your whimpers and moans are muffled as you keep biting and suckling on his shoulder, shivering and shaking with the aftershocks of your own peak while Phillip pants against your neck, trying to catch his breath. One hand comes up to cup the side of your sore jaw and he digs his thumb into the hollow of your cheek to pry your locked teeth open with an amused growl. 

“Open up, darlin’,” he chuckles darkly, “I’m not a fuckin’ chew toy.” 

“Mhm, sorry.”  

Letting go with a soft whine, strings of your saliva connect your lips with his bruised skin before he turns his head to capture your mouth in a deep yet slow kiss while his hand buries into your hair, cupping the back of your head as he massages your scalp. 

“You did so good f’me, baby,” he mutters against your lips, and you can hear the amusement in his raspy voice while his cock keeps twitching faintly inside you.  

“I might just have put a muzzle on you next time, yeah?”

[ateezscupid]

─── FEB FILTH FEST: Swim - ROUGH ♡

SUMMARY / Your husband comes home angry, so you let him take it out on you.

warnings ✩ SMUT, DOM/SUB dynamics, established relationship (you're married with kids), hard!dom seonghwa, fem!reader, sub!reader, light masochism & sadism, degradation, daddy kink, choking, hair pulling, unprotected sex, reader is left with bruises, SAFEWORDS!!

word count ✩ 2,64k

tags ✩ @desirehorizon @tangerineastronaut @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @starillusion13 @mingitheskzstan @bbdeongi @dawn-iscozy @xh01bri @mallielovssyou @clxssy1997 @soreberry @nopension @kitten4sannie @faeriehwas @kitten4sannie

ATEEZ MASTERLIST / REQUEST / FEB FILTH FEST

The door slammed shut with a bang, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet house. You paused, your hand hovering over the half-folded laundry. The vibration of the slam traveled through the wooden floorboards and up your spine, setting your nerves on edge. You knew that tone.

"Hwa? Is that you?" you put the laundry into the basket in front of you and carry it out of the bedroom, the scent of fresh fabric softener a stark contrast to the tension in the air.

"Mhm." he answered dryly, slamming his bag on the ground. You could see his shoulders tense from the kitchen doorway. The light from the setting sun cast an orange glow over him, highlighting his furrowed brow and clenched fists.

"Oh," you sit the basket on the ground and push it toward the wall, walking over and running a hand along his chest. "What happened, baby?"

He sighs, his body language speaking volumes. "It was a bad day at work. The boss was on my back, deadlines everywhere. I couldn't catch a break."

"I'm sorry." you caress his cheek, feeling the stubble scrape against your palm. His eyes, usually a soft brown, were now cold and distant. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head. "No, talking about it won't change a thing." His jaw was set in a firm line, his voice laced with frustration. You knew this wasn't just about work. It was about feeling powerless, about the weight of the world pressing down on him. You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his waist, hoping to offer some comfort, but he remained stiff.

"Well," you sigh. "Is there anything else you think could help?"

He turns to face you, his eyes searching your own. For a moment, you hold your breath, waiting for his response. His hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, and his grip tightens. "I just need to let it out," he says, his voice low and gruff. You can see the storm clouds gathering in his gaze, and you know what he means.

You tilt your head. "Yeah?" you pull at the buttons on his shirt. "How do you want to do that?"

His eyes drop to your neck, his gaze intense. "I want to take it out on you."

You bite your lip. This wasn't new, but it still made your heart race. "You can,"

He smirked and gently ran his fingers through your hair, tilting your face up to meet his. "But you have to be a good girl and do exactly as I say, okay?"

You nodded, feeling a mix of fear and excitement. This was the dynamic you'd agreed to, the one that gave him relief and you a sense of purpose. It had started out as a way to ease his stress, but over time, it had grown into something more, a part of your lives you kept hidden from the outside world.

He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. "Take your shirt off." His voice was firm but not harsh, and you obeyed, letting the fabric fall to the floor. His eyes roved over your body, and you felt a shiver run down your spine as his gaze grew hungry. You knew he wasn't seeing you as his wife anymore, but as a canvas for his anger and frustration.

You stepped closer, pressing yourself against him. His hands slid down your back, and his fingers dug into your skin, the pain sending a thrill through your body. You liked this side of him, liked the way he took control when he needed to. You craved it, even though you knew it wasn't healthy.

"Wait-" you squeak out. "The bed. We should go to the bedroom." You didn't want the neighbors to hear, and the last thing you needed was your kids walking in on this scene.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. You both knew the routine by heart. The living room was off-limits, the bedroom was the only place where this part of your relationship unfolded. He took your hand, leading you down the hallway, his grip tight enough to leave an imprint.

He walked into the bedroom and threw you onto the bed, kicking the door closed behind him. The mattress bounced under your weight, and you landed with a gasp. He towered over you, his eyes dark with the need to dominate. You felt the heat between your legs, the anticipation building. This was what he needed, what you both needed.

Without a word, he started to unbuckle his belt. The sound was like a gun cocking in the quiet room, and your heart hammered in your chest. You lay there, your eyes locked on his, as he slid the leather through the loops. The belt came free with a snap, and he held it up, the metal gleaming in the soft light.

"You remember what I said before?" His voice was a low growl, the kind that made your knees tremble. You nodded, your eyes never leaving the belt. "Then what did I say."

"You said I should do exactly as you tell me." You whispered, your voice shaking slightly.

He nodded, a smirk playing on his lips. "Good girl." He approached the bed, the belt swinging from his hand. "Take off the rest of your clothes."

You complied, your hands shaking as you unzipped your jeans and slid them off, along with your panties. He watched with a mix of anger and desire, his eyes raking over your naked body. The cool air of the room made your skin pebble with goosebumps, but the heat of his gaze kept you warm. You felt exposed and vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on.

He steps closer angrily, his breathing heavy, and you can see the rage in his eyes, but also the arousal. He's looking at you like he wants to devour you whole. You lie there, trembling slightly, your eyes on the belt. You know it's going to sting, but you also know that the pain will bring him the release he craves, and with it, the peace that follows.

He grabs you by the neck and lifts you off the bed, his grip tight but not choking. You stand before him, naked and trembling, as he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of your body. His hand slides down your throat to your chest, squeezing a breast, his thumb circling your hardened nipple. You gasp, your eyes fluttering closed.

"The prettiest little whore," he murmured, his voice a mix of anger and desire. He threw you back onto the bed, the mattress squeaking in protest. You bounced and landed with a gasp, your body ready for his wrath.

"Spread your legs," he commands, and you obey, feeling the coldness of the sheets against your thighs. He climbs onto the bed, straddling you, the belt now lying on the bedside table. His weight pins you down, and you can feel his erection pressing against your stomach. He runs his hand down your body, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. His touch is rough, but it doesn't scare you. You know he won't go too far.

He reaches between your legs, his fingers sliding through your wetness. You moan, arching your back. His eyes narrow, and he smirks. "So eager," he says, his voice thick with lust. He withdraws his hand and brings it up to his mouth, tasting you. The sight sends a bolt of arousal straight to your core.

"H-Hwa, just-" he immediately pressed his hand against your neck, his other slapping you across the cheek.

"What's my name?" he growled, his hand tightening around your throat. The pressure was just enough to cut off your breath, but not enough to make you pass out. You knew the rules, knew the power dynamics at play. You swallowed hard.

"Daddy," you whispered, your voice hoarse. It was the trigger word, the one that flipped the switch in him from your husband to the dominant figure you both needed in these moments. His eyes darkened further, his hand moving from your neck to squeeze your breast, his thumb pinching the nipple until you gasped.

Suddenly, he flipped you over and grabbed your arms, pinning them to your back. You felt the mattress shift beneath you as he straddled your hips, the weight of him pressing down on you. You could feel your heart racing, the anticipation making you wetter. He brought his hand down in a sharp crack across your ass, and you yelped, your body jolting. The pain was immediate, a searing heat that radiated from the point of impact.

"My bitch," he pushes his boxers down. "Treating you like a fucking cumdump and yet you're soaking wet for it," His coarse words sting but the pain is quickly overshadowed by the thrill of his touch as he enters you, hard and fast, without any preamble. You bite the pillow to muffle your cries, your body adjusting to the sudden intrusion. Each thrust is a punishment for your earlier transgression, each one driving the tension deeper into your soul.

He grabs a handful of your hair and pushes your face into the pillow, keeping your hips raised. His thrusts are punishing, his anger and frustration manifesting in the power behind each stroke. You can feel him taking his anger out on you, using your body as an outlet for the rage that's been festering inside him all day. And despite the pain, you find yourself craving more, needing the release that only comes with his dominance.

His hand connected with your ass once again, the sound echoing in the room. You moaned into the pillow, the sting mixing with the pleasure of his rough penetration. Each slap sent waves of heat through your body, heightening your arousal.

"Fucking bitch," he muttered, his hair sticking to his sweat covered forehead. "God, your pussy feels so good. Fits me just perfectly." His words were a mix of anger and lust, and they only served to make you wetter. You pushed back against him, meeting his punishing strokes with your own desperation.

He reached down and slapped your ass again, the sound ringing through the room. You gasped, the pain a sweet symphony that only served to fuel your desire. His grip tightened in your hair, and he pulled your head back, forcing you to look at him. "You like that, don't you?" His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth. You nodded, unable to form words around the pillow.

"When I ask you something, answer me." he growled. He let go of your hair and grabbed your neck, squeezing just hard enough to make your eyes water. "Do you like it when Daddy punishes you?"

"Y-Yes-!" you gasp, your voice muffled by the pillow. The pressure on your neck sends a fresh wave of arousal through your body, and you push back against him, your ass meeting his thighs with a smack. He grunts in approval, his strokes becoming more erratic, more intense. You can feel him losing control, his movements growing sloppier as his anger turns to passion.

"Yeah, baby. You're such a fucking whore," he chuckles, groaning after. "Letting me take your pretty little pussy like this. Like you're made just for me to use." He slaps your ass again, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the room. You moan louder, your body begging for more.

He slams into you harder, the sound of his hips smacking against your skin filling the space between your cries. The pain is a sweet release for both of you, a dance of dominance and submission that you've both come to crave. You feel his cock stretching you, filling you completely, the friction of each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through your core.

He lifted your head by the neck once again, forcing you to look at him as he thrust into you. "You're going to take all of it, aren't you?" His voice was strained, the veins in his neck standing out as he neared his climax. You nodded, your eyes glazed over with desire. The pain in your ass from the belt and the pressure on your throat melded with the fullness inside you, creating a symphony of sensations that had you on the edge.

"You're going to come with me, baby, okay?" His voice was a mix of a question and a command. You nodded again, your eyes pleading. He reached around and began to rub your clit, the pressure building. You could feel his orgasm approaching, his grip on your neck tightening.

With a final slap to your ass, he releases your throat. You gulp in air, the oxygen rushing to your head. "Now," he grunts, his hand moving faster. You can feel yourself climbing towards the edge, your muscles tensing. He slaps your ass once more, the sting pushing you over. You scream into the pillow, your body convulsing as your orgasm rips through you.

"Yeah, let it out, bitch." His voice was a harsh whisper, his breath hot and ragged against your ear. His hand on your neck tightened, his other hand still rubbing your clit in a relentless rhythm. You felt his cock swell inside you, the head of it hitting your g-spot with each punishing thrust. The pressure grew unbearable, your orgasm building like a volcano ready to erupt.

"D-Daddy, I'm-" You gasped out, your body tightening around him.

"Come for Daddy," he growled, his hips slamming into yours. "Come now."

You felt your orgasm crest, your pussy clenching around his thick cock. A scream tore from your throat, muffled by the pillow. Your body arched off the bed, your toes curling as waves of pleasure washed over you. His hand squeezed your neck, and you felt his cock pulse inside you, hot cum filling you up. He grunted, his muscles tensing as he emptied himself into you, the warmth of his release mixing with the sticky wetness of your own climax.

"Yeah…" he panted, grabbing a handful of your hair with his other hand still rubbing small circles over your clit.

"V-Vanilla…" you whispered your safe word, the word that signaled the end of the scene. It was the only time you ever used it, when it was all too much, when the pain overwhelmed the pleasure. His movements stopped abruptly, his body tensing for a moment before he rolled off of you, his eyes searching your face for any sign of distress.

"It's okay, you're okay." he pushes your hair out of your face, his eyes softening from their earlier ferocity. You take deep breaths, feeling your body slowly come down from the intense high. The sting in your neck and ass starts to fade, leaving behind a warm glow of satisfaction. You roll over onto your side, curling up into a ball.

"Jesus, I bruised you." he mumbled. You glanced at the bruises on your skin and giggle slightly. It's part of the deal. You liked the marks, the evidence of his power over you. "You okay?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

You nod, still panting. "Yeah. That was… intense," you murmur, your voice still shaky. You felt a mix of relief and exhaustion wash over you. The anger that had been brewing inside him was now gone, replaced by a gentle tenderness as he brushed your hair out of your face and kissed your forehead.

"I'll start your bath," he said softly, getting off the bed and walking towards the en suite bathroom. You watched his naked form as he disappeared into the steam, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floorboards. The sound of running water filled the room, the scent of your favorite lavender bath salts soon mingling with the sweat and sex in the air.

[bunnis-monsters]

Ahh your bee hybrids are making me think of the dynamics of the bulls and cows ♡♡ So doting and loving~ Soft and fuzzy!

I keep thinking about a nearby wasp or hornet colony getting a little jealous hearing about such a pretty queen - they're so big and scary..

Just rambly thoughts hehe, enjoy your day/night~

Let’s just say that you had a good relationship with the wasp hybrids before becoming the queen of the bee hybrids. You may have even had a fling with one or two, and they told the others.

For a while they watched on in jealousy, wanting you for themselves, until some got brave.

A few wasps get in and mate with the queen, filling you with their own eggs. It’s different than mating with the bees, they fuck and stuff you, leaving you with bite marks and hickeys… it feels so good…

The bee hybrids are devastated when they find out and aren’t sure what to do… while they hate the idea of sharing you, they’d also prefer to not go to war with the wasp hybrids. Hive vs Hive won’t end well, and your safety is their top priority.

So they find the wasps responsible and execute them… but you don’t really like that. Now the bees have made their beloved queen sad, and their next suggestion only angers you further.

They want to just kill the eggs, but that upsets you! They’re your eggs, and you get to decide if you carry them or not! The bees are at a loss. While killing them isn’t allowed by you, they can’t stay in the bee hive, that’s dangerous. Wasps are aggressive and they’re afraid they’ll hurt your bee hybrid babies.

The wasps send an ambassador, who says the other hive will go to war with them for the queen… but they offer a compromise.

Since both hives love you and neither of them wants to suffer through a war, they suggest sharing you.

So they hesitantly accept the offer to share their queen, the only stipulation being that they have more access to her and their eggs are the priority. The wasps don’t really plan on obeying that rule, but they agree because god they want you so bad.

Now imagine being surrounded by the aggressive and rough wasp hybrids that are deliciously rough on your fat cunt while you’re also being worshipped and adored by the bee hybrids who mate with you however you please…

You’d spend your days going from one hive to another, being given more and more love and affection as both hives try to stay in your favor and possibly convince you to stay with them forever.

They’re both very possessive species, and aggressive when it comes to their hive and queen. Who knows how long this treaty will last.

This scenario could be explored more if anyone’s interested.

I think the bees would usually not do this, but with the added lore that the queen was once friendly with the wasps and they are more desperate to have her means the bees would rather share than potentially lose to war. In their minds they can’t comprehend that the wasps would never hurt you, they think that they will take out the entire hive along with you.

[skzstarl0ver]

˜”°•.˜”°• Rivals with benefits •°”˜.•°

Lee know x reader / enemies to lovers / secret relationship / smut / emotional confession

**involves!!** cursing, tension, sex, praise kink, rough/soft dynamic, emotional tension, dirty talk

enjoy xx (open for request)

★.•☆•.★★.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★ skzstarl0ver ★⡀.•☆•.★⡀.•☆•.★¸.•☆•.¸★

You and Lee Minho are like oil and fire.

Not water and fire—because water tries to calm. You? You burn.

From the second you joined the dance crew, it’s been war. If you nail a move, he pushes harder. If he shines in rehearsal, you double your effort. You challenge each other, mock each other, drive each other insane.

And yet… you’ve never looked away.

Especially not when he’s sweaty in rehearsal, shirt clinging to his body, lip caught in his teeth as he watches himself in the mirror with that impossible focus. Or when his voice dips low, sharp and smug, when he says something to rile you up.

You hate him.

You want him.

Which is why the first time it happens, it feels like a dam breaking.

It’s after practice. You’re both the last ones there. You argue. You get in each other’s space.

And then you’re kissing.

No—biting.

No—devouring.

He pins you to the wall like he’s waited months to do it.

You should stop. You don’t.

It becomes a thing.

You don’t talk about it. You don’t plan it.

It just happens—whenever you’re alone, and angry, and can’t stand how badly you want each other.

Your friends think you still hate each other. And during the day? You do. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

But then there’s night.

And the way he looks at you like you’re his only focus.

The way he touches you like it’s more than release—like it’s a need.

His apartment. 11:47PM.

You shouldn’t be here. You said you wouldn’t come. But your body knows the code to his door.

You barely get two words out before he has you pressed against the wall, mouth hot on your neck.

“You couldn’t stay away,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Missed me?”

“Shut up.”

He smirks. “Make me.”

You crash your mouth against his.

His hands are everywhere—hips, thighs, waist, under your hoodie. He picks you up like you weigh nothing and carries you to the couch.

He drops you onto the cushions, kneels between your thighs, and yanks off your shorts in one smooth motion. You gasp as the cool air hits your skin—then moan when his mouth follows immediately after.

“Minho—” your voice is already breathy.

“Keep saying my name like that,” he growls against your skin, licking a slow stripe over your inner thigh.

He slides two fingers through your folds, glancing up with that cocky, devastating smirk. “Dripping. Already?”

You hate how much power he has over you. You love how he uses it.

His mouth is hot, tongue skillful, fingers curling just right as he devours you like he’s starving.

Your head falls back. “Fuck—don’t stop—”

“Oh, I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice muffled between your thighs.

You’re close embarrassingly fast. He knows it. Keeps the pace steady, relentless, until your hips jerk and you gasp his name like a confession.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until you’re shaking, overstimulated, tugging his hair with a breathless “Minho, please—”

He pulls back, mouth wet, pupils blown.

“Take your shirt off,” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You obey.

He strips, revealing skin and muscle and everything you try not to fantasize about when he’s pissing you off during practice.

He climbs on top of you, lining himself up, but pauses—just enough to look into your eyes.

“You want this?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He doesn’t move.

“I need to hear it.”

“I want you,” you breathe. “I always fucking want you.”

His lips crash into yours again, and he thrusts in, slow and deep, making your back arch and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

You cling to him, gasping, every stroke sending sparks through your whole body.

It’s rough, but not careless. Every snap of his hips is measured, deliberate, like he knows your body better than you do.

“You drive me insane,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “But I can’t stop. Can’t stop thinking about you. Touching you. Wanting you.”

Your heart stutters.

He’s close. You are too. And when you come again, it hits harder than it ever has—your name breaking from his lips as he follows seconds after, collapsing on top of you with a shuddering breath.

You’re still sprawled across his couch, blanket barely covering you, Minho's arm draped over your waist, chest still rising fast against your back. The room is warm, filled with the scent of sex and sweat and something dangerously close to tenderness.

You’re about to speak—say something sarcastic, maybe ask if he has water—when there’s a sudden buzz at the door.

Minho groans softly, pressing his face into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But the buzz comes again.

And again.

You sit up. “It could be important.”

Minho grumbles but pulls on sweatpants and stalks to the door.

The second it opens—

“Y/N?!”

Your heart drops.

Your best friend, Jisoo, is standing in the hallway, holding the iced coffee you forgot you asked her to drop off earlier. She was supposed to leave it at the door.

Instead, she’s staring past Minho’s shoulder—right at you, wrapped in a blanket on his couch, flushed, messy, very much freshly wrecked.

Her eyes go wide.

You look at her.

She looks at you.

Then Minho.

Then back to you.

You swear time stops.

“I—uh—I forgot I gave her your address once,” you say quickly, voice cracking.

Jisoo slowly blinks. “You’re sleeping with Minho?”

Minho leans casually on the doorframe, smug and shirtless. “Sleeping with? Baby, be honest—we haven’t slept a single time.”

You throw a pillow at his head. “MINHO—”

Jisoo gasps. “Oh my god, I walked into a fucking fanfic.”

You panic. “It’s not serious, okay?! It’s just sex—”

Your voice is louder than you mean for it to be. Defensive. Sharp. Like you’re trying to cut through the heat still lingering in your skin.

Jisoo just blinks at you, wide-eyed in the hallway.

Behind you, Minho's expression shifts—something flickering behind his usual cool exterior.

He steps forward.

His voice, when he speaks, isn’t teasing. Isn’t smug.

It’s quiet. Certain.

“No, it’s not.”

You freeze.

The words hit you harder than they should.

“What?” you ask, even though you heard him.

Minho looks at you—really looks. No smirk, no bite, no mask. His face is open in a way you’ve never seen.

“I said it’s not just sex,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “At least not for me.”

Your heart stutters.

He glances at Jisoo—who, to her credit, is now pretending to look very interested in the floor tiles—and then back at you.

“I know we’ve been playing this game like it doesn’t mean anything,” he says, voice low. “But it does. To me.”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

He takes a step closer, like he’s afraid you might run.

“I care about you,” he says, softer now. “And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t just because someone else found out.”

You want to say something snarky. You want to laugh it off. You want to not feel this.

But the look in his eyes?

It guts you.

You feel Jisoo slowly back away, awkwardly muttering something about “text me later” before she disappears down the hallway, giving you space.

Minho doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t plan for this to happen,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought… maybe if I kept it casual, I could control it. Control how I felt about you.”

His gaze drops to the floor for a beat. Then back to you.

“But I can’t.”

You’re still holding your shirt in your hands. Still standing in his living room in the aftermath of what was supposed to be just another night.

And suddenly, it doesn’t feel casual at all.

_

You leave his apartment with your jacket half-zipped, heart pounding like it’s chasing something you’re still running from.

You didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

Not when he looked at you like that. Like he meant it. Like he was done hiding and wanted you to do the same.

You don’t text him.

You don’t sleep.

Instead, you sit on your bed, staring at the ceiling, haunted by his voice in your head.

“I care about you. And I’m not gonna pretend I don’t.”

And damn it, you feel it too.

You felt it in the way he touched you like you were something fragile under all the fire. You saw it in the way he looked at you after you came undone in his hands—like you weren’t just a body, but something he wanted to hold after.

You're not scared of sex.

You're scared of this.

Of how real it suddenly is.

But when your phone buzzes with one single message—

“If you come back, I’ll say it again. As many times as you need.”

—you’re out the door before you can change your mind.

You knock once.

He opens the door instantly—like he’d been waiting just behind it.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

Then you're moving—you drop your bag, step into him, crash your mouth to his.

This kiss is different.

It’s not angry. Not desperate.

It’s slow. Deep. Like you're tasting every inch of what you almost lost.

His hands come up to your face, thumbs brushing your jaw like you’re something delicate. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

When he pulls back just slightly, your noses still touching, he whispers: “I missed you. Every day I didn’t have you—I missed you.”

Your eyes burn.

You lean into his touch, whispering back, “I was scared.”

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I was too.”

You look up at him, voice barely audible. “Do you still want me?”

His answer is immediate.

“I never stopped.”

He takes your hand, leads you to the bedroom—not like last time.

Not rushed. Not rough.

He strips you slowly, eyes roaming over every inch like he’s trying to memorize you.

“Lie back,” he whispers.

You do.

He hovers over you, kissing you everywhere but your mouth—throat, collarbone, stomach—each kiss a word he doesn’t say out loud.

His hands move softly over your body, teasing but not taunting. Reverent.

When his lips finally reach where you ache for him most, he doesn't rush. He takes his time.

Licks. Sucks. Worships.

You gasp his name like a prayer.

“That's it,” he whispers, fingers curling inside you perfectly. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re already trembling when he slides up your body, eyes searching yours.

“Tell me you want me.”

You pull him in, kiss him hard. “I want you.”

He enters you slowly this time—deep, smooth, like he’s trying to fit the words he can’t say into every stroke.

And it’s different now.

You feel everything.

Every roll of his hips. Every gasp. Every whispered name. It’s not about fucking anymore—it’s about being close. Being seen.

“You feel so good,” he groans into your neck. “Always do.”

You cling to him, nails digging into his back. “Minho…”

“Say it again.”

“Minho.”

He picks up the pace just a little, making you whimper.

“I’m yours,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’ve been yours.”

That’s what undoes him.

He groans deep in his chest and moves faster, chasing your high as you spiral with him—both of you coming undone, this time not just with bodies but with hearts bared and burning.

After

You’re tangled together in his sheets, breath finally steadying.

He’s tracing patterns on your back, your head resting on his chest.

You look up at him. “You still care about me?”

He smirks, brushing your hair away. “I just made love to you for an hour. What do you think?”

You smile.

Then you kiss him again—slow, sweet, and soft.

No rivalry.

Just you and him.

Finally real.

[wchswift]

── 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

pairing! soldier boy x fem!reader

→ summary! ben decides to reverse the roles a bit and destroy you instead. part 2 of "tied him down to my queen bed." → contents! established relationship, no plot just porn, rough sex, power play, dom!soldier boy, degradation, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, dirty talk, explicit language, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), praise & degradation kink, possessiveness, cocky/bratty dynamics, teasing, fingering, choking (light), masturbation (teasing/control), really filthy lol. mdni 𖤐 18+ !! → word count! 1.8k

The sound of the ropes snapping is barely audible over the pounding in your ears, over the sharp inhale you take when Ben lunges forward. One second, you’re in control—smug, taunting, playing your little game. The next, you’re flipped onto your back so fast the air is knocked from your lungs.

His weight presses you down, thick hands pinning your wrists above your head, the same way you had him. His grip is bruising, ironclad, his forearms flexing as he cages you in.

"Thought you were real fuckin’ cute, huh?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous. "Gettin’ me all wound up, keepin’ me on edge, makin’ me beg?" His lips curl, a smirk full of sharp teeth. "Well, sweetheart, now it's my turn."

You swallow hard, but your cunt clenches at the raw fury in his voice, at the way his body is pressed tight against yours, hot and hard and so fucking big.

"Look at you," he sneers, shifting his hips so the thick length of his cock slides against your slick folds, teasing. "You love it, don’t you? You love bein’ a fuckin’ brat. Love pissin’ me off just to see what I’ll do to you."

You gasp when he rolls his hips again, the head of his cock nudging against your clit, sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. Your thighs twitch, trying to press together, but he grips your knee and forces you open, spreading you wide beneath him.

"Not so cocky now, huh?" he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw, his breath hot and heavy. "Now that you’re the one tied down? Where is that dominant woman?"

You want to snap back, want to play it cool, but when his fingers slide down your stomach, teasing over your swollen clit, all that comes out is a breathy, pathetic whimper.

His smirk widens.

"That’s what I fuckin’ thought."

And then he pulls back.

You blink up at him, dazed, breathing hard. He sits back on his heels, still straddling you, looking down like he’s got all the time in the world.

"Here’s what’s gonna happen, sweetheart." His voice is slow, deliberate. "You’re gonna touch that pretty little pussy for me."

Your breath catches.

His hands slide down his own torso, abs flexing as he strokes his cock—slow, lazy, teasing himself the same way you did to him.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs. "Wanna see you spread yourself open for me. Wanna watch those pretty fingers play with that sloppy little cunt."

Heat floods through you, your face burning, but fuck, the way he’s looking at you—eyes dark, lips wet, chest rising and falling with every heavy breath—it’s too much.

Your hand trembles as it slides down your stomach, fingers parting your folds, dragging through the slick that’s pooled there.

"Good girl," he praises, his voice like gravel. "Now rub that clit for me. Nice and slow."

You obey, gasping when your fingers make contact, circling that swollen bundle of nerves. Your hips jerk slightly, chasing more, but his voice is sharp.

"Ah-ah. Slow."

You whimper, forcing yourself to keep the pace light, teasing, exactly how he wants.

"Shit," he groans, fisting the base of his cock, stroking once, twice, watching you like a predator watches prey. "Look at you. Drippin’ all over yourself. So fuckin’ needy."

Your fingers work over your clit, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. You squirm beneath him, biting your lip, your free hand gripping the sheets.

"Look at you," he murmurs, eyes locked on your hand between your thighs. "So desperate to cum, huh?"

"Please," you whisper, barely able to form the word.

He laughs—low, dark, cruel.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawls, still slowly jerking his cock. "You’re not gonna cum."

Your stomach clenches.

"Not until I say so."

You whine, thighs trembling, fingers still working your clit, but the ache, the need, is unbearable. Your body is screaming for more, for relief, but he just watches, smirking, stroking himself like he has all the time in the world.

"You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this," he muses. "All spread out, soaked, beggin’ for it." He tuts, shaking his head. "Should make you do this all night. Make you edge yourself until you’re fuckin’ cryin’ for me."

Your breath stutters, your thighs twitching at the filthy promise in his voice.

"Maybe I’ll just watch," he murmurs, voice thick, gaze hooded. "Maybe I won’t even fuck you. Just make you do all the work while I sit back and enjoy the show."

Your fingers falter, and you make a pathetic little noise, somewhere between a whimper and a sob. Your body is shaking, your pussy clenching around nothing, your entire being screaming for him.

"Please," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I—I can’t— fucking do something already..."

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching, his grip tightening on his cock. You can tell he’s barely holding himself back, barely restraining the urge to rip your hand away and shove his cock inside you.

Finally, finally, he leans down, his breath hot against your ear.

"That’s enough," he growls. "Get your fuckin’ hands off my pussy."

Your fingers still immediately, and he grabs your wrist, pinning it above your head before pressing his weight down on you again, his cock nudging against your entrance.

"You want it, babydoll?" His voice is rough, shaking slightly. "You want this fuckin’ cock?"

"Yes," you sob, body arching against him, desperate beyond words.

"Then beg for it."

“Fuck Ben,” you gasp, voice breaking, wrecked with need. “Please, I need you, I need your cock—”

Soldier Boy laughs, low and rough, like gravel in his throat. He knows how sweet you are playing to get what you want. He knows you. “That’s all you got?” His fingers tighten around your wrists, keeping you pinned beneath him. His cock slides against your drenched folds, teasing, dragging through the slick mess you’ve made of yourself. “Come on, sweetheart. You can do better than that.”

You writhe beneath him, helpless, thighs twitching every time his cock nudges your clit. The teasing, the denial—it’s too much, it’s too fucking much.

“Please, I—I can’t take it anymore—”

“Oh, you can,” he growls, dragging his teeth down your throat, sucking a bruise against your skin. “I made you like this. So fuckin’ desperate. So fuckin’ soaked.” He grinds against you again, slow and torturous, letting you feel every inch of him. “You love it.”

You whimper, hips jerking up, trying to take him in, but he pulls back, again, leaving you aching, throbbing, empty.

"Beg better," he orders, gripping your chin, forcing you to look at him. His pupils are blown, his jaw tight, his cock twitching against you. You can tell he’s barely holding himself together, but fuck, he loves this. He lives for this.

"I—fuck—" Your brain is a mess, nothing but white-hot need burning through you. "I'm aching for you, baby, to finally feel you, I need you inside me, I want you to stretch me open, use me, fuck me—please—"

"That’s more like it."

And then, finally, finally, he lines himself up and shoves inside you with one brutal thrust.

You scream.

It’s too much, it’s perfect, the stretch burning so fucking good as he buries himself to the hilt, filling you up, splitting you open. His cock is thick, heavy, pulsing deep inside, and your walls squeeze around him, desperate to keep him there.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice wrecked, forehead dropping to yours. "So tight, so fuckin’ tight—"

You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders, and he doesn’t wait, doesn’t give you a second to adjust before he moves.

The rhythm he sets is brutal, merciless, hips slamming into yours, his cock hitting deep, over and over and over. Every thrust knocks the breath from your lungs, drives the air from your body.

"That's what you wanted?" His voice is a growl, lips brushing against your ear. "Wanted me to ruin you?"

You can’t speak, can’t think, can only sob out broken moans as he fucks you like he’s trying to break you. His weight presses you down, keeps you helpless beneath him, makes you take it.

"Fuckin’ brat," he snarls, hand closing around your throat, not squeezing—just holding, making you feel how small you are beneath him. "Think you can tease me, tie me up, make me beg?"

His pace somehow gets rougher, more punishing, skin slapping against skin, sweat dripping from his chest onto yours.

"Ah, you fucking loved it and I know." you managed to speak, your voice hoarse and strangled.

"Still cocky, huh? This fucking mouth" He bites your jaw, licks the sting. "But what happened to the rest of that attitude?"

You try to speak, try to say anything, but all that comes out is a whimper.

"That’s what I thought," he grunts, grinding his hips deep, making you scream. "Nothing but a dumb little fucktoy now, huh?"

The words send a fresh flood of heat straight to your core, and he feels it, groaning when your walls squeeze around him.

"Yeah," he breathes, lips curling into a smug, wicked smirk. "You love it. Love bein’ my fuckin’ toy."

You nod, brainless, lost in him, lost in the way he’s tearing you apart, making you his.

"Say it," he orders, voice sharp, grip tightening on your hips.

"I—fuck—I love it," you gasp. "Love being your—your fucktoy—"

"Good fuckin’ girl," he praises, and your whole body burns.

"But you— you love being my toy too." you finish, still teasing. A proud smirk appeared on your blushed and full of pleasure face.

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. Letting that one slip because, fuck, you're right. Then his hand slides down between you, finds your clit, and rubs harsh, tight circles.

"Come for me," he orders, his voice lethal. "Make a fuckin’ mess on my cock."

It’s not a request.

The pleasure slams into you like a freight train.

You scream, body locking up, pleasure tearing through you like a live wire. Your vision goes white, the world disappearing as your orgasm destroys you, rips you apart at the seams.

Soldier Boy fucks you through it, grunting as your walls spasm around him, milking his cock, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m—" His rhythm stutters, turns sloppy, desperate, until he snaps, burying himself to the hilt and growling as he spills inside you.

You feel it, dear God, you feel it, the heat flooding deep, his cock twitching as he pumps you full, branding you from the inside out.

He collapses on top of you, heavy, breath ragged, heartbeat pounding against yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moves, both wrecked, used up, panting in the aftermath.

Then, finally, Ben chuckles, voice still rough.

"I think we should do this more often, doll. But next time you wanna tie me up, oh sweetheart…" He lifts his head, smirking down at you, eyes dark, wicked. "You better make sure I can’t break free."

𖤐 reblogs and feedback are appreciated! requests are also welcome, ty!

⛥ main masterlist.

lina's notes: helloo!! sooo here's part two... no cliffhanger this time lol. you guys asked me so much and I hope it's as good as part one and doesn't leave anything to be desired yk. also, I just realized I hit 470+ followers AND THANK YOU SO MUCH I APPRECIATE IT SO SO MUCH AND LOVE YOU ALL, so I decided to post this as a 400 followers thank you 💜👯

tags: @blossomingorchids @rositaslabyrinth @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bluemerakis @h8aaz @bruisedfig @sapphic-destiel @deansfavorite @mostlymarvelgirl @jbsgirl4ever11 @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @strawbeepop @amazingphil @tinas111 @jasvtscrecs @maddie0101 @bejeweledinterludes @starzify @inbred-eater @losers-clvb @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @pieandflannel @mostlymarvelgirl @jbsgirl4ever11 @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @strawbeepop @amaris444 @tinas111 @fuckedupfate (let me know if you want to be added or removed <3)

[moonstruckme]

Using this request again: I am once again asking for Prince!Sirius, perhaps a tryst in the royal gardens? A stolen kiss while practicing a waltz? An eventful evening at the opera for the “engaged” couple? A midnight motorbike ride throughout the city, away from the palace guards? Sneaking out in the night to see each other?

Thanks for the double inspo babe ;)

cw: hint at abusive dynamic between Walburga and Sirius, arranged marriage

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 1.8k words

Sirius has grown really terribly fond of you. It’s been happening for a while. First you were a curiosity, then an amusement, and then somewhere along the way he came to care for you more than he should likely admit. 

You’re resplendent in the glow of the lights from the opera house stage, warm yellow kissing the curves of your face and reflecting in your pupils. Your gown spills half out of your chair and into Sirius’ lap, gentle blue like the twilight sky. It looks lovely on you. When you sat down, the skirt poofed out in front of you and you shot Sirius a look like are you seeing this?

Being seated next to you is, he has learned, a privilege of betrothal. Your engagement happened overnight, swift and unromantic. Sirius had simply woken up yesterday morning to be informed by his mother that he was to be married, presumably around the same time that a courtier or your grandmother was delivering the news to you. It was a bit surprising, though Sirius reminds himself continually that this is a part of the plan you and he made together all those weeks ago; it is possible, however, that in Sirius’ fanciful imaginings of how he might one day ask someone to spend the rest of their life with him, it did not involve his mother listing it off like one of the day’s appointments as she vengefully drew back his curtains. 

Your engagement was announced to the press by later that day. Tonight marks your first outing as a betrothed couple, the opera chosen specifically for its visibility and silent nature; you’re to be photographed, but not to chat to the press. Every now and again, Sirius will catch you rolling your shoulders like you’re being conscious of your posture. 

You lean close to him. “Can you understand what they’re saying?” you murmur. “It’s so slow.” 

Sirius has to cover his snicker by pretending he’s clearing his throat. “No, babe. It’s Italian, I can’t understand it either.” 

“Oh. Oops.” He glances over, and your expression has gone adorably sheepish. You look to be repressing a smile. “Don’t tell anyone I asked, then.” 

“Philistine.” He tugs playfully on the fabric of your skirt. “I’m leaking that to Bazaar.” 

You make a stymied giggling sound. Something flares in Sirius’ chest. “Hey, we’re engaged now. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.” 

Sirius grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, beautiful.” 

“Sirius,” his mother hisses. 

Your lips disappear inside your mouth. Sirius rolls his eyes but obeys the implicit command, going quiet again. He reaches for your hand underneath the armrest, squeezing. 

Now that your relationship is public, your families know better than to let you and Sirius slip from their sights. During intermission you’re both kept in your seats while attendants leave the box to replenish food and drink. You shift a little in your seat, smiling and nodding politely at comments about the performance. Sirius suspects the gauzy underskirts of your dress are bothering you. You rarely complain, but when prompted Sirius can usually coax you into admitting some discomfort or another. You seem never to get used to the threads and trimmings of royalty. He’d pay a handsome fortune to see what you used to wear in your day-to-day life. Occasionally seeing you in your sleep clothes is treat enough; if he let his mind roam free, Sirius might indulge in fantasies of cutoff shorts, sweaters with threads pulled loose by age, thrift store sundresses and grass-stained trainers. 

You tap Sirius’ hand meaningfully before asking your grandmother to point you toward the facilities. The lights are down again, the press gone back to the foyer, so you’re waved off with no courtiers to follow you. Sirius waits a few minutes before saying he needs them as well. His mother snatches his wrist as he stands, but he’s made his announcement just loudly enough to be overheard; she can’t avoid letting him leave, though she makes sure to pin him with a baleful stare as he does. 

He finds you in a sitting area nowhere near the facilities, leaning against a wall with your lip caught between your teeth. You free it when you see Sirius, pushing off the wall to come towards him. 

“Hi,” you sigh, hugging him. 

Sirius enfolds you in turn. “Hi,” he says back, strangely breathless. It’s not unheard of for you to touch him, but to put your arms around him so unthinkingly, like you’ve been waiting all day to do it…Sirius wouldn’t have guessed such a gentle motion could knock the air out of him so entirely. He’d happily never breathe again. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Sorry.” Your hold tightens on his shoulders for a moment before you let go. “It’s just a lot.” 

“Is your skirt irritating you?” He grins. You mirror it, and Sirius watches with approval as some of the tension in your posture uncoils. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, something soft and almost coquettish in your tone.

“You’ve been squirming like someone let a colony of ants loose under there.” 

Your face becomes serious. “Really?” 

“No. You’re the picture of poise and good manners, I just have an eye for itchy formal wear. Stop worrying, sweetheart; the camera loves you.” 

“My grandmother said someone released a picture of me last week where I looked like a hunched-over tortoise.” 

“Well, your grandmother—and I say this at risk of a war between our nations—is a dunce.” 

There it is again. Laughter like fireworks popping in Sirius’ chest, hidden regrettably behind a raised hand. Your eyes are all impish delight. 

“You’re awful.” 

“You’re not a tortoise. It would be the flattery of a tortoise’s life to be compared to you.” 

“Isn’t it just…” You shake your head, expression unguarded in that way Sirius loves to think only happens around him. “Don’t you find all this engagement stuff a bit much?” 

He feels himself frown. “You’re upset about the engagement?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

“I thought,” Sirius says, somewhat offended though endeavoring not to be, “this was what we wanted.” 

“No, I know.” You blow out a breath. “I know. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen this fast, I suppose. Have they started talking to you about venues for the wedding yet?” 

Sirius lifts a brow. “No. Those sorts of decisions typically go through my mother, not me.” 

“Well, they’ve been talking to me about it.” You begin pacing, the layers of your dress swishing with every step. Sirius finds himself watching your restless hands. “Apparently, every member of my family has gotten married in the same church, but every member of your family has gotten married in a different church, and it’s only recently been brought to everyone’s attention that the members of both churches have been involved in some suspicious activities over the years. So now our advisors want to pick a new location, but your family wants to stick to tradition.” 

“Rather predictable of us,” Sirius owns.

“I’ve already had people asking me about floral color schemes. I don’t even recognize half the words they threw at me there.” You go by him once, twice, three times, your pace quickening with what Sirius presumes is the quickening of your heartbeat. “They want me to get allergy tested to be sure I won’t cause some sort of unexpected scene because of anything they serve at the reception. And—oh, I don’t know if you know, but we’re meant to taste cakes on Tuesday.” 

“That sounds fun,” Sirius says. “I rather hope I’m invited to that one, actually.” 

“It’s—yeah, that one does sound fun,” you allow, steps faltering slightly. “If we could just taste cakes, there really wouldn’t be any problem, but it’s not just that, you know? I’m supposed to start looking for a wedding dress soon.” 

“Alright. Hey.” Sirius catches your arm before you can pass him by again. You stop, looking down as though surprised to see his fingers denting gently into the crook of your elbow. He doesn’t let go. “Sweetheart, we can call it off. Okay? It’s alright.” 

You look confused. “Call off what, the engagement?” 

He nods. “We were never going to see it all the way through, right? We can end it whenever you like. Right now, if you want.” 

“I…” Your eyes move over his face. Sirius looks right back at you. “I don’t want that.” 

It’s absurd, the relief that washes through him. Sirius has a horrible feeling that he is setting himself up to be so, so heartsick. 

“No?” he asks, just to be sure. 

You shake your head. “I’m just…I’ll get used to it.” Your fingers find the end of his tie, toying with the silky material. “What about you? How are you doing with it all?” 

Sirius smiles. “There are worse fates than to be betrothed to a beautiful girl.” 

You get that look you do whenever he compliments you. Gaze fleeing his, lips curving bashfully, like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. “You don’t need to flirt with me,” you say. “We’re alone.” 

“Oh, but I love flirting with you,” he confesses. “Would you really deny me one of my scant joys in life?” 

Your eyes flick up to his, mirthful. “Your scant joys? The palace staff had out-of-season oranges sent from Brazil last week because you wanted an orange cake.” 

Sirius shrugs. 

“I’m just saying. There’s no one around to hear it.” 

“Lovely, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment we met.” He sweeps his thumb over the back of your arm, partly to tease you and partly just because he wants to. He pretends not to feel the goosebumps that rise from the action. “I’m not sure I could stop if I wanted to—or if you’d even recognize me. You might not like me without my flirting, did you ever think of that?” 

“I’d like you,” you say. Simply, unhesitatingly. 

“I suppose we’ll never know.” 

You shake your head again, your expression earnest. “I would.” 

Sirius’ heart thudders. He is suddenly, inescapably aware of the thickness of the air between you. It’s lessened in distance, somehow, heavying from your warm breaths and the heat of your bodies. His hand is still curled around your elbow. You have his tie between your fingers. Without thinking, Sirius closes the gap. 

You draw in a little breath. Your lips are soft and giving, and Sirius is terrified of you, he really is. You have his heart in the palm of your hand. 

When you don’t move after a moment, he draws back, his hand slipping down your forearm. Rejection is hot and sharp as a fire poker between his ribs.

He opens his eyes to find yours never closed. 

“I—” 

“Wait.” Your hand tightens on his tie, the other gripping his arm back. Your chin tips up, and your voice is breathless, ardent, pleading. “Sirius—” 

You push up at the same time as he pushes down, and your mouths crash together. 

[yena-enha]

𝐓𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡 - 𝐏𝐒𝐇

Warning - Rough sex, dom/sub dynamics, spanking, degradation, choking, possessiveness, obsessive behavior, bruising, unsafe sex, car sex, power play, primal aggression, toxic relationship dynamics.

Note - MDNI (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT), Interact At Your Own Risk, NSFW Content

Genre - Smut, Dark Romance, Rivalry, Angst

Pairing - Top IllegalRacer!Sunghoon × Top IllegalRacer!FemReader

Inspiration - Teeth By 5SOS

Word Count - 1.8k words

The underground racing scene was a beast of its own—dark, chaotic, and thrumming with danger. The air reeked of gasoline and burning rubber, the roar of engines so deafening it rattled the pavement beneath your feet.

And in the heart of it all, you stood across from Park Sunghoon.

Your rival. Your obsession. The only one who had ever come close to matching you on the streets.

His gaze was razor-sharp, cutting through the thick tension between you. “Think you can actually beat me tonight, sweetheart?” he taunted, voice dripping with smug confidence.

You scoffed, arms crossed over your chest as you leaned against your car. “Please. Try to keep up.”

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, but his eyes burned with something darker—something dangerous.

The countdown began. The crowd roared.

Three… Two… One…

Engines screamed as you both launched forward, tearing through the streets, weaving between traffic like you were untouchable. The race was too close—too intense. Sunghoon’s car clung to yours, neither of you willing to back down, both of you pushing past every limit.

Then—

A sharp turn. A split-second miscalculation.

Your tires screeched as your car skidded violently, stopping mere inches from a barricade.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, adrenaline surging as you fumbled to rip off your seatbelt—only for your door to be wrenched open.

Sunghoon was there.

His grip was bruising as he dragged you out, shoving you against the car with a force that stole your breath. His jaw was tight, eyes blazing—furious, feral.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” he bit out, his voice raw with anger.

You met his glare, breathless. “I had it under control.”

“The hell you did.” His fingers locked around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his body pressing flush against yours. “You could’ve fucking died.”

Something electric crackled between you—sharp, intoxicating. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling in sync with yours.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw. Punishing. Teeth clashing, lips bruising, tongues battling for dominance.

Sunghoon growled into your mouth, biting down on your bottom lip before yanking your head back by your hair. “You like playing reckless, huh?” he rasped. “Let’s see if you can handle me.”

His hands were rough, yanking your jacket off and tossing it aside. He didn’t hesitate—fingers working the buttons of your jeans, dragging them down with force.

“You want this?” he asked, his voice edged with the control he was barely holding onto.

Your pulse thundered, every nerve in your body on fire. “Yes.”

That was all he needed.

Sunghoon spun you around, pressing your front against the hood of your car. One hand pushed between your shoulder blades, keeping you in place, while the other slipped between your legs.

“Already so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, sliding his fingers through your slick folds before shoving two inside without warning.

A gasp tore from your throat, but he didn’t let up. His fingers pumped into you relentlessly, curling just right, his thumb flicking over your clit in sharp, teasing strokes.

“You love this, don’t you?” he growled against your ear. “Being bent over like this. Being fucked like you belong to me.”

A moan spilled from your lips as you tried to grind back against his hand, but his grip on your hip was unforgiving.

“Stay still,” he ordered, voice dark with authority.

Then he pulled his fingers out, shoving them past your lips. “Suck.”

You obeyed. Tasted yourself on his skin, your eyes locked onto his as he watched you with something possessive, something primal.

Then—the sharp crack of his palm against your ass.

You gasped.

“Count,” he commanded.

“One.”

Another slap. Harder.

“Two.”

By the third, your legs were trembling, heat coiling low in your stomach.

Then—without warning—he pushed inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one sharp thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so goddamn tight.”

You barely had time to adjust before he set a brutal pace, slamming into you with deep, punishing thrusts. The car rocked with the force, the sounds of skin slapping and your breathless moans filling the night air.

Sunghoon was relentless. One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to feel every inch of him stretching you open.

“This what you needed, baby?” he growled. “To be fucked into submission?”

You couldn’t speak—could only whimper as he pounded into you, each thrust harder, deeper, staking his claim.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice thick with dominance.

“Yes,” you gasped, nails clawing at the metal beneath you. “I needed this. I needed you.”

A low groan rumbled in his chest. His grip tightened as he leaned in, teeth grazing your shoulder before biting down—hard. “Good fucking girl.”

His fingers found your clit, rubbing harsh, deliberate circles, sending shockwaves through your body. The pleasure coiled tight, burning, building—until it snapped.

You came hard, body convulsing, walls fluttering around him, dragging him deeper. Sunghoon cursed, his thrusts growing erratic before he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a low, shuddering groan.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Your body was spent, trembling, but Sunghoon didn’t let go.

Slowly, he turned you around, tilting your chin up, brushing his lips over yours in a slow, lingering kiss. “Next time,” he murmured, voice dark with promise, “you don’t run from me.”

Your breath hitched as he smirked, dragging his thumb over your swollen lips.

“This isn’t over, sweetheart.”

When love was obsessive, dangerous, and all-consuming—

Sunghoon’s love had teeth.

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