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pearlessance · 8 hours ago

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Cupid's Chokehold

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards.

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel.

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel.

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones.

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up.

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler.

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower.

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of.

His heart races a little faster at the thought.

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough.

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name.

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table.

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow.

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth.

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee.

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious.

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom.

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head.

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements.

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely.

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty.

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are.

And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does.

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name.

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out.

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day.

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He glances over his shoulder when the front door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong.

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth.

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right.

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is.

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it.

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon.

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow. “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans.

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder.

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs.

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time.

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy.

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed.

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle.

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother.

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s.

Which means no time with you.

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side.

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’).

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever.

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely.

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke.

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies.

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone.

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks.

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same.

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche.

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you.

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes.

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored.

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl.

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?”

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest.

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom.

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island.

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely.

Cataclysmic. Divine sacriliege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.”

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry.

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone.

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top.

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips.

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin.

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth.

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully.

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you ever last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

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moonlight-prose · 7 hours ago

Text

through teeth and tongue

a/n: thinking about him has got me in a dreamy state of mind. which is probably why this is so filthy. it is also late and i genuinely can’t stop myself from writing this. or actually typing it insanely right into the app cause drafting this is a no go. i wanted to finish it and drop it in the morning, but something told me to just shove it into the open tonight.

summary: a man of such might, such strength, made your heart sing a tune only he could recognize. who were you to deny the power he held over your stuttering heart? OR giving tommy head until he passes out.

word count: 0.9k+

pairing: tommy miller x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, lewdly giving this man head, spit play, ball worship, cum eating, cumplay, dirty talk, sorta sub tommy vibes, fluff.

He can feel it in the grip he had on the chair, blunt nails digging into torn leather, a gasping moan bubbling past his tightly stricken throat. Tommy couldn’t say he was a man of few words—they flowed rather easily for a man of his character—but tonight he couldn’t find them. Thoughts leaving his mind the longer he sat there, on display for the keeper of his heart.

“Gonna make me wait?” he gasped, eyes rolling back hard enough to make his head hurt.

Your response is deafening. The twist of your palm, tongue flicking at the head of his leaking cock, was all he got. All he deserved after the night he had.

Long hours kept him from you, Jackson taking precedence in your relationship. But who were you to complain? You couldn't.

He kept this place afloat—fighting tooth and nail to maintain balance in the council, dragging himself through hell to watch this community bloom. Time spent away made your heart grow fonder, sightings of him putting blood and sweat into something he cherished had need clamping a fist around your throat.

“I’d like to see you beg.” Hot breath washed over his tingling skin, the jump in his hips involuntary. “But we both know you’re not there yet.”

Tommy knew he was messy. Years of needing towels to clean himself up after quick handjobs proved that he dripped like a fucking faucet. He smeared down your forearm, staining the edge of your shirt where you rolled the sleeves up. It still didn’t stop you from drooling spit down his twitching cock, smearing it with your palm—a smile stretched across your swollen lips.

“Just let me-” A soft lick rendered his body pliant—a melted man in the chair large enough for two. “Fuck darlin’”

You smiled. “Good?”

The stifled groan had your stomach fluttering, spit gathering along your tongue at the sight. Pumping your wrist you dipped low enough to feel his coarse hair brush your nose—his balls heavy and full and coated in the familiar taste of him. It would be so fucking easy to drag him over the edge—the sight of his mouth open and eyes rolled pushed to the forefront of your hazy mind.

Any other night you’d splay him beneath you, straddling his stomach as he gripped you close. Mouth running in an attempt to convince you to sit on his face. It’ll be the ride of your life. I need ya baby. You’re too fuckin’ sweet to keep that pussy away from me.

Tonight called for something different. He collapsed in the chair, exhaustion bleeding into the air and stress weighing on dropped shoulders. He remained strong in spite of the horrors beyond a heavily armored gate. The pinnacle of capability.

Your lips closed around the base of his cock, sucking gentle enough to feel his thigh twitch under your cheek. He dragged in breath—hand finding purchase on the back of your head, fingers digging into whatever part of you he could reach. Salt and the heady musk of him enveloped your senses. Blinding you to his incoherent mumbles.

“Fuckin’ killin’ me-”

Smiling, you slid lower curling your tongue around his ball. His knee jerked, a ragged gasp ripping through the air—hand tugging sharply at the back of your neck. You forced yourself forward with a laugh, sucking it into your mouth with a moan, spit drooling past your lips and gathering in down your chin. Something about tending to every part of him—watching him shut away the snarling wolf for someone docile—fed a piece of your aching soul.

“G-Gonna—shit—I’m gonna cum baby.”

“That’s okay,” you cooed, licking a line up to the leaking tip you sucked with a moan.

Releasing him with a soft pop you fixed your attention on the other side, rolling your tongue over the sticky skin—slick pooling between your thighs. His chest heaved and back arched, the mess pouring over your rapidly moving hand now finding it’s way down your wrist.

You felt them draw up in your mouth, saliva shiny and wet on your chin, before he came with a strained cry. His spend spurting along your face, gathering along your cheek, dribbling into the corner of your full mouth. Tommy mumbled familiar cuss words, bleary eyes finding yours between his thighs—back arched and knees screaming in pain. But it was all worth the fucking effort to have him look at you like that.

As if you stole the moon for his fluttering heart.

“‘S too much baby.”

You could get him to come again. One twist of your wrist and suck of your mouth and he’d push past the overstimulation to add even more to your face. He’d suffer the pain with bared teeth and sore stomach muscles. As long as you kept your mouth right where he knew you wanted it.

Licking up what you could, you swiped along your cheek, stuffing your sticky fingers into an open and waiting mouth. He groaned at the taste, hand tight around your wrist to keep you set in place—eyes burning a hole along your cheek. He’d lick it up with a pleased sigh, clean what he caused without question. And you just might let him if you weren’t gasping for your own air.

He stole it from your lungs, swallowing whatever you’d give him—thighs spread and cock soft against his stomach. What an irresistible sight. What a delectable meal.

“C’mere,” he murmured, tugging at your arm.

“To do what?”

He grinned, teeth flashing in the darkened space. “Whatever I want.”

#tommy miller x f!reader #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller x you #tommy miller x y/n #tommy miller smut #tommy miller #the last of us fic #my writing

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luxcuriousao3 · 1 day ago

Text

Cruel (Ghoap)

Summary: Soap narrows his eyes, juts out his chin, and Ghost almost thinks he’s going to disobey a direct order. He waits, gloved fists clenching at his sides, ready to meet Johnny’s anger with his own if he has to. Looks forward to it, even. It’s only over these past few weeks that Ghost has realized how addicted to the other man’s attention he’s become. That he’ll greedily take any scrap of it, hoard it all like a dragon hoards gold. The irony isn't lost on him. Word Count: 4265 Warnings: complicated relationship, heavy angst, mean!Ghost, angry!Soap, they love each other but jesus christ are they bad at it (Additional warnings at the bottom of the post! They very much ruin the suspense of the fic, which is why I put them there instead of at the top.) Notes: You need to have read the first fic in this series to understand what's going on here, and the dynamics at play. If you choose to read this continuation, know that it recontextualizes the last fic greatly. So if you like the ambiguous nature of the other one, I'd suggest skipping this. All SPAG and consistency errors are my own, feel free to point them out. Comments and reblogs are highly appreciated! (*** means POV switch, and -*- means timeskip but no POV switch) AO3, Masterlist

Ghost doesn’t see Johnny again for three days.

The first is spent brooding in his room, taking advantage of the day off Price had given the team to avoid the younger man. The second, he holes up in his office, working on paperwork and trying not to think about the gaping, Johnny-shaped hole in his chest. It’ll close with time. It has to.

He’s not so lucky the third day, stuck training recruits with both his Sergeants. Ghost focuses on the rookies, and doesn’t let himself look at Johnny despite how badly he wants to. Doesn’t think he can handle it.

It doesn’t matter, in the end—Johnny’s in such a foul mood his presence is unignorable (it is always unignorable), biting off the recruit’s heads at the slightest of mistakes. He’s like a Drill Sergeant on steroids, and for once, Ghost isn’t the most feared man on the field.

“Fuckin’ eejits, the lot o’ ye! Gads! Cannae fuckin’ believe ye dobbers ever made it in tae SAS selection! Pathetic!”

“Alright, Tav, they get it,” Garrick says quietly, stepping closer to Johnny and laying a hand on his shoulder. “What’s got you so—”

Before he can finish speaking, Johnny whips around, smacking Garrick’s hand off of him and shoving him hard enough to make the other man stumble. His face is full of rage, lips curled in a snarl, teeth bared.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” He hisses, eyes flashing dangerously. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Garrick stares at him, stunned, and so do Ghost and the recruits. What the hell?

“Sergeant!” He barks, the superior officer in him rising to the forefront of his mind, taking control of his mouth. Johnny looks at him for the first time in three days, his furious gaze like a balm to Ghost’s soul. For a split second, he basks in it. Then, reality sets back in. “My office. Now.”

Soap narrows his eyes, juts out his chin, and Ghost almost thinks he’s going to disobey a direct order. He waits, gloved fists clenching at his sides, ready to meet Johnny’s anger with his own if he has to. Looks forward to it, even. It’s only over these past few weeks that Ghost has realized how addicted to the other man’s attention he’s become. That he’ll greedily take any scrap of it, hoard it all like a dragon hoards gold.

The irony isn't lost on him.

But the only thing that happens is Johnny giving him a sharp nod and turning on his heel to stomp away.

By the time they reach his office, Johnny’s fire has been redirected. The cocky grin he shoots at Ghost—painful in its familiarity, in the warmth it once held but now lacks—and the way his eyes brazenly rake over his form tells him exactly what Johnny is thinking.

“Absolutely not,” he says, the words heavy with regret for how much he wants to say yes. To feel Johnny’s bare skin against his again. Hell, he’d even let Johnny top like the man’s been whining about for ages, now.

“Naw? Dinnae call me in here tae fuck the attitude oot o’ me? Been awhile,” Johnny goads, moving closer to Ghost. He places a hand on his chest, letting it slowly slide lower, and Ghost knows he shouldn’t but he leans in anyway, his own hands settling on Johnny’s hips, gentler than they ever have been before.

Johnny’s touch falters, and Ghost sees a jagged shard of something scared, something desperate in his blue eyes. It pierces Ghost through the heart. He feels his resolve crack along with it. He’s going to give in, pull Johnny back, break him apart all over again. Ghost is going to destroy him.

He can’t let that happen.

“If I wanted whatever disease that prick from the pub gave you, I’d go fuck a hooker and skip the drama.”

The words are distant and flat, but they tear at his throat coming out. The pain only worsens when he pushes Johnny away harshly, denying himself the man’s blissful warmth.

But that’s nothing compared to the pain of Johnny’s reaction.

Ghost watches in real time as the cracks in his eyes widen into canyons, the jagged shards shattering into a million pieces.

“What?” He croaks, more devastated than Ghost has ever heard him. He didn't even sound like this in Las Almas, when he was bleeding out and surrounded by hostiles, watching death and destruction reign down upon dozens of innocents, helpless to do anything to stop it.

“You heard me. Really, Soap—if you thought whorin’ yourself out would make me jealous, you’re more delusional than I thought.”

Even as he says it, he knows it's too much, that he’s not just pushing Soap away anymore, that he’s punishing him, that the cancer that is Simon Riley has come to the surface to spew his hate and destroy everything in his life that’s good. Because Simon is jealous. He’s furious that someone else touched Johnny, that Johnny wanted someone else to touch him. That Simon isn’t enough, will never be enough for anyone.

And as always, it's his own bloody fault.

He wants to apologize, to tell Johnny he doesn’t mean it, any of it. That he's just a hateful, broken shell of a man too scared of being seen to let himself be loved. That Johnny is everything he’s ever wanted, that him pulling away these past few weeks hurts worse than Roba's torture ever did, that Ghost is a coward that never lets himself acknowledge what he has until it’s gone. He wants to beg Johnny to give him another chance, a chance to prove that he’s worth Johnny’s love, that he can change, that he can be better, he swears it—

Instead, he’s silent, choking on all the things he wants to say. The little light left in Johnny’s eyes dims until it’s gone completely, not a single spark left.

Johnny looks dead now, his face hollow. Even as he closes the distance between them and socks Ghost in the jaw so hard he knocks a tooth loose, the fire is absent. Ghost’s mouth fills with blood and Johnny punches him again. Ghost’s dodge is too slow, unable to look away from what he’s done, but he catches Soap’s fist in his own when he tries to land a third hit.

“Soap!” He yells, and he’s not sure if it’s a reprimand or a plea. Johnny's not even breathing hard, that same emptiness still haunting his expression, and Ghost wants it to go away more than anything. He needs to see those flat, blue rises turn stormy, needs to see Johnny’s lips turn down in a snarl. But none of that happens. Johnny just sneaks a hit up under Ghost’s guard, straight to his gut. Ghost grunts, twisting the sergeant’s wrist and then shoving him backwards. The small of Johnny’s back hits the edge of Ghost’s desk, but he doesn't even wince in pain. He doesn't even seem to feel it. He just straightens up, standing there and staring at Ghost, hands curled into loose fists like he could keep going or not. Like it doesn't really matter to him either way. And Ghost— Ghost has no fucking idea what to do with that.

Soap doesn’t react, just stares at Ghost for a long moment before he marches past him, his shoulder knocking against Ghost’s on the way out. Ghost sees it for what it is—the last time Johnny will ever touch him. And as he sits down in the creaky, old office chair behind his too-small desk, cradling his busted nose, he mourns.

***

Soap goes to the pub.

He doesn’t remember deciding to go, nor the walk there, but between one blink and the next, he’s sitting at the bar, a drink in hand. The wood is sticky, pulling at the hair on his bare arms. Seems he forgot a jacket.

Would explain why his fingers are numb, folded stiffly around his pint. He’s not sure that he could let go even if he wanted to.

Good thing he doesn’t want to.

As he lifts the glass to take another sip, a vaguely familiar voice calls his name.

“John?”

Soap turns, looking the speaker up and down. She’s a wee thing, pretty as a peach with wide, innocent eyes. The type of bird he’d jump into bed with, before.

Before. Before Ghost. Before Soap lost the heart he wore on his sleeve to that big, mean bastard. Before Ghost crushed it to dust beneath his heel.

“Naw interested, lassie. Sorry,” he says, voice flat. He turns back to his drink, stiffening when the girl sits next to him anyway. He opens his mouth to tell her off, but she beats him to it.

“Do you remember me?”

Soap’s brows furrow, and he glances at her again, taking the time to really look at her. Brown eyes, reddish hair, pale skin… something tugs at the edges of his memory. Something that makes him shiver and break into a cold sweat.

“How do ye ken mah name?” He asks, unsure why he’s only just asking now. Why a stranger calling him by name didn’t set off alarm bells instantly. “Who are ye?”

Things are starting to feel unreal again (again?), and Soap stands up, dropping his glass. It thuds against the bartop and falls overing, spilling his drink everywhere. His heart is racing and for some reason, he’s struck with the overwhelming urge to get away, to get outside, he just has to get outside, if he gets outside then maybe he’ll wake the fuck up—

He’s in the alley behind the pub, now, once again with no memory of how he got there. The little lass is next to him, hand hovering over his back as he vomits, but not quite touching, and he’s so grateful for that that he feels tears sting his eyes. But he doesn’t know why.

“What— what happened tae me?” He whispers, voice wet and as fragile as the bombs he works with. One wrong move, and life as he knows it explodes. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed about crying in front of a stranger, too disoriented.

“If I wanted whatever disease that prick from the pub gave you…”

“...if you thought whorin’ yourself out would make me jealous…”

Ghost’s words ring in his ears, and Soap—

Soap remembers.

-*-

Four Days Ago

Soap knows he should get up. He’s laying on the floor of a public washroom, he’s fairly sure, and it’s fucking filthy. There’s something wet on his face—toilet water, maybe. He’s probably going to catch cholera or some other nasty disease if he doesn’t move.

Instead, he stares up at the dusty ceiling. It’s painted black, and there are cracks and cobwebs spinning above him. They look like constellations, if he squints.

A spider dances across the stars, and winks at him with all eight eyes.

He thinks that maybe he’s dreaming.

The thought fills him with relief. Yes, he’s dreaming, that must be it. None of… that… actually happened. It was all just a nightmare, and he’ll wake up soon, snug in his crappy bed back on base.

Soap closes his eyes. Maybe if he falls asleep in his dream, he’ll wake up faster.

Time passes.

He’s not sure how much, maybe hours, or maybe just seconds. The stench of vomit, booze, and piss burns his nostrils, making his stomach turn. He forces himself to roll onto his side so he doesn’t choke on his own sick if he throws up.

Something wet drips down his thighs, and Soap retches.

He lays there in a puddle of his own bile for more seconds-minutes-hours, and he realizes his eyes are open again when he sees that same fat, black spider scuttling across the floor towards him. He tries to ask it how its trip to space was, but lets out a single, ragged sob instead.

Pull yourself together, MacTavish, he thinks, or he tries to think. He loses the words halfway through—they swirl around and out of his head like water circling a drain. It makes him want a shower. He feels dirty.

He’s also fucking tired of waiting to wake up. With great effort, he gets his leaden limbs to cooperate enough to pull his trousers back up. He fumbles dumbly with the fly for what feels like forever before giving it up as a bad job. Then, using the disgusting toilet for leverage, he drags himself up to his knees. It takes a while, he’s pretty sure, even though time feels like it’s racing by and slowing down all at once.

His arms shake as he pushes himself to his feet, and he immediately crashes hard into the stall’s wall, barely managing to stay upright. It feels impossible to make it across the washroom, let alone the bar and then back to base, but he’s made it out of worse situations, and he’ll make it out of this one, too.

Besides, it’s just a dream, right? Just a bad fucking nightmare. He doesn’t have to exfil himself all the way back to base. He just has to wake up.

He wants so badly to wake up.

When he opens his eyes again—when did he close them?—he’s outside. He doesn’t know how he got here, doesn’t remember anything past the monumental task of standing up. But the cold, crisp air feels good against his heated skin, and he leans his head back against the solid bricks behind him, uncaring of the way they scrape roughly over the shaved parts of his scalp.

He’s laying down again, slumped over in the alley next to the pub (probably). He must look like an absolute pillock, a greenboy that can’t handle his alcohol. He snorts wetly at the thought and realizes he’s crying.

Just a dream, John, he tells himself, ignoring how real everything is starting to feel. How he can’t wake up no matter how hard he tries. Don’t go bawling over a bad dream.

Suddenly, there’s hands on him, and Soap is swinging before he even really registers the touch. His aim is clumsy and stunted, and his arm just flops limply, fist thudding against the concrete. He hears a soft gasp, and then a murmured apology as the hands retract. He’s shaking as he rolls his head to look up at his attacker, squinting through a haze of tears and alcohol.

“I’m sorry,” a woman says, features blurred beyond recognition, voice sounding like she’s underwater. “I didn’t mean to scare you… I saw you stumbling through the pub, you looked in a bad way. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Soap stares at her for a long moment as he tries to make sense of what she’s saying, his thoughts painfully slow. He finally thinks he gets the gist of it, and though this might be a dream, on the off chance it’s not, he decides to accept her help, much as it rankles at him.

“Gho… Ghost?” He mumbles, gaze sluggishly moving over her shoulder, looking for his Lieutenant.

“No, I’m not a ghost,” the woman replies, and he can hear the frown in her voice. He groans, frustrated she’s not understanding him but knowing it’s his fault since he can’t get his mouth to fucking work, lips and tongue feeling numb but his throat burning like he’s gargled glass. “You’re not dead… but I’m going to call you an ambulance, okay? I’ll stay with you until it comes.”

Soap lets out a painful sound of protest, and distantly feels his arm move again, clumsily slapping her phone from her hands. He doesn’t have it in him to feel guilty, even if he’d only meant to grab her hand to stop her. He got his message across, that’s all that matters.

“No ambulance, then,” the woman says, sounding a little further away, a little more wary. But she doesn’t leave. She’s nice, Soap decides. She doesn’t have to help him, but she is, even though he’s not making it easy for her. It’s more than Ghost would do for him, he thinks. Maybe he’s lucky this girl is here instead of him, though he can’t help but wonder where his Lieutenant went. Or Price, or Gaz. Why is Soap all alone? Why did they leave him? Did he do something wrong? Do they not want him anymore? “Do you remember your address? I can call you a car.”

Soap tries to tell her the name of the military base, but all that comes out is another pathetic sob as the truth dawns on him. This is real. That really happened. Christ, maybe his team knows. Maybe that’s why they left him. Disgusted that Soap let it happen, that he didn’t fight back. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t even move…

“Shhh, it’s alright,” the woman says, closer now, closer than she’d been even before. Soap opens his eyes—once again, he doesn’t remember closing them—vision clearing briefly as fat tears roll down his cheeks. She’s young, bonnie, with big brown eyes and reddish hair. But what gets him is the gentle concern on her face, and fuck, but Soap’s not been looked at like that in so long.

He wants Ghost to look at him like that. Like he cares.

The tears don’t stop no matter how hard he tries to keep them in, knowing he looks weak, knowing that soldiers don’t cry, that real men don’t cry. Soap hasn’t cried since the day he got kicked out of home at sixteen years old. Hasn’t begged since that day, either. He’s been tempted, though. Tempted to beg Ghost for more, for something, anything to show him he’s more than just his colleague, or a convenient hole to fuck.

But that’s all he is, isn’t he? Tonight proves it.

“It won’t always hurt this badly,” the woman—girl, really, she looks barely old enough to even be in a pub—says softly, and Soap hiccups, does his best to keep his eyes on hers even as his vision swims. Her form shifts, movements blurry, but then she reaches out for him again, slow enough that even his lagging brain can see it coming. “Can I put this under your head? It’s just my jumper.”

Soap blinks at her, sniffles like a bairn, tries to nod but just end up dipping his chin a little. She seems to understand anyway. Her palm is warm and soft where it cradles the back of his head, but he still flinches violently. She slides her jumper underneath him like a pillow and carefully sets his head back down, letting go of him immediately after.

“It won’t always hurt this badly,” she repeats, and his mind latches onto it this time. She must see that he’s listening, because she continues, voice achingly gentle. “The physical pain will be gone soon enough. And the memories… you learn to live with them. The sharp edges dull, little by little. They’ll never go away entirely. But they won’t cut as deep.”

Soap feels a flash of anger, wants to lash out at the poor, sweet lass that’s helping him when no one else will, when his own fucking team has left him. Wants to tell her she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, that nothing happened to him. Wants to run and hide, go lick his wounds in private and never, ever tell a single soul about this night from hell.

But his lips won’t form the words and his throat’s too sore to say them anyway.

And the tears don’t stop.

“I won’t leave you,” the girl says, and Soap’s anger disappears just like that, sucked away by the words he so desperately wants to hear—just not from her. Not from a stranger. But she’s the one who’s here, the only person he has right now, and isn’t that fucking pathetic? It is, but he doesn’t care right now, can’t care right now, so he latches onto them, onto her, fingers gripping her skirt weakly, body still not his own. He’s not sure it will ever be his own again.

Time passes.

Soap thinks he’s unconscious for some of it, but he’s not sure. Can’t really tell if he’s awake or asleep, if his eyes are open or closed, because the spinning never stops. But neither does the girl’s voice.

She talks, sometimes, but there are moments where he’s lucid and she’s just humming. She doesn’t touch him, doesn’t press him for information he can’t give, doesn’t scold him for hanging onto her skirts like she’s his fucking mam, either. She tells him stories, he thinks, doesn’t catch most of what she says but is pretty sure she mentions a pet bunny at some point. It doesn’t really matter—her voice, soft and steady, helps to keep him grounded, to remind him that someone is watching his six, even if it's not the someone he wants.

Eventually, he feels solid enough to push himself onto his knees again, using the skinny limb the lass offers him for support. He hates himself a little more for needing help from a damn civvie, but isn’t too proud to refuse it. Not right now. He’s got no pride left.

No dignity, either.

“Car,” he slurs, pats his chest until he finds the chain of his dog tags around his neck, grips them with stiff, cold fingers and pulls them out of his shirt, holding them out for her to see. “Base…”

“You live on the military base?” She asks, not protesting when he leans more and more of his weight on her, unable to support it. She must be a saint, because he’s pretty sure he’s covered in vomit. “Credenhill?”

He nods weakly, shoulders sagging, body trembling. What a sight he must make, a hardened soldier, tall and muscular, relying on a tiny lass to hold him up. No wonder his team left him. He’s a pathetic excuse for a soldier.

“Alright,” she says, sliding an arm around his waist, letting him hook his own over her boney shoulders. He shudders at the closeness, but doesn’t pull away. “Okay. Let’s get out of the alley, and I’ll call you that car. Do you think you can stand?”

He’s honestly not sure, but he has to stand, doesn’t he? Has to keep going, make it to exfil. It’s just another mission, and he has to complete it. There’s no other choice.

So he nods again, so very, very tired, and braces himself to stand. Pushes up when she does, stumbles to his feet, leans on her so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t knock her over. She’s a little thing, but stronger than she looks, and she half drags him out of the alley and around the corner, sitting him down on the kerb just outside the pub. He hisses as a sudden, terrible pain shoots up his spine, grips her wrist so tightly he feels bones grind under his hand as black dots dance across his vision. He lets go the second the pain fades a bit and he realizes what he’s doing, slurred apologies tumbling from numb lips, lava in his throat. She just shushes him again, sits next to him and wraps her tiny jumper around his broad shoulders.

“It’s alright,” she reassures him, her kindness seemingly endless. He wonders if she’d be so nice to him if she knew the things he’s done, the people he’s killed. He wonders at the fact that he’s experienced both the best and the worst humanity has to offer in one night. He wonders why he didn’t die on his last mission, so he didn’t have to.

He wonders what that prick slipped into his drink.

Between one blink and the next, the car pulls up, and the lass gets him into it, his limbs still heavy—but at least he can feel them again. He doesn’t realize he’s still holding onto her skirt until she tries to leave, and he coughs wetly and lets go.

“Get home, John” she says, laying her jumper over him like a blanket. He breathes in as she trades words with the cab driver, murmurs that he can’t make sense of. The jumper is soft and small and it smells good, floral and sugary. He wishes it was Ghost’s massive, threadbare hoodie instead. The one that reeks like the fags Ghost smokes, the peppermint tea he drinks, and the dye-free detergent the base supplies them with. It’s a terrible combination of scents—nauseating, really.

Soap hates that he loves it.

By the time he gets back to base, he’s regained enough control of his body to make it back to his room, if barely. The guards at the gate are friends, and promise not to tell on him for getting wasted. They congratulate him on getting laid after spotting his disheveled appearance. He nearly decks them for that until he realizes there’s no way they could know what really happened—they probably just think he just picked up some bird at the pub. He huffs an awkward, forced laugh and continues on his way.

He collapses onto his bed when he gets back to his quarters, face first. He wants to shower, feels fucking filthy, but whatever drugs he was given are still in his system and he’s ninety percent sure he’ll slip and crack his head open if he tries. He contemplates doing it anyway. Won’t have to live with the memories if he dies.

He passes out before he can decide.

Additional Warnings: graphic depiction of the effect of roofies, rape (NOT between Ghost and Soap) aftermath (no onscreen rape), dissociation, temporary minor memory loss

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iwoulddieforher · 2 days ago

Text

Green Light | Alex Cabot × Casey Novak

this is the third chapter to a series, to be linked to the full Masterlist please be directed here

Alex is simultaneously closer and yet farther from Casey, and she doesn't know what she wants to be.

Warnings for sexual content (Alex & Olivia hook up)

“Ah, and Alex?” Donnelly said in her stern voice, not looking up at her when Alex turned around in the doorway.

“Yes?” Alex prompted, one hand extending to rest on the top of the door handle on her way out of Donnelly’s office.

“It's good to have you back,” she murmured, still not looking at her, “I hope your excitability has lessened, and your lesson learned.”

“It has,” Alex responded, although it was mostly a lie. She couldn't say in good faith she wouldn't have done the same thing again if the situation faced- although, this time, if she felt the familiar feeling of dread when a victim turned their back, she most definitely would drive them home.

She paused, removing her hand from the door handle, tugging on the joint of her middle finger for a moment before letting words she might later regret spill from her mouth.

“Before I leave, one question- do you know anything about a woman named Casey Novak?”

Elizabeth peered over the edge of her glasses, raising a brow with the expression she almost always donned, one that seemed borderline accusatory. She was silent for a few seconds, staring at Alex as if expecting some sort of elaboration for the question, but when none was offered she shrugged idly and let her eyes drop back down to the papers before her.

“She’s working in white collar, but supposedly her talents are wasted there. I’ve been told she’s quite brilliant; she was in the running for potential candidates to replace you during your suspension.”

Alex stood there, mildly in shock that her world was so close to this woman’s- a lot closer than she had expected. Even though she had asked, she had assumed Donnelly wouldn't know, and it would be enough to shut down the murmur in her thoughts that there was still something she could do. This made the odd feeling in her chest grow larger- Novak was close. Close to her job, a candidate for her own position, even.

“Does that satisfy your curiosity, Miss Cabot?” Donnelly said, looking up again, now irritated that Alex was standing there dumbly, and Alex hastily agreed and then left the office. She closed the door behind her with scrunched eyebrows- Casey was close. Close enough that she’d be within Alex’s grasp, if she tried for it. Close enough that if something happened, she’d surely feel guilty for not stopping it.

As she walked by the halls of the DA’s office, she tried not to glance at the few billboards that held missing posters, fundraisers and work events- a funeral of one of their own would be posted there, some kind of memorial, should anything happen to Novak. It made Alex anxious just thinking about it.

That same broad smile from the photograph, pinned up on a board for people to grieve over, for others to walk past and wonder about.

Alex felt nauseous.

The weight of Novak in her arms yesterday had felt too similar to the weight of the child she had cradled in the waiting room of the shelter- warm, tangible, living. She really hoped Novak would stay living.

Calm down, she told herself. You have no evidence it’ll get worse. Maybe what you said to his mother will help- maybe he’s back on his medication, maybe it’ll all be fine. There's no reason to polarize everything to black and white scenarios. If Novak is as capable as Donnelly thinks she is, surely she can take care of herself. I don't have any responsibility here, nor do I even know if I should try to insert myself into a situation I’m not welcome in.

Regardless- she was acting as if there was something she could do, anyway.

So, Alex tried her best to put it out of her mind. It was hard to do, but it was necessary. She couldn't allow herself to be distracted by wondering, not when she had severe cases she could genuinely make a difference in.

Still, with Olivia sitting next to her at her dining table, eating take-out that didn't match at all with the expensive wine Alex had cracked, her tipsy self couldn't help but ask.

It wasn't at all uncommon for them to spend nights like this- talking about cases, sharing wine and stories and food, and almost always with the possibility of sharing a bed later. Alex and Olivia were friends, but friends in a certain sort of way, and Alex enjoyed that immensely. It was comfortable and stable and reassuring, like knowing your favorite class was approaching at the end of a grueling school day.

“Liv,” she murmured, resting her head on the backrest of her chair as she turned toward the brunette, who looked up with a mouth full of noodles, “Your cases… Do you ever know about a situation that just… doesn't leave you? Lingers? Like, an unstoppable feeling that you should try to do something, but you just … can't.”

Olivia couldn't answer for a good half-minute because she was trying to chew, but when she finally swallowed and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, she offered a reassuring smile and a tilt of her head.

“All the time,” she offered truthfully, “Nearly all of my cases, I always leave with the feeling that I should've done more for them.”

“How do you deal with all of that?” Alex whispered, her gaze dropping to Olivia’s lips. She had accidentally smeared some of her lipstick across the side of her mouth when she had moved- Alex licked her thumb and extended her hand to fix it for her. She wasn't unaware of the way Olivia’s gaze dropped to her own mouth, too.

“Truthfully? I don't, not really.” Olivia murmured, “I get another case, and I distract myself by focusing on that. I get lunch with Elliot and we talk about it, and at some point I convince myself I did everything I could, but … if I think back? It's always there.”

Olivia was not unbeknownst to Alex’s immense admiration for her- Alex told her every chance she got, but she still felt as though Olivia didn't truly understand how deep it went. Alex thought it was unbelievably hard to prosecute these cases- but Olivia was there, really there, tangible, living and warm as she walked over and over into homes filled with destruction and misery, and she was still warm, even after doing it for so many years, when anyone else would grow aggressive or simply detach.

“How do you- we?- do this everyday?” Alex whispered again, before squinting and realizing she had no reason to whisper. She felt spinny, and glancing at the wine bottle, she supposed it made sense- she had drunk a lot more than she had realized tonight.

“Someone has too,” Olivia offered, “I’d rather it be us than someone who didn't care as much.”

“But, I…” Alex mumbled, slinging one arm over the side of the chair, draping her body over it. It didn't feel comfortable, wood was digging into her side, but she was drunk, and she was starting to feel tired. Alcohol didn't mix with her antidepressants very well.

“Are you still thinking about the boy?” Olivia asked, glancing over at her as she spun noodles around her fork and popped them in her mouth as she waited for her to respond.

“No,” Alex breathed, “No, during my suspension I- I volunteered at a domestic abuse shelter, and there's this… this one woman, I just can't get out of my mind. Her mother-in-law sobbed in front of me and I just …”

“Her mother-in-law?” Olivia raised an eyebrow, “What, did she come to convince you her son was a choir boy?”

“The opposite, actually. She wanted me to get her out. She told me all this stuff and there's- there's absolutely nothing I can do. I don't know any of these people, and this isn't even a real case.”

“Do you want me to help you take your mind off it?” Olivia soothed, her voice sultry suddenly, and Alex blinked.

“Sometimes, a distraction is the only thing that helps.”

The look in Olivia’s dark eyes has turned a different shade, one still light the way she always looked towards her, but different the way it always was when she wanted to initiate something more from their ‘casual’ friendship.

Casey Novak and her fate fled from mind as Olivia pulled her up and to the couch. Olivia let herself sprawl backwards, thighs parted, and Alex smiled to herself as she clambered as gracefully as she could on top of her. Tongues pressed against each other and her thigh was bracketing comfortably within her friend's, and she felt herself begin to detach. That was good. Things would be better like that- it was painful to be so aware of a situation one had no hand in, of course.

Olivia tasted faintly like the food they had been eating, pasta from the Italian place they always frequented, but more so wine and the heady taste of a woman. It was familiar, marked by the things Alex knew, and she always knew what to expect from Liv. Her broad, calloused hands were warm when they cupped around Alex’s face, the way they always were, and in that too Alex relished in the familiarity of it all. There were no questions with Olivia. She was far from simple, but to Alex, she was known.

She knew how to touch, where to connect her lips to skin in a path to descent, what Olivia’s voice would sound like when she came, because it was the rhythm in the way it always was. Alex knew the positions they’d end up in because they always ended up in one of a few- Alex knew when Olivia would want to stop, and how to calm down with her. She knew where Olivia would nestle her head before she did, and she knew how short brown hair would feel as she stroked her fingers and scratched lightly at her scalp. Familiar, warm and soft. Comforting, and comfortable.

She woke up the next morning late. Alcohol made her a lot more tired than she was used too- normally, her natural rhythm woke her up a little before her alarm, but today she had nearly slept through it- granted, she woke up nestled under Olivia on the couch, and her phone was buzzing on the dining table a ways away- which left her with very little but just barely enough time to get ready.

It had taken her a little while to realize anything was happening- the incessant buzzing was registered, and it had woken her up, but somehow the connection to that being her alarm was not made until she had been staring blearily at the ceiling for a few moments. Liv, the heavy sleeper that she was, slept entirely through it.

She murmured quiet apologies as she rolled Olivia off of her, wincing as her bones crackled and the soreness of the odd position set in, before darting to get ready. Thankfully with her straight hair forcing a comb through it was enough to remove the evidence of sleep- similarly, other things were quickly taken care of, which she could attribute exclusively to genetic advantage, such as the fact she had fallen asleep in makeup but hadn't broken out and didn't need to shower that morning. Getting dressed was a slightly more consuming process, as she was usually particular, but for time restraints she settled on something she knew she looked good in.

Alex assembled her bag, kissed a very owlish Olivia who had only just started sitting up on the forehead, and left her apartment.

She’d been summoned to a different room than the one she usually was called too to brief on the next week’s events, and although it was unusual, it wasn't odd. She often was asked to provide counsel for homicide lawyers who wanted to bring an aspect of sex crimes into their case, or something similar- Alex assumed it was routine, and it was.

There was something not routine about it, though- there was a woman who she had never worked with before, sat comfortably on one of the chairs at the meeting table, who flashed a broad, easy smile at her as the other occupants of the room glanced up to acknowledge her arrival.

“Novak,” Alex murmured softly as she took a chair beside her. To her own surprise, she wasn't as late as she had expected to be with the awkward start to the morning- she actually had enough time for idle chatter as other participants of the meeting arrived, and there was no other person in the room she wanted to make conversation with more than her.

“Hey there, you.” Casey grinned, “I’m seated this time, so don't fret- there's no way I could fall on you again.”

Alex bit back a smile, but didn't suppress a soft chuff. Internally, though, she was more than conflicted. Casey seemed relaxed, so unlike a woman experiencing what Alex had been told she was apparently going through- she seemed so well that if Alex hadn't been working sex crimes for the last few years, she would've dismissed the allegations this woman’s mother-in-law had made all together. She knew better. It still felt odd to speak to her so easily, though, it felt like she should be saying something more meaningful.

“Good,” she said, racking her brain for how to return such light, simple banter, “If you did, for your own sake, maybe I really would have to report you to the dean.”

To her relief, Casey chuckled, closing her eyes good-naturedly. Alex liked the sound of her laugh, feminine yet raspy and elegant, and was struck with the urge to hear her talk more.

“You know my name,” Novak observed, turning her torso to an angle at which she could more fully face Alex and crossing one incredibly long, lithe leg over the other, “But I don't know yours.”

Alex swallowed, words on her lips that she didn't understand. Something about Casey made her want to talk, want to say something, and she wasn't sure why. She had decided to be detached, to distract herself last night. Something felt like it was growing in the cavity of her lung.

“Alexandra Cabot,” she said after a second, “But you can call me Alex.”

“Alright, Alex,” Casey nodded once, extending a hand, and Alex could help but briefly note the tapered fingers, the way the woman was genuinely beautiful not only in face but in every part of her body, before shaking it.

“I’m sure it'll be a pleasure,” Novak grinned, and for some reason, Alex’s heart couldn't help but sink with dread, “to be working with you.”

#casey novak #calex #alex cabot #svu #casey novak x alex cabot #law and order svu #law and order special victims unit #olivia benson #cabenson

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shadowtriovibes · 2 years ago

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Hear me out. What if Jackdaw possessed a boy that he thinks looks close enough to him. Like Garreth.

i keep insisting i’m not an angst queen and then you guys keep giving me ideas that make me want to inflict emotional damage on myself and others

#obviously one of jackdaw’s sisters married a Weasley girl which is why they look so similar #so he takes over thinking it’ll be close enough #but like… being in a body again after so long brings up some Trauma #and also maybe you have some feelings for garreth (since whichever slytherin boy i hinted at isn’t your beau)#so it’s a total mindfuck to see and touch his body knowing it’s not ‘his’#*weasley BOY i can’t edit tags on mobile whoops

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mostly-imagines · 7 months ago

Text

Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all.

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety.

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it.

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions.

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment.

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him?

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more.

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist.

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.”

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale.

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes.

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling.

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions.

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up.

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you.

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip.

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.”

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in.

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation.

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind.

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed.

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons.

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come.

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed.

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his.

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips.

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now.

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate.

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop.

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm.

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action.

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back.

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

🐲 reblogging is an ancient art form, only the strong may master it 🐲

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classyrbf · 6 days ago

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masseur!geto who had to replace your usual masseuse on their vacation week. You were quite surprised to walk in and find a handsome man in the room, greeting you in the most softest voice you’ve ever heard. You were getting your usual full body massage which of course included getting completely naked. You felt quite nervous when his hands started working their way into your skin, digging deep into the tense muscle, but it’s what you needed after a long work week. You noted how warm and big his hands were, groping at your skin so easily and rubbing the oil in. You also noted how close his hands would get when massaging your thighs, letting his fingers ghost near your bare cunt. He couldn’t see it, right? Wrong. The towel you had covered up with was just slightly too up high, giving him just a peek.

“You have such soft skin already,” he says, nearly whispering in your ear as his runs his hand along your back. “Do you moisturize often?” He asks.

“Y-yeah, every other day—ah!” A small moan erupted from your chest as his hands worked into your back. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It happens more often than you think,” he chuckled. “Is it this spot here that felt good?” He pressed into your back again, another small moan of relief escaping. He smirked to himself, continuously massaging the spot. “You’re so tense,” he sighed. “Can I try something new for you? I swear it’ll help.” His hands moved back down to your legs, fingers pressing into the fat of your thighs.

“Go ahead.” You gulped, keeping as still as possible. His oiled hands met the crease where your ass and thighs met, moving slightly inward. You hoped he didn’t notice it, how turned on you were. Was it even noticeable? Either way it was embarrassing, but it’s probably happened a lot, right? No, he’s going to think you’re an absolute pervert. You took a deep breath in, your eyes fluttering shut.

“Take a deep breath for me, yeah?” His voice was so gentle but so deep at the same time. You tried to shake those lustful thoughts out of your head, imagining him whispering in your ear and praising you every step of the way. God, have you really been this pent up that now you’re imagining sexual interactions with complete strangers? Eventually, you took in a breath, preparing for something life changing.

Your body slightly jolted, eyes wide open when you felt his fingers brush against your bare cunt, his fingers grazing over the skin ever so slightly, enough to make your heart race. But, you didn’t stop him, no, no. Instead, you let him continue, your breath hitching when he took his thumbs and spread your pussy open like he owned it. “Mmm,” he hummed, “I see where your issue is.” You felt him press him body weight against you, his breath fanning over your skin. Goosebumps quickly littered your skin, shivers sending down your spine.

“A-ah, oooh!” His fingers slowly stretched you open, a blissful sigh leaving your lips. His free hands caressed your thigh, moving higher up to remove the towel that was barely covering you. He slowly pumped his fingers, making sure every inch of them were coated with your slick. It felt like your whole body was burning up, both from embarrassment and excitement. You bit down on your bottom in attempts to muffle your moans, afraid that other clients would hear you. It was hard, especially when such an attractive man had his fingers stuffed deep inside you.

“Turn over for me.” He smirked, slowing his movements while he helped you turn over on your back, getting a full view of your body from the front. Your skin glistening from the oil, your nipples perky, begging to be sucked on. Oh, and that face of yours, those eyes that held all your desires and pleasures. He could see just how badly you wanted his fingers. “Remember to relax.” His eyes raked over your body, his hands moving down between your legs again. Without him even having to ask, you parted your legs for him, his thumb pressing down on your throbbing clit. He slowly began rubbing in circles, your breathy whimpers filling his ears. “What a good girl.” He hummed, running his hand up your chest, taking your nipple between his fingers and pinching it slightly.

“D-do you do this with all your clients?” You jokingly ask, sucking in a breath. You prop yourself up on your elbows, wanting to watching the way his pretty hands work you so well. He is an expert after all. He puts more pressure on your clit, your hips bucking forward.

You hear him let out a soft laugh. “Does it matter? As long as I do my job, right? Making sure you’re as relaxed as possible? Just enjoy it.” His fingers move from your clit back down to your sopping entrance, two of his fingers pushing their way past your folds. You let out a gasp, your body shuddering underneath his touch. “Shhh, shhh, it’s okay. I got you. Just allow yourself to feel all of it.” He curls his finger up, pressing against your g-spot each time his fingers drag along your gummy walls.

Your heart beat grows louder, pounding in your ears like a drum. You don’t know how he’s doing this, making your entire body feel hot, your pussy so wet, you’re so unbelievably turned on you can’t even feel embarrassed about it anymore. “Faster, please,” you beg, brows burrowing in pleasure as you continue to watch his movements. He doesn’t say a word but listens to your request, your pussy squelching around his fingers as he picks up the pace. “Oh, fuck.” Your toes curl at the sensation.

His other hand comes down to press on your lower stomach, taking enjoyment in watching the way your eyes roll back and your pussy tightening around his fingers the closer you get. “Does that feel good, baby? Am I hitting all the right spots?” He looks down at you with lustful eyes, bringing his hand up to meet your throat, a firm grip on it but not exactly choking you. You look at him with teary eyes, nodding at him, unable to control your porn star like moans. “Yeah? Yeah?” He coos, staring directly at you while he obliterates your pussy with just his fingers. “I can feel you’re about to cum, aren’t you? You’re right on that edge, baby.”

“Please, please,” is all you manage to say, staring at him with the most desperate look of your life. You can feel that pressure building up quickly, just hint of what’s about to be the strongest orgasm you’ve had in a while. “I’m so close,” you say barely above a whisper. You pussy grows wetter and wetter with each passing second, and it takes everything in you not to completely let go right this second.

His eyes never leave yours, his arms flexing as he goes faster and harder, obsessed with how fucked out you look. “Can’t be too loud, baby, okay? You can cum for me, but keep that pretty mouth quiet.” You quickly nod in agreement, biting so hard on your bottom lip you’re afraid you might draw blood. “Go ahead, let it out for me. Let it—oh fuck, good girl. Keep fucking going.” Clear liquid gushes from your pussy and all over fingers, your squirt coating your thighs and the table below you. Your moans grow too loud, your entire body quivering in pleasure. “Shh, shh” His lips quickly land on yours, kissing you. “It’s a lot baby, but you can take it,” he says in between kisses. He’s greedy, wanting to drain you of every lost drop and drag out your orgasm as long as possible.

“Oh my god,” you pant, finally overcoming your orgasm, your body feeling like jelly. “Holy shit.” You gulp, sitting there trying to gather your thoughts. He presses one last kiss to your lips, slowly removing his fingers.

“Feel better?” He asks with a sly look on his face, grabbing a clean towel to wipe you off with.

“Y-yeah,” your voice is still shaky, “thank you.”

“Of course.” He wipes off your thighs. “Here, let me help you up.” He grabs your hand, guiding you off the table that soaked in your juices. You cover your face in embarrassment, uttering an apology. “Nothing to be sorry for. Let’s me know that you actually enjoyed it.” He knows he’ll quickly have to clean and disinfect it before the other person comes in. He smiles, grabbing another extra towel for you to wrap in. “I’ll let you get dressed and you can pay at the front. I had a nice time with you.”

“Me too, a really nice time.” He laughs at your words before walking to the door to give you privacy. You turned away as well to grab your clothes but then turned back, quickly stopping him. “Wait! Do you accept tips?”

taglist:

@sleepykittyenergy @ravenbc @yharnam-prophet @screechingbasementprincess @avaredava @mxrxlxy @lordchula-thagrandrula @akiyhara @palestrawberrycollection @bijuu-naginata @jeansblit @jabulile @aemyuo @springismss @fmlalexis @gradmacoco @phob1cc @kousweet @saoirses-things @ineedtofeedmycat @voidofryomen @bbyrugou @suguru-nugget @monkeyjjk @zxnxy @loserrrluvvverrr

just a little something while I revise classmate!gojo part 4😼

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jaysbaefie · 20 days ago

Text

sanctuary | psh

synopsis: in which a prison escapee breaks in for shelter, but finds something he wants to keep and ruin.

genre: prison escapee au

pairing: escapee!sunghoon x afab!reader

warnings: yandre!sunghoon, possesive!sunghoon, reader is held hostage, non-con, lots of threatening, forced submission, oral (m.rec), slapping, choking, hair pulling, manhandling, fingering, gagging, spanking ass + pussy, light male masterbation, some blood. i think that’s it …

wc: 10.4k

a/n: a bit of a darker fic.. so please do take warnings seriously. my first time trying to write a yandre character so if it’s a bit meh i’m sorry!! ‘bullshit’ won the poll so stay tuned for that fic it’ll b out by the end of the month (hopefully) as well as the first chapter of ‘double trouble’. notes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. enjoy!!

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the sound of what you assume is your window shattering wakes you up from your sleep. still half asleep, you sit up on your bed—your heart racing as you look around your room with sleepy eyes.

"what the-" your murmur, eyes shooting to your window which was still in tact. a part of you wanted to get up and search the rest of your home, but the tired side of you convinces you to stay in bed. it was probably just the neighbour's cat again.

you had finally finished your finals, the lack of sleep and energy outweighing the thought of searching your home.

grumbling, you allow yourself to shut your eyes and fall back into your bed. the warmth of your blanket and sheets surrounding you as you sign in bliss—the thought of possibly being a victim to a break and enter slipping your mind.

you hear rustling outside your room, however choose to over look it.

not a good idea..

you shift under the blanket, tugging it higher over your shoulders with a sleepy sigh. the rustling sound outside your room grows louder for a moment, then stills. your mind barely registers it—dismissing it as the wind, or maybe the pipes, or maybe just your imagination playing tricks on you in the haze of half-sleep.

the room is quiet again.

too quiet.

but your body, still tense beneath the comfort of the sheets, eventually relaxes. the softness of your bed lulls you back into that cozy liminal space between dreams and awareness.

until a sound has your eyes snapping wide open.

click.

a door hinge.

your bedroom door.

you freeze in position, a chill creeping across your spine as your eyes widened in horror—looking up at your ceiling in fear.

that wasn't your imagination.

you sit up again, slower this time, heart pounding loud in your ears. the door is cracked open now. you know you closed it when you came to bed. you always do.

your voice catches in your throat.

"hello?" you call out weakly, trying to sound firm. "is someone there?"

no answer.

just more rustling. closer this time.

your hand reaches for your phone on the nightstand—but it's not there. your fingers scramble across the empty surface, your panic now matching the erratic rhythm of your heartbeat.

it's gone.

the silence presses in, thick and suffocating.

and then—you feel it. the weight.

a presence. in the room.

you whip your head toward the corner, breath catching in your lungs. a figure is standing there, shadowed and still. you can barely make out the sharp outline of him—tall, lean, covered in darkness like it's part of his skin.

the stranger steps forward, and the dim light from your bedside lamp finally catches his face.

a familiar face comes into view, thick prominent eyebrows, a sharp face, plump lips and midnight black locks. as if his usual appearance wasn't enough to send you off into panic he was covered in blood and dirt. his hair disheveled and wild, accompanied with glassy eyes.

it takes only a second for recognition to hit you like a punch to the gut.

park sunghoon.

your legs move before your mind does, kicking your blanket away as you lunge out of bed—only to be shoved back down hard.

his hand clamps around your wrist, and in a terrifying blur of strength and precision, he's on top of you—pinning you to the mattress with one knee between your legs, the other hand already pulling something from his back pocket.

"stop fighting," he grits out, voice low and breathless, like he's already on the edge. "i'm not here to hurt you. just need you to shut up and stay still."

you struggle harder, panic flaring hot and raw—but he's stronger. faster.

the zip-ties are around your wrists before you can scream. the sound of them tightening feels louder than your own heartbeat.

he pulls the covers off you completely, checking your legs, then curses under his breath. "should've grabbed more ties..."

you scream.

or try to.

but he's already pushing something between your lips—a shirt, wadded up and shoved into your mouth. it tastes like cotton and salt and tears. his hand presses it deeper, muffling the sound of your screams completely.

he stares down at you for a moment, chest heaving. then, slowly, he lifts his hand away from your mouth.

your eyes are wide. blown with terror.

he doesn't look angry. just tired.

"i wasn't supposed to pick a house that had anyone in it," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "just needed a place. just needed time."

you try to kick him. scream. thrash beneath him.

his hands pin your legs down with an easy shift of his weight, and his voice turns sharp again.

"don't," he warns. "i really don't want to hurt you. but i will."

the words hang in the air like smoke—thick, heavy, dangerous.

you stop moving.

and for a moment, the room is silent again.

sunghoon runs a hand down his face, eyes fluttering shut for a second as he tries to calm the adrenaline surging through him. when he opens them again, his gaze is locked on yours.

"i'll let you go... eventually," he says. "but if you do anything stupid—I won't feel bad about tying you to this bed and gagging you all over again."

he reaches out slowly, brushing hair out of your face like he hasn't just shattered your entire sense of safety. his touch is oddly gentle. confusingly careful.

"i'm not the monster they say i am," he whispers, almost as if he was convincing himself.

but right now, lying beneath him, helpless and bound, you can't tell the difference.

he finally pulls himself off you, but not before trailing his eyes down your body again—slow, deliberate, lingering far too long on the way your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths.

suddenly, you regretted wearing your tiny sleep shorts and tank top to bed.

you want to yell at him. fight him. spit in his face. but your mouth is stuffed, your wrists burn, and your fear makes your limbs too heavy to move.

he walks across the room without urgency, opening your closet like he lives here. like this is his place now. he pulls out one of your hoodies, yanks it over his bloodstained shirt, then grabs a pair of your socks and wipes the dirt from his face.

he doesn't say a word.

you watch, helpless, as he rummages through your drawers. your shelves. your life.

he's looking for something.

eventually, he finds it—your phone charger.

"need to use your hotspot," he mutters, plugging your phone in and sitting on the edge of your bed like the act of invading your home and tying you up was just some minor inconvenience.

your body jerks when the mattress dips beneath his weight.

he doesn't look at you, but his voice lowers again.

"you're gonna stay quiet," he says. "you're gonna stay still. and you're not gonna do anything that'll make me regret sparing you."

you glare at him, muffled curses twisting behind the fabric stuffed in your mouth.

finally, he turns to you. cold eyes meeting yours.

and then he smiles.

a small, tired, fucked-up smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"we'll get along just fine."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you wake up in the exact same position you passed out in.

arms aching. wrists burning. legs numb from being tied up too long. your mouth is dry, your lips cracked around the fabric still shoved between them. every part of your body feels used—like even your skin remembers the panic of last night.

you blink slowly.

the room is bathed in warm daylight, soft and almost cruel in how normal it looks. like nothing's wrong. like this isn't a crime scene waiting to happen.

your eyes drag toward the door when it creaks open.

and then he walks in.

park sunghoon.

your body freezes up in fear, you knew him and of his crimes.

you were half-asleep at the library, head buried in a textbook, highlighter in one hand and a lukewarm coffee in the other. finals week was already draining what little life you had left in you, and the last thing you cared about was whatever the old guy at the next table was watching on his phone at full volume.

but then you heard it.

"—escaped late last night during a prison transfer. armed, dangerous, do not approach—"

your eyes flicked up, annoyance flashing before curiosity took over. you caught a glimpse of the screen—blurry, low-res, but clear enough. a mugshot.

young. dark hair. sharp eyes, jaw clenched like he'd rather eat glass than be photographed.

park sunghoon, the name beneath it read.

the guy beside you muttered something about the justice system falling apart before going back to his crossword.

you hadn't thought much of it. just another headline. another manhunt. the world was full of danger you'd never come close to.

well, until last night.

he looked cleaner now. fresher. his hair is damp, like he's showered. one of your hoodies is draped over his frame, sleeves pushed up casually as he carries in a glass of water and a granola bar—like this is some sick sleepover and not a hostage situation.

he glances at you, expression unreadable. then smirks faintly.

"you're awake."

you glare at him, rage bubbling beneath the surface of your exhaustion.

he walks over, crouches beside the bed, and places the glass on your nightstand.

"you gonna be good?" he asks. "nod if you are. shake your head if you want that gag shoved deeper."

your jaw clenches. you hold his gaze.

then, slowly, you nod.

he watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed in suspicion—then reaches up and pulls the crumpled shirt from your mouth. your jaw aches instantly, tongue thick and raw.

you cough, your voice barely a whisper. "fuck you."

he chuckles, it would've been cute if he wasn't holding you hostage in your own home, "thought we were starting over."

you don't respond.

he stands, pacing your room slowly as he opens the granola bar and bites into it. "you're lucky it was me. anyone else who broke in would've done worse than tie you up and take a shower."

he says it so casually it makes your stomach turn.

and for a few moments, you just lie there. breathing through the pain, waiting for an opening.

when he turns his back—your chance comes.

you twist, rolling off the edge of the bed. it's sloppy. painful. you hit the floor hard, knees burning as you try to scramble to your feet, legs still partially bound. you hop, trip, catch yourself on the dresser and launch toward the window.

you don't think. you just scream.

loud. broken. bloody murder.

sunghoon is on you in seconds.

"no—fuck—stop!"

you scream again, louder.

he grabs you from behind, one hand over your mouth, the other wrenching you back against his chest. your heart is hammering. you're kicking, thrashing, desperate. but he's stronger. faster.

again.

he spins you and shoves you against the wall, arm across your chest as he digs something from his pocket.

a black gag.

fabric. straps. thick and menacing.

"you had one chance," he growls. "just one. and you blew it."

your scream is muffled the second he stuffs the gag between your lips and tightens it around the back of your head. it's snug. suffocating. humiliating.

he holds your jaw, tilting your head up, breathing heavy against your cheek.

"next time you open that mouth without permission—" he growls, voice low and venomous, "—i'll gag you with my dick. understood?"

your breath stutters. your eyes burn with tears.

he pulls back, studying you. watching how your chest rises and falls with uneven breaths. then, he lets go and takes a step back.

"new rules," he says calmly, like he hasn't just threatened to fuck your throat as punishment.

he raises a finger.

"one—no screaming. not once. i hear so much as a whimper out of you without my say-so, i'll make you regret it."

a second finger.

"two—you don't try to escape. you don't touch the door. you don't look at the window. you so much as think about running, i'll tie you up worse than before. i'll make it so you beg me not to leave you alone."

a third finger.

"three—you do what i say. when i say it. no attitude. no tricks. no more chances."

he steps forward again, slow and looming, until you feel his breath against your gagged mouth.

"break any of them," he whispers, "and next time, i'm not stopping at just words."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

you don't speak.

you don't scream.

you sit perfectly still on the edge of your bed, wrists still raw from the zip ties, legs aching—but obedient.

sunghoon watches you from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a slow, unreadable expression on his face. then, finally, he moves.

he walks in with the glass of water and a granola bar again, this time crouching in front of you and reaching behind your head to undo the gag. it slips from your mouth, slick with your spit.

you gasp softly, jaw stiff and sore, but say nothing—his threats still fresh in your mind.

he offers the water first, and you drink—slow, cautious sips. then the granola bar. you take it with trembling fingers, never breaking eye contact.

"good girl," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. you flinch at his touch, but he just smirks.

he leaves you untied this time.

your limbs are stiff, but you pretend not to notice. you chew slowly, swallow, nod when he tells you to stay put.

but your eyes are already moving. scanning. searching.

his phone is in his back pocket. but yours—your phone—is on the desk.

screen dark. unplugged. untouched.

you wait. bide your time. he leaves the room for a second. maybe to grab something. maybe just to test you.

you count your heartbeats. one. two. three—

you move.

you slide off the bed as quietly as possible, fingers creeping toward the desk. one foot in front of the other. your hand is just about to touch the edge of your phone when—

"what do you think you're doing?"

his voice is quiet. dangerously soft.

you freeze. your hand lingers over the phone, not daring to close the distance.

you turn slowly.

he's standing in the doorway again, arms crossed, jaw tight.

for a moment, you expect him to snap. to yell. to grab you by the hair and throw you back on the bed.

but he doesn't.

he smiles.

walks over slowly and picks the phone up himself, slipping it into his back pocket.

"strike one," he says calmly. "but i'll be nice. just this once."

he brushes past you, but there's tension in his movements now. less patience. more heat behind his stare.

you return to the bed, defeated but not broken. not yet.

and then—

ding-dong.

the doorbell.

you don't even think this time.

your body moves before your brain catches up. you run. toward the door, toward the one fucking hope you've had since this nightmare started.

you run down the stairs, your body trembling in fear and adrenaline as you make it to the last step—leaping for the door.

but he's faster.

he slams you against the wall with one arm across your chest, the other pressing tight around your throat.

you gasp—your feet nearly leave the floor as he holds you there.

his grip isn't bruising—yet—but it's tight enough to keep you from moving, from breathing too deep, from making a single sound.

you can hear the footsteps outside. then a knock.

sunghoon leans in, his lips brushing your ear.

"you make a sound," he hisses, "and i'll kill whoever is outside. right here."

snapping on the safety chain, sunghoon grabs a hold of the door knob. he opens it with a click before his hand reaches into his pocket—a gun. he makes sure that you can see it, raising his eyebrows as if to say 'don't test me.'

"oh! hey—sorry to bother you," a familiar voice says. "i'm looking for my cat again. little bastard slipped out last night. have you seen him?"

it's mr. han. your sweet old neighbor.

your eyes burn. your fingers twitch.

you try to speak, but sunghoon tightens his hand around your throat and leans his head out the door.

"hi," he says, perfectly pleasant. "i'm her boyfriend. she's in the shower right now, but i'll tell her you stopped by."

mr. han blinks in confusion, his soft smile slipping. "oh. i didn't know she had a boyfriend."

sunghoon glances at you over his shoulder, a smirk creeping across his face as he presses you harder into the wall.

"yeah, hasn't been to long. just moved in."

"well, good for her!" mr. han chuckles. "if you see a tabby, let me know, will you?"

"of course," sunghoon says, eyes squinting as he forces a smile. "have a good one."

sunghoon watches the elder man walk off the porch and zoom off of the lawn, he shuts the door.

locks it and turns to you slowly.

his grip around your throat doesn't loosen. it tightens.

"you just don't fucking learn." he slams you back against the wall hard enough to make the frame shake. your head knocks into the plaster, breath choking in your throat.

"you think i'm stupid? you think just 'cause you stayed quiet for a day that you could get bold?" his free hand moves, grabbing your chin roughly, forcing you to look at him. his eyes are dark. wild. no trace of the calm he faked a minute ago.

"what do i do to brats who don't listen?" he growls, voice low and threatening. "hmm? what did i promise i'd do?"

your heart drops in your chest.

his hand drops to your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. he manhandles you away from the wall and drags you up the stairs and towards your bed again, shoving you face-first into the mattress.

sunghoon's eyes snap to your behind, the vulnerable position you were in leaving little to his imagination of what you hid underneath your flimsy shorts.

"you want attention so bad?" he snaps. "fine. i'll give you attention."

his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, pinned like prey. his other hands smoothens over your behind, grabbing a hold of the fat on your ass making you whine into the sheets.

"but after this—" he breathes against your ear, "—you'll beg to follow the rules."

"you remember what i said i'd gag you with next time you pulled shit like that?"

his voice is low. dangerous. every word laced with venom and heat before he's griping your jaw, thumb dragging over your trembling lips.

your silence earns you nothing. he flips you around, pushing you down onto the bed with your back against your soft sheets.

he tilts your head back further, pressing your skull against the headboard now, his body wedged between your knees.

"oh, now you're quiet?" he mocks, fingers tightening around your face in a grip that you were sure would leave bruises. "no attitude now that you know what's coming?"

you try to speak, to plead maybe—but your mouth barely opens before he shoves two fingers past your lips, forcing them deep against your tongue.

sunghoon holds back a groan when he feels how warm and wet your mouth was around his digits, pressing down on your tongue making you gag.

"nah," he growls, "you don't get to talk. you had your chance."

he pulls his fingers out, dripping with spit, and pulls down his pants with ease without taking his eyes off you.

"since you can't keep your fucking mouth shut, i'll put it to better use."

he's straddling your waist, knees on either side of your body as his cock stands proud in front of you.

he fists your hair, yanking your head toward his cock, already thick and flushed with need. the first tap of it against your lips is sharp, mean.

"open."

you hesitate—so he slaps it against your cheek. hard.

"i said open."

your lips part automatically. it's instinct at this point—survival.

he doesn't ease in.

he shoves, thick and heavy, making you choke on the first thrust. both hands grip your head now, holding you exactly where he wants you, using your mouth like he promised.

"there you go. that's better. this is how i like you—stuffed full, not making a sound," sunghoon grunts out, basking in the way your warm mouth seemed to suck him in.

you gag as he pushes deeper, spit dripping from your chin as he rocks his hips, forcing you to take it all.

his voice stays in your ear, low and taunting.

"next time you scream? next time you run? i'll fuck your mouth so hard you won't even remember your own name."

your eyes water, throat stretched, his cock filling every inch. but he doesn't stop. doesn't let up. the tip of his length hits the back of your throat repeatedly as you try to push yourself away from his brutal thrusts. sunghoon sees this and his grip in your hair becomes stronger, stuffing his cock deeper so your nose touched his pelvis and your breathing stuttered.

"you like this, don't you? being punished. being used. my little brat who acts tough but melts the second i get my hands on her."

his pace quickens, brutal now, the sound of your wet gagging and his filthy growls echoing off the walls.

"better than screaming, isn't it?" he sneers. "go ahead—choke on it, since you couldn't behave."

your hands claw weakly at his thighs, but he just holds you there, hips snapping forward, using your mouth until your throat is raw.

"fuck. your mouth is so good when it's used right," he mutters lowly, feeling that familiar feeling tighten in his lower stomach as he watches your tear stained face take his cock over and over again.

with no warning, he shoots his load into your mouth—coating it white. you gag at the feeling, your eyes rolling back as the lack of oxygen begins to really get to you.

and only when he's satisfied—only when he's sure you won't be trying to run again—does he finally pull out, dragging his spit and cum covered cock over your lips.

"swallow," he demands.

afraid of what he'd do if you disobeyed, you obliged.

"look at you," he pants, gripping your chin. "fucking perfect like this."

he leans down, mouth against your ear.

"you make a sound again—and next time, it won't just be your mouth i use."

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

it's been days.

you don't know how many, exactly—time feels warped in here. sunlight comes and goes through the windows, but you're barely conscious enough to count the difference anymore.

you're weak. too weak.

he barely feeds you. you get enough to survive, some water, maybe crackers or a half-eaten bar—but not enough to fight back. not enough to scream through the gag still strapped tightly across your mouth.

your wrists are red, raw from how often he binds them. sometimes behind your back, sometimes above your head. your legs, too—he likes to keep you where he can see you, spread open and helpless, arms cinched tight and useless at your sides.

he doesn't talk much now. just watches you. moves you. like a thing he owns.

it was supposed to be temporary for him.

a place to hide. one night—maybe two. long enough to lay low, avoid the flashing lights and barking dogs. just long enough to scrape by without being seen.

he didn't expect the house to be so quiet.

so soft.

he didn't expect to hear the sound of slow breathing upstairs—the kind that came from deep sleep. vulnerable. defenseless.

and he definitely didn't expect you.

the first time he crept into your room and saw you lying there, curled beneath the sheets, skin glowing under moonlight, he nearly forgot to breathe. fuck, you were pretty. a cute little thing in a tank top and sleep shorts, completely unaware of the danger breathing over you.

it should've ended there. he should've turned around and used the basement or the attic or anywhere else.

but you shifted in your sleep—lips parting, a soft whimper slipping from your throat—and it hit him.

you didn't know he was there. you didn't know anything, he could do whatever he wanted.

and no one would stop him.

his chest tightened. not with guilt. not with hesitation.

with possibility.

he could make this place more than a hiding spot.

he could make you his.

his to keep. to touch. to break.

he had ruined your peaceful sleep when he knocked over a vase that you had placed on your vanity. he knew what he had to do from there.

he told himself he'd leave eventually. but the longer he stayed, the less he wanted to go.

he started to crave the way you looked at him—wide-eyed and shaking. he started to need the way your body recoiled, only to soften when he touched you gently. the way you flinched, but didn't fight—not right away at least.

he could mold you.

he could make you something new. something better.

his.

the house became his kingdom. and you—his prize.

he told himself you were safer this way.

he was safer this way.

because if he let you go—if he walked out and left you behind—there was no guarantee you wouldn't take something from him with you.

and if he had to be on the run... might as well have a pet to keep him company. one that couldn't run. one that knew who she belonged to.

you try not to look at him anymore.

but then—this time—it's different.

he walks in with that quiet menace, dragging a chair with one hand and a towel with the other.

you're curled in the corner of your bed, wrists tied, gag biting into your cheeks. your limbs shake with the effort of just staying upright. your skin feels oily, dirty, your scalp itchy from days without washing.

you've never wanted a bath more.

but not from him.

"you stink," he says flatly, his plump lips pulled into a thin line.

you look up, exhausted eyes narrowed.

he walks over, grabs your arm, and yanks you to your feet like you weigh nothing.

you stumble, legs buckling—but his grip stays locked around your bicep, dragging you down the hall and into the bathroom.

"don't fight me," he mutters. "you don't have the strength."

he's not wrong.

but your pride forces you to resist anyway—so he slams you against the sink.

you grunt, head hitting the mirror lightly. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing you down.

you scream against the gag, but it's useless. muffled. pitiful.

he turns the faucet on in the tub, steam rising slowly. the water looks too warm—comforting, tempting—and it makes you hate him more.

you look up at him with pleading eyes, begging him to let you free so you could at the very least bathe yourself. his cold eyes remain the same, reaching down to grip the flimsy straps of your tank top.

he doesn't undress you gently. he yanks your shirt up over your head, roughly tugging it off your arms even with your wrists bound. your shorts follow. he doesn't avert his eyes—he drinks you in, every shiver, every twitch, every part of you exposed and vulnerable.

his eyes linger on your tits, sitting on your chest with your nipples hard from the cold air in the room. he swallows harshly, dragging his gaze down to instead linger on your thighs and your uncovered core.

you're trembling now, from weakness or humiliation or both.

he grabs your waist and lifts you into the tub like you're nothing but a doll. the hot water stings your skin at first, but you sink into it anyway—your body aching for warmth, for some kind of relief.

you expect him to leave, to have some mercy. he doesn't.

he kneels beside the tub and grabs a cup, filling it before dumping it over your head. your hair clings to your face, your gag soaked.

he works a bottle of shampoo into his hands and starts lathering it into your scalp. not gentle—but not cruel either. just firm. efficient. like this is just another task.

his hands roam as he scrubs. over your shoulders. down your back. between your thighs. you jerk when he gets there—more out of instinct than strength—but his hand tightens on your thigh.

"stay still."

his fingers drag along your inner thigh, slow, invasive. he doesn't go further, just lets you know he could if he really wanted to.

and you're forced to sit there, bound and gagged, water lapping at your chest while he washes the filth from your skin like you're some helpless pet.

"next time," he says lowly, rinsing your hair, "you listen. you don't fight. you don't run."

you can't even respond. all you can do is whimper beneath the wet gag, body trembling in his grasp. he finishes washing you, lifting you out of the tub, wrapping you in the towel like he cares.

but the second your feet hit the floor, he's gripping your arm again—dragging you back to the room.

you don't even resist.

you're too tired. too humiliated. too broken in.

he throws you on the bed, ties your wrists to the headboard again with a new set of restraints. this time tighter, less forgiving.

he fixes the gag and adjusts the straps. he brushes your wet hair back from your face with a mockingly sweet touch, his hands gentle as he looks down at you with affection.

"see?" he whispers, brushing his lips just above your ear. "i take care of what's mine."

he dries you off just enough so the sheets won't get soaked—then he tosses the towel aside like it means nothing and grabs your ankles, dragging your body up the bed like dead weight.

you try to squirm, but he slaps your thigh. hard.

"don't start."

you're still gagged. your wrists are already tied above your head. there's no room for rebellion here—and he knows it.

he climbs on top of you, straddling your hips with his knees. he's not naked, but you are. he doesn't need to be. the only thing that matters right now is you.

your body.

your obedience.

he cups your face with one hand, squeezing your cheeks roughly, pulling your gaze to meet his.

"look at you," he sneers. "a fucking mess. barely standing. can't talk. can't run. all that fire you had—where the fuck did it go?" you can't answer—not with the gag pressing your tongue down, soaking with your spit. you just blink up at him, chest heaving with shaky breaths.

"you wanted to be saved, didn't you?" he mocks, brushing his fingers over your cheek just to slap it again. "thought someone would come for you. knock on the door, maybe hear you screaming."

he laughs. bitter.

"they came. and you failed. just like everything else you've tried since i got here."

his hands start roaming again—gripping your breasts, digging into your ribs, sliding down to your stomach like he's taking inventory of every inch he owns.

"this body?" he mutters. "not yours anymore. it's mine. to touch. to punish. to fuck."

he grabs your thighs, spreading them roughly, pushing your knees apart like you don't even get a say.

"you're not a person right now," he breathes. "you're a hole. a toy. and you'll be whatever i say you are until i get bored."

you whimper against the gag, eyes starting to sting. but that only seems to turn him on more. he leans down, mouth at your ear again, voice sickeningly sweet.

"cry. beg. scream into that gag. it won't change a fucking thing. no one's going to save you."

his hand finds your core, pressing his fingers against you with no warning, no care. "already wet," he mutters, almost smug. "pathetic."

he drags his fingers up slowly, deliberately—just enough to make you flinch, to remind you how little control you have over yourself.

"you'll learn, baby. you'll learn. and when you do—when you stop fighting and just take it like the good little thing you are? it'll be easier."

he slaps between your legs. hard. you jolt.

"until then? i'll break you."

you don't know when the pain became pleasure. maybe it was the moment he touched you without hurting you. maybe it was how long it's been since you felt anything that wasn't fear or humiliation. or maybe it's just that your body's giving in, finally breaking, surrendering to him because it's the only option left.

sunghoon sees it. feels it.

his fingers slide over you again—slow this time, calculated. he presses two between your chubby folds, dragging them through your slick like he's proving a point. he presses hard on your clit before rubbing right circles, watching your face contort into one of discomfort and pleasure.

"look at this," he breathes out heavily, watching your body twitch with his every touch. "you like it."

you shake your head, gag muffling your protests—but your hips twitch forward without your permission.

his smile is cold. smug.

"no?" he mocks, rubbing lazy circles around your clit with the pads of his fingers. "then why are you so fucking wet? you're soaking my fingers, honey."

you squeeze your thighs together instinctively—but he shoves them apart again, gripping them wide open and holding them there in a bruising manner.

"don't hide from me. not after this."

his other hand slides up your body, fingers wrapping lightly around your throat, not squeezing—yet. just enough to make you feel it. make you still.

"you want to cum?" he asks, cocking his head—his dark locks falling over his forehead as his lips curl into a smirk. "is that what this is? you think i'll reward you after the shit you pulled? after how bad you've been, you think you deserve it? hm?"

his fingers slow down, barely touching now. feather-light. teasing. "maybe i should edge you until you break. over and over. never let you finish. see how long it takes before you're begging."

your breath stutters—every inch of you tense, desperate.

he sees it. loves it.

"or..."

he leans in close, lips brushing your ear.

"...maybe you can earn it."

you freeze.

his fingers start circling again, more firmly now, making your hips buck involuntarily as you chase your release desperately. your heart aches at the feeling, shame filling you.

"yeah. that's right. i'll let you cum—but only when you prove you're mine. when you stop fighting. when you're good."

he pulls the gag down, slow and wet with spit. your lips are trembling, red and swollen. sunghoon watches your lips twitch, your chest heave up and down as you struggle to keep in your lewd sounds.

"say it," he whispers.

you hesitate.

his hand leaves your throat, trailing back down your chest. he pinches your nipple hard, making you jolt in pain.

"say it."

your voice cracks when it comes out. weak. wrecked. ashamed.

"...i'm yours."

he grins. dark. dangerous.

"again."

"i'm... i'm yours, sunghoon," your voice coming out weak and strangled as he continues to tweak at your nipple and rub at your core.

his hand between your legs moves faster now, relentless, cruel in how perfectly it works your body—building that ache, that pressure, that need.

"you cum only when i say," he growls. "not before. not without permission."

you nod. frantically. desperate for a release, desperate for any other feeling besides pain and humiliation.

your thighs start to shake, breath stuttering, but just when you're about to fall over the edge—

he pulls away. completely.

you sob. instantly. broken, needy.

he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, mockingly sweet.

"not yet, baby. you're not there yet."

he strokes his cock lazily now, right in front of your face—watching you unravel. you hadn't noticed when he had pulled himself free from the restraints of his pants, watching him touch himself as he made you squirm and beg.

"you want to cum?"

you nod again, more desperate.

"then earn it. really earn it."

he slides two fingers back inside you—slow, deep, hitting exactly where he knows will make you cry.

"submit."

his fingers curl deep inside you again—slow, precise, knowing.

you arch, back bowing against the mattress involuntarily, your wrists straining in their binds. it feels too good, too dangerous. you bite your lip to keep from moaning, but it slips out anyway—a soft, shaky sound that betrays everything you want to hide.

he grins, "there she is."

you glare at him. breathing hard. eyes glassy, but still sharp. "fuck... you," you hiss.

he chuckles, low and unbothered, never stopping the rhythm of his hand.

"yeah?" he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw. "you say that, but your pussy's soaking my fingers."

his thumb moves to your clit—just a light press, a tease—and your whole body flinches. you clench your teeth, swallowing a moan. he notices.

"still fighting," he murmurs. "i love that."

he stops stroking himself, his hand snaking up to your throat again, squeezing this time. firm enough to make your breath hitch.

"but it won't save you."

his pace picks up. fingers thrusting deeper, thumb rubbing tighter circles. the pressure builds fast—your body's too sensitive, too deprived—and you hate how close you are, how easily he has you trembling.

"don't you dare cum," he growls. "not until i say." the sound of wet smacking fills the room, you could hear yourself squelch against his fingers, your lower stomach tightening as you buck your hips against his hands.

you try. you really try.

but your hips keep rolling into his touch, your walls clenching around his fingers, the pleasure dragging you closer and closer to the edge. your moans break free, desperate, breathless, despite every part of you screaming not to give him the satisfaction.

he watches it happen with dark amusement. "look at you," he says. "trying so hard to hold out. you're pathetic."

you meet his eyes, defiant even through the haze.

"i'm not... yours," you whisper.

his hand stops.

your whole body seizes up with the sudden loss, a sob catching in your throat.

"no?" he murmurs.

he pulls his fingers out, slow and sticky, then slaps your inner thigh hard enough to sting.

"then you don't get to cum."

you cry out, body trembling. your thighs rub together, instinctively chasing friction, but he grabs your jaw hard and yanks your face toward his before landing a strong smack to your puffy cunt.

"say it again," he demands. "go on. tell me you're not mine."

you don't. not right away. he smirks.

"thought so."

he leans in, lips brushing yours—but not kissing. just hovering. "you'll break," he whispers. "piece by piece. you'll cum when i let you. breathe when i let you. and someday, you'll say it and mean it—i'm yours, sunghoon."

you spit in his face.

it lands right below his eye.

he pauses. then he laughs—low and deadly—and wipes it away with the back of his hand.

"good," he says, gripping your chin harder. "keep fighting. it makes owning you so much sweeter."

he shoves the gag back into your mouth, tight, unforgiving. your jaw begins to ache again, crying against the restraint.

"no more chances."

he ties your legs open, so you can't even squirm now. exposed. vulnerable. soaked.

"you'll cum when you beg. and mean it."

he slides his fingers back inside, slower now. torturous. your gummy walls welcome his fingers, stretching to accommodate the girth of his digits.

"let's see how long you last."

he thinks he has you right where he wants you.

tied, gagged, spread open—body sensitive, on edge, desperate. but he's predictable now. obsessive. careless in the way he touches you, in the way he lingers. like you're not just a hostage anymore—like you're something more.

and that? that's a weakness.

he's working you with his fingers again—slow, deep strokes meant to drag out the ache, to make you beg.

but this time, you don't squirm.

you start moaning for him.

soft at first—just breathy little sounds muffled through the gag—but enough to make his head tilt. enough to make his fingers pause for a second.

you moan again. louder this time. exaggerated. needy. you flutter your lashes, shift your hips just the way you know he likes.

his gaze flickers down to your face, suspicious. "what're you doing?" he mutters, voice low with suspicion.

you blink up at him—wide-eyed, innocent—then roll your hips into his hand with a soft, choked sound.

he curses under his breath.

you can feel it—the tension in him, the way his fingers falter for half a second. he likes this. too much. he likes seeing you like this. needy. soft. wanting him.

so you give it to him.

you moan into the gag again—arching your back a little, letting your thighs tremble, pretending to lose yourself.

his hand tightens on your leg. his breathing shifts as he curls his fingers in your cunt making you delirious.

"fuck," he mutters. "look at you. finally learning."

you nod. slow. deliberate.

then you hold his gaze. and you smirk. just a twitch of your lips—barely there. but he sees it and he freezes.

his eyes darken, narrowing, hand yanking back from between your legs like he's been burned.

you tilt your head, mockingly sweet.

"you think you're clever, huh?" he growls.

you nod again, smug, even through the gag. he grabs your throat—hard this time, his thumb pressing into the side just enough to make your vision pulse.

"you think you can manipulate me?"

your lashes flutter, but you don't stop smiling—not with your eyes. not with your body still glistening, still wanting.

you're challenging him. and he lives for it.

"fine," he breathes, voice shaking with something between rage and arousal. "you want to play that game? we'll play."

he rips the gag out of your mouth, shoving two fingers in right after, deep, gagging you all over again.

"suck."

you choke, but your lips wrap around them anyway—defiance still burning in your eyes, even as he uses your mouth like it's his.

he groans.

"you want to be in control?" he snarls, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. "then earn it."

he flips you over onto your stomach, rough—palms pressing your face into the mattress.

"but don't forget who you belong to."

he grabs your hips, yanking you back until your ass is flush against him, his breath hot against your spine.

"mine," he growls. "you'll always be mine."

you're still face down when he lets go of your hips. your cheek's pressed to the mattress, wrists raw from the binds, your body trembling—but not just from exhaustion anymore.

you got to him.

you felt it—the hesitation, the way he gripped you too tightly, the way his voice shook when you moaned just the right way. he's not just trying to break you now. he's unraveling with you.

you breathe slowly, letting your body go limp—making him think he's won again.

he grabs your jaw, turns your face toward him. "what's that look for?" he mutters. your lips are swollen, spit-slick, and you part them just enough to whisper, "i thought you liked when i was good."

his jaw tightens. you can see it—how those words land somewhere deep, how they confuse him. punish him. "you're playing games."

you blink up at him, feigning innocence. "no, sunghoon. i'm just... learning how to please you."

he stares.

and in that pause—in that split-second hesitation—you win again.

he pulls back just a little, his hand still on your throat, but lighter. his thumb drags up the side of your neck, over your pulse. he can feel how fast your heart is racing—but he can't tell anymore if it's fear... or excitement.

"you think i'll go easy on you just because you moan a little and look pretty?" he growls, but the edge in his voice is starting to waver.

"no," you whisper. "but you liked it."

his eyes flicker down your body—bruised, bitten, wrecked. then back up to your lips, still curved into the faintest smirk.

"you don't get to control me," he says, but it's not as sharp as before. you lean forward slowly, as much as the binds will allow, lips brushing his ear.

"don't i already?"

he grabs your hair—rough, punishing—but it's reactionary now. desperate. his breathing's shallow, his cock pushing up against your ass, you feel how hard he is.

"you're mine," he snaps.

you hum, soft and sweet. "then make me feel like it."

it's the final push.

he curses, shoves you back onto your back, climbs on top of you again—but this time, something's changed. his hands are still rough, but they tremble. his eyes burn with hunger, but there's conflict behind it.

because now? you're not just a hostage anymore.

you're a temptation. a threat.

he kisses you—finally. messy, punishing. full of frustration and need and something deeper he doesn't want to name. and when he pulls back, his voice is strained.

"keep playing with fire," he says. "but don't forget—i'll burn you."

you smile, lips swollen, blood on your teeth.

"maybe i want to burn."

he stares at you like you just did the unthinkable.

because you did.

you made him want you—not just in the brutal, instinctive way he always has—but in that dangerous way. the way that makes him hesitate. that makes him feel.

your smile is slow. calculated. seductive in its smugness.

"what's wrong?" you whisper, still tied down, but holding all the power in your eyes. "can't handle someone else pulling the strings?"

sunghoon doesn't move at first.

he just breathes. shaky. tense.

you think you've done it—you've finally broken through. made him doubt himself.

but then—

his hand wraps around your throat and slams you into the mattress, pinning you so hard the air punches out of your lungs.

"you think this is a game?" he snarls, voice low and trembling with rage. "you think i don't see what you're doing?"

your legs kick instinctively, wrists pulling hard against the binds. your chest rises in shallow, panicked breaths beneath him.

he leans in—forehead pressed to yours, wild eyes burning into you as he stares at you with a crazed look.

"you almost had me," he says, like it's a confession. like it kills him to admit it. "but you're not the one in control."

his hand grabs your jaw—fingers digging in bruisingly tight.

"i gave you a taste," he growls. "a sliver of reward. and you thought you could twist it. twist me."

he shoves your thighs apart again, this time using his own knees to keep them there. immobilizing you completely.

you try to turn your face away—deny him the satisfaction—but he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him.

"no more teasing. no more playing smart. you want to win? then earn it the way you were always meant to."

his fingers are back between your legs in seconds—this time rough, relentless. punishing. no teasing, no slow build.

you scream into the room, not out of fear—but at the overload. he's not holding back anymore.

you could feel every drag of his digits in your slick walls, your body convulsing as he hooks his fingers in you—pounding into your cunt.

he's reclaiming every ounce of control you tried to steal. "you cum when i say," he hisses, voice right against your lips. "you break when i decide."

you whimper beneath him, still resisting—still fighting with what little strength you have—but your body's traitorous. you're already dripping, already twitching under his touch.

he sees it. feels it.

and that's what snaps the last bit of restraint in him.

he presses his mouth to your ear, voice dark and ragged.

"i'll keep you right here until your body forgets what it was like to disobey."

his rhythm doesn't stop—not even when your legs start to shake, not even when your head thrashes side to side, overwhelmed.

"you want to manipulate me?" he pants. "go ahead. try. but every time you do..."

his fingers curl deep, making you scream.

"...i'll make you cum harder than you ever have in your life. and then i'll deny you again."

your tears spill. your hips jerk. your moans are breaking free even when you try to swallow them back.

and sunghoon smiles. wide. unhinged.

"you don't win, baby."

he leans in, kissing the corner of your mouth softly—mockingly.

"you submit."

you're gasping beneath him, body limp, sweat clinging to your skin, thighs still twitching from the assault he just dragged you through. your chest rises and falls in jagged, uneven breaths. your wrists ache from how hard you pulled and you taste blood from biting at you lip to contain yourself.

but your eyes? still burning.

sunghoon hovers over you—breathing heavy, watching the way your body trembles. there's pride in his gaze. possession. satisfaction.

he leans in again, brushing your lips with his, voice low and mocking.

"there she is," he breathes. "my good girl."

you pause—breathing, blinking, letting the silence hang.

then you smile.

bloody lip, tear-stained cheeks, body ruined...

you still fucking smile.

"you're pathetic," you whisper, voice hoarse and cracked but sharp like a blade. "all that, just to prove you're in charge."

his jaw tightens. the grip on your face hardens again, but you don't flinch. not this time.

"i made you lose control," you rasp. "again."

his nostrils flare.

you lean forward, barely—just enough for your lips to graze his cheek.

"and you'll keep doing it," you breathe. "because you need me more than i'll ever need you. you sick fuck."

for a second, just a second—his whole body stills.

and you know. you got to him again.

your words linger in the air like smoke—thick, suffocating, taunting. and sunghoon just stares at you.

quiet. too quiet.

you feel the shift in the room immediately—like the oxygen's been sucked out, like the world itself is holding its breath.

his hand slides from your jaw to your throat.

slow. calm. dangerous.

his gaze never leaves yours.

"say it again," he murmurs. dead calm. deadly.

you blink—swallowing hard, but refusing to look away.

and that's what makes him snap.

his hand slams you into the mattress again—choking, bruising, cutting off your breath as he straddles your body with renewed fury.

"you think this is about need?" he hisses, low and shaking. "you think i'm the one that's weak?"

his free hand grabs your wrists, rips the bindings tighter, yanking your arms above your head so hard your shoulders strain.

"look at you," he sneers. "lying here soaked, shaking, moaning for me like a fucking whore—" his voice cracks. "—and you think you have control?"

you try to twist your body, to squirm away—but there's nowhere to go. his grip on your throat tightens.

your lips part in a gasping cry—but he's already reaching for the gag again.

"you want to talk?" he growls. "you lost that right."

he stuffs it in rougher this time—no care, no softness—pressing it deep into your mouth before tying it so tight behind your head your jaw aches.

he doesn't give you time to breathe. doesn't give you space to recover.

he flips you again, stomach down—your body limp, wrists still bound tight above your head, legs spread.

he grabs your hair, pulls your head back so you're arched beneath him.

"you want to twist me around your finger?" he breathes against your ear, his voice shaking with pure rage. "then i'll fucking break every single bone in your body until there's nothing left to twist."

his hand slides back between your thighs—rougher now, punishing.

no more rhythm. just control.

you scream into the gag—muffled, helpless, as your hips buck and shake without your permission.

"no more pretending," he growls. "no more teasing, no more games."

he grabs your ass, slapping it hard, again and again, until the skin stings raw beneath his palm.

your legs kick, your body trembles, your sobs spill out in broken little whimpers.

but it only excites him more.

"you want to be smart?" he snarls, pressing his body down over yours, fully covering you. caging you. "then learn something, baby."

he thrusts his fingers back in, curling them cruelly until your entire body jerks beneath him.

"you don't win," he hisses. "you submit. you obey. and if you don't..."

his mouth trails down your spine, hot breath against your skin.

"...i'll make you beg for mercy."

your body's shaking beneath him. raw. used. aching in ways you didn't know were possible.

your jaw throbs from the gag, your throat burns from choked sobs, your wrists are nearly numb from how tight he's bound you. your skin stings where he slapped you, and your thighs are soaked, muscles twitching from overstimulation.

you're a mess. his mess.

he kneels behind you, breath heavy, chest rising and falling like a man who just won a war.

but when he grabs your hair again and yanks your face up from the mattress—

he sees it.

that look.

that tiny, fucking spark that shouldn't be there.

he growls, yanks the gag down—ripped so fast it leaves a burn around your mouth—and grabs your jaw.

"go on," he hisses. "say something smart. i fucking dare you."

you cough, breathless and wrecked, lips parted, face smeared with sweat and tears. you look at him—eyes glassy but locked onto his.

then—

you smile.

small. crooked. blood at the corner of your mouth.

but it's a smile.

"...that all you got?"

he stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. his chest heaves. fists clenched. he doesn't know if he wants to destroy you or worship you.

and that's what makes you laugh. soft. strained. broken, but alive. you spit the blood from your mouth onto the mattress.

"you can break my body all you want, sunghoon," you whisper, voice rasped raw. "but you'll never be more than the scared little boy who needed rope and violence just to keep a girl in his bed."

his hand flies.

your head jerks to the side, cheek stinging, but you don't cry out. instead—you turn your face back slowly, looking up at him through swollen eyes.

smiling again.

"you're pathetic," you breathe.

sunghoon's whole body tenses. you can see it. feel it. his eyes darken. his hands shake.

but for the first time, there's hesitation. you've planted the seed. and now? he doesn't just want to dominate you. he wants to own you. fully. mind, body, soul.

and that means breaking what's left of your fire.

completely.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

the days blend like bruises—fading into one another, painful, discolored, ugly reminders of time passed. your body is thin now, your limbs weak, skin pale from lack of sunlight. everything smells like sweat and confinement. the bindings around your wrists and ankles chafe more with each passing hour, and even when he unties them briefly—to "care" for you, to feed or bathe you—you never forget what they're there for.

sunghoon has shifted. less violent now, more possessive. frighteningly tender, like the calm after a storm that knows it'll return.

"you're mine now," he whispers as he brushes your hair, the back of his knuckles grazing your cheek. "you stopped screaming. that means you understand."

you don't answer. you haven't in a while.

he likes it that way. but that doesn't mean your mind has gone silent.

you're just... waiting.

and on this morning, as sunlight spills across the floor and he leaves the room to scavenge the kitchen, you push yourself off the bed. legs wobble beneath you, almost giving out. your mouth is dry, lips cracked. your arms are sore from the way they've been pulled above your head for hours.

but you stand.

bare feet drag across the hardwood toward the cracked-open window. you lean against it, arms limp over the sill, eyes half-lidded.

and then—

movement outside.

him.

mr. han, the older man from next door, wearing his usual cap and jacket, walking past with a leash in hand and no cat at the end of it. he's scanning the street.

your breath catches. you shift—just barely. the curtain twitches with you.

he glances up.

and freezes.

his mouth opens slightly, confused. then worried.

your fingers curl around the edge of the window frame.

a second passes. he squints. takes a step closer.

and you nod. the smallest movement. a desperate one.

his eyes widen.

he takes off down the street—fast, but not frantic, trying not to draw attention. your legs give out, and you slump to the floor just as the front door clicks open again.

"where are you?" sunghoon calls out.

panic races through you, but your limbs won't move fast enough.

he appears in the doorway a second later.

eyes drop to you.

your body crumpled by the window.

and that's all it takes.

he lunges.

his hands are on you instantly—grabbing your arms, dragging you up with no care for your trembling body. he spins you toward the bed, but you're dead weight now, slumping in his grip.

"what the fuck did you do," he growls, voice tight with fear. "did someone see you?"

you don't answer.

he shakes you hard, fingers digging into your arms. "did he see you?"

your silence is enough.

his breathing becomes frantic. he shoves you back onto the bed and runs to the front window. peeks through the blinds.

and curses.

"fuck. fuck!"

he spins around, pacing.

then—

sirens.

distant.

not close yet, but unmistakable. your heart surges.

sunghoon's entire face crumples with fury and panic.

he grabs a bag—throws it across the room. opens drawers. grabs knives. rope.

sirens grow louder.

closer.

you're still lying on the bed, too weak to fight, but your eyes track his every movement.

he moves to the door. he's going to run, but something stops him.

you.

he turns, stares at you for a beat. long and quiet. then walks back toward you slowly. you flinch when he reaches for your face—but he doesn't hurt you.

instead, he cups your cheek. wipes a streak of something off your skin. sweat or tears. maybe both.

"you did this," he whispers.

his voice is calm again.

the sirens are just outside now—cars skidding, doors slamming.

he leans in closer. kisses your forehead.

"i'll see you again."

and then—

bang—bang—BANG.

"police! open up!"

the door doesn't wait for an answer. it bursts open in seconds. officers storm inside—guns raised, shouting commands.

sunghoon stands tall. his hands rise slowly. he doesn't struggle.

but he never takes his eyes off you.

not once.

as they shove him to the ground, shouting, cuffing him, dragging him away—

he turns his head back to look at you.

eyes wide. wild and devoted.

"i'll find you," he calls, voice breaking. "no matter where they take me. you belong to me."

he never thought it would end like this.

face pressed to the hardwood, cold metal biting into his wrists. police shouting over each other, boots stomping through his space—your space.

they're dragging him away now. but his eyes won't leave you.

not once.

you're huddled near the corner of the bed—blanket pulled over your shoulders, shivering, pale, but awake. not limp. not broken. your eyes are on him.

terrified and defiant.

just like the first time you stared him down.

he thought he'd taken that out of you. smoothed your edges, broken your fight. he thought you'd learned.

but now, looking at you...he sees it.

you never stopped burning. you just waited for the moment to breathe.

it makes his teeth grit.

he remembers the first night he stood over your bed, zip ties in his hands, heart thudding not with fear but need. the thrill of control, the high of being wanted—or at least needed—by something warm, soft, his.

you were supposed to need him by now.

he told himself he'd remake you. that it was fate you were the one sleeping in this house, with the window left open like an invitation.

you were supposed to belong to him.

but now? they're hauling him away and he's powerless.

just like he was before. before the escape. before he found you. before he felt that sick sense of purpose in your screams and silence alike.

you're slipping from him.

you're blinking and breathing and safe in someone else's arms now. and he knows—knows deep in the marrow of his bones—that they're going to take you far away from him.

his lip curls. he twists in the officer's grip, eyes locked on yours.

"i'll see you again," he growls, voice hoarse with rage and obsession. "you hear me? you're mine."

you don't reply.

you just watch him disappear down the hallway.

no more ropes. no more gags. no more silence.

just the ghost of his voice echoing down the corridor, and the sound of your own breath finally filling your lungs—free.

you tremble.

someone rushes to your side—a medic. hands on your face, checking your vitals, voice soft and reassuring. but all you can do is stare at the door.

where he disappeared.

and pray he never keeps that promise.

— enjoy this fic? check out my other ones right here!

2K notes · View notes

georgeplease · 3 months ago

Text

The One Where We Have to Fuck or Die

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Fred gives Reader his test vial of a new love potion for the store. They quickly realize if they don’t have sex then it’ll kill her.

Tags: Porn Logic, Aphrodisiac, fucking like rabbits, both reader and Fred are in their late 20s-early 30s

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

It started as a normal Saturday for (Y/n). She had slept in, made some breakfast, cleaned her flat, and had been getting ready to relax for the rest of the day. That was until a familiar owl had found its way to her window, dropping off a letter with her name scrawled across the front. The handwriting was all too familiar, making her roll her eyes as she retrieved it from the owl before sending him on his way.

Having met the twins in her first year at Hogwarts was a pivotal moment, developing a fast friendship with the both of them after a prank gone wrong. That fateful afternoon sparked a 12 year long friendship between the twins and her.

Yet, there was always something between her and Fred, others may say they were destined together, they chose to believe they were just really good friends. It’s part of the reason he could send a letter like this, asking for her to rush down to his shop and help him. As annoyed as she would act, she would always rush to his side.

It didn’t take long for her to get dressed and make her way to Diagon Alley, easily finding her way through the busy street to her favorite store. As (Y/n) entered the shop she turned waving to George as she passed through toward the back. The store was as crowded as it usually was for a weekend, causing her to weave through several other customers before she was able to each the employees only section. The letter she had received from Fred to come to the store said it was an urgent matter, but having known him long enough, she was positive he was lying. But yet, here she was.

Not wasting anytime, she pushed into his office, seeing him sat at his desk, feet resting as he smirked upon seeing her enter.

“Well, if it isn’t my most loyal test subject.”

“What is it now, Fred?” She asked, crossing her arms, clearly not assumed by his mood.

Standing up, Fred walked around his desk, handing her a glittery pink vial, causing her to raise an eyebrow as she grabbed it from him. Looking at it, it was clear what it was supposed to be, having seen many of the Twin’s famous love potions before.

“A love potion? Don’t you already have several different kinds?” She asked, curious as to where this was leading.

“Not just any love potion, this is specifically for our older couples. You know, to help them spicy up their lives.”

“Like Viagra?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, not understanding what that was. He quickly shrugged it off, turning back to his sales pitch. “No, no. This is better than any muggle product.” Moving behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders. “What’s the number one reason most people get divorced?” He gave a second for her to think before answering for her. “That’s right, lack of passion. Imagine how many people we could help if we sold passion in a vial. How ‘bout that?”

“Work on your sales pitch, but I do like the idea.” placing a hand in her chin, she observed the vial closely. “I figure you want me to test it?“ Looking over her shoulder she sees Fred nod. “Have you tested it on anything else?”

“Tested a few drops on some plants, didn’t kill them so it should be fine for human consumption.”

“That sounds promising.” She teased, sliding away from his grasp. “What’s in it for me?”

“Besides being so horny there’s no way you won’t have an amazing orgasm once you go home?” He teased, before continuing his pitch. “Usual price, 50 galleons and unlimited supplies if you so need it.”

Fred stuck his hand out, waiting to see if she’d take his offer. After pondering for a few seconds, she reached out with her free hand shaking it. A deal with the devil, some would say.

Uncorking the vial, she pressed it to her lips, swallowing the liquid. Luckily, he had been able to get it to taste more pleasant than his other attempts, reminding her of fresh strawberries with cream. Her eyes moved to look at the ceiling, waiting for the desired effects to happen. Awkwardly she began to look around the room to pass the time, feeling a little weird to test this kind of potion in front of her friend, but money is money. And she trusted that Fred would not kill her.

As she took a look behind him, her attention was drawn to his work station. Her eyes were drawn to the ingredients he had used, haphazardly tossed about. There were the components to making a love potion, a rather simple potion. No, what caught her eye was the other ingredients he had mixed, a good amount well known aphrodisiacs along with an odd collection of ingredients that have her an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Walking over, she got a better look at them, understanding why she felt so uneasy. Mixing these ingredients together are well known for causing the person who took the potion to die if certain conditions weren’t met.

Wide eyed, she snapped to look at Fred, her body feeling warm as she felt it begins to take effect. He seems none the wiser to his fatal error, his arrogant smirk pissing her off. Throwing the empty vial at him, she turned on her heel to face him.

“You fucking moron.” She spat, panic raising in her voice, her legs subconsciously clenching together as that heat began to grow between her legs. “You didn’t make a better love potion, you made an aphrodisiac with poison.”

Fred’s face contorted, not understanding why she seemed so ticked off. His brows pushed together, as he walked over to her, trying to better understand the situation, while also a little ticked off she had thrown the small vial at him. He began to watch her more closely than before, thinking that something about his potion had caused her reaction.

Trying her best not to act on the deep ache, she moved farther from Fred. The feeling was almost too much, her hand subconsciously moving toward her crotch, wanting to swirl circles to dull the ache. Instead, her other hand moved to hold the other one, interlocking her fingers together behind her back.

“What are you on about?” Fred asked as he moved closer.

“Fred, this potion is going to kill me. How fucking dense are you?” (Y/n) ran a hand through her hair, tugging at it to try and regain her focus as her thoughts grew more perverse.

“You’ve gone mental. Don’t tell me you never been horny before, love?” Fred teased, watching the way her face flushed like a virgin.

“I’m being serious.” She said, fanning herself as she felt her body warm up. “You’ve basically just signed my death warrant if I don’t get shagged as soon as possible.”

“So you’re saying, you need dick not to die?” He laughed, almost not taking her seriously.

“Shut up.” She spat, moving away from him as he moved closer.

“Have you gone sick in the brain?” He asks, reaching to take her temperature, which she skillfully dodged. “Honestly, woman, if you wanted me that badly you didn’t need to make up such an insane lie.”

“Fred, fucking listen to me.” She said, stepping forward and grabbing his face to look at his ingredients. “Think real hard about what these ingredients do. I know potions wasn’t your strong suit, but fucking think.”

As Fred surveyed the ingredients, he tried his best to recall his potions class. As his mind ran through all the things Snape had said, he came to the same horrifying conclusion she had come to moments ago. His head whipped around, noticing how want she looked, her eyes struggling to stay locked on his face, and the way her legs shook as they clenched together.

“Oh, I fucked up.” He mumbled, his brain racing as he tried to think of an antidote. Fred bolted from his spot, looking at what ingredients he had left. His mind was racing trying to figure out how to make an antidote before his potion killed her.

Her eyes watched him, panic rising through her body as she felt how the heat began to rise within. The potion Fred had brewed was a lot more fast acting than she was expecting. Even though her brain was being quickly consumed with impure thoughts, she began calculating how much time she had before it would inevitably kill her, but her thoughts kept getting interrupted.

Her eyes trailed down his body, wanting nothing more than to pull his trousers down and go wild with him. It felt insane, she had known him since they were teens and they had never once come close to hooking up, despite all the rumors that had swirled saying otherwise. Speaking of rumors, her mind couldn’t help but focus on the rumors of how good Fred was in bed, remembering how they spoke so highly of his ability. How the girls he did hook up with swore he was the best fuck they had ever had.

Letting out a drawn out whine, she stomped her foot, closing her eyes tight as she tried to fight back from thinking of him like that. It felt so shameful, like she was no better than a common pervert to think that way about Fred. Shaking her head, she used all her brain power to push the impure thoughts out, which she was successfully able to do.

Given the large amounts of aphrodisiacs he had mixed in, she figured they had less than 30 minutes before the effects became irreversible. No matter how fast her and Fred worked, she would still be dead before he figured the correct concoction. The only solution was that they had to have sex now. Eyes widening, she felt a new emotion besides instensely building lust, dread.

“We don’t have fucking time,” she cursed, her breathing becoming more labored as she tried to speak, “we have to do it.”

“It?!”

“It!!!” She shot back, already moving to throw her shirt off her body, exposing him to the way her chest heaved.

Fred nearly had a heart attack seeing her chest. It wasn’t like he was a virgin or anything, he had seen his fair share of tits, but this was his best friend. His insanely hot best friend he has had a massive thing for for years now, but still his best friend. His best friends who was surprisingly good at removing her clothes as fast as she can, most of her clothes now thrown about his office. His best friend who looked as if she was going to jump him any second now.

“We don’t have time for you to guess who to brew the antidote, unless you’d rather I die than fuck me.” Her voice was strained, trying hard to focus on her words than succumbing to the lust.

Fred didn’t respond immediately, causing her to look at him, worried he might just let her die rather than fuck her. Most of her clothes were already thrown around the room, she felt way too exposed for a serious moment like this. Raising her eyebrows, she shot him a concerned look, silently pleading that he wouldn’t just let her suffer for his mistake. It seemed to have knocked some sense into Fred, who quickly responded.

“Right,” he stuttered out, “you’re right.” He quickly said, beginning to unbutton his shirt, his mind racing with a million thoughts. “I am so bloody sorry, (Y/n).”

“Shut up, if you get all sad and shit it’ll be difficult for you to get hard.” She replied, trying her best to seem cold and calculated. Her thoughts were only occupied on getting this done as soon as possible, no need for feelings. “You can think of ways to make this up to me after I’m no longer dying.”

“Wait,” Fred said, making (Y/n) stop in her tracks, “let me just…” he reached over, pushing her close to him before apperating them both into the apartment above the store, right in his room. “This will be better.”

The environment from his office to his room was definitely better, no longer could they hear the muffled sounds of customers from within the store. Fred’s room was messy, clearly he hadn’t assumed this would be how his day would be going. As he threw his clothes onto the floor where the rest of his laundry seemed to end up, he tried to think of sexy thoughts to get himself aroused. But looking back at his friend, who was giving him the most fuckable bedroom eyes he had ever seen did the trick.

(Y/n) ripped off her underwear, tossing them into the room before laying on the bed, crawling backwards as she let out a shaky moan, her mind unable to fight off the lustful thoughts anymore. Her hand reached between her legs, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but only making her more needy. Some part of her felt humiliated, to be reduced this easily from a potion, no longer able to spit out any kind of insult at him as she stared up at him. All she was able to do was speak directly from her lust, not able to cover it up with any kind of quick witted reply as she normally would.

“Fuck,” she shakily moaned, her eyes then locking onto Fred’s, “need you. Badly.”

Now, here’s how Fred’s usual hook ups turn out. He charms them into his bed and then shows them how it’s done. Never in his life had he ever been lost for words, yet a situation like this rarely occurs. So you must forgive him for not knowing what to do watching his best friend of over ten years touch herself and talk to him like that.

Fred made his way to the bed, sliding in between her parted thighs. He felt like a total prat for even struggling to take control of the situation and fuck her. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Fred steadied himself, reaching down to stroke himself a few times. His cock stood tall and proud, making her clench in need as she looked down.

As he lined himself up with her entrance, he found the situation awkward given their history. She deserved better than a standard fuck, a little romance and, though he hates to say it, a little passion. Looking down at her, his hair falling perfectly over his face, he spoke.

“Can I kiss you?”

(Y/n) looked at him incredulously, already completely naked in front of him. The rational part of her brain wanted to tell him no, to keep their feelings out of this and just do what they have to to keep her from an early grave. But god, did she want to kiss him. To not feel like this decision is inevitably going to ruin your friendship.

She quickly nodded her head, her lust answering for her as she shot forward, wrapping her arms around his neck.

It should’ve been awkward, like kissing a sibling. They both should’ve hated the kiss, but instead it was electrifying. Their mouths melded perfectly together, as if they were meant to be.

As they made out, Fred got to work, rubbing the tip of his cock against her cunt, trying to coat it in her slick before he slid in. His eyes almost rolled back when he felt just got wet she already was, groaning into her mouth as his hips subconsciously pushed forward. (Y/n) whined against his mouth, her eyes screwing up as the tip of his cock bumped into her inflamed clit, mumbling out his name.

It was all too much, her body felt on fire as she began to beg him to fuck her, tears welling as the potion came to a head. Her head was swimming with lust as she felt his length press against her.

Fred began to push in, trying to go as slow as possible. God, it felt way too good to be true, as if she was meant for him the way she perfectly sucked him in. As he pulled back from the kiss, he couldn’t help but watch the way he stretched her open.

“You feel s’good,” Fred groaned as he was fully sheathed in her.

“Fred-,” her voice called out, the air from her lungs having been knocked out from the feeling. Her nails were digging into his back as she felt him bottom out, his words almost too much to hear at the same time. “Move. Move now, need it,” it would’ve sound like her usually bossy tone if it wasn’t as whiney as it had been.

His hips moved back, almost agonizingly slow before snapping forward with enough force to move her up the bed. She couldn’t tell if it was the potion or if Fred was actually this good in bed, but it was driving her crazy how good she felt. A part of her feared she may be ruined for life, that nobody else would ever make her feel this good ever again. Not that she’d ever admit that to him, his ego already too inflated for his own good.

“Need me that bad that you’ll beg for it?” He smugly spoke, his hips snapping forward to accentuate his point. “Need me to fuck you nice and hard?” He teased, clearly not feeling as awkward as he once did.

Reaching out, his finger masterfully found its way to her clit, swirling around it. (Y/n) threw her head back, loudly whining as she ground against him. Her hands went to cover her face, embarrassed that she knew the potion wasn’t entirely to blame for how horny she felt in this moment. That fucking her best friend was better than any rumor she had ever heard.

“Come on, tell me how good you feel, (Y/n).”

God, did she want to smack him upside his smug head, to wipe that grin off the cocky bastards face. But she couldn’t hide the way his words made her feel, how he cunt clenched tightly around him each time he spoke. Bringing her arm over her face, she attempted to hide from him, too flustered by his dirty talk. Nobody had ever talked to her like this and she definitely didn’t expect Fred would be the one to do so.

His hips started to slow, causing her eyes to snap open. Panic began to rise in her chest, both sides of her brain not wanting this to stop. It was a bluff, he felt way too good to stop. And he didn’t want her to die either.

“Need you to tell me how bad you want this cock.”

Exasperated by his sudden need to hear her, she let her lust driven brain speak freely. Throwing her head back, she didn’t even filter her thoughts out.

“Please fuck me, need to feel you fill me up. Feels so fucking good, Fred.” Her hips attempted to grind up against his, but felt his hand hold her down. “Wanted this, wanted to feel you stretch me out for so long.”

“You’re so bloody perfect.” Fred’s his snapped back into hers, a new sense of vigor taking over as he pounded into her. “Gonna make this pussy mine.”

His eyes met hers and for the first time they saw each other since this whole mess started. She stared up at him with her pupils blown out in lust, but with so much trust in him.

His hips stuttered as he felt unbelievably close, his mouth opening as his eyes shut, letting out a groan. “Oh, fuck. Feels so good. Not gonna last much longer.”

As he spoke, her hips began to rise, grinding against his groin as she met his thrusts. The deep need to release filling her mind to the brim. Her head moved to look at the clock on the wall, but Fred’s hand moved to stop her from looking.

“Focus on me,” he spoke, his voice deep as his hips began to hammer into her harder, “just focus on me.”

Looking into his eyes, seeing how he looked at her for the first time was eye opening. All the love and adoration he felt for her as his hips continued to pound into her made her legs lock around him, keeping him in place. Throwing her head back, her vision turned white, her voice cracking from the intensity she felt as her body tensed up around him, finally releasing.

And Fred was right, this was one of the best orgasms of her life. Mind shattering, earth breaking, pure bliss from such a tiny vial of poison.

His hips began to slow as she clenched around him, sucking him deep. Feeling him twitch inside her as he shot his load into her, his hips pressing firmly against hers as he released his seed. Her eyes clenched shut and her nails dug into his shoulder blades, hard enough to leave marks.

Unexpectedly, he leaned down, pressing a passionate kiss to her lips, his hips still pressed firmly against her. (Y/n)’s hands flew to his hair, tangling into his ginger locks as she kissed back, riding out their climaxes together.

Once the emotions came down, he rested his forehead against hers, savoring the remaining moments before he had to pull away. Looking back down, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, then pulling out, apologizing as he saw her wince at the feeling.

As Fred pulled out, (Y/n) felt her body begin to feel normal again, no longer under the control of the potion. Between the mix of sweat and the feeling of his cum leaking out of her, she felt that her thoughts were finally hers, no longer clouded by lust. Looking over, she saw Fred running a hand through his hair, seeing him in entirely new light than before. And suddenly everything made sense to her.

All those failed dates, countless nights spent wondering why nobody ever made her feel like this. It all clicked into place in her mind.

They were both laid in Fred’s bed, staring at the ceiling, coming to terms with everything they just did. No longer with the looming threat of death, it gave them a moment to reflect on what this meant for them. It was clear that they could not ignore this and move on from it, not when they both felt the same.

Fred makes the first move, moving closer to her, doing that thing where he pokes at her head when she’s over thinking. He gets one of those smiles that just lights up the room before he speaks to her.

“Soooo… round two?” Fred half heartedly joked.

Her hands reach to grab her pillow and push it into his face, softly smothering him. She playful pulled away from his embrace, needing to run to the bathroom to clean the mess.

“Shut up, I need to get cleaned up.” She spoke, trying to sound irritated but the smile on her face betrayed her.

He playfully reached out, missing her warmth next to him as she searched the room for something to cover herself with.

“Hopefully that afternoon crowd will keep George busy, because I’m not done with you.” Fred yells after her, laughing at her embarrassment as she wrapped a blanket around her and ran down the hall to his bathroom. “I have years to make up for not doing this.”

“Yeah, you can think of ways to make up for nearly killing me while your waiting.”

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#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley smut #writes #hp x reader #fred weasley x fem!reader

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baby-yongbok · 26 days ago

Text

Run

Bang Chan x afab!Reader x Hwang Hyunjin

⤷ Genre - Smut | friends to lovers | MDNI

⤷ WC - 7.5k

⤷ Summary - You walked right into it - the thrill, the desire, their twisted idea of a game in the middle of nowhere. You gave yourself over, let them take control. Now all that’s left is to run. But the real fantasy? It begins when they catch you.

⤷ Content warning - primal play, psychological play, mxm, oral (f&m rec.), unprotected sex, choking, slight dumbifictation, spit (for like 10 seconds), anal sex - double penetration, public sex, humiliation, overstimulation (m rec.), Mention of & light use of substances, Dom/sub dynamics (let me know if I missed anything!)

⊳ Masterlist ⊲

The sky is burning, orange into pink as it fades by the second. The clouds drag like your feet through the fallen leaves. The woods are quiet, too quiet for what the boys promised you but you keep going.

You follow the trees, look out for the red marks that Chan put there just for you. To lure you closer and closer until you stumble into the clearing.

Chan is there - back against a tree, cigarette hanging off his lips, eyes dragging across you slow like molasses. The glow of the lighter catches his cheekbones, and you can feel the heat from where you stand.

“Thought you weren’t coming,” he says, voice low, lazy. But his fingers twitch. You notice.

Then - Hyunjin. Loud, chaotic, all limbs and a toothy smile as he appears from the dark, shirt half unbuttoned and wild in every sense of the word.

“There you are,” he purrs. “Took you long enough.”

“I’d be here quicker if we met at normal places. What do you guys have against a park?” Hyunjin laughs, something that almost sounds crazed and Chan pushes himself off of the tree, letting one foot fall in front of the other lazily - closing in.

“What? You afraid of some woods?” The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smile, his dark eyes study yours and you look away.

There’s an aura to Chan - there always has been. It’s something that neither of you have put a name to, something that you’ve only known him to have with Hyunjin. The two came as a pair. Attached at the hip as something more than friends but you’ve never seen it. Not really. You just know.

“Don’t you like the way this sounds?” Hyunjin cuts in, throwing an arm around your shoulder, he whispers, “Silent, free. Listen.” You do, you listen and you're met with nothing but the faint sound of a cricket and the rustling of leaves in the wind.

Chan watches the two of you, studying the way Hyunjin touches you so comfortably - studying the way that you let him. “Thought you might like an escape but you’re free to leave.” he breaks the silence, taking his cigarette between two fingers and turning to face the small fire flickering in a makeshift bonfire.

Hyunjin follows, sparing you a single glance before plucking the cigarette from Chan’s lips and wedging it between his own. Your feet bring you closer, ignoring Chan’s words and taking the open bottle of liquor from the tree stump next to them. You fist the neck of the bottle, taking a swig that’s too long, too bitter, but you need it.

“Atta girl.” Hyunjin coos but Chan just watches, studies. A silence falls over the space, the crackling of fire is all you have to remind you that you’re not alone in the eerie dark. You’ve come here with them before. You’ve smoked here. Drank here. Laughed here. But tonight - tonight feels different. Like the air’s been wired to snap. Like they’ve brought you here for something else entirely.

“Hyunjin…” Chan exhales slow, smoke curling from his lips. “Tell her what we talked about.”

Your pulse thrums, the looming nerves that buzzed in your background move forward and spread. Hyunjin hums, it almost sounds like a moan and he looks over at Chan, just a bit. “You don’t think it’ll scare her away?”

You can hear the smile in his voice and then you look over, catching the dare in Chan’s gaze. It’s subtle but you could never miss it. “It might.” His voice is clear but his lips just barely move. “But I’ve got faith in her.” A pause. Then, soft and sharp: “She hasn’t gone weak on us… right?”

He’s talking to you, you know that he’s talking to you.

Hyunjin turns to you, his lips twitch, barely a smile, as he leans in closer - close enough that you can feel the heat of his body against yours.

His fingers barely brush your arm. A fleeting touch that makes your breath catch, but before you can pull away, it’s gone. He’s teasing, not letting you settle.

“Why the hell are you two acting like that?” The waver in your voice betrays you but you keep your spine straight, you give the illusion of security just as they give the promise of danger.

“Shh,” Hyunjin breathes and your eyes meet his, “You feel that?” he whispers, his voice dripping with something hungry. “The pull? The way the air's gotten thick?”

His eyes flick to Chan, who watches the entire exchange with quiet intensity. “It’s not the woods making it heavy, sweetheart,” Hyunjin continues, voice laced with amusement, like he knows something you don’t. “It’s us.”

Then Chan’s gaze sharpens, and just like that, the atmosphere shifts. His next words come with purpose. Quiet but decisive.

“Run.”

His voice is so smooth, like it’s part of the air, but the weight behind it is undeniable.

“Hide.”

And then, his lips curve up in a ghost of a smile. “Let’s see how well you can stay hidden.”

You stare at him and then Hyunjin, your eyes move back and forth and your head spins with pressure. What the fuck? You want to say it, but your mouth just opens, lips parting just enough for your breath to cloud in the cold.

“Told you it would scare her away.” Hyunjin is laughing again, smiling like a taunt but Chan is still, staring, daring. “You’ve played hide and seek before, haven’t you, doll?”

Your gaze breaks to him. “What the hell are you two getting at? You want to play a stupid game?” Chan tsks and Hyunjin looks at him with a knowing glint that you wished you possessed.

“When’s the last time you just… ran?” Chan takes a languid step forward, his heavy boots thudding softly in the leaves. “Like a wolf on a full moon. Free, unchained from responsibility.”

Hyunjin’s gaze never leaves you, his eyes simmering with an intensity that seems to press against your skin. As Chan speaks, Hyunjin takes a languid step forward, moving in a slow circle around you. His boots don’t make a sound as he shifts in the darkness, a shadow slinking in and out of your peripheral vision.

You can feel the subtle shift in the air as he moves, his proximity so close that your body instinctively pulls tighter, almost as if anticipating something - but you can’t predict his next move. His presence is undeniable, suffocating in the way it hovers, waiting.

His voice cuts through the tense silence, too smooth, too close. “Run,” Hyunjin echoes, a low hum in his chest as his eyes never leave yours. “But you’ll never outrun us.”

Hyunjin keeps circling, never touching but always near - like a predator closing in on its prey. Naturally, you bare teeth, resisting. “Why the hell would I let you two chase me through the woods? What’s so freeing about that?” Your eyes stay on Chan’s and he fucking smirks.

“Don’t you trust us?” He murmurs, head tilting to the side in mock curiosity. He knows the answer. He knows that you do. If you didn’t you would’ve never come here.

You know the answer too, but for a different reason. Because you’ve hooked up before. Kisses in shadows, hands under clothes, fast and desperate. That time one shot turned into nine and Hyunjin mentioned how he wanted your thighs on his shoulders in the back of Chan’s car. You trust them, but not like a friend.

“You’re going to run,” Hyunjin murmurs, his voice like a warning. “Or you’ll stay. And if you stay, you’ll belong to us.” He stops, standing behind you with just a breath of space between you. You can feel his heat on your back, a blazing contrast to the chill between the three of you.

“And if I do run?“ You ask, half out of curiosity, but there’s a weight behind it now, a recognition of the game you're caught in. You think you already know that answer. Hyunjin smiles, leaning in to just barely whisper. “You’ll still belong to us.”

Your heart skips. You knew it.

Chan watches, studying yet again but this time he learns something new. “You like that, don’t you?” your eyes flick to his, “The idea of us having you in such a primal way.”

Your throat feels dry, your tongue too heavy. “You two are drunk or something.” Chan doesn’t respond, he only closes in. “I didn’t come here for you two to be acting all fucking weird and - and …” the words die in your throat.

You try to swallow but your throat stays dry. Chan is too close now, and Hyunjin hasn’t moved from behind you. You’re boxed in, heat at your back, fire in front. Still, you square your shoulders, even if your legs feel like they’re humming with anticipation.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you mutter, but there’s no bite. Just breath.

Chan tips his head, mock confusion curling at the corner of his mouth. “Like what?” He asks, but he knows. He always knows.

“Like you’re waiting for me to break.”

Hyunjin lets out a low, dangerous sound behind you - like a laugh dragged through a growl. “You already did,” he murmurs, voice close to your ear. “You just forgot.”

Something flashes in Chan’s eyes - recognition - and then, slowly, deliberately, he says, “You remember that night on the roof?”

Your stomach drops.

You know exactly which one.

You’d been too high, toes curled over the ledge, stoned on something you didn’t question because Chan passed it to you with that look in his eyes. Hyunjin was sprawled out nearby, shirtless and golden in the moonlight. That was the night you’d said too much. That was the night you told them how you wanted it - chased, caught, pinned. Like prey. Like a fucking animal.

“I remember what you said,” Chan continues, voice lower now, like he’s slipping under your skin. “You said you wanted to be hunted. Wanted to feel teeth at your neck. Wanted to run until your legs gave out, and then be taken.”

Your breath hitches, body going still.

“You didn’t mean it?” Hyunjin asks, tone playful but tight with something else. “Because it sounded real to me.”

You shake your head, but even you don’t know what you’re denying. Your heart pounds too loud, too fast. The fire’s crackle feels like it’s inside you now, licking at your spine.

“You’ve thought about it since then,” Chan says, stepping even closer. “That feeling of being chased… like the world falls away and it’s just us. The dark. The dirt. The trees. Need.”

And maybe you have. Maybe that night etched something into you that you never let yourself revisit - until now. Because your body? It’s already leaning in. Your thighs press together without you realizing, your breath turns shallow.

Hyunjin catches it, sharp and smug. “There she is,” he whispers. “You want it. Say it.”

You don’t speak, can’t. But you don’t need to. You take a step back - toward the trees.

Chan’s grin is slow, dark, knowing. “Run.”

Your breathing picks up. Your fingers twitch at your side and you can feel your resolve stretching thin over your desire. Hyunjin brings his hands up, gently peeling your jacket from your shoulders and down your arms, he whispers, “What’re you fighting it for? Run.”

Your eyelids flutter, you can hear him too clearly - like he’s settled in your brain. Chan just watches, hands in his pockets like he isn’t trying to rope you into a game of manhunt. You take another step back and then another.

Hyunjin moves next to Chan, watching with phlegmatic anticipation.

“Go,” he says. “You’ve got a head start.”

Silence again.

Not empty.

Not safe.

Crackling. Loaded. Breathless.

You turn your back on them.

And run.

Leaves crack underfoot, branches whip at your clothes, and your breath comes fast. You’re running blind, high and aroused and absolutely feral. Every step is a pulse, every heartbeat another second closer to being caught. You can feel them - as if there are chains connecting you all, leading them to you through the dark, stalking you just like they wanted - and now you want it too.

You don’t know who will find you first.

That’s part of the thrill.

You crouch behind a tree, trying not to breathe too loud. You have no idea how long you’ve been running. You have no idea how far you’ve gotten or if you ran in circles. You have no idea where they are.

Your senses sharpen and it’s like you can smell them before you hear them, a strong musk - honey, cigarettes and liquor.

Snap.

A branch, somewhere behind you. Closer now. Then silence.

You freeze, hand over your mouth. Another sound. Breathing? A footstep?

Nothing.

And then - “Found you.”

Hyunjin’s voice in your ear, hands on your waist. But you twist, dart away, laughing as he curses.

“Fuck- she’s quick-”

The game is on.

Chan’s voice floats through the dark, smooth and sharp. “Don’t let her think she’s winning, Hyune.”

“Let me have my fun, hyung.”

They split up, lingering far but still too close. Chan watches, slow and calculating, you vault over a log and stumble. “That tree again?” Chan calls out, amused. “You’re going in circles.”

Fuck.

You are.

Or are you?

“You think we don’t know this forest?” Hyunjin pants. His voice comes from the left… no, right… no, “We own it.”

Panic flares in your chest, but it’s the wrong kind. It’s not fear - it’s the thrill. Your pulse spikes like a live wire and you feel alive. This isn’t about getting away. Not really.

You keep going.

Until you hear Chan again, this time closer - too close:

“Left foot’s dragging. Getting tired?”

You bolt, cleaning up your rhythm like your life is on the line. You forget about being quick and focus on being neat.

You could handle Hyunjin catching you. You could fight him off, something wild and rough, but Chan, he’s worse - because you know he’s calculating. Quiet. Waiting for you to zig when you should zag. He’s not chasing you to catch you. He’s chasing you to learn you. Like a predator with patience.

You press your back to a tree, chest heaving. You don’t know how long you’ve been running, how far you've gotten - but it’s silent. That’s what matters. You’ve lost Chan.

A grin breaks across your face, shaky with adrenaline. This is fun.

You listen again, it’s silent, right? The forest pulses with your heartbeat. You wait. One second. Two. Ten. Nothing.

No voice. No footsteps.

No Chan.

No Hyunjin.

It’s worse than being chased.

Your thighs press together, your spit is thick in your mouth and you listen. You try to listen but the thought of what’s to come, the image of them catching you clouds your vision. Will they take you? Right here? Wild and primal - or will they make you run again? Hunt you over and over like a game of cat and mouse.

You want both. You want it all.

Crack.

What was that? Who was that?

The air in your lungs thins, your thighs press tighter and you fight the urge to peek. Don’t you dare fucking peek.

You hear it again, the direction is unclear like they’re everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Fuck it.

You hold your breath, leaning forward ever so slightly just to take a glimpse, something quick. Nothing. You pull back even quicker and that’s when you hear it, a whisper.

“Boo.”

You scream, Hyunjin tackles you into the leaves, laughing wicked and full. “You’re so fucking loud,” he purrs against your neck. “You want him to hear you?”

“Chan-” you gasp.

Hyunjin grins. “Yeah, call for him. Bet he’ll lose his shit.”

You breathe out his name again, softer this time. “Chan…”

Hyunjin hums, pressing his nose into the curve of your throat. “Thought so,” His hands settle on your hips like he’s trying to calm you, soothe you, even as he straddles you like prey. “Let me help you up.” he murmurs, voice lower, tender in a way that feels wrong.

And you believe it - stupidly, you believe it - because Hyunjin feels like warmth, like comfort, like that sliver of reprieve before the slaughter.

He pulls you to your feet, hands brushing dirt off your arms like a lover would. “Shhh,” he whispers, lips barely grazing your cheek. “Stay quiet. Follow me.”

So you do.

The woods swallow your footsteps. You trail behind him, heart still skittering, adrenaline crashing into lust and confusion and something dangerous.

Then-

“Where do you think you’re going?” The voice doesn’t come from behind you. No.

It comes in front.

Too late.

Before you can even react, Chan’s hand is around Hyunjin’s throat, slamming him back against a tree so hard the bark cracks under his spine. The impact shudders through the ground. You gasp, instinctively reaching forward - but Chan doesn’t even look at you.

Hyunjin’s laughing. Laughing.

“Found me,” he rasps, grin splitting his face like an axe to wood.

“You always were the easy one,” Chan growls, voice as rough as the hand still pinning Hyunjin.

“You said don’t let her win,” Hyunjin manages, eyes flicking toward you with a wild glint. “Didn’t say I couldn’t guide her.”

Chan doesn’t smile. Not fully. Just the ghost of it - mean and knowing.

“She didn’t win.” His eyes meet yours. “She walked straight into the wolf’s den.”

Your breath stutters. You take a step back - but he doesn’t come for you. Not yet.

Instead, he leans in toward Hyunjin. Fist still on his collar, other hand sliding up his side. And Hyunjin - Hyunjin fucking melts, head tilting, throat offered like he’s been waiting for this.

“Chan,” he murmurs, breathless and sweet.

You can’t look away.

Chan’s mouth brushes the hinge of Hyunjin’s jaw. Lower. Down his neck. Slow, deliberate. You watch his lips part, his tongue trace the line of a tendon, right there - where you were aching for it. Where you still are.

Hyunjin gasps, eyes fluttering shut, mouth slack with need.

It should be obscene. It is obscene. But it’s not for you.

It’s a lesson.

Your stomach flips. The air feels too tight to breathe. You want to move, say something, but your body’s locked in place, the ache in your core twisting into something uglier.

Then Hyunjin moans. Soft and bitten-back. And Chan just smiles.

Like he knows.

Like he planned it.

Like this was always meant for you to see.

And that’s when it hits you: this isn’t over. It’s barely even begun.

You bolt.

Leaves whip your legs. Branches claw at your arms. You don’t even think, just run, throat tight with humiliation and arousal and rage.

Behind you, laughter cracks through the trees.

Hyunjin’s first - breathy, wrecked, gleeful.

Then Chan’s - low and cruel and thrilled.

“Didn’t even touch her,” Hyunjin pants, already moving.

“She’ll beg next time,” Chan replies, and you can hear it: the grin in his voice. The certainty. “We’ll take our time.”

And just like that - The hunt is on again.

You sprint, branches slapping at your arms, lungs burning. But even with the blood pounding in your ears, you hear him.

Chan doesn’t shout - he calls, like a song. Like a spell.

“Where are you running, sweetheart?”

You stumble. Just a beat. Just enough.

“I wasn’t even touching you.”

The words slice. You blink hard, try to focus. Keep moving.

“But you wanted it, didn’t you?”

Your breath catches. You nearly trip.

“You watched my mouth on him like it was your fucking salvation.”

A whimper breaks out of your throat. You push faster. Leaves blur. The forest bends.

“You thought you’d be the one I’d ruin first.”

You’re shaking now, not just from exertion-shame, heat, frustration-all crawling under your skin like fire ants.

“And you still want it. Even now.”

The last one hits like a hammer. You don’t want to believe it. But it’s true. It’s so fucking true.

You can feel it-between your legs, in your teeth, under your skin. A thread you can't snap. You want to go back. You want to keep running. You want to scream.

Then you hear Hyunjin’s voice, somewhere behind you, breathless and laughing.

“She’s gonna break soon.”

Chan’s reply is velvet and final.

“Let her.”

You veer off the path, heart clawing at your ribs. It’s a gamble, doubling back, but it feels smart. The boys had split up-Hyunjin darting deeper into the trees, Chan trailing behind like a shadow. You could feel them peeling off you. You could breathe again.

So you circle. Slipping through brush, feet light on damp ground. Smiling now-just a twitch of lips. You might win this. You might actually-

You break through a clearing and freeze.

The bonfire is there, dimly lit.

This is exactly where you started, and even worse,

Chan is already there.

Leaning against a tree like he’s been waiting for hours. Sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar crooked, chest rising slowly like the night has bored him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you, eyes shining like he never chased you at all.

You stop breathing.

“I was hoping you’d come back,” he says, voice low. Calm. Like this is a date. Like this isn’t war.

Behind you, twigs snap. Leaves rustle. Not far now - Hyunjin.

Trapped.

Chan pushes off the tree, saunters forward, slow and deliberate.

“You really think you’re hard to catch?”

You shake your head but you don’t run. You can’t. You don’t know why.

He tilts his head, a smile cutting deep.

“Then why are you still playing?”

His fingers brush your jaw before you flinch back, but it’s too late. You’re rooted. Trembling.

“You could’ve let me wreck you back there. Let me use him to pull every sound out of you. But no,” he whispers, stepping closer. “You just had to make it harder.”

Hyunjin finally appears behind you, wild and flushed, eyes burning with something unhinged.

Chan doesn’t take his eyes off you. “Now, you’re ours. Properly.”

Hyunjin presses his chest to your back but you feel something more, you nearly moan. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about it.” his voice is breathy in your ear. “Our hands on you. Breath on your neck. Fingers in your hair. You wanted to be the one under Chan’s grip, didn’t you?”

You laugh - but it’s shaky, more like a shudder. They caught you.

“Tell me,” Chan murmurs, “You didn’t picture it when I licked him.” You still don’t speak. But your silence is louder than a scream. “You want a turn, baby?”

Hyunjin’s hand is on one hip, Chan’s is on the other. They’re everywhere. “Say it,” Hyunjin whispers, smiling against your skin. You inhale with every intention of speaking but none of the execution.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” Chan coos, too calm, too sure “Say it.”

Snap.

“I want it.” Your voice is strained, your throat is dry and then Hyunjin is on you. His lips latch to the soft spot of your neck, kissing and nibbling like a dog with a damn bone. His touch turns bruising, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hip but then, suddenly, it’s gone.

Chan’s hand wraps around Hyunjin’s throat again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the feel of his pulse under his palm. He pushes him back, his voice slips out, lower now - cracked and frayed at the edges for the first time all night.

“Control yourself.”

Hyunjin groans, the sound deep and simmering, more animal than man. He tilts his head toward Chan’s touch, eyes flicking to you as his lips curl.

“How about you control me?”

Something changes.

It’s not a switch, it’s a crack - splitting down the middle of Chan’s restraint. His jaw clenches, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth like he’s holding something back, barely. And then he’s not.

He surges forward, catching Hyunjin’s mouth in a kiss that’s rougher than it should be, open-mouthed and teeth first, like he wants to devour him. You feel it like a shock in your chest.

Then Chan’s hand finds you, fingers fisting your shirt, pulling you in until your breath is trapped between both of theirs. You can smell the kiss on them, feel the heat pouring off their skin.

Chan pulls back just enough to look at you. His voice is hoarse when it lands.

“Kiss him,” he says, eyes dark. “I wanna taste you.”

Hyunjin’s lips find yours with his eyes closed, yours shut too, a moan breaks through and Chan slots himself behind you - trapping you yet again.

Chan pushes your chest against Hyunjin’s, his lips on your neck while Hyunjin slips his tongue into your mouth with a groan. You don’t know what to do with your hands, you don’t know who to touch but Chan solves that problem for you. He takes one of your wrists and brings your hand back, placing it over the bulge in his jeans, you moan.

“That’s it, baby,” His voice is the one that’s wild now, his breathing ragged. “Use both of us, don’t make me show you how.” You break the kiss, panting against Hyunjin’s spit slick lips. His hand slips under your shirt, nearly clawing at your skin.

“Look at me while you touch him.” You manage, finding Hyunjin’s shining eyes in the dim light. “That’s my girl.”

Chan’s mouth ghosts along your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse like he’s deciding whether to bite down. He hums, low and approving, when you squeeze him through his jeans, your other hand is still tangled in Hyunjin��s shirt like you’re holding on for balance - like you need to.

Hyunjin’s grip tightens on your waist, his fingers branding your skin as he buries his face in your throat. He bites harder than he should. You gasp, your hips jerking back into Chan’s.

“Oh, she likes that,” Hyunjin breathes, drunk on your reaction.

Chan’s hand closes over your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of who’s in control. “Of course she does,” he growls. “She wants to be ruined.”

You whimper, and it earns you a hard roll of Chan’s hips, the pressure making your knees buckle. He doesn’t let you fall-he never does, he never would-but he wants you unstable, trembling, caught between them.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Hyunjin says again, rougher now. “Let him feel how wet you are, but don’t come,” he whispers. “You come, we start over.”

“You come when I say.” Chan leans in close, turning your head so that his hot breath fans over your lips, “You’re mine when you come. Say it.”

Hyunjin groans against your stomach, sliding down, already tugging at the waistband of your jeans with frantic fingers. You feel his teeth drag across your skin.

Chan watches you fall apart from behind, his voice the only tether left.

“Say it, or I’ll stop him.”

Chan’s fingers tighten on your throat, enough to make your breath hitch but not enough to choke. You feel your heart race, your body trembling, and you know it's not from fear. It’s desire - frenzied desire.

"Say it," he growls, his voice so low it vibrates through your bones. "Say you belong to me."

Hyunjin pulls your shirt up roughly, his hands clawing at your skin as if he wants to tear you open. “Say it, baby,” he sounds like he moans, he probably does. His lips are dragging across your chest, nipping and marking your skin. His voice is a little more frantic now, as if he's barely hanging onto control, too.

“I belong to you, both of you. I’m yours.” Your words are dizzy just like you are. They’re the only thing in your head that makes sense besides them.

You gasp as Hyunjin’s hand slides lower, finding its way past the waistband of your jeans and into your underwear. He groans when he feels how wet you are, running his finger through the slick slowly. “Fuck... she’s dripping, Chan.”

Chan growls, leaning in to bite your ear, his teeth sharp enough to make you cry out. “Don’t move,” he commands, his voice like a whip cracking in the still air. You want to obey, but it’s getting harder with every stroke of Hyunjin’s fingers, the teasing pressure making your legs quake.

Hyunjin fights your pants down your thighs, getting them off completely and tossing them to the side. You shiver as the cold air hits you mixed with the static of lust pulsing around the three of you.

Instinctively, you close in on yourself, pressing your thighs together just for Hyunjin to pry them open again. Chan moves his hand from your throat and grabs at your hips. His tongue moves past his lips with purpose, licking up the side of your throat and sucking a bruise into the flesh before he whispers,

“Open wider. Let him eat.” Hyunjin’s mouth is between your legs, obscene and skilled, moaning into your skin while Chan bites your shoulder, hissing filth into your ear.

Hyunjin’s tongue dips up and slowly swipes at your folds. You moan. He growls. He does it again and again and again and then he latches to your clit with a flat lick that ends with the tip of his tongue circling and teasing your sensitive bud. Your arousal drips down his chin and it sets something off in him.

He grabs your thighs, nails in your flesh before giving you some shallow tongue fucking that makes you tilt your head back on Chan’s shoulder.

“See what happens when you let us win?” Chan coos, sliding a hand under your shirt to cup your breast. He pinches your nipple, rolling it between his fingers as he watches Hyunjin in the moonlight. He can make out the glisten on his chin when he pulls away. He can see the bliss in his eyes.

“She’s so wet, you gotta fucking taste her.”

They trade. They take turns. Fingers, mouths, teasing each other while teasing you.

Chan latches onto your clit and you palm Hyunjin through his jeans. That’s enough to have him stripping himself to feel you - to really feel you. He guides your hand back, wrapping it around his cock and spitting down to give you something to work with.

“That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it, baby.” It’s barely a question but you nod anyway. You jerk his cock and he holds your thighs apart from behind you, keeping you open for Chan to continue tongue fucking you. “You sound so fucking gone.”

You can’t even find the words to respond, not with Chan’s tongue flicking and teasing, not with Hyunjin’s cock pulsing in your hand. Hyunjin pulls you back toward him abruptly, making you switch positions, turning you to face him. His lips crash into yours like he needs to taste how wrecked you are. Possessive fingers lace through your hair and you feel lightheaded, like all the heat in your body has gone to your core.

You moan, it’s all you can manage.

You feel stretched thin - nerves burning, mind blank, every inch of you hypersensitive and strung up between them. It's like your body is working faster than your brain, need overriding thought, pleasure overriding shame. You're not even sure where you end and they begin anymore. You just want more. More mouth, more hands, more everything.

Chan is still kneeling behind you, kneading the plush flesh of your ass in his big hands until he spreads your cheeks and rims your tight hole.

You gasp into Hyunjin’s mouth and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth into you further. He groans at the taste, sucking on your tongue before letting go and whispering. "I have to be inside,"

Chan stands, there’s a rustle of clothing and then skin - his skin - against your shirt, pressing against you. He grabs Hyunjin’s jaw, hard, steering him to his lips. You don’t miss the way they groan, the way Hyunjin’s hips stutter against you. They’re as drunk on each other as they are on you, lost in this fever heat. Hyunjin trails kisses along Chan’s jaw before he pulls back, panting heavily.

“Hold her open for me,” Chan tells Hyunjin. There’s a glint in his eyes where the light hits. Hyunjin obeys, bringing you back with him until his back hits a tree. He presses you into him, bucking his bare cock against your back while Chan stocks forward, admiring the two of you.

Chan hooks an arm under one knee and then the other, he hoists you up, positioning you right above his cock with a growl so raw you’d thought it came from Hyunjin. Chan rubs his cock through your drenched folds, barely teasing at your entrance before he pushes in.

You howl.

You claw and keen.

“Ah, fuck, baby - you’re tight. So fucking tight.” Chan praises you through gritted teeth and a wild look in his eyes. Hyunjin moans at the description, breaking a bit and lining himself up behind you.

“Hyune,” You whimper, less like a warning and more like a plea. He shushes you, using the dripping slick from your cunt to lube your ass. “Breathe,” He presses in and your eyes roll back. “Take it, angel. Breathe.”

Chan slows his pace in your cunt while Hyunjin eases his way into your ass. He gives you a few shallow thrusts, bottoming out slowly and letting you adjust to how full you are. The stretch has you gasping for air, every inch of space claimed with them - just them - until they start moving.

It’s slow at first. Every thrust is perfectly timed like they can feel each other's rhythm. It’s slow until Chan can’t help himself and starts bucking up like an animal. You groan, Hyunjin moans.

“Hyung, fuck, I can feel you.” The words sound wild from Hyunjin's pretty mouth, wilder when Chan slams into you harder and he starts to melt into a broken mess. “Fuck, fuck - keep going.” He pleads, his grip on your thighs is like iron but you’re too far gone to feel the sting.

“Please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.” You whimper, just as fucked out as they are - hell, maybe more. You’re drooling now, your tongue can’t stay in your mouth like a wolf in heat being bred and marked by rabid alpha’s

Just then, Hyunjin bites your shoulder, a warning before he grabs your jaw with one hand and turns your head forcing your mouth open. He spits into it once, twice, messy and obscene.

“Swallow.” You do.

“Fuck-” They choke out the curse in unison when you clench around them, they press into you at the same time, their cocks rubbing against each other with only the pulsing wet walls of you to keep them apart.

“This pussy is gonna fucking empty me.” Chan grunts, looking you in the eyes and you clench, keening loud and lewd.

You jolt with every thrust, a ragdoll between them while they use you, praise you, break you down. “She’s gonna fucking come,” Hyunjin moans, “I can feel it.”

“Do it,” Chan grunts, glancing at where you’re connected. He can see everything, how full you are with him and Hyunjin. “Fucking do it.”

They pump into you at a rhythm that syncs so well you can only call it wicked. Hyunjin is groaning, growling in your ear. While Chan is grunting, moaning, struggling to keep his control right in front of your eyes. You cry out as they pound into you hard enough to shatter the stars overhead. You shatter too.

“H-hyune- Cha- Channie, I’m fucking - fuck!” You quake, thighs trembling, cunt gushing and clenching while you see stars. They don’t stop, they only cry out, howling like wolves who need to let the world know who just ruined you.

“Holy shit, baby, I wan’ your mouth.” Hyunjin is panting, slowing as he nearly reaches his peak. Chan does the same, slowing as you ride out your high and then they both pull out. Chan peels off his jacket, laying it on the ground for you to kneel on.

You’re still shaking. Your body limp and slick with sweat, barely able to hold yourself upright. Chan’s jacket is soft under your knees, but nothing about this moment feels gentle.

Hyunjin’s cock is in your hand before you even register it. It’s still wet from your cunt, flushed and pulsing, and he’s staring down at you like you’re something holy. Ruined and holy.

“Open your mouth,” he commands - soft but not sweet. His hand tangles in your hair, pulling tight enough to arch your throat. “Be a good girl and show me.”

You part your lips, tongue out, obedient and dazed.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, stroking himself slow just inches from your face. “You look so fucking desperate like that.”

Chan crouches behind you again, running his hands down your back, trailing over the bruises he left, the fingerprints painted into your skin.

“Look at her,” he murmurs to Hyunjin, voice dark with wonder. “So ready to be used. Fucking perfect.”

Hyunjin leans in, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “This what you wanted, angel? To get ruined twice and still beg for cock down your throat? To gag on it like a whore?”

You whimper - barely a sound - and Chan coos.

“She can’t even speak anymore. Drunk off the come we let her have.”

Hyunjin’s cock slides against your tongue - wet, warm, heavy - and he groans like it’s the first time. “God, yes... that mouth. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

You hollow your cheeks, tongue working instinctively. Chan watches over your shoulder, one hand gripping your ass, the other threading into your hair beside Hyunjin’s.

“Take him,” he says. “Deeper.”

Hyunjin's hips buck forward and you gag but hold him, eyes watering, throat burning in the best fucking way.

“That’s it,” Chan growls. “Choke on it. Be good and take it.”

Hyunjin shudders above you, voice raw. “She’s fucking moaning on it, hyung. You hear that?”

Chan grins like the devil himself. “I hear it, baby. She just loves being a slut for us.”

You try to nod, but your throat is full and your jaw is straining, and that’s answer enough.

Chan drags his hand from your hair to your mouth, wiping the spit from your chin, then pushing it back between your lips around Hyunjin’s cock.

“You drool on his cock, I’ll make you lick it back up. Clean him like you’re starved.”

You gag again, loud this time, and Hyunjin moans - deep and broken. He pulls out for a breath, watching your spit stretch from your lips to his tip.

“I’m gonna come down your throat if you keep doing that,” he pants. “Fuck, you want that?”

You gasp, eyes wide and glassy, tongue still out.

Chan grabs your jaw, tilting your face to look at him. “Swallow all of it. Don’t fucking waste a drop.”

Hyunjin thrusts forward again - shallow, controlled, but shaking at the edges. You take him, take it all, gagging and drooling as Chan whispers in your ear “Hold still. Take it. You’re doing so good, baby. So fucking good.”

Hyunjin’s breath shudders. His grip in your hair tightens, and his hips stutter forward with a desperate sound that’s half a sob, half a snarl.

“Ah - shit, fuck, I’m-”

You feel it before you taste it - thick, hot, spilling over your tongue as Hyunjin groans like the weight of it knocks the air from his lungs. “Hold still. Open wider - yeah, just like that. You’re doing so fucking well, sweetheart.” Chan watches you swallow with heat in his eyes. You choke slightly, tears leaking from your eyes as you gulp around him. He holds you there, buried to the hilt, trembling.

“Don’t rush. I wanna watch it all go down that pretty throat. Wanna hear you whimper with a mouth full of him.”

Hyunjin pulls back slowly, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet pop. He’s still panting, flushed and wide-eyed like he’s just seen God, and maybe he has. “Fuck, that’s it. That’s our girl,” He’s cupping your face now, gentle - contradicting everything he just did. “You did so fucking well, baby.”

Chan doesn't give you a second to breathe.

His hand threads into your hair, firm but not cruel, guiding Hyunjin’s cock from your lips only to replace it with his own - thicker, heavier, the taste of salt and skin overwhelming your senses.

“Didn’t think I was done with you, did you, doll?” he growls, already pushing past your lips, taking advantage of how loose your throat is now, wrecked from Hyunjin. “Open wide. Let me use that pretty mouth.”

You hum a moan but you’re not the only one. Hyunjin groans above you, breath catching as Chan’s hand slides around his waist and grips his cock again - still flushed, still twitching, too sensitive to be touched but not able to pull away.

“Fuck, hyung, baby…” Hyunjin’s hips jerk forward into Chan’s hand, legs shaking.

“She’s already a mess, ruined from both ends,” Chan huffs, mouth curled in something cruel. “And you’re still leaking like a whore, Hyune.”

He pumps Hyunjin slow and tight, fingers teasing the head where your slick still clings, smearing it over the shaft. Hyunjin shudders, his hands on your shoulders now for balance, head tipped back, lips parted in a silent moan.

“Th-there - fuck-” Hyunjin’s voice cracks. “That’s too - too…”

“You’ll take it,” Chan grits out, cock fucking deep into your throat, your gag swallowed by the sound of Hyunjin’s desperate sob. “Just like her. Just like the little mess you are.”

You can barely breathe - tears stream down your face again, spit slicking your chin, drooling down to Chan’s balls. But you don’t stop. Can’t. The taste of him makes your brain short-circuit, and the way he jerks Hyunjin off like he owns him? It has you dripping again, even as your knees shake under you.

Hyunjin leans forward, bracing himself, eyes glassy. Then he kisses Chan.

Hard. Mouths crashing together over your head, messy and hot, all teeth and tongue and groaned curses.

Chan growls into the kiss, fucking your mouth harder, and jacking Hyunjin faster now, just to feel him shake.

“You’re so close again,” Chan mutters into Hyunjin’s mouth, their foreheads pressed together. “Gonna come all over my hand while she chokes on me?”

Hyunjin nods, desperate and ruined. “I - I can’t-”

Chan bites his lip and grips his cock tighter. “Yes, you can. You’ll come again just like this - watching her.”

He leans back just enough to see you.

Your eyes flutter open to meet his - blown wide, desperate - and he groans low in his chest.

“There’s our perfect fucking girl,” Chan says, thumb brushing the edge of your lip as you gag on him again. “Taking my cock like a good little hole while I milk Hyune dry.”

And then it happens

Hyunjin breaks with a sound that’s feral. His cock pulses in Chan’s grip, spurting hot over Chan’s fist, some of it landing on your shoulder, your chest, dripping down to stain Chan’s jacket beneath you.

You moan around Chan’s cock - eyes rolling back, the whole thing too much and not enough.

Chan laughs low, cock twitching deep in your throat. “She liked that. Fuck, look at her.”

He doesn’t last long after that. He pulls out just to come all over your tongue, your lips, mixing with Hyunjin’s cum on your skin. They both watch you swallow, licking your lips like it’s your last meal.

Hyunjin collapses beside you, spent, and Chan leans down, cupping your jaw, thumbing away your tears with the same hand slick from Hyunjin’s come.

“Still want more, sweetheart?” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Or did we fulfill your fantasy?”

Hyunjin’s hands, once relentless, now gently trace your cheek, pulling your attention his way. There’s still that burning intensity in his eyes, but it’s paired with something else - care, tenderness, as if he's remembering what it means to be gentle. "You okay?" His voice is softer, different, like he’s come back to the moment with you.

Chan, standing in front of you, kneels and runs a hand up your thigh. His touch is a stark contrast to the roughness from earlier. His fingers move with intent, slow and deliberate, tracing the outline of your body as if memorizing it. "You did so well," he murmurs, his voice hoarse but sincere. His lips brush your neck, soft, as though he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

You feel them, both of them, pressing close, not in a demanding way, but in a way that feels... protective. Hyunjin nudges his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. "That’s all you, baby," he whispers. "You’ve got us wrapped around your finger, you know that?"

Chan chuckles just barely, a small smirk on his lips as he presses his forehead to yours. “It’s more than that, it’s like we’re chained.” Hyunjin hums, acknowledging, agreeing.

You take a breath, finally remembering how to use your voice. “You’ve got me.” They both pull back, looking at you with eyes too wide, too wild, too vulnerable.

“Good.” Chan sighs and Hyunjin leans in putting his forehead together with the two of you, he whispers.

“We’ll keep being each other's escape.”

⤷ a/n - This is my first long fic since I've had writers block. I hope that you enjoyed! I was really excited for this fic and I've been hard on myself about it. If you enjoyed it then feedback and a reblog will actually make my day. Thank You!

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st7rnioioss · 4 months ago

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omggg can u please do bestfriend chris guiding inexperienced reader through how to give a bj and she ends up doing it on him and is rlly good at it please???

Ꮺ ָ࣪ ۰ ͙ INEXPERIENCED!READER GIVING BSF!CHRIS HEAD FOR THE FIRST TIME

˚𝜗𝜚 warnings... oral (m recieving), pulling on hair (kinda?), not proofread!

chris’s knuckles carefully caressed the skin of your cheek, looking down at you with a reassuring, but somewhat playful smile.

“it’ll be fine. come on, i’ll guide you, yeah? no need to worry,” his voice sounded, only making you even more nervous.

you were sat on your knees between his legs, chris sitting in his gamer chair while you nervously fiddled with the strings of his pants, only making chris’s head spin even more.

“but.. but i don’t know what to do. what if i do it wrong? and it doesn’t feel good?” you mewled, looking down at your hands weakly reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants.

“i’ll tell you then, to make sure it does. okay? i promise, it won’t be as scary as you think it is,” he continued to stroke your cheek, before his whole hand cupped your face, making you meet his eyes.

he smiled softly at your somewhat nervous expression, giving your cheek a gentle pat when you hooked your fingers over the waistband.

“okay.. i’ll try then..” your voice was almost a whisper, dragging his pants down to his thighs, staring at the tent in his boxers.

“i-is that..” you mumbled while pointing, before looking back up at chris. “yup. that’s from you baby,” he snickered, while watching you nod and continued to tug on his boxers.

carefully, you pulled his boxers down to pool with his sweatpants, basically staring at his hardening cock.

“come on.. don’t act like you haven’t seen it before,” he chuckled, guiding your face up to look at him instead, his thumbs moving across your cheek.

you knew he was right, but being this close weirdly felt way more.. intimate.

“sorry.. okay, i’ll try..” you nodded slowly, before breaking off the eye contact, clearing your throat in a nervous manner.

gently, you reached out to wrap your hand around his dick, watching the way he almost twitched from the feeling. continuing, you started stroking him up and down, but at a slow pace. chris threw his head back against the chair, eyes shut while letting out a few groans.

taking his reaction as a sign to keep going, your hand sped up its pace, before shuffling closer, your knees digging into the floor.

when your pace faltered, chris looked back down at you, guiding your face closer to him, while the other one made its way into your hair.

you parted your lips just enough to allow your tongue out, leaving short kitty-licks to his tip, a muffled whimper coming from his mouth.

feeling a sense of confidence from his reaction, swirling your tongue around his tip, just to see if that would get the same reaction from him.

“oh- oh god..” his fingers tightened their grip on your hair just slightly, before loosening again, careful not to hurt you or be too rough.

“d-does that feel.. okay?” you quipped, looking up at him through your lashes, carefully twisting your hand around his rock-hard dick.

he nearly came when you spoke and looked up at him like that, so innocent yet doing something so sinful.

he huffed out a laugh, his hand on your cheek tilting your head up while you batted your eyes at him.

“you have no idea.. just keep going, yeah? i’ll let you know..” he spoke softly, guiding you back to his cock.

“okay..” muttered, your hand continuing its previous languid strokes.

he threw his head back again, eyes rolling to the back of his head before they fluttered shut, your tongue reconnecting to his tip, carefully swirling the muscle around his slit like before.

chris had to restrain himself from bucking his hips up, shoving his dick down your throat. but he kept his calm, letting out breathy pants.

looking up at him, watching his expression, you wrapped your lips around the head of his cock, carefully attempting to take more of him.

his eyes batted open, nearly spilling his cum down your throat at the sight. you had your eyes on his, those pretty, innocent eyes.

a soft hue of pink dusted across his cheeks, lips parted and open while letting out a choked groan. leisurely you attempting to take more of him, parting your lips further while your tongue ran down the underside of his cock.

“holy fuck. y’sure you’ve never d-done this?” he moaned, both his hands now in your hair, tightening their hold on your locks.

you went to speak, but it came out as muffled babbling, the vibration of your attempted words sending a shiver straight up his spine.

“o-oh, jesus christ,” he whimpered when your lips made their way further down his cock, causing a quiet gag to slip from your lips, drool pooling around his shaft.

chris was near ecstasy, cheeks flushed, a slight layer of sweat beading across his forehead, and his chest heaving while he shut his eyes. he couldn’t look, he couldn’t—unless he wanted to cum on the spot.

he was in disbelief, he almost couldn’t comprehend you’d never done anything close to this. you bobbed your head as much as you could, your hand stroking the part of his cock you couldn’t reach, tears prickling in the corners of your eyes.

“fuuuckk.. feels s’good. k-keep goin’ baby, m’almost there..” his voice was strained, groan after groan spilling from his parted, swollen lips, looking down at you with lidded eyes.

you couldn’t stop the tears from trickling from your waterline, the head of his cock continuously prodding at the back of your throat just barely. his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing some of the tears away.

“oh, don’t cry darling.. its okay,“ he mewled, watching as you pulled back to properly breathe for a moment, your lips still attached to his tip.

“b-baby, i’m gonna cum..” he mumbled when he felt your mouth envelop his cock again, your nails of your free hand digging into his thigh, both his hands stuck in your hair while bucking his hips.

“s-sorry.. you don’t have- have to.. fuck!” he groaned, trying his best to hold back, but it was hard not to. he didn’t want to immediately cum down your throat, in case you didn’t want to.

yet, your tongue ran across the underside of his shaft, his cock twitching in your throat when he let out a particularly loud whimper, listening to the lewd and wet noises of spit, creating a squelching sound.

you wanted to, you could tell you were doing good from his hips bucking up to meet your throat, his fingers entangled in your hair.

“i-i’m gonna cum- oh fuck..” he moaned through gritted teeth, giving your cheek a gentle pat as if to tell you to pull off—which you didn’t.

the back of his head met the chair once more, loosening his grip on your completely when he spilled his cum down your throat while letting out pants of your name.

with a gag, you pulled off his cock, spit pooling down and around his dick, mixing with his own release, your hand still around his shaft.

“oh my god.. that- that.. and you’re sure you’ve never..?” he nearly gasped, short of breath, his hands letting go of your face and hair to rest on his thigh, watching as you let go of his cock.

he watched your face twist in a sort of unpleasant manner while shaking your head, before bringing his hand to you mouth in a cup-like shape.

attentively, you spit his release out in his hand, a nervous chuckle following.

“s-sorry, i didn’t really- i couldn’t..” you rambled, looking back up at him for a moment, your cheeks as pink as his.

he shook it off, his free hand cupping your chin. “don’t worry about it.. c-can’t believe you just did that.” he murmured, giving your chin a gently pat.

“w-was.. was it okay?” you asked quietly, keeping your wide eyes on his. chris let out a laugh, leaving a perplexed look on your face.

“i think we should try again sometime, just to make sure you got the hang of it,” he joked playfully, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.

more bsf!chris x inexperienced!reader

𝜗𝜚˚࿔ notes: thank you for the req!! i love this au sm

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @toftomgmf @emely9274 @sturnioloangell @blushsturns @forgottxen @slut4chris888 @marrykisskilled @sophand4n4 @sturnihoelooo @unknvhx @chrisslut04 @sturniolossss @slvtf0rchr1s @blahbel668 @stir-knee-o-low @miolos @user1smvtysturniolo @lizzyzzn @sturnslutz

#🐇་༘࿐ works #chris ₊˚⊹♡#⌗⋆. bsf!chris x inexperienced!reader ⋆. 𐙚 ˚#chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo smut #chris sturniolo fluff #chris sturniolo fanfic #chris sturniolo imagine #chris sturniolo x you #chris sturniolo x reader #chris sturiolo fanfic #christopher sturniolo #sturniolo triplets

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likeumeanit9497 · 5 months ago

Text

| after hours c.s. |

chris sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: chris practically begs his best friend to massage his back, but after an awkward discovery, y/n finds it difficult to keep her hands -- and her eyes -- on the job.

warnings: smut; established friendship; oral (m/f receiving); fingering; hand job; squirting; unprotected p in v; dirty talk(!!!!); 18+

notes: whew! long time no see! life has been putting me through the absolute ringer lately! i haven't felt like a real person in months! i still don't tbh! im working on it! but i have absolutely missed writing and tumblr and u all so much! pls forgive my absence on here i literally haven't even been able to open this app since october when my life went south. my semester is over now so i have one major thing off my plate, so im hoping i can be a bit more consistent with writing. I MISSED U ALL SO SO SO SO MUCH and i hope u enjoy this chrissy one shot that i started months ago and just finally finished it today. love u all <33333

“No Chris.” I chuckled, standing up from my couch and walking to my kitchen to put away our leftover dinner. “Please,” I heard him whine behind me, “My back is killing me Y/n.” I turned around, facing my best friend still sitting on the couch where I left him. I laughed at his fake expression of misery, and the hand pressed to his lower back was a nice touch. “Chris, you know I’ve made it a rule not to massage my friends in my free time.” I explained, putting my hands on my hips. He groaned dramatically. “But why? You have all your stuff in the next room!” He began standing up from the couch, being sure to make it seem like a painful struggle.

He was right. I was a licensed massage therapist, and had recently started my own practice from the comfort of my home. I had turned my den into a massage room, fully equipped with a massage table, calming music, and essential oils. But I had made it clear to all of my friends — especially Chris — that I wasn’t going to massage them after-hours. Of course, I would treat them free of charge, but they had to book during normal hours. I was brand new in this career, and I wanted to ensure professionalism right from the start.

“You already know why.” I replied, turning away from him and opening up the fridge to put away my leftovers. As I leaned down into the fridge, I gasped as I suddenly felt a hand press against my lower back. “Just right here.” Chris whispered behind me, circling his thumb along my lower back. “It’ll only take five minutes.” I shuddered at the sound of his voice and the feeling of his touch. Chris had a habit of turning on his sex appeal when he needed something from me, and even though him and I were only friends, it unfortunately worked.

I turned around and closed the fridge, coming face to face with my friend. His eyebrows were knit together in what I could only assume was faux pain, because there was a playful smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Sighing, I ran a hand through my hair before pointing at the closed french doors leading to my massage room. “Go in there, take off your shirt and lay on the bed. Call me in when you’re under the sheet.”

A smile consumed his entire face, and before I could change my mind he walked over to the room and shut the door behind him.

Chris’s POV:

As I shut the door of the massage room behind me, I stood for a moment to take in the room. She had never let me in the room before, in fact she made it known that she considered it separate from her home and so she didn’t like going into it when she wasn’t working. I always joked around with her because of that, asking her if it was really a secret torture room, but as I saw it for the first time, I couldn’t help but smile. It was professional, but still had personal touches that made it clear that it was hers.

The lights were dim, enough to see clearly but dark enough that everything had a blurry haze to it. It smelled like that shit she diffuses in her bedroom — I think she told me once that it was lavender or something. I noticed the various candles dotted around the room, and took it upon myself to light a few of them. As I lit the last candle on the small table beside the bed, I noticed an old phone connected to a small speaker. Finding that the phone didn’t have a password, I opened it and hit play on the playlist that showed up first, smiling at the title: music that makes strangers fall into my bed.

I chuckled to myself. Not so professional, sweetheart.

Typical spa music filled the small space, and I couldn’t lie, it did add to the meditative atmosphere of the room. Looking at the massage table in the middle of the room, I remembered what I was actually in there for and felt a wave of excitement hit me. I hadn’t been lying when I told her that my back had been hurting — not exactly, at least — but I had definitely been exaggerating. The truth was, I just really wanted to see what her hands could do. Not wanting to waste any more time, I took of my clothes and climbed onto the table, slipping my lower half under the thin white sheet.

“Y/n!” I shouted, “I’m all set!”

Y/n’s POV:

From my place at the kitchen counter, I heard Chris’s voice and my stomach did a flip. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous, I had given a few of my other friends massages before, but for some reason I had been dreading the idea of giving one to Chris. Maybe it was because him and I had such a playful relationship, and I was so used to being professional with my clients, I couldn’t quite envision how combining my two personalities would go. Still, I took a deep breath and headed for the room.

Once I opened the door, I noticed the candles were lit and soft music was already playing. Looking at Chris, laying face down on the table, I chuckled. “I see you made yourself comfortable.” I remarked. Heading towards him, I noticed the pile of his clothes on the floor, including his sweats and boxers. “Uh Chris,” I began, stopping at the top of his head, “I said you only had to take off your shirt, remember?” He lifted his head from the table, looking up at me briefly. “I know. It’s just that the pain goes pretty low down my back and I figured it would be easier to just take everything off.” There was a playful look in his eyes. “It’s what I’ve seen them do in the movies.” He added softly, making me chuckle.

“It does make it easier,” I replied, moving so that I was now standing on his right side. “It’s really just about what you’re comfortable with.” As I spoke, I began running my hands down his back, from his shoulders down to his tail bone, to check for any tightness. He remained silent underneath me as I applied pressure on certain areas. “So, you said right here is sore?” I asked, pressing down on the same spot that he had when demonstrating on me. I heard a muffled hiss and watched as he nodded his head. “And the pain kind of shoots down to here.” He added, awkwardly moving his arm behind him and trailing it from where my thumb was down to just below the white sheet.

I hummed in acknowledgment, pumping the bottle of massage oil beside me and rubbing it in my hands. “Okay, I’ll get started. Let me know if the pressure is too much.” I said the same thing that I said to all of my clients robotically, before working against his muscle. It was pretty tight, but definitely not as bad as he was making it seem before on the couch. Like I do with my other clients, I stayed silent to encourage him to relax against my pressure. A few groans of pain fell from his lips as I worked, but he encouraged me to keep going each time I asked if he was okay.

I noticed him shuffle a few times under the sheet. “Are you uncomfortable?” I asked him softly, wondering if maybe the massage table was too hard. “N-no, I’m fine.” Was his reply, and even though there was a slightly panicked edge to his voice, I took his word for it and continued working my hands lower down on his back. I felt my cheeks grow hot as my hands pulled the white sheet lower to gain access to his pain. I had never seen this much of Chris’s body before, and even though I was trying to be professional, I felt like the act was a little too intimate.

I rushed to finish up, and after about fifteen minutes I was satisfied that the knot in his back had improved. “Alright, I think I’m done. Want to flip onto your back for me?” I asked, pulling the sheet up slightly. “W-why?” Chris asked, his tone filled with alarm. “I usually finish every session with a neck massage. Sometimes the neck gets stiff from the way it lays when you’re on your stomach.” I replied. “Oh, uh, it’s okay.” He replied, refusing to move. I rolled my eyes. “What? Not even 30 minutes ago you were begging me for a massage, and now you’re turning it down?” I crossed my arms and moved over to his head, “Come on, turn over. It won’t take long.” I reassured him.

He sighed, and, holding onto the edge of the sheet, slowly turned over. I stifled a gasp, because between his legs, the thin white sheet had tented, and I could clearly see the outline of his erection. I was thrown off, unable to take my eyes away from it, but quickly recovered — clearing my throat and dropping my eyes to his face. His eyes were still closed and his cheeks were flushed; I could tell he was embarrassed. In a normal circumstance, I would think that I would have made a joke about it, and he would have just told me to shut up. But at that moment, there was something so real about his exposure and humiliation, and so I knew that I would just ignore it.

I began massaging his neck, trying to focus on my actions and regain my professionalism. But, I couldn’t stop looking at the white sheet; it being the only thing between his cock and my eyes. I could tell that it was huge, and I watched as it grew harder and harder as I continued working his neck. It went from standing straight up and wobbling in the air as Chris breathed, to being pressed right against his front. The sheet draped around it, perfectly outlining its girth, and I could see a small bead of dampness taint the sheet a translucent shade of white at its tip. My mouth watered and my mind wandered. I felt my own body begin to react to the sight in front of me, and the tension in the room began to grow so heavy that I began to gasp for air.

“I-is the pressure okay?” I asked, doing my very best to keep my voice strong as I worked his neck. I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed nervously before nodding his head. “It’s good, Y/n.” His reply was so simple, but there was something about the gruff undertone, the almost indiscriminate breathlessness as he said my name, that caused my knees to weaken and my throat to turn into a desert. Suddenly, I could no longer hear the soft music playing throughout the room as my blood pumped deafeningly in my ears. I couldn’t pull my eyes away from his bulge for more than a few seconds at a time — it seemed so hard that it had to be painful. My eyes continued to flutter between his flushed face and pulsing member until suddenly, when my eyes returned to his face, his bright blue eyes were wide open and staring right at me.

I felt a new wave of heat crawl up my face at the fact that I had just been caught red-handed staring at the one thing in this room that both of us had been actively ignoring. I opened my mouth to attempt to explain myself, but his words beat me to it. “I’m sorry.” He murmured sheepishly, his face turning the same shade of red that I imagined mine to be as he squeezed his eyes shut. Immediately, I began shaking my head rapidly. Partially as a reassurance to him and partially as an attempt at erasing the last two minutes of my life. “No! Don’t be sorry. It happens all the time.” I rushed out, doing my best to make light of the situation. “No it doesn’t.” He replied flatly, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. I forced a chuckle. “Okay fine, it doesn’t happen all the time. But its not not normal.” I tried again, brushing a soft curl out of his face.

Chris was silent for a moment, his eyes still squeezed shut in either embarrassment or concentration. I had stopped massaging his neck, but my hands were still on his damp skin; my thumbs drawing gentle circles against his rapid pulse. After a moment, an exasperated sigh fell from his lips. “It won’t go away.” He said, his voice laced with genuine disgust. “I’m sorry Y/n, this is creepy.” A forced laugh, then another sigh.

The room fell silent again as I tried to find the right words to fill the space. Words that would reassure him more genuinely than more “it’s okay’s”. Because, from the way my pulse had quickened, and from the way my core had grown so slick from arousal that I could feel it dripping steadily onto my panties, it really was okay. It was more than okay. So, instead of trying to find the words that could possibly portray just how okay it was, I leaned down and pressed my lips to his.

I felt him tense at the first brush of my lips against his, clearly shocked by the sudden close proximity of our mouths; closer than they had ever been before. So, I pulled away for a moment, finding his piercing eyes to search them for whatever thought is running in his mind. They were wild, racing across my face trying to make sense of what just happened. But there was something else there, something erotic that was blurring the line between right and wrong. Between professionalism and spontaneity. Between friends that fuck around and friends that fuck. I could tell that we were both balancing on that same fine line, but when I brought my lips back down to his, and when he opened his mouth to welcome mine with the kind of hunger than can never be satiated, I knew that we both came to the same conclusion.

Our lips moulded together in rhythmic wonder as our tongues explored each other. Immediately, I felt his body relax as his hands reached up and wrapped themselves in my hair. A soft moan of satisfaction fell from his lips as I nibbled on his bottom lip, causing my body to react in a way that was foreign to me. I felt goosebumps raise up across my skin as if his hands were all over it. He pulled his lips from mine and used his grip on my hair to tilt my head to the side, giving his swollen lips access to my neck. He sucked and nibbled against my electric skin just below my ear, and I felt as though I could fall apart and dissolve into a puddle just from that. “L-let me make you feel better.” I managed to moan out through the waves of pleasure I was feeling. My eyes wouldn’t leave the rock hard bulge under the white sheet, just barely out of my reach. Chris groaned against my neck at my words, and I watched as his cock twitched under the sheet as if it heard my words itself and was begging me to help it.

After another moment of Chris devouring my neck, tasting every inch of it as if he couldn’t get enough, his grip on my hair loosened and he allowed me to straighten up. I looked down at his face, now even more flushed than before. His lips had gone bright pink and were so beautifully swollen from their journey against my skin. His chest was rising and falling rapidly and, after a short moment, his eyes fluttered open and landed on me. “You sure you want to do this?” He asked, his voice slightly tentative, and I knew what he meant.

A kiss between friends is one thing. It can be brushed off as a slight moment of weakness, can be something that the two friends can one day laugh about as they look back on their friendship. It can be never spoken of again, can be hidden from their other friends deep in the vault of the minds of the two people that shared it. But anything more than that, any other touching, or licking, or exploring of the other person is not as easily ignorable. In friendships there is deep love and strong understanding of the other person. Once that love and understanding collides with the act of literally merging together, of being as physically close to another that you can be in this lifetime, it’s not so easy to ignore. My mind may not be able to shut out the events that transpire with Chris tonight ever again. We may never be able to chalk it all up to a moment of weakness, or keep it a secret from our mutual friends. We may never have the same friendship we had before I agreed to this massage. But there is no way to know that for sure. What I did know for sure in that moment, with Chris staring up at me with eyes filled with intoxicating desire, with my own body vibrating with lust, was that I wanted this.

So without a word, I walked down his body towards his beckoning cock. I took a moment to just gaze at it, closer to it now than I had been all night. I rested a hand on his thigh hidden beneath the sheet, and watched as his cock once again twitched. I chewed on my bottom lip in an attempt to keep myself from moaning just from the sight, and after a moment let my eyes flutter back up to his face. “I’m sure Chris.” I replied softly, searching his expression. “Are you?” I asked, realizing that he was likely considering the same potential outcome that I had been. He kept my gaze for a brief moment, his eyes focusing on different parts of my face. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He replied finally, a cheeky smile growing on his face. I felt my own expression mirror his own, and without wasting another second I began peeling the thin sheet down his waist.

My smile fell the moment his bare cock was finally exposed, and was replaced by what I knew was the expression of desperate hunger. His length was impressively long, and I felt my mouth water at the thought of running my tongue along its veins up to its swollen head. Reaching to my left, I pumped some massage oil into my hand. I brought my cupped hand above his upright cock and let the oil drip between my fingers and coat him. He released a sharp hiss at the feeling of the oil as it trailed down his length towards his base, and I watched as his hips thrust forward desperately from the barely-there contact. A bead of pre-cum suddenly dripped from his slit, and I used my thumb to collect it before finally pumping my hand up and down his shaft. Immediately, a deep moan fell from Chris’s lips as I worked his oiled cock in my hand. I focused on his body language as I adjusted my movements to figure out exactly what he needed to feel good.

When I went slow, I watched his breath grow steady, telling me that I should pick up the pace. When I used a softer touch as I moved along his cock his hands would stay relaxed at his side, but I knew he liked it when I used a bit more pressure along his tip as his hands would tighten into fists against the sheet. But when I used both hands, twisting in opposite directions with the occasional brush against his balls with my pinky, I discovered that was what he liked most of all. A deep grunt followed by a moan fell from his lips, and his right hand flew to my upper thigh; where he gripped so hard I was sure that he would leave a bruise. “Fuck, Y/n.” He breathed out as I continued with these movements.

His hand traveled further and further up my leg until his fingers slipped under my loose-fitting shorts. I continued to stroke him with both hands, even when I felt the tip of his fingers just milimetres from my trembling core. They brushed against the ever-so-soft place between my pelvis and my pussy, and I bit back a moan. Subconsciously, I adjusted myself so that my legs were wider apart; giving him access to touch even more of me. My hands continued to work his cock as his fingers inched closer and closer, before finally, I felt the very tip of just one of his fingers reach my core and dip into its warmth. My knees buckled at the barely-there contact just as he released a muffled moan. “Jesus fuck, Y/n,” My eyes flew to his face and the translucent arousal that I found all across it was almost enough to push me over the edge. “Put that on my face right fucking now.”

His demand was so jarring, his voice so gritty and raw, that I didn’t hesitate before peeling my shorts down my legs, lifting myself onto the massage chair, and straddling his face. Immediately, his hands gripped onto my thighs and pulled them apart; giving his eyes untethered access to my glistening core. “You’re fucking soaked.” His words came out in an almost-whisper, as if he hadn’t actively planned on speaking them aloud. Still, they shot straight to my lust and I leaned forward, resting my head against his chest to allow him to see even more of me.

I gasped as I felt his thumb against my slit, collecting my arousal. I heard a wet sound and then another deep moan. “So good.” He whispered before suddenly his warm mouth was suctioned to my clit. Immediately, I dissolved into a puddle of desire as his tongue swirled and licked against my sensitive bundle of nerves. Moans fell from my lips as my brain turned to mush from the relief of finally having his mouth on me. I began moving my hips against his face, chasing a high that I so desperately needed. Satisfied moans slipped from his mouth into me, and I felt a sharp slap against my ass cheek that added to my intense need.

I had turned into nothing more than a dead weight on top of him, his lethal tongue paralyzing me. But as I opened my mouth to release a guttural moan, I felt my lip brush against the tip of his cock. Without a second thought, I slipped his cock into my mouth and began pumping up and down. Another moan fell from Chris, vibrating against my clit and causing me to moan around his girth. “Fuck.” Chris muttered against me, and I responded by deep throating his cock until my nose pressed against his bare thigh. “Mmmm, Y/n.” Chris breathed, removing his mouth from my clit. I stopped my movements as well, waiting on shaky legs for him to continue.

“If you keep doing that, I’m gonna cum.” He began, gently running his knuckles against my ass cheek. “And I don’t want to do that yet.” He slipped two fingers into my core effortlessly, causing me to immediately begin rocking against them. “Mmm. Thatta girl.” He breathed, presumably watching for a moment as I rode his fingers just inches above his face. “What I want you to do is focus on making a mess all over my face, then after that I want to cum with these tight walls wrapped around me.” His words caused my eyes to roll to the back of my head, and a sharp moan fell from my lips. “Sound good?” He asked, his voice muffled as he reattached his mouth to my throbbing clit. I nodded my head maniacally as he resumed his impressive movements against my nerves. He kept his fingers inside of me, and as I slid my soaked cunt against his face, I cried out at the added sensation of his fingers filling me.

“Fuck C-Chris.” I moaned, my words nearly incomprehensible as I grew closer and closer to my climax. He could tell that I was quickly approaching, and tightened his grip on my ass cheek with his free hand; pressing my cunt so hard against his face I was afraid that he would suffocate. “G-gonna cum!” I warned him just before the tumultuous waves of my orgasm took over. My body began shaking as I came hard against his face. I had never before felt so out of control of my own body, and relished in the feeling as my back arched and a plethora of moans fell from my mouth. I felt a gush as I squirted against Chris’s mouth, and trembled at the guttural moan he released as he began lapping me up.

Once my mind reattached to my body and my orgasm had finishing ripping through me, I rested my head against his stomach as he ran his hands along my tense back and dropped gentle kisses against my sensitive core. He let me lie there on top of him for a few moments, catching my breath and slowing my heart rate, before gently lifting my limp body off of him and sliding off of the massage table. I sat up on the edge of the table, facing his standing figure before me, and my gaze landed on his excruciatingly hard cock. He grabbed my chin and lifted my head up before pressing his wet lips harshly against mine. He tasted like me, and immediately a new wave of arousal filled my core.

As his tongue flicked into my mouth, I reached between our bodies and began stroking his cock. He thrusted into my hand instinctively, and a moan fell from his lips as his hand shot to my core where he drew torturously slow circles against my over-stimulated clit. Caught up in how good we were making the other feel, our kissing slowed and our mouths eventually turned into matching O’s; eyes shut in pure bliss. I dropped my forehead against his bare chest, and watched as our hands worked on the other’s body, slowly working up the nerve to do the one thing we hadn’t yet done with each other.

“You still want to do this?” Chris asked, his voice strained. I jolted slightly at his words, shocked at the fact that he seemed to be reading my mind. A sharp wave of pleasure hit me from his fingers and I moaned softly before looking back up at him. “Mhmm.” I breathed, meaning it. “Do you?” I asked in return as I felt his cock jump in my hand. “So much.” He replied before lowering his head and planting another deep, wet kiss against my mouth. After a moment, he grabbed the hem of my t-shirt and pulled it over my head. He took a moment to admire my bare chest before kissing each of my painfully pebbled nipples. “God, you’re unreal Y/n.” He moaned, running firm hands against my completely naked frame. I arched my back against his touch and shut my eyes blissfully.

He leaned forward and ran his tongue along my collar bone. “You ready?” He asked. I felt his hand replace mine on his shaft, and bit my lip as I felt him line the head up with my soaked core. He used his free hand to hold firmly onto my lower back, and I wrapped my legs around his waist; using the grip to press him against me. “I’m ready.” I replied breathlessly, looking up at him through my eyelashes. Without wasting a second, Chris kept his glazed eyes on mine as he slowly pressed his hips into me. My jaw dropped as his girth stretched my walls out further than I thought possible, and the intoxicating mix of pleasure and pain that can not truly be described with words turned my brain into mush.

Chris hissed as he bottomed out in me, his cock taking up every inch of my cunt. He remained still as he rested his forehead against mine, his breath erratic and hitched. “Fuck.” He finally groaned out, his body more tense than I’d ever seen it. “You okay?” I asked, wrapping my arms around his neck. He nodded. “I’m gonna cum in, like, record speed here Y/n.” He replied, taking deep breaths and keeping his forehead pressed to mine. I couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s okay Chris,” I replied, running my hands through his hair. “Just give me what you’ve got.”

My last seductive whisper seemed to give him the motivation to power through, because immediately he snapped his hips into me. I released a sharp moan from the depth of his movements, and that was enough to bring him fully back into it. Using the grip he had on my lower back, he plowed into me relentlessly. My eyes were rolled into the back of my head as I felt my walls stretch with each thrust; allowing him to hit my g-spot each time. “Jesus!” I cried out, gripping onto his shoulders in a weak attempt at holding onto my sanity.

“You’re so f-fucking tight.” Chris groaned into my shoulder as he continued to drive his ruthless cock into me. The room filled with the sounds of our bodies smacking against each other, adding to the indescribable arousal I was filled with. Chris’s hands began travelling all across my body, taking his time on my tits as his thumbs drew circles around my hardened nipples. He gave my tits a harsh squeeze before travelling down my stomach, leaving a trail of goosebumps on my skin as he reached my clit and began rubbing it in rhythm with his thrusts. “God, keep going baby.” I moaned, wrapping my legs even tighter around Chris’s waist, “F-feels s-so good!” I cried just as Chris lifted me up off the table and slammed me into the wall. I released a sharp gasp from the shock, but as he continued pounding into me, my pleasure was intensified.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Chris growled as he nibbled against the skin on my neck. “You always this fucking wet?” His dirty words make my head spin. “N-no. I’m n-not.” I reply honestly, feeling my juices spread all over his front. A wicked smile covers his face. “Just for me then, huh?” His tone was arrogant, but there was an undertone of overwhelming arousal in it that told me he needed it to be true. I nodded my head rapidly. “Y-yes Chris! O-only this wet f-for y-you.” I managed to reply just before my second orgasm swept in and overtook me.

Just as I began riding my high — my nails digging into his skin and my mouth sputtering out profanities — Chris stilled inside of me and released a ragged “Oh fuck!”. I felt his cock pulse inside of me, painting my walls with his warm seed as my orgasm milked him dry. He released soft grunts against my neck as he rode through his own high, and I relished in the feeling of his cum as it dripped from my cunt.

After a while, both of our bodies relaxed and we rested against one another as we caught our breath. I waited for the overwhelming feeling of regret to wash over me, as one would expect it to after fucking your best friend, but it never came. In fact, I was so relaxed in that post-sex liminal space, pressed against the wall with Chris’s softening cock resting in my core, that I almost couldn’t believe that we had never done that before.

I was pulled from that thought by Chris placing a deeply passionate kiss to my lips. There was no lust, no untethered desire attached to it; it was almost as though this kiss was the end of one chapter of our lives and the beginning of a new, more exciting one. Our lips moved in slow motion, as if we had kissed like this a thousand times. With his lips still on mine, Chris slowly helped me down so my feet were on the ground. After another moment of our mouths merged as one, I pulled away and was immediately wrapped in a hug. Chris’s warm body felt so familiar, even more familiar than before, and I closed my eyes and took in the moment, as I knew it was the start of something new.

“Well, I think we have some things we should figure out,” Chris said, and I felt a soft chuckle against my head tucked into his chest. “Because I don’t know about you, but there is no way I can go the rest of my life without doing that again.” It was my turn to laugh, and I pulled myself out of his arms and looked up at his face. “I think I am officially under your spell.” I replied, feigning a smile. “Let’s go sit down and figure this all out.” I grabbed my discarded shirt and threw it over my head before walking towards my living room. “Oh by the way Y/n,” Chris grabbed me by my waist from behind as we walked through the door, “My back feels great now, in case you were curious.” I rolled my eyes with a smile and continued walking. “You have magical hands.” He whispered, and all I could do was laugh and give him a half-hearted shove.

ᵕᵕᵕᵕ୨♡︎୧ᵕᵕᵕᵕ

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