#the way light is made inside the eye

[victormalonso]

“everything is done in silence | the way light is made inside the eye” - Jaime Sabines

“todo se hace en silencio | como se hace la luz dentro del ojo” - Jaime Sabines 

[oflgtfol]

anyway i lowkey wanna make a big masterpost and/or essay or whatever like as a handbook to night sky observing. not just in a like, here's how to identify constellations, but in the like. here's how to ground yourself here on earth and see the actual orbital configurations of our heliocentric solar system by simply observing planetary motions in the sky. and observe the fact that the earth is round by watching the motions of the seasonal constellations and draw some celestial sphere diagrams. etc

i'm like especially interested in archaeoastronomy lately because of these exercises in trying to generate an actual bodily intuition around astronomy beyond the math and programming that i learned in school, because it's like, this is the version of astronomy that existed for millennia upon millennia until technology advanced enough to make more complicated observations and conclusions. we literally only had our own eyes, bodies, and minds to puzzle it over for most of human history. and trying to recreate this in myself by teaching it to myself through brief stargazing sessions and many many sessions in stellarium in my free time is like, idk. really eye opening. it's one thing to be taught in school that yeah the earth is round and the sun is at the center of the solar system and there's other planets, and it's another thing to then do complicated math under those assumptions, and it's a different thing entirely when you actually then go outside and see with your own human eyes that those facts are true of the physical world you exist in. these aren't just abstract concepts but things that occupy the physical space that you live in

[your-internet-bf]

It's been a while since you've seen a doctor, and you're nervous as you follow the nurse back to my office. What's there to be nervous about, this is just a little checkup, right? You notice the nurse's manicured burgundy nails as she knocks sharply on the door. She turns to you, smiling prettily, and says, "the doctor will see you now."

You push open the door and enter quite a large room. The nurse follows, closing the door behind you. In the center is the examination table, off to the right is a small crowd of young adults, appearing to be made up of men and women, and on the left is me, seated at my desk. "Welcome," I say, standing and extending one hand. My voice is deep, warm, and smooth, and you fumble for a moment, blushing a little, before you remember to shake my hand. Your hand is dwarfed in mine, my strong fingers encircling you, and a thought flashes unbidden through your mind - what would those fingers feel like inside you? - but, come on now, that's really not appropriate...

"I have a few students with me, as you can see. Is that alright?"

"Well, yes, of course!" Why shouldn't it be?

"Excellent. Now, I'm pioneering this new full-body examination method - it's really quite extraordinary, the maladies I can detect this way - but be warned, it is, shall we say, unorthodox. Is that alright?"

Just for a moment, you see something in my eyes, something behind the genial smile and gentle, reassuring tone. Just for a moment, you feel like some specimen, some piece of meat, pinned down under the lights with nowhere to go... but just for a moment. Surely, nothing bad can happen, and I'm a doctor, aren't I? You can trust me. So you swallow your fear, and you acquiesce.

"Excellent! Let's have a seat on the table, if you don't mind, and we'll make a start. Nurse V, if you would..."

As you sit on the table, the clinical, sterile seating a little cold against your skin, the pretty nurse steps behind the table, facing you, waiting for something. From your right, I approach, and you feel again just how much larger than you I am as my broad shoulders block out one of the ceiling lights. With all these people watching you, it takes all you have not to squeeze your legs together, just a little bit.

We begin with a quick examination of your face - "you have beautiful eyes, you know," I purr into one ear. I place one hand on the side of your neck and tilt your head; god, you've been reading too much, haven't you, the way you want these strong, expert fingers to close around your throat.

"Now, open your mouth for me, please." You oblige, and I cup your chin and slide my thumb into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. Your eyebrows jump in surprise, and you look at me questioningly.

I smile again, still inside you. "Unorthodox, remember? Now, close your mouth and try to swallow." From behind, the nurse strokes your cheek with the back of one hand, and you feel a sudden ache between your legs. You close your lips around my thumb and swallow. It tastes... clean, mostly, as one might expect from a doctor, but you can taste the sweat underneath.

"Very good, one more time for me."

You swallow again, and you feel me slide my thumb over the surface of your tongue, pressing down, swirling in circles.

"And, one more time... yes, that's it, good job, very good job."

The praise for this degrading task is more than you can bear, and you squeeze your thighs together. Fuck, it's humiliating, everyone just saw you do that... All these eyes on you, the beautiful nurse behind you, this big, strong doctor with these big, strong hands and that big fucking bulge... but no, this is just a checkup, nothing is going to happen, right?

While you were thinking, I dried my hand off and had begun speaking.

"I'm - I'm sorry?"

"No worries. I was saying, can you remove your top, please? We need to examine your heart and your breathing."

You stare at me. "Remove my - "

"Yes, remove your top. The fewer barriers between me and you, the less interference with my examination." My face is quite serious, almost bored - this really must be routine. You look back at the nurse, and she smiles slightly and nods. So you undress, your nipples betraying you, standing at attention. You blush as the crowd of students looks at you intently. The nurse lays one warm hand on your shoulder, slender fingers gripping you reassuringly, and your eyes are drawn once more to those burgundy nails.

I step in close, and you feel my breath warm on your chest. "Now, observe the stiffness in the patient's nipples - this is to be expected, given the cool air, and it's certainly nothing to be ashamed of," I say, smiling. I press my stethoscope up over your heart, the metal cold on your skin, and your mind is betrayed by the pounding of your heart. My eyes flick up to meet yours, and I grin, predatorily, and once again you feel like a piece of meat beneath the lights.

I examine your breasts, starting with your left. Enclosed in my big, strong hands, I squeeze and push, prod and pull, ostensibly feeling for any abnormalities, but the way my fingers brush over your nipples, the intensity with which I sink them into your soft breasts, heaving now as your breath comes faster... My practiced tongue rasps over one nipple and a tiny moan escapes your lips as you try desperately to hide how much you're enjoying this; try desperately, and fail.

Abruptly, I pull back. "Excellent! All seems well here." I rest one hand on your other shoulder and turn to the students. "Note the pleasure response during this section of the examination, and I hope you were paying attention to the oral technique."

I turn back to you, my eyes dancing as they meet yours. "Fully undress, if you would. The inspection must continue."

Your hands tremble as you slide your clothes down off your waist, and the nurse aids you, her lovely hands stroking along your thighs and calves as she does.

"And spread for us, please."

Obediently, your thighs open, exposing your cunt, your needy, aching wetness, to all.

"Note the beauty of the patient's sex, here. The shape of the folds," I murmur, tracing one finger along your sensitive lips, "the balanced ratio of the clitoris to the vulva overall," sliding two fingers on either side of your clit, squeezing gently between them, "the appropriate pleasure response in - "

You lose what I say as I plunge two fingers inside you, powerful and dextrous, knuckles slipping past your tightness easily. It feels so fucking good to finally have something inside you, after all this aching and teasing, and god, so many people are watching, they're all watching your pussy spread and toyed with by this big, strong, handsome older man, and now the nurse's slender fingers are across your throat and her lips are on your forehead, and she tells you that you're doing so well for me, you've been so good...

My fingers press up inside you, finding your g spot, and with my thumb rubbing on your clit, I start melting you. Waves of pleasure course through your body, you gasp, moan, whimper, and with your eyes closed you can't tell whose lips are so soft on yours, but it feels so fucking good, and all those people are watching and it makes you want it more, your back arching, chest heaving, melting under the attention, and finally, mercifully, you cum, contracting around my fingers, squeezing your thighs together, trembling, shaking, gasping for air. You hear me say something, but you're so overwhelmed with pleasure that all you can make out from my speech is "very, very good".

The hand withdraws from your throat, and I gently, gently, extricate my fingers, and settle my hand atop one thigh, fingers slick with your desire.

The nurse whispers affirmation in your ear as I address the class. "Stimulation in this manner, of the two most sensitive sex stimuli, brings the most consistent and powerful orgasms to those possessing these organs." I stroke the inside of your thigh reassuringly, before turning to you.

"The final part of this examination is seeing how well you handle penetration. I'm going to need your unequivocal verbal consent before proceeding."

The nurse leans in and whispers into your ear, "might I suggest 'please, sir, will you fuck me?'" You'd blush harder if you could.

You swallow, nervously, and there's a twisting in your gut as you say it. "Please," you begin, voice cracking. "Please, sir, will you fuck me?"

"Yes, that is sufficient. I must say, though," I warn, unzipping my jeans, "that I am quite large." I slap my cock down on your tummy, and the sheer weight of it shocks you. You've seen size like this in porn, sure, but fuck, you've never touched something like this. When you tear your gaze away from my cock, I'm grinning down at you, predatory again. "You can back out at any time, you know." My voice is low, teasing, challenging. "Should we continue?"

You nod shakily, and spread your legs a little wider.

One hand on your raised knee, one hand guiding my cock, I push against you. For a moment you realize the exam had to be done in this order; if you weren't so fucking wet, there's no chance you'd be able to take me. But all thoughts are blasted out of your mind as I push harder and slide in.

It's so fucking thick that you can't help but groan. You've never felt so full, so strained inside, being pushed in every direction; you're not built for this, maybe there's just too much, your body is rejecting me - and then I push again, another few inches, and you slam your head back against the padded table, a long, drawn-out "fuuuuuck" wrenched from your lips. You feel my strong hands brace at your hips, and with a final thrust, slamming your cervix up into your guts, moving your entire body, the ridges of my cock sliding deeper and deeper, sliding painfully, pleasurably past your walls, I'm inside you.

The nurse rests her hands on you again, and purrs in your ear, "you're doing so well for him, I know it's hard, it's so hard, but you're doing such a good job, pretty girl..."

Glacially, I pull out, allowing you a moment to rest, before thrusting in again, hands still at your waist. You sob once, loudly, and then you sink into it as I pick up a rhythm, deep, deep strokes inside you. You hear me grunting, whispering something, and I grow more frantic, impaling you a little harder, and through the wall of pleasure you hear me rumble, "nurse V, begin the overstimulation procedure."

"Certainly, doctor." She leans over you, lips fiercely meeting yours, and one of those slender hands reaches down to abuse your clit. An image of those burgundy nails on your cunt flashes through your mind as I continue pounding you, forcing you to spread for me, adjust to me, even as the nurse plays your clit like an instrument, and fuck, she's a virtuoso.

You sing a song of moans and voiceless curses under our combined mastery, knowing your audience is entranced, filled with a blazing, lusty pride. The deep bass of my voice, resonant in your skull, is saying something, but you cannot hear me; you're moaning, groaning, pleading, "yes, yes, oh my god yes" over and over...

The song swells to a crescendo and with two sudden strikes, two powerful thrusts into you, it ends with a thick, hot, sticky white wave of my approval inside you. You feel it pulse deep, deep inside, filling you, load after load delivered straight past your bruised, abused cervix.

You come back to reality with my cum spilling from between your legs, trailing thickly down onto the exam table. I zip up my jeans while the nurse helps dry you off, from all the sweat and saliva. She dabs caringly at your mouth, and you notice that the cloth is dyed the same shade as her lipstick.

"Now," I address the class, "I hope you were paying attention." I rest one hand on your aching, trembling thigh. How many times did you cum with me inside you? How long were all these people watching you writhe beneath me, begging, losing yourself in the pleasure? You have no fucking clue. "This patient has bravely volunteered for each of you to examine her, here and now, while she's available to us."

Your jaw drops. When did you agree to that? You would never - but you were begging, "yes, yes, yes" earlier, weren't you, while I was talking. You agreed. Everyone heard you say it.

"One at a time, please. And," I say to you, grinning wolfishly, "don't worry. I'll be watching the entire time."

[mcmansionhell]

we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar! Student loans just started back up!

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Imagine he’s got you in the meanest mating press, his thick cock spearing you open against the bed and it’s so good you’re seeing stars. But suddenly he stops and just leaves his cock inside of you, splitting you open, not thrusting and not moving, just buried deep inside, holding you nice and open for him. And he decides to focus on your clit, maybe with a vibrator or maybe with his fingers, just rubbing and playing with your swollen clit. It’s making you whine and buck your hips against his weight but he’s so much bigger and so much stronger there’s no way to stop him. He tells you to be a good girl and take it because he just wants to feel your pretty pussy pulse around his cock, he wants to feel your walls fluttering around him, your cunt milking his cock so perfectly in response to the overwhelming stimulation on your clit. And he’s so mean about it, one hand working your clit and the other braced against the bed so he can lean into you and keep you pinned down. He’s pushing you closer and closer to a mindbreaking orgasm as he whispers in your ear. “Such a good girl for me, come on, milk my cock with that pretty pussy, that’s it, feel good for me, I want to feel that cunt clenching around me, there you go.” And finally, your body breaks into a toe-curling orgasm, trembling, writhing, crying for him and the unrelenting pleasure he’s forcing out of you. You look at him through teary eyes, expecting him to go back to fucking you but all you see is the sadistic gleam in his eyes that tells you this is far from over. “Come on baby,” his voice is so mean as his fingers don’t stop working your clit, “One isn’t enough, give me more, let me feel that pretty pussy pulse around me again, that’s it, keep making those needy sounds for me, you can take it, I want your pussy to cum over and over again to milk all the cum out of my cock. We’re not stopping until I’m satisfied.” You’re sobbing now, trying to push him off, trying to make him stop the assault of pleasure. Begging, crying, gasping out pleas that he’s ignoring because he wants to use you to feel good, he wants to use you like a fuck doll, meant for nothing more than to milk his cock like a toy with no regard for how you feel. His fingers pull another orgasm from your body, the feeling lighting your every nerve and forcing your pussy to milk him just the way he likes. But it’s not enough for him, it won’t ever be enough for him, and so he keeps going. He pulls one orgasm after another out from your helpless body just so he can use you to make himself feel good. It has nothing to do with your pleasure because he’s exceeded that several times over now but it has everything to do with using you like a sex toy to get himself off. You have no idea how many times he’s forced your body to cum for him when he finally groans above you as his hips jerk into you, pumping his cum deep inside of your still-spasming walls. And maybe he’ll leave his cock inside of you even after, keeping you plugged up and nice and full with his cum while you fall asleep in his arms, with his gentle kisses on your forehead and soft strokes of your hair.

Note: This made me feral ugh please someone do this to me.

[tonycries]

PONY

Synopsis. Ride it, his pony!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, ríding JJK men, creampíes, bondáge, GOJO’S POWERS, true form!Sukuna, dp, spítting, bréeding, pússydrúnk men, exhibitíonism (Toji and Geto), overstím, spánking, mentions of kids (Nanami), cócky Gojo, making Sukuna whíne, overspíll, heínous things, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 5.9k

A/N. Hehehe have a lovely week with no leaks <3

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Do it, then.

Toji felt so dizzy right now, so full of nothing but sheer want and those raspy, stuttering grunts ripping from his chest. With a low keen, he’s sliding one of his rough hands down your bowed spine, mouth watering at that delicious curve all for him. “Arch jus’ a hah- bit more f’me, pretty doll. Lemme see.”

“I-I already am, Toji-” And despite all your huffing and puffing, he purposely takes his sweet, sloppy time tearing his darkened eyes away from how well you were milking him to meet your pouty glare. “Can’t hngh- anymore-”

Smack!

All five of his thick fingers leave a swift spank on your ass, “Now now, sayin’ ya can’t when you were sooo smug about ridin’ me, princess?” He’s rolling his eyes, and you simply get a quick, jagged buck of his hips. Toji’s holding back a high-pitched gasp, as if he didn’t even realize what he was doing. “Better listen or m’ah- never cumming before Sh-Shiu gets here. Unless…” His hot breath puffs against your ear, and his even hotter, fat tip glides just across your g-spot. “-you want him to see?”

This earns him the cutest, drawn-out mewl from your glossed lips, your head throwing back for him to latch on from behind. 

“Oh, ya jus’ got wetter-” he breathes, and from where you were riding him in reverse cowgirl, you could practically hear the awe in his words. Feel that sultry shiver wracking down his muscled body. Toji’s ravenous hands dip down from your hips, two pads of his fingers spreading your puffy pussy lips wide open for him. “So drenched. Ya really like that, h-huh?”

And oh how much you did - your greedy pussy was practically slobbering down his swollen length. Coating him in a glistening coat of all your sweet sweet juices until it gleamed in the dim-lighting. Bulging with all of his long inches, he was so fucking massive that every thorough ram of your hips downwards made this thick base just thwack against your cunt.

Fuck, this was Toji’s favorite position for a reason - he could count every dredge and bead of slick running down his thumping veins with each of your harsh gyrations. And he did. 

“M’m- doin’ what you asked.” you’re whining, batting away the big, fat tears in your lashes. “But you’re not- ngh- h-helping!”

Toji thinks he could laugh right now, he thinks he could tease your needy self until you begged him to fuck you properly. But maybe it was the fact that he had to leave for a job soon, or maybe it was the way you looked so pretty on top of him - he’s feeling just a bit merciful right now. Just a bit.

“Awww, you poor thing–” he’s drawling out with a husky drone. Smiling slyly at the irritated furrow in your brows, the way you mewl when his large hand wraps around your throat. “My needy baby needs help?”

You can only nod half-deliriously, and he places a drippingly wet peck on your lips. Tasting that sinful scar and the syrupy sweet taste of his tongue. Dragging hotly across your lower lip, “Need s-so badly to have me cum in this oh- cute cunt?”

“Y-yes.” you mumble, your gasps turning into heaves when his rock-hard cock only expands inside you. Pumping upwards to grow even girthier, it’s like he wasn’t even trying when the curved divot on his weepy head kisses your sensitive spots. When he’s drawing sodden glides across your gummy walls, stuffing you split open until you were just molded to his very shape. “Yes yes please- jus’ wanna- hngh-” Reaching to tug on his dark black tresses, making him hiss. “-jus’ wanna have you c-cum in me before you leave ah-”

Smack! 

But this time, Toji doesn’t soothe over the sting - he doesn’t whisper pretty praises in your ear. Only planting rude spank after spank on your jiggling ass, adding to the bruising way his sharp hip bones rutted against your tender flesh. 

“Well I didn’t say slow down, did I?” you feel him purr dangerously against your ear. All the warning you get before the hand around your neck just tightens, all big beefy muscles on his arm flexing. “Wha’s the problem- said you were g-gonna oh what was it-” And Toji’s craning his head easily to smirk at you, nipping at your lower lip. “-’ride me until I lose my mind?’”

It’s said in such a mockingly higher pitch than Toji’s usual baritone, making your velvety walls just squeeze. Jostling his fat cock inside you until your toes curled, legs weakening. 

Smack! “Faster.”

Your ever-faltering hips have absolutely no choice but to speed up and you moan at the slap! of skin-on-skin. Leaning backwards into his hunched-over figure, his tongue was so smooth. Licking and biting down gently all over your skin when you fucked your hips back just a bit too hard. Just a bit too cockdrunk. Babbling out a drooling ah! ah! ah! as you roll your cunt, trying to suck out something delicious from the ends of his leaky cock. 

“Do it, then. Do it f’me.” he shudders out, and for all the biting tone in Toji’s words he sounded so utterly ruined. Like he was holding back the hitch in his chest, the way his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Fighting for the life of him to not push you down onto all fours and pound you into these silken sheets right now. “Ride me until I lose my ahh– fuckin’ mind, doll.”

You can’t answer - can’t do anything else but ache for more more more. And his every ridge and bump down his reddened shaft swiveled around you sweetly. 

“Oh.” Soon enough, you hear him titter out a laugh of disbelief, heavy, cum-filled balls tightening. “N’ you better hah- hurry up-” Smack! The possessive hand curling around your throat just drags your bleary gaze to yours and Toji’s bedroom door. Slightly ajar. Moving. “-unless yer beggin’ for double the amount of work.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - DESTRESSER

“Shh shhh…” Nanami’s quieting down your tiny whimpers with a slow, sultry glide of his fat tip down your sopping wet slit. Back and forth. Voice so hoarse and strained when he whispers little praises in your ear, “You got this- hah- you got it, my love. Ride me.”

Shit, those words are hitting straight to your cunt, clenching and sinking down, down, down his swollen cock. Your husband was so big, reaching so deeply inside sweetened spots you didn’t even realize existed. 

“Does it f-feel good, Ken?” you’re mewling. Wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders, careful to not tip over his chair, “S’it relaxing?”

This was always Nanami’s favorite little remedy - whenever you waltzed into his office room with that too-short skirt and that too-tight silken top that drove him wild. Rambling about how he was being too overworked lately - how you have a solution.

Dragging his soft palm down your spine, Nanami grits back his teeth when you’re moving your hips in slow, shallow little grinds and gyrations. His thick head swirling slowly around your g-spot, thick base spreading your swollen folds gapingly open. 

Ah, this was heaven.

And he says so - a little over a million times into the crook of your neck. Throat shot already, “So pretty- so perfect, my wife-” he’s sighing out. Wrenching away to fixate his eyes on your sweat-sheened figure, the beginnings of that fucked-out expression of yours already on your features. “Y’know…seeing you like this- always makes me wonder what a great mama you’ll be.”

It’s so sudden that your hips are faltering, stuttering down sloppily to thwack! against Nanami’s tight balls. They’re almost bruising against the curve of your ass, and you’re whining into his mouth.

“S’true.” One of Nanami’s hands drapes down to your hips roughly, all five fingers splayed-out and just emblazoning itself when he’s guiding you through each slippery squelch. The other - his right - cradles one of your tits. “I see these- oh-” You watch as he’s attaching his lips around one hardened nipple, so hot. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, ”N’ I wonder how- ngh- s-sweet you’d taste when I fuck a kid into ya, darling.”

“And here-” His tongue skims past with a final kiss on both your tantalizing tits, moving down to where Nanami knew his cock was indenting into the very bottom of your pretty pussy. Where he knew that little nudge- 

“Ah!” Your entire body just jolts when he presses one greedy hand down on exactly where he was hitting at your cervix with almost-scary accuracy, teasing out your cutest keens. “K-Ken not there-”

“Yes there.” he’s cutting you off. “Here is where m’gonna fill ya ahh- all up-”

Just the very thought has his stern cheekbones coloring with red, and you’re so hypnotized by the sight that your hips are accelerating mindlessly. Legs burning, hips aching - but you’re still leaning forward to grind repetitive circular turns, rocking him inside in a way that made sure every inch of your melty walls were being massaged. 

Were being fucked. 

“Mhm- f-fuck-” he’s groaning, head throwing back to nip your lips, until it was all just smeared with Nanami’s saliva. “Ya like that, dontcha? Wan’ me to ohh– give my pretty wife a kid?” Words slurring together with each babbling second, he’s gently taking a hand to your scalp. Massaging your roots while you ride him to fucking insanity, “Answer me, my love.”

“Yes!” you spread your legs even further, knees clacking against the hard plastic of his chair. Blinking away the bleary, cockdrunken tears welled up in your eyes. “Wan’ it- want hngh! Wan’ you to breed me, Ken.”

He can’t stop himself from grazing a sweet, sweet kiss right on your moaning lips - followed very shortly by a mean smack! on your clit. Your shuddering cunt glossing the very tips of his fingers down to his wristwatch in a dripping, hot coat of your honeyed juices. 

And more. 

So much more.

“Wait- Ken that’s gonna- oh-” 

Maybe it was the way that cool wedding band on his left hand burned so starkly against your steamingly hot cunt, maybe it was that forceful push of the very curve of his raw cock into your g-spot - or maybe it was how Nanami just looked at you. Hazel eyes half-lidded, pupils blown, mouth slacking ever-so-slightly agape with your sloshing swivels. Because your orgasm slams into you immediately after, knocking every breath and sentence out of your delirious mouth. 

And he crashes his lips into yours, chuckling at the messy way your pussy was gushing all around him. You feel him drool with every sodden splatter of your juices, squirting until you saw stars. 

When you’re finally pulling away - delicate strings of spit snapping, Nanami chasing hazily after your mouth - all you can peer down is at the way his strict uniform was so soaked now. 

Neat slacks about ten shades darker than usual, and your cunt still wasn’t done - drooling all across in a lewd pool underneath, spreading every time you fucked your self down on his weepy cock. Hell, if you were in a better state of mind you’d have noticed that some of it got on his button-up, too. 

“Squirtin’ all over me, how cute-” Nanami simpers, low and slow. His mouth greedily salivates at the sight, “Can’t believe this-” You’re gifted with another sudden spank on your clit, and he lazily soothes over with a roll of his thumb. “-cute cunt s’gonna have me conceiving our f-first kid in the hngh- office.”

You pant hopefully, still being wrung through the peaks of your high. “Y-you were serious about that–?”

“I’ve never been more serious about a damn thing, my wife.” And he loved how the words tasted on his tongue - almost as much as he loved the taste of his fingers in his mouth, savoring you. Sucking. Eyes twinkling, “So ya better get ready. S’gonna get real relaxing soon.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - “So gorgeous…”

It’s just about all that Geto can breathe out right now, all that he can think. Dark eyes half-lidded and boring right into yours, smug mouth sagging open, falling to let out such a loud moan. 

“Ohh-” his brows scrunch together. Jostling around your ravenous body where you were sitting so prettily on his lap, he’s leaning backwards greedily taking in every single inch of you he could see. Purring, “Ya look so fuckin’ pretty like th-this, dontcha?”

All you can do is keen in response, your trembly fingers taking a hold of the back of Geto’s chair to just slam your stinging hips downwards. 

“Feels too- ngh- good Sugu- Could do this forever.” you’re mewling, and he feels you weigh your entire body on top of him. Resting atop those tediously sculpted muscles of his to angle your hips just the way you liked. 

He felt so used right now, and shit - he’s never been harder about it. 

You could feel the way each stuttering ram down Geto’s reddened length left him growing even girthier, stretching out your snug channel even more impossibly open. His rock-hard cock was reaching deeply, kissing sweet, lingering kisses pointedly on the bullseye of your g-spot. Again. And again. And again and again-

“Heh-” his snicker ruffles your hair, dancing two large hands down to your waist. Spreading open those jittering globes of your ass until your ravaged pussy lips were spread so shamefully. And fuck, that heavenly sight was enough to make him gulp. To have his voice pitching a few octaves higher than usual when he hums, “Am I the one g-gettin’ fucked or hngh-” Leaving a trail of syrupy-sweet kisses down your tear-stricken face, “-are you?”

“S-so mean…” you’re jutting your lower lip out in a pout. The very action makes him lick his lips dangerously. “I should j-jus’ hngh- leave you here- to handle the meeting all alone-”

Truly, it’s become something of a little tradition - Geto loved to call it his “good luck charm” - how you milked the fucking soul out of him before every single cult meeting he led. And shit, has it been good luck alright.

“Awww, but you won’t will, ya honey?” His chest rumbles with vibrations, one hand jerking your face upwards to tug on your spit-glossed lips. He’s nodding along to your drunken babbles, drifting your hasty bounces further and further into lazy grinds with his words. “Because you’re my gorgeous lil’ cockslut, aren’t ya?” His words ring headily across your head - across the meeting hall.

Gasping when Geto suddenly shifts his body so that your ass smacked against his muscular thighs with each saturated drag, bruising against his milky muscles. 

“N’ you-” he whispers lowly against your ear, suckling softly on the sensitive spots at your throat. And you feel like such a fucking ragdoll when he abruptly bounces his thigh upwards - and you right along with it. “-are the only fuckin’ reason I stay sane during these f-fucking meetings.”

It’s a hoarse, breathed-out little admission that you barely even hear over those drippingly wet squelches from down below. Geto was fucking up into you unapologetically, eyes revered downwards at how cockdrunken you were moving right now. Sloppy. Depraved.

Burbling out, “Th-then you should really be- hngh!” You swivel your bratty hips down harshly against his heavy, cum-filled balls. They twitch and squeeze with each movement, yearning to just fill you up already. “-nicer to- me-”

Your words are so rudely interrupted by one of Geto’s impatient ruts, which he barely even acknowledges before you tug on his inky hair. 

“Ahh fucking fine.” he’s hissing out, leaky tip just as needy as he was becoming right now. Shit, Geto knew that he was losing control. Becoming irregular. Hasty. “Fine- fine fuck!” 

His long, slender fingers wrap delicately around your throat, nudging your lips in a wet, coquettish graze against his snarl. “Tell me what you want, then.”

Geto feels the way your gummy walls clench around him delightedly, how heated your pussy becomes as you get even more sluttily drenched. Just by this? Shit, he might have to play nice with you more often. And that smile on your face - oh, how gorgeous it was. Making him ram his thighs once more in a powerfully pressurized thrust. “I wan’ a kiss, Sugu.”

“A kiss?” he chokes back a gasp, eyes growing wider. The way you only nod has his high cheekbones flushing pink, humming, “I’ll do you one better.”

It takes only a few more swashing crashes of his weepy tip against your sweet spots before he’s pursing his lips - ready. Only to spit out a thick wad of saliva right onto the middle of your lolling tastebuds. So much - because Geto’s mouth was already watering at each one of your cute whines before this. 

And then it’s not long before you cum. Fuck, honestly you think you’re cumming as soon as that hot stream hit your tongue.

Toes curling, languid hips stuttering, you could only let out moan after moan of Geto’s name. You felt like you were in heaven, his thick cock sinking in and out of you to drag out every bit of your high. Squeezing him so tight-

“Fuck…fuck-” he’s grunting, each one ragged and rough like they were being ripped from his throat. “M’gonna-”

And then you’re feeling so fucking full, whatever snug space your cunt was being stretched out into was all of a sudden being filled out by thick ropes of Geto’s hot, potent cum. It was swelteringly hot filling you up, and trickling in a velvety sheen down the innards of your thighs. 

With a loud groan, Geto fucks it back up until his seed was knocking at your very womb. “Now we can start the meeting.” Mouth attacking yours into a sopping mess of a kiss, barely-open eyes flitting to the bowed group of cult members that sat silently behind you. Waiting. “Dontcha think, everyone?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - One more

“Baby- oh p-please.” You were his girl, his pretty baby - and ah were you driving him crazy right about now. The slow, sultry swirl of your hips around his sensitive cock making stars burst behind Choso’s teary eyes, every languid drag of your cunt down his shaft making it only sob sweltering hot streams of precum. “One more- just one more–”

It was his first time finally having you ride him - or, well, it was a few hours ago. The one thing you hadn’t anticipated was just how heavily addicted your pretty boyfriend would get on it.

“Are you sure, Cho?” you’re humming, but your hips show absolutely zero sights of stopping. And it wrenches out the most broken of whines from him. “If you wanna stop we can-”

“No!” And Choso’s body is moving before his mind, those rosy pink lips of his babbling pussydrunkenly a mile a minute. The soft pads of his fingers dig into the curve of your ass, leaving neat little crescent patterns for him to admire later. 

“No no no no no-” he’s panting, snarling into a messy kiss against your lips. Teeth clacking, drool trailing. Nodding as he just slams your slobbering pussy down his hefty cock. Recklessly. “-need it. Need it so badly, my p-pretty girl– don’t think I ah- got ‘nough yet.”

Yeah, addicted. 

And it’s like he’s just raring to go all over again no matter what his poor, overused cock says. Angrily reddish tip thumping in a low throb! throb! throb! against your spongy cervix, glossing all over your snug channel in milky streams. Spreading in a silken puddle underneath the two of you, it was so wet. 

All it took was the tiniest inch of your cunt swallowing his greedy inches, and that was more than enough to make his twitchy balls just ache to cum all over again. 

Your fingers tangle in his sweat-damped hair, scratching lightly against Choso’s scalp in a way that makes him purr. His sculpted abs ripple when his spine curves deliciously upwards. 

“Are you sure?” you tease, with a light giggle. “Sure you can hngh- c-cum f’me again?”

His mouth waters, dewy eyes flitting down towards the widely-stretched entrance of your cunt. Grazing his fingers lightly across your glistening folds, toying a thick thumb over your neglected clit. He grits out in a raspy, breathy tone, “P-promise- Promise I’ll fill ya up- hngh- I promise, baby just please-” Boring right into your eyes, “-ride me.”

And he was so perfectly fucked when your hips start gyrating back and forth in determined grinds, head thrown with each hug of your melty walls around him. So tight. So harsh that you occasionally revel in the lazy drag of your pulsing clit against those tufts of black at his toned pelvis. 

Your jittery legs tighten around his slender waist, and he’s whining contentedly when you tug and haul his hair as leverage to maneuver your bounces. Using him. 

“Y-yeah-” he’s rambling onwards, thumb slicking with a wet sheen of your slick when his fingers draw lewd, unsteady patterns on your clit. “J-jus’ like that. Fuck- m’gonna cum so early- ah think I might jus’ c-cum dry f’you, baby–”

Another sudden clench of pussy makes him smile - it’s humorless, drunken. And you feel it grow even wider when Choso’s craning his head to kiss at the corner of your mouth. 

“Mhm, wan’ you to ngh- cum f’me, please-” Even your moans are dipping into broken territory at this point. The sheer stretch of Choso’s heavy cock making your head spin, your hips stutter, feeling every and any nook and cranny stretched out when he drills his large, rotund head up into you. “Wan’ you t-to cum in me ah- again.”

Choso’s biting down on his lower lip hard enough that you’re almost concerned it might get bloodied. One of his hands reaching up to curl deftly around the headboard, trying for the life of him to not cum already. The other growing feverish on your clit, stroking calculatedly in slow circles that have you gasping. 

“Sh-shit-” you’re leaning downwards so that he can bury his face in the crook of your neck. “Hngh- oh, k-keep up like that, baby, n’ m’g-gonna-”

“Please.” he’s begging out in wet gurgles, tears now streaming down his innocently blushed cheeks. Still so painfully overstimulated from not too long ago, but so hypnotized. Addicted. Mumbling cutely into your ear, “Cum all over my cock.”

And he felt it - fuck, he couldn’t feel anything but it. 

The way your gooey walls hugged around him so tightly - it almost made it difficult for you to slam your hips downwards. But what sort of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t help, right?

So he’s grabbing roughly onto a handful of your ass, just rutting mindlessly upwards like he was out of control. Every surge of Choso’s dick sent white-hot waves of pleasure up your spine, and you could feel the way he throbbed at each smashing nudge into your g-spot. Over and over and-

“Choso–” The way his name sounded on your lips made him just whimper, eyes scrunching shut he grinds his teeth when he bounces his thighs upwards. You cup your hands around his face, forcing him to sneak his eyes open at you. Smiling, “You’re cumming, baby.”

And that makes him gasp, droopingly half-lidded eyes immediately snapping downwards at those milky swashes of seed. The ribbons upon ribbons of cum that overspilled from each sides of your sopping slit. Painting your insides in a sticky white that creams at the thick base of his dick

Just oozing outwards, and Choso thinks he’s cumming blanks at this point. Angry cock streaming out thick loads of nothing, balls clenching so painfully. 

The thought alone makes his jaw sag open, tears staining his taste buds. He’s bawling out, “Fuck- oh fuck, please-” Gulping heavy, heaving exhales, Choso murmurs against your lips. “One more.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Pretty pink ribbons

“You are s-so–” Ryomen Sukuna manages to grit out through his clenched canines, snapping them at you ferally when you only smirk. And he only scoffs, “-gettin’ it.”

You have to bite your lip to hold back that little giggle you knew would only make the king of curses more infuriated - because he looked so unfairly sexy like this. All splayed out on the velvety royal sheets, abs rippling and twitching with each of your tiniest movements, all four hands pinned to the towering bedposts by those pretty pink ribbons he’d bought for you just today.

So many thick, massive inches of his matchingly swollen cocks sunken into your sodden cunt - barely even. And no matter how many times you took him, no matter the fact that you were riding him, he was always too large.

Too stuffed snugly into your tight cunt, until your puffed-up pussy lips were just bulging around his shafts. Drooling a translucent ring down his hardened dicks with each short grind of pressure. 

“Getting what, Kuna?” you moan, with a slight hint of smugness in your honeyed tone. The sultry swivels of your hips slowing down ever-so-slightly until you could feel his needy throbs. The way his weepy heads coated your insides in swelteringly hot precum in angry response. 

And fuck did he love the way our hands slid down his hulking body, hands kneading at his plush pecs. You hear the way that Sukuna hisses under his rasping breath when your nails dig in to his muscles.

“You fuckin’ know it.” he snarls up at you, biting down on one of your nipples jiggling tantalizingly in his face. He sucks and glides his tongue in lazy sucks, eyes drooping up at you. “Tyin’ up the king of curses. I should have ya e-executed for this shit, brat.”

He wasn’t the least bit convincing and both of you knew it. 

Grumbling, he’s leaning backwards, cheeks still hollowed out on your perky tits. Using all those long, long years of battle to just fuck up into your drippingly wet cunt.

Oh, he could get off to just the squelch that follows, the royal chamber just echoing with that sticky staccato of skin-on-skin. Sukuna breathes out a hot puff of air through his nose, teeth pricking at your tender skin. “F-fuck yeah, yer really payin’ for it when I ngh- g-get out of this.”

That maddening jostle of his achy cocks inside you made your head spin. You moan when they bump into one another, thumping veins grazing and massaging against your stretched-out walls. It’s like he was molding you into the very shape of his cocks - one leaky head swiping at your g-spot, the other pressed up so stubbornly into your springy cervix with Sukuna’s change in angle. 

It takes you a few sloppy seconds to catch your heaving breath enough to whine out, “Th-that’s if you ngh! get out.”

And he grins - oh, Sukuna grins that very same grin you’ve seen him bare at those lowly curses he vaporizes in a second - chuckling darkly, “Silly girl.” And then the very bottom of your poor pussy is stamped with a hard push of his hips, branding that circular divot of one of his fat cocks. Then the other. “You think this- ohh fuck- this is enough to restrain me? How cute–”

Then your musing pace is being met with a few of his powerful, pressurized ruts upwards. Obscenely using that stacked position of his erections to drag your puffy clit along his pelvis. Leaving a glistening trail down, down, down to where your cunt was being stuffed gapingly full, stuttering your bounces through.

“Oh fuck-” you’re mewling, tears springing to your eyes at the twin stimulation. Fingers tangling in his innocently pink locks, “Right there, Kuna.”

“Shit- easy on the hair, woman.” he’s rolling his eyes. “N’ didn’t you say you had it a-all under hngh- control? Even fuckin’-” You feel that angry clench of his heavily smacking balls against your ass, the way the headboard ricketed when he tugs on those ribbons once more. “-tied me up for it.”

Only after a few sudden snaps! of Sukuna’s hips do you manage to finally babble out the words, “M’sorry didn’t- hngh-” Your hips are getting so messy now, strained so tightly that you feel like you’ll implode. You’re leaning down to rest your head in the crook of his neck, and he kisses away wetly at your cheek. Huffing out a slight snicker when you reach your hand towards his tied wrists. “I-I’ll untie-”

“No.” he’s cutting you off. “Leave them, I have a ah- another way you can make it up t’me.” 

Even though he trails off, your cockdrunken mind can already piece together what your dear king wants. Sucking in deep inhales when he forces his hips painfully still, forcing you to grind down on him with a disappointed whine. Sultry, slow turns of your hips that have him coated in all your gooey wetness, swirling around those ever-thickening shafts inside until they were kissing your sweetest spots. It makes him tease, breath hot against your ear lobe, “Cum f’me.”

It’s almost embarrassing how on cue you are - stars sparking behind your eyes when you finally cum all over Sukuna’s cock. Your mewls turning into moans, grinds turning into urgent bounces of your drooling pussy down his length. Clenching. Milking him. Over and over through your high - using him. 

Suddenly, two rough hands clasp around your waist, another rolling his thumb ruthlessly to fuck you through your orgasm, and the last just hauling your lips onto Sukuna’s. 

Rosy lips sucking on your tongue is what it takes for you to snap your eyes open and realize - those pink ribbons on the floor, Sukuna’s pink hair tickling against yours, his pink tip poking just enough out of your gummy cunt. As dangerously needy as his smile, words a whimper. “Now, what were ya sayin’ about m-making it up t’me?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - Shut up!

Gojo Satoru knew he was cocky, he knew that no one - no one - stood a chance against the strongest. He knew that he was decidedly not about to break just as soon as you pinned him down to his navy blue sheets, drawing a dripping drag of your drooling cunt on his throbbing cock.

And he knew that last bit was a fucking lie.

“Heh, y-you think this will be enough to ah- what was that-” he’s rolling his pretty cerulean eyes, fighting for the life of him to keep them agonizingly open when your hot cunt glissades across his rock-hard shaft in a slow, saturated slide. “-‘absolutely ruined’? Well, love to see the confidence, sweetheart, but-”

His leaky head is peaking just through your glistening pussy lips, barely even an inch being milked up into your plushy walls. 

But then oh, Gojo’s eyes are rolling back to the very depths of his head, breath hitching in an embarrassingly high pitch in his throat. Losing any and all control when his greedy hands drop in a split-second to your waist, helping you ram your taunting hips to sheath his swelteringly hot cock. 

“That-” he’s gasping, eyes narrowing down at your smug smirk. “That was fuckin’ cheating, girl n’ you ah- k-know that.”

“If you say so.” you hum, with a pointed roll of your eyes. 

Gojo feels you gyrate your hips in such a hypnotizing way, a lazy circular roll that has his toned body arching upwards into a perfect bow. All ten fingernails digging into the curve of your hips when you rock against him harder. Rougher. Using him. 

He was so big that even the tiniest of grinds had the rounded end of Gojo’s thickened head crashing into the very bottom of your pussy. Smearing a steamingly hot ribbon of precum across your spongy cervix, he just smiles at the bit of recoil it has. 

So pretty. 

“F-fuck–” Gojo’s hiccuping out, pearly white teeth sinking down onto his bottom lip to stop those whimpers from falling out. “S’that all you ah- g-got? Need help?” Chortling out the most cockiest of laughs that only deepen that cute furrow in your brow, Gojo makes a smug display of strength matching your own cadence. Barely breaking a sweat to rut up into you. “Honestly, pretty, you’ve got to-”

Then you clench - you squeeze. 

Your gummy walls hugging him so tightly - difficult, considering Gojo’s jaw-dropping girth. And after that every bounce of your hips downwards felt like you were sucking the fucking soul out of him. Stretching out the very deepest of your insides to make him pathetically speechless.

Gojo lets out a husky fuck! fuck! fuck! with each of your calculated movements, and it just leaves his dick aching. Groaning, “You’ve g-got to- hah-” It was too much - he was at the end of his fucking rope - and it’s all that Gojo can do to wrangle your hips into his rough grasp, pinning down your ravenous pace until you slow down your riding ever-so-slightly. “You’ve got to stop- hngh- c-cutting me off sweetheart!” he’s bawling out.

Big, twinkling tears clinging onto his lashes, they flutter with each of your merciless swivels. The curve of your ass massaging his achy balls, your clit leaving his white tufts of hair drenched in syrupy sweet slick. 

It makes you grin. “Well who told you to get ngh- c-cut off, Toru?”

Oh, in that moment Gojo is shoving every long inch of his slender fingers into your mouth, bullying between your bruised lips to swirl around your mean tongue.

“Sh-shut up- Maybe you should take fuck! notes–” He clenches his teeth in a feral smile, and he’s never felt fucking weaker. Not even with a desperate grip on your hips, not even with jujutsu thrumming at his fingertips, at his eyes. Overspilling with each leaky bead of precum being thrusted into your gooey depths. “Sweetheart–”

“Toru-”

At this moment, you’re sure that Gojo’s taking advantage of his inhuman reflexes - because in mere seconds, he pounds his cock upwards with a pained grunt. Fully overtaking your own rhythm to fuck up into you again. And again. And again and again and-

Shit, he could stop. He didn’t want to stop. 

The only thing crackling through his mind being the slight spark of jujutsu drawn out with his poor, overworked cock, and the feeling of you. How badly he wanted more more more-

“Cum f’me-” Gojo’s words come out in an almost-unintelligible puff of feverish breath. Drool dripping from the side of his rosy red lips as you only rode him harder, “Cum while you ride me- please- fuck fuck fuck- I surrender I tell you- hngh! Please c-cum f’me.”

Except he’s the one cumming first, spurting out thick, ribbony ropes of seed - there was so much. And Gojo throws his head back with a dragged-out yelp, choking out broken pants of your name while he cums and cums so hard he thinks he can’t fucking feel his cock.

Can’t tell when the lights burst out, when the tiny tingles from his hands send bolts of electricity down your body - making you crash headfirst into your orgasm, as well. 

That’s when your hips get sloppy, letting Gojo’s seed dribble down in milky swashes. So thick, that you almost think you could count every dredge, sticking your sopping wet slit to the thick base of his cock with each stutter up and down up and down up and down-

You moan around Gojo’s slender fingers - flashes of pleasure making your head spin - and that’s what finally snaps him out of his pussydrunk reverie. 

Blinking his eyes back open, it takes him a few seconds to adjust to the new darkness in the heady room. And only a few more to start up another slight movement of his hips - slow, sensitive - hissing at the burn. Lips wobbling, voice teary when he continues, “Best out of three- or eight?”

“...”

“Five?”

A/N. No, Gojo, not five, you can have me five BILLION times actually. More, even, if society allows me. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Housewardens

Other Parts: Vice-Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Riddle Rosehearts

The house was quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood and the rustle of fabric as you flopped onto the couch with all the grace of a cat forcibly denied its favorite sunny spot.

The argument still hung in the air, an unspoken tension that neither you nor Riddle were willing to breach—at least not yet. He wasn’t wrong, not entirely, but he wasn’t right either. The impasse was as thick as the silence between you.

Determined to make a statement, you yanked the blanket off the couch arm and cocooned yourself in it, defiantly turning your back to the door. No way were you crawling back to bed tonight. Your pride wouldn’t let you. Let him stew in his perfectly fluffed, oversized bed.

Meanwhile, in his room, Riddle’s impeccable composure was fraying at the edges. He lay stiff as a board under his duvet, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his mistakes. His pillows seemed unusually hard, the blankets too suffocating, and no matter how he adjusted, something felt... wrong.

It didn’t take him long to figure out the culprit: you weren’t there.

He groaned softly into the darkness. Guilt clawed at his insides, sharp and relentless, each tick of the clock making it harder to bear. He’d handled things poorly—he could admit that, now that the heat of the argument had ebbed. And worse, he couldn’t bear the thought of you being upset, out there on the couch, all because of his stubbornness.

With a heavy sigh and an even heavier heart, he threw off his blanket and shuffled into the living room. His breath caught when he saw you.

There you were, fast asleep, your cheek smushed against the arm of the couch, one arm dangling off the side. The sight was far too adorable for the emotional train wreck he’d become. His guilt doubled.

Riddle knelt by the couch quietly, determined not to wake you. But as he crouched there, the exhaustion hit him—of the argument, the guilt, the restless tossing and turning. Maybe just sitting here would suffice. He wouldn’t disturb you.

A few minutes turned into an hour. Before he knew it, he’d slumped sideways against the couch, head lolling onto his arms, fast asleep in what had to be the most uncomfortable position imaginable.

When you stirred awake, the morning light was peeking through the curtains. Groggily, you rubbed your eyes, the previous night’s anger feeling like a distant shadow. That was when you noticed him—his normally pristine figure curled up on the floor, head resting uncomfortably close to your dangling hand.

Your chest ached at the sight. The idiot. The sweet, guilty idiot.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hair. “Riddle,” you whispered. “Hey… wake up.”

He stirred, blinking up at you with sleep-clouded eyes, disoriented but instantly softening when he saw your face. Without a word, he shifted closer, arms wrapping around your middle as he buried his face against your stomach.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, voice thick and quiet.

You freeze but quickly recover, leaning into his embrace. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your blanket. “I didn’t mean for it to get so out of hand.”

Your throat tightened, and you found yourself carding your fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry too,” you whispered. “Let’s not fight like that again.”

For a moment, the two of you just stayed like that, wrapped up in quiet forgiveness. When he finally looked up at you, there was a hesitant, hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“Will you come back to bed now?” he asked softly.

“Only if you promise to use it too. No more couch-floor accommodations,” you teased, pinching his cheek lightly.

“Deal,” he murmured, and together, you made your way back—closer than before, warmth filling the space where anger once was.

Leona Kingscholar

The argument had been sharp, biting, and the kind of fight where you both refused to back down. Storming out of the bedroom felt dramatic enough to match the vibe, so you grabbed a blanket, stomped to the living room, and threw yourself onto the couch with the weight of your indignation. “Fine,” you muttered into the cushions. “Let him have the stupid bed. I don’t care.”

And at the time, you didn't. You were replaying his snarky remarks and cursing his stubborn attitude. But the couch was lumpy, the blanket too short, and sleep came grudgingly after what felt like hours of stewing.

When you finally woke, disoriented and achy, something felt...off. For starters, you weren’t on the couch anymore. You were in the bed, wrapped snugly in the comforter that still carried Leona’s scent.

Blinking against the sunlight, you sat up, confusion clouding your thoughts. At the foot of the bed was the blanket you’d dragged out last night, now neatly folded like some taunting symbol of Leona’s existence.

And Leona himself? Missing.

You slid out of bed and wandered to the living room, where the answer to your mystery lay sprawled across the couch. The sight of him, however, made your irritation waver.

Leona was far too large for the couch. His long legs hung over the edge at weird angles, and one arm was slung over his face to block the light filtering through the curtains. He looked wildly uncomfortable, but his usual arrogance softened in sleep, his face peaceful and unguarded.

It didn’t take a genius to piece it together. He must have carried you to bed sometime in the night, only to exile himself to the lumpy couch. The guy could be maddeningly stubborn, but this... this unexpected gesture had you torn between wanting to yell at him or simply kissing him awake.

Ultimately, you decided to settle for the middle ground.

Crouching next to the couch, you reached out and brushed the stray strands of hair from his face. Before you could withdraw, one eye cracked open, and a lazy grin spread across his lips.

“Caught ya,” he drawled, voice rough from sleep.

You raised an eyebrow. “You moved me to the bed, didn’t you?”

He huffed, clearly uninterested in owning up to the sentimentality of it. “Couldn’t leave you out there whining in your sleep.”

“I wasn’t whining!” you protested, even though your cheeks were burning.

“Sure you weren’t,” he replied smoothly, grabbing your wrist before you could retreat. With a sharp tug, he pulled you down, practically pinning you against him. “Don’t see the big deal. You’re mine, aren’t ya? ‘Course I’m gonna take care of you.”

The casual way he said it didn’t make it any less sincere.

You sighed, melting into his warmth despite yourself. “I hate how sweet you can be when I’m trying to stay mad at you.”

His smirk widened, and he tucked you closer, burying his face in your hair. “Didn’t mean to piss you off,” he murmured against your temple. “But you’re not leaving this couch till we make up. Deal?”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice softened. “Deal.”

As the tension melted away and his arms tightened around you, the couch didn’t seem quite so lumpy anymore. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad place to be.

Azul Ashengrotto

The argument had been tense, the kind where you both said things you probably shouldn’t have. Frustrated and too stubborn to stay in the same space as Azul, you grabbed a pillow and marched out to the couch. He’d barely tried to stop you, his pride seemingly keeping him rooted in the bedroom.

But pride was a fickle thing, and now you were left trying to fall asleep on the stiff cushions. Every creak of the floorboards made you feel a little guilty, knowing exactly who it was.

You didn’t even need to look; you could feel Azul’s presence lingering in the doorway, his usual composure clearly absent. The sound of shuffling footsteps returned to the bedroom, and you thought maybe he’d finally leave you alone—only to hear those same footsteps inch closer again a minute later.

"Azul, I know you're there," you muttered, cracking an eye open and turning toward the doorway. Sure enough, there he was, peeking out. His glasses caught the faint glow of the hallway light, and he immediately froze like he’d been caught stealing treasure.

“I-I wasn’t...” he started, before trailing off, clearly scrambling for an excuse.

You sighed and sat up, your frustration ebbing in the face of how uncharacteristically sheepish he looked. This was Azul Ashengrotto, the calculating businessman who could sell ice to Yetis—and yet he couldn’t even apologize without peering at you like a child who’d been scolded.

“If you’re just going to lurk there all night, we’re both going to lose sleep,” you said, finally beckoning him over with a wave.

Azul hesitated for a fraction of a second before his composure cracked, and he shuffled toward the couch. “I didn’t mean for things to escalate...” he started, sitting next to you, his head ducked low, voice soft.

You smirked despite yourself. “You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?”

He bristled, his dignity rallying as he cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses. “I am not—”

“You’re very cute,” you interrupted, and the smallest flicker of a pout crossed his lips.

Azul looked away, a hint of color dusting his pale cheeks. “You’re the worst.”

“And you still love me,” you countered, pulling him down beside you. “Truce?”

He glanced at you, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “Truce.”

Apologies came in murmured exchanges after that, both of you acknowledging where you’d gone wrong. You knew you’d both let pride get in the way—typical for two people as headstrong as yourselves.

Eventually, Azul’s head rested on your shoulder, his warm weight grounding you. You leaned back against the couch, and despite its discomfort, it felt perfect with him there.

“You know,” you whispered, running a hand gently through his hair, “for a guy who’s made half of Twisted Wonderland sign contracts, you really can’t stand your ground for the life of you.”

Azul huffed, turning his face into your shoulder to hide. “Do you want me to apologize again?”

You chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Nope. I think I’ll just enjoy this.”

And with that, the two of you finally let the tension of the argument melt away, falling asleep together on the couch in an imperfect, perfectly “you and Azul” sort of peace.

Kalim Al-Asim

The argument had been uncharacteristically heated—rare for someone as sunny and easygoing as Kalim—but even he had limits, and so did you. When your stubborn streak flared, it ended with you grabbing a blanket and storming off to the couch.

“No, Kalim, I’m fine. You sleep in the bed, I’ll sleep here,” you snapped, cutting off his attempts to follow you. His face fell, but for once, he didn’t argue, retreating to the bedroom with a defeated slump of his shoulders.

You burrowed into the couch cushions, determined to stay mad, but as sleep started to claim you, the anger dulled into annoyance. It didn’t matter. He started it, you thought stubbornly, clutching the blanket tighter.

A soft rustle of fabric woke you, tugging you from the edges of sleep. Blinking groggily, you turned your head to see Kalim crouched beside the couch, carefully tucking another blanket over you. He had his tongue poking out slightly in concentration, his touch so gentle that it was clear he didn’t want to wake you.

“What are you doing?” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep.

Kalim flinched, looking at you like a startled puppy caught raiding the kitchen. “Oh, I—uh—I just thought you might be cold, so I…”

He trailed off, clearly expecting you to brush him off again. Instead, you sighed, your irritation melting as you realized just how ridiculous he looked, trying to coddle you even while you were angry at him.

“Come here,” you said, sitting up and pulling the blanket back a bit.

“What? No, I don’t want to—”

“Kalim.”

His protest crumbled immediately, and he slid onto the couch beside you, tucking his legs up awkwardly. You wrapped the blanket over both of you, and after a moment of stunned hesitation, Kalim relaxed into the embrace, resting his head against your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice small and earnest. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You sighed, tilting your head to rest on his. “I’m sorry too. I overreacted.”

He perked up slightly at that, his usual cheer trying to peek through. “So… does this mean you won’t sleep out here alone again?”

“You’re lucky I’m even letting you under this blanket, Asim,” you teased, though your smile softened the words.

Kalim beamed, his arms wrapping snugly around your middle. “I knew you couldn’t stay mad at me forever!”

You rolled your eyes fondly, leaning back into the cushions. The couch wasn’t exactly built for two people, but the warmth of his presence made it easy to ignore. Slowly, you both drifted to sleep, Kalim murmuring sweet nothings even as his breaths evened out.

Maybe next time, you thought sleepily, you’d just let him win.

“You can have your perfectly fluffed pillows and skincare routine in peace,” you muttered, tucking yourself in with a spiteful sense of triumph.

Vil Schoenheit

The argument left both of you simmering in silence, which for Vil was a rarity. Instead of his usual icy composure, he seemed genuinely rattled. You, however, weren’t in the mood to care. Grabbing a blanket with theatrical flair, you stomped to the couch.

Once comfortably cocooned, you scrolled on your phone, trying to drown out the lingering annoyance. That’s when you heard it—sharp, purposeful footsteps marching toward you.

Before you could react, Vil appeared like a vengeful storm god, looking every bit as flawless as a deity would while furious. With a huff that could make kingdoms tremble, he reached for your arm and began dragging you back to the bedroom.

“Vil, what are you—let me go! I’m fine out here!” you protested, but his grip was firm, his annoyance palpable.

Once you were unceremoniously deposited by the bed, he turned to you, pointing at your neatly made side. “You are sleeping there,” he declared.

You folded your arms. “I’m sleeping on the couch. Deal with it.”

He tilted his head, his expression a dangerous blend of frustration and disbelief. “Absolutely not. You’ve ruined my entire evening, and now you expect me to suffer further by sleeping alone?”

“Ruined? Seriously?” you shot back.

“Yes! I require my beauty sleep, and I can’t possibly get it knowing you’re out there, sulking on a couch. It’s impossible to relax without you next to me—so you, are going to have to take responsibility!”

The sheer audacity of his statement left you blinking. It was so dramatic and entirely Vil that you couldn’t help it—you laughed. Not a little chuckle, but a full-bodied, slightly wheezing laugh that made you clutch your sides.

Vil crossed his arms, arching an offended brow. “I fail to see what’s funny.”

“You,” you said between giggles. “This whole ‘it’s your fault I can’t sleep because I love you’ nonsense. You’re ridiculous.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he sighed, and once your laughter subsided, he gestured to the bed again, this time more softly. “Please. Don’t make me sleep without you.”

You relented, sliding under the blankets. As you settled in, Vil switched off the lights, the room going still.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment. His tone was sincere, lacking the sharp edges from earlier.

You shifted closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist and pulling him gently against you. “I’m sorry too.”

Vil let out a contented hum, nestling into your hold. With your body heat mingling and the earlier tension dissipating, it didn’t take long for both of you to fall asleep—together, as it should be.

Sleep came in patches, your mind replaying the fight in a loop. At some point, the dull ache in your bladder forced you to stumble toward the bathroom. On your way back, you froze, hearing quiet, panicked murmurs drifting from Idia’s room.

Idia Shroud

The argument had been rough—sharp words, bitter edges, the kind of fight that left your chest heavy. It didn’t matter how much Idia stammered his way through an apology or tried to explain his side; you weren’t ready to hear it yet. So, in an act of frustrated finality, you grabbed a blanket and retreated to the couch, refusing to spare him another glance.

“Ortho, what do I do? I think I really messed up this time,” his voice wavered, thick with worry. “They probably hate me now. Like, actual hate—no respawn, no restart. I mean, who else would put up with me? I’ve completely blown it.”

You sighed, anger ebbing as guilt trickled in. You hadn’t meant to push him that far, and his usual self-deprecating spiral sounded more frayed than usual.

Pushing the door open, you caught the tail end of Ortho’s voice. “Big Brother, you should—oh!” His robotic eyes darted to you, scanning the scene. A moment later, he gave a tiny thumbs-up and practically zoomed out of the room, leaving you and Idia alone.

Idia froze when he noticed you. His shoulders hunched as if he could shrink his already wiry frame. “I-I didn’t mean for you to hear that. Sorry for being pathetic. Again.”

Rolling your eyes fondly, you stepped forward and opened your arms. “Come here, you dramatic dork.”

His eyes widened, hesitation etched into every inch of his posture. When you didn’t move or drop your arms, he finally shuffled over, nervously slipping into your embrace. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him securely, and his entire body seemed to deflate as tension drained out of him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.

You huffed softly, rubbing his back. “Idia, I wasn’t leaving. Just... needed space to cool off. And honestly, hearing you lose your mind over it made it hard to stay mad.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool,” he mumbled, the words tumbling in an embarrassed rush. “Um, does this mean...?”

“It means I still love you,” you interrupted gently.

His grip on you tightened for a moment before he pulled back, pink dusting his cheeks and his hair glowing pink at the ends. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost missed it.

“I’m sorry too,” you replied, kissing his cheek and earning a startled squeak.

Together, you made your way back to bed. As you settled under the blankets, his fingers tangled hesitantly with yours. The argument seemed miles away now, replaced by the steady warmth of simply being with him.

“I’ll try to be better,” he murmured into the quiet.

“You’re already enough, Idia,” you replied, squeezing his hand.

And as you drifted off to sleep, you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your knuckles, grounding both of you in the quiet comfort of reconciliation.

Malleus stood frozen for a moment, processing your declaration, and you could feel his pout even with your back turned. "You do not need to sleep on the couch," he finally said.

Malleus Draconia

The argument left both of you tense, and you were too mad to deal with Malleus' brooding silence. Grabbing a blanket, you stormed off toward the couch, refusing to even glance at him. "I'm sleeping on the couch," you announced. "Goodnight."

"I'm not changing my mind," you shot back, tossing the blanket onto the couch for emphasis.

There was a brief, sulking pause. Then, he went quiet—suspiciously quiet. You peeked over your shoulder just in time to catch him crossing his arms with a look of smug triumph spreading across his face.

“Malleus—”

Before you could finish the thought, a flash of green lightning struck the couch, reducing it to a pile of ash with alarming precision. You stood there, jaw dropping as the faint smell of charred upholstery wafted in the air.

"Well," Malleus said, ever so matter-of-factly, "it seems the couch is… out of commission. A most unfortunate turn of events."

You turned to him, dumbfounded. "Did you seriously just smite your own couch?"

He looked at you expectantly, his lips pressed into an overly calm smile. "The bed is still available," he offered, gesturing toward the bedroom as though that solved everything.

Your anger reignited—if that was even possible after witnessing such sheer audacity. Without a word, you dropped your blanket onto the floor, flopping down dramatically as if making it your personal mission to out-stubborn a dragon fae.

He stared at you in bewilderment, clearly expecting a different outcome. For a long moment, he didn’t move, as though trying to process your act of defiance. Then, with an audible sigh, he finally caved.

“Alright,” he said softly, crouching to your level. His eyes held a rare vulnerability. “I… overreacted. I apologize for upsetting you.”

You bit back a smirk, pretending to be unimpressed even as you felt your resolve softening. "I wasn’t thrilled about it, yeah."

Malleus tilted his head, something of a pout returning to his expression. “Will you come back to bed, then? The floor hardly befits someone so precious to me.”

“Only if you promise not to zap anything else," you teased, finally relenting as you reached out to take his offered hand.

He helped you up gently, his grip firm but careful, as though he feared breaking you. “I cannot promise to never act rashly in defense of my love,” he murmured, leading you back to the room.

Settling into the bed together, you couldn’t resist poking at him one last time. “You really destroyed your own couch just to keep me near you, huh? You know they make couple’s therapy for this, right?”

He chuckled softly, pulling you close. “I would smite an entire castle if it meant you stayed by my side.”

“Noted,” you said, rolling your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the warmth in your chest. As you both drifted off, tangled in the sheets, you couldn’t help but think how absurdly lucky you were to be loved by someone so dramatic—and so utterly devoted.

Masterlist

[lady-lauren]

❥ KATSUKI BAKUGOU X FEM! READER

❥ WORD COUNT: 2.3k

❥ WARNINGS/TAGS: a/b/o dynamics (alpha Katsuki/omega reader), knotting, age-gap (Katsuki is in his grumpy 40s, you're in college), he calls you "kid", fucking in a pool, some mention of sex toys, degradation, creampie

→ Kinktober Masterlist ←

God, he’s too fucking old for this shit. Too god damn tired of the animal that kicks against his ribs whenever the slick smell of a willing cunt passes his nose. 

“ ‘m sorry,” you whisper, rolling your hips to suck his cock deeper in your drooling pussy. He grinds his molars at the too-tight feeling. 

“Fucking brat,” he hisses and clamps his hands to your doughy ass, jerking you up and down his cock. “Knew you were trouble. Fucking told you to stay away from me.” 

Katsuki knew he would end up fucking the bright-eyed and bushy-tailed college girl the day you moved in next door. He tried to stop it, he really did, showing you his teeth and growling any time the sweet stink of your omega scent greeted him. 

Yet he’s the one who couldn’t help himself. Humid summer air brought your pathetic smell right to him, had him peeking over the fence that separated his house from yours like a fucking perv.

The sight of you in your little pool, desperate to cool your too-hot skin, bikini bottoms floating next to you as you shoved a dildo into your aching hole was his breaking point. 

And now here you are, stuffed full of throbbing, thick alpha cock. Because you begged him, all fat tears and plump pouts as your heat clawed at your insides. 

He might be too old for this, but he’ll never get tired of how fucking stupid omegas get for dick. 

“The t-toys just weren’t…weren’t good enough.” 

You’re pinned between him and the pool wall, lips of your cunt dragging along his length over and over again as you try to find release. 

Copious amounts of slick gush from you, making his thrusting easier. Pearly strings of your cream float around the pool, lost to splash of him fucking into you. 

But even still, he’s so engorged with blood and hormones ready to knot that his fat cock struggles against your gummy walls. You hiss, not from pain, but from relief, so happy to be full that no amount of stretching will detract from your pleasure.

“You’re fucking pitiful.” 

Shame briefly shines in your blown-out eyes, a bit of humanity peeking through the haze of animal instincts. Shit. This is why he hates this, why he’s tried to avoid all the breeding nonsense. Omegas are so emotionally squishy. 

Not that he’s any better. One pout from you as you locked eyes with him across the yard made him jump a fucking fence and plunge his cock into your weeping hole at two in the afternoon. 

“Just can’t help it, can you, kid?” 

Red eyes trace over the body he’s been trying so hard not to imagine. The triangle fabric of your swimsuit is peeled away from your tits, your nipples puffy from how hard you were tugging on them before he got his hands on you. 

A little mhmmmm-mhmmmm sounds from lips pressed too tightly together, your head lolling back as you keep bucking against him with your eager, exposed pussy. 

You’re a mess, all swollen and gooey and desperate. 

“Such a dumb omega,” he groans and wraps his arms around your back, pressing your soft body all the way against his, “fucking yourself out in the open. Wanted me to find you? Wanted the old man next door to fuck you stupid.”

“N-no,” you lie so easily. “Too hot, was too hot and couldn’t get off and—”

“Bullshit. You started splashin’ around out here just praying I’d catch your scent.” 

“C-can’t help it, pr-promise. You just always smell so fucking good, alpha.”

Makes sense now why you always seem to be out on a walk when he gets home from work, and why you always seem to need something from him. He was a nice neighbor and gave you his number when you moved in all on your own, a little omega lost in a big college town. You would message him for help around your place at least once a week—changing light bulbs, fixing a leaky faucet, even opening a goddamn jar a few nights ago. 

He told you several times to stop bothering him, yet you never could catch the hint that fooling around with an alpha was going to get you bitten. 

Relentlessly he pounds his hips, the buoyancy of the water making it effortless to hold you and fuck in deep. His thighs barely feel any strain, his back muscles rolling like a true predator as he starts to use his arms to pull you up and down. 

Katsuki slides his fat cock until it’s barely in your pussy, mushroom tip caught by the suctioning ring of muscle inside of you. Then he bottoms out, balls connecting with your ass under the water with a muted thump. 

“God, fuck, that’s good, so good,” you’re fucking loud, “feel so fucking good in my pussy.” 

“Christ, you wanna let the whole neighborhood knowing I’m fucking you?”

​​The fuck-drunk little smile on your face tells him that maybe you do. 

And he thought he was the perv. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” he whispers furiously, kissing you with so much force it makes your back arch in his strangle hold. 

A thick hand wraps around your throat. He doesn’t squeeze, just leaves it there possessively as his tongue forces its way between your lips. You unconsciously moan, your own tongue meeting his, but he presses it down, not wanting it in the way. You give in, letting him encircle your tongue with his own so he can taste you. He pulls back to suck your bottom lip into his mouth, teeth roughly dragging against it.

“Like feeling my cock spread you apart, hm? Maybe I’ll get you a dildo my size for next time you wanna put on a little show.” 

You purr and it makes him want to scratch you to pieces. 

The burning stretch of your omega cunt is bliss. The smell of sex and chlorine sting his nose, make him lose it a bit and press so hard inside of you that his cock nearly meets the resistance of your cervix. Not that you seem to mind it—your nails are sinking into his wet shoulders, holding on for dear life as he fucks you in the heat of a summer afternoon. 

When Katsuki shifts his hips down, heavy cock sliding out of your tight hole, you bare your teeth and growl at a man nearly double your age.  

“Easy, tiger,” he tuts and drops you in the warming water, “turn around and let me hit it from the back.”

He loves that your instincts are to obey.

You turn your back to him with an indignant little huff, bending over the edge of the pool and waiting. Katsuki locks his arms around your thighs, pushing up and letting the water do the work. Your legs float open easily, spreading wide as he spears his way back into your slutty hole. 

“Ever been knotted before, kid?”

Looking over your shoulder, you shake your head, hiccuping as he works his shaft in and out of you. 

“Please, please, ah, knot me. Wa-wanna know what it feels like.”

He’s toying with an ancient fire, he knows that. One fat knot from an alpha and you might be begging to move in with him, but it’s worth it. Your pussy feels too goddamn good and he’s too worked up not to plug you full. 

Katsuki works you into an absolute frenzy, waves of water splashing onto the edges of the pool as you mewl and focus on how effortlessly he fucks you. Your walls meld to him, each thrust hasty and claiming, scented sweat steaming from the heat of your body and the blistering of the sun. His dick curves just perfectly inside you, cockhead purposefully brushing against the most sensitive, spongy spots within your depths. 

“Surprised none of your stupid boyfriends knotted this tight cunt before.”

“Wouldn’t,” your fingers are gripping the edge of the pool for dear life, like you’re gonna drown any second, “wouldn’t let them.” 

“And you’re gonna let me? Just a slut for older men?” 

“Slut for you,” you correct him with a bounce of your ass against his pelvis, “love a big, strong alpha.” 

He rolls his eyes at the shameless flattery, yet still the ego inside him flares to life. 

“Young, stupid omegas always think they can get whatever they want,” he growls, all while keeping a rough pace inside your body, watching how the water parts for the two of you grinding into one another. 

You give him a knowing gaze over your shoulder, sultry and coy. 

You are getting exactly what you want. All you had to do was get his attention, pry at his most basic instincts and now here he is losing his mind over the tight squeeze of your omega cunt. 

Maybe you aren’t so stupid after all.

But he’ll fuck you stupid, he’s sure of that. 

“I’m too old for silly games, kid. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

He proves his point by pawing at your belly under the water, pressing in until you can both feel how deep he is in your guts. The realization makes you whine, pushing hard back against him. 

“You think I’m just some toy to use during your heat?” Katsuki tuts, licking at one of his canines. “Just wait until I knot this stupid cunt and you beg me to keep coming back.”

A symphony of sex is ringing in your backyard, sounds of primal grunts, shrill little screams, balls slapping against your ass, water gurgling and splashing.

Any animal nearby knows what’s happening, that nature is running its course and you’re both nothing but senseless bodies looking for the simplest relief.

Katsuki slides the hand on your stomach lower, pinching your aching clit before he starts swirling it under the pads of experienced fingers. You start thrashing, cunt sucking so tightly he’s sure you’re hurting with the need to cum. 

“Pleasepleaseplease oh god please!” 

You shatter and his pride nearly bursts with you. Your cunt clenches, so pleased to cum around a thick alpha cock. You babble absolute nonsense, beg for his knot and a string of thanks yous and pleases and alpha alpha alpha dripping from your mouth into the wake of the pool.

The way your pussy squeezes him tells him you’ve been looking for this orgasm for hours, walls so swollen and pulsing. You must’ve been fucking yourself with useless toys since morning and finally got desperate enough to make a scene and get him to fuck you the way you needed. 

“Poor thing,” he coos, watching your cream float to the surface of the water. 

You’re totally mindless now as he continues to fuck you, body sloshing in the pool as he manhandles you to take what he wants. 

“Don’t even know if you can handle a knot, kid. You’re too tight.” 

That stirs you, makes you flatten your hands against the edge of the pool and push back to meet his rhythm. Over and over, you keep up with him, so fucking fraught to finally feel an alpha swell in your guts.

“Please don’t stop, please. Need to feel it, been in heat for d-days.”

“Oh omega, have you been fucking yourself silly with all the wrong toys, hm? Been stuffing yourself all alone in your room? Should’ve, ah, just asked me to come fix it.”

“You told me to stop b-bothering you…” 

“You’ll annoy me when your sink’s leakin’ but not when your pussy is? So fucking stupid.”

Only he’s starting to go dumb at the wrap of your cunt around him. The beast in his belly is raging, alpha instincts boiling in the summer sun. 

“C’mon, slut, milk my cock,” he pants and slams into you, lost in the way the water reflects around your curves and how your thighs are locked around his waist. He swears your body listens, some reflexive instinct that has your pussy clamping around his shaft until he can feel the veins of his cock squishing into your walls. 

The orgasmic build starts rushing up his spine, inflating the base of his cock inch by inch. 

“Holy shit, fuck~” you whimper at the first stretch of his knot. “Kat–Katsuki, ‘m so fucking full!” 

Finally he bursts, knot bulging into your gumminess until you’re plugged with him. His cum spills into your tight channel, filling you whole. 

Your sweet, stupid omega brain can barely comprehend the stretch. Another orgasm wrecks your body, has you falling face first into the pool. Katsuki scrambles to grab you, hoist you up and into his arms as you gasp and crest and cum all over him again. 

He can’t help but chuckle, easily maneuvering his back to the pool’s edge. He lets you calm down in his hold, your head falling against his shoulder as you try to breathe. 

“Get what you wanted, brat?” 

Katsuki pats your bloated belly, making you squeal as he rubs the heel of his hand against his knot. 

You nod dumbly, eyes closing to focus on the feel of him. He smirks realizing you’ll never forget him, your first knot. Omegas really are so emotional. 

Yet he’s taunted by the stupid bikini bottoms still floating in the water, mocking just how easy it was for you to boil him down to his base instincts. 

He’s too old for this shit. Especially as you start grinding down against his knot, cooing, reminding him you’ll be fucking him until your heat decides it’s done with him. 

[yanderedrabbles]

Christine - A Yandere Short Story

Based on Christine by Stephen King After your boyfriend's death, you're eager to sell his vintage Mustang. The car reminds you far too much of him and worse than that, it feels oddly alive. The only problem? Your dead boyfriend isn't ready to let go. Tags: Male Yanderes x Fem Reader, Horror, Character Death, 12k words Taglist: @mel-vaz

When your boyfriend died, you and Christine were the only witnesses.

All through his funeral, you kept thinking of ways to get rid of her. You were being paranoid and you knew it - she couldn't speak even if she wanted to. But having her around put you on edge, made you grit your teeth until your jaw ached.

After the wake, you approached your boyfriend's parents and asked if you could have her. They were pale and shaken, reeling from the suddeness of death just as much as from grief. His father nodded like a sleep walker, his voice older than his years.

"He would have wanted you to have her. She's yours."

His mother squeezed your shoulder. "I can't imagine what you're going through, dear. Whatever his faults, my boy loved you. I know that."

You managed a smile, managed to thank them through the tears that were suddenly falling. But your mind was on Christine. Always on Christine.

You were the last to leave the funeral parlour. You tried to tell yourself it was a coincidence, but deep down you knew the truth. You were scared. Scared of Christine, scared of your too quiet townhouse, scared of the dreams that would come when you closed your eyes.

It was early evening and the streetlights were coming on in the narrow tree lined avenue outside the funeral parlour. When you stepped out, goosebumps crawled across your arms.

She was waiting for you.

Christine. Your boyfriend's 1969 Mustang, cherry red and entirely rebuilt.

She was directly under a streetlight and her paint gleamed. The light reflected off her windshield so you couldn't see inside, but for a second it seemed like someone was already sitting behind the wheel.

You squeezed your eyes shut. When you opened them, the shadow driver was gone.

Christine. For most of your relationship, you loved her just as much as your boyfriend did. She was a labour of love and you felt it every time you sat in her passenger seat.

But things were different now.

You walked towards her cautiously. It was ridiculous to be scared of a car, but you were.

When you opened the driver side door, you almost expected to see your boyfriend. Despite the funeral, the wake, the late morning call to please come and identify a body down at the morgue, you still expected to see him. Light green eyes looking up at you, half smile that was half teasing and half lecherous.

The seats were empty.

You slid behind the wheel, your breathing shaky. You almost never drove Christine. Not that your boyfriend didn't offer. It was just that you liked riding passenger - liked looking over and seeing your man with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, liked seeing the muscles flex in his forearm when he steered.

The car still smelled like him. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite being impounded for a week while the cops did forensics, despite the valet scrubbing and steaming the seats to get the blood out, it still smelled like him.

You rested your head against the steering wheel, closed your eyes and sobbed for the first time since the night you killed your boyfriend.

When you put Christine up for sale, the calls started coming in almost immediately. It wasn't surprising - she was in incredible shape, she ran like a dream, and her white leather upholstery was original.

At first, you thought you'd be able to sell her before the month was up. The buyers would look under the hood and whistle in admiration.

But something always changed when they took her for a test drive. You couldn't understand it - she would drive perfectly but by the time you got home, the buyers were almost always frowning at you, or worse - not looking at you at all.

No matter how fanatic they were at first, no one wanted Christine.

You dropped the price and then dropped it again, but still no takers. The car spent all winter in the garage. You'd turn her on to idle every few days, clean off any dust and check that the mice weren't nibbling at the wiring, but you never stuck around for long.

It hurt to leave her locked away - your boyfriend poured so much of himself into her - but it hurt even worse to drive her. Whenever you were behind the wheel, you could feel the gaping emptiness of the passenger seat, could still see the bloodstains.

It was on the first warm day of spring when someone finally bought her.

Colt Guilder called you when you were just about ready to give up on selling her. You were literally about to take down the ad when your phone rang. The voice on the other end was deep, with a slight southern drawl that immediately reminded you of your boyfriend.

"Can I come and take a look today? I wouldn't want to impose ma'am, but I'm in a hurry to see her before anyone else gets a chance to buy her."

Her. Even the older buyers didn't really call cars 'her' anymore.

"Sure. You can come by this afternoon."

You were sitting on the porch steps when he pulled up, a jug of iced tea and your novel abandoned next to you. He stepped out of his Jeep, a tall man in blue jeans and boots, and you felt your heart lurch. Something deep inside you told you that this was the man who would finally take her off your hands.

He smiled at you as he approached and for a second you wanted to warn him away. Wanted to tell him the truth about Christine.

"Howdy ma'am. I'm real happy you agreed to meet me so last minute."

You smiled at him and shook his hand and bit back the truth. Oh, how you would come to hate that decision.

When he pulled up, Colt wasn't expecting the Mustang's owner to be a pretty little thing in a sundress. He was a gentleman, his mama raised him right, but even he had trouble keeping his eyes on your face and not letting them wander lower.

His hand swallowed yours when he shook it and it was hard not to notice the softness of your skin. Whoever rebuilt the Mustang, it wasn't you. You had the hands of a lady, not a mechanic.

"The car is out back. Keys are waiting for you. She's been serviced pretty regularly and my... my boyfriend built her up himself."

You started for the garage and he fell into step behind you. You were so much shorter than him - it was kind of cute to see your head bobbing in front of him. Like a pixie in a sundress.

"How come your man ain't the one to sell it?"

He wasn't surprised you had a boyfriend. Hell, he'd have tried his luck if he could. No doubt other men had the same idea.

"He... he passed away a few moths ago."

He cringed. Nice going, Colt. Bringing up painful memories only three sentences into conversation. Must be a world record.

"I'm so sorry ma'am. I had no idea."

You shrugged. "It's fine."

He was about to say something else when Christine came into view. Her grille was a newly buffed silver and her deep red paint caught the spring sun.

He gave a low whistle. "Pictures don't do her justice."

You smiled at that, but edged out of the car's direct line of sight. Neither of you consciously noticed it, but you approached the car like you would an animal. Slightly from the side so it couldn't charge at you.

"Mind if I take a look under the hood?"

"Be my guest."

He popped the hood and let out another low whistle. Without even looking past the surface level stuff, it was clear your boyfriend knew how to build an engine. The Mustang looked almost new.

"How long did this take?"

You leaned against the garage door and crossed your arms.

"A long time. He bought her a few months after we started dating. She was gonna be scrapped - looked like a total rust bucket."

He raised his eyebrows. If that was true, the body restoration alone must have cost a fortune. Did you realise how valuable a vintage ride like this was worth?

"Y'know, just from looking under the hood, I can tell you could get at least three times as much as you're asking."

If his uncle heard him sabotaging himself like that, he'd have given Colt a whack on the head. Truth was, he wanted the car. Wanted her so bad he would have taken out three separate loans to afford her.

But he wasn't a monster. It wasn't fair to buy something so fine from a girl who might not understand its true worth.

You raised your brows, more surprised at his honesty than at his statement.

"I know she's worth more. But I'm in a hurry to get rid of her. And well..."

You looked away. "People find the car a bit strange."

It was his turn to be surprised. He couldn't see any red flags in her upkeep or her paintwork. Maybe it was a deeper issue.

You pushed yourself away from the wall and nodded at the door.

"Keys are waiting for you. Take her for a drive and decide for yourself."

The interior was just as well taken care of as he expected - a tough job when the upholstery was mostly white. The keys had a tag attached with a name engraved in metal.

"Christine?"

"It's what we call her. It was a joke at first but the name sort of stuck."

You slid into the passenger seat and tugged your seat belt across your chest. He glanced at you out the corner of his eye and -

'Silly thing, doesn't she know better than to get into a car with a stranger twice her size?'

He shook his head, like that could dislodge the idea. He wasn't that sort of man, wasn't some kind predator with a mind full of filth.

'It would be so easy. You're so much bigger than her, so much stronger. You want her. Why not just take what you want?'

Where the hell was this coming from? He might have a guilty thought every once in a while, but he was always quick to squash it down. It wasn't like him to think something so...forceful about a girl.

He turned the key and the engine roared to life. And it really was a roar. V8 engine growling so loud he could feel the vibration through the steering wheel.

Oh baby, he was sold on her right then and there. The devil himself couldn't have outbid him. What little boy didn't dream of a car like this? Didn't spend his childhood looking through magazines and brawling over matchbox versions?

The clutch was smooth as butter as he cruised down your driveway and turned onto the main road.

God, he wanted to gun it. Floor the gas and find out for himself just how powerful old school muscle was.

He looked over at you, about to ask if you knew exactly what your boyfriend did to the engine. You were looking out at the passing trees, your hair stirring in the slight breeze from his open window.

'She looks like she belongs here, with you.'

It was another foreign thought, something he wouldn't expect of himself. But it was true. The Mustang would have felt empty without you - in your sundress and white sneakers, you completed the picture. Your boyfriend must have rebuilt the car just for you, as a way to keep you next to him. Colt wasn't sure why he thought that, but somehow he knew it was true. Whoever your man was, he put so much of himself into this car that Colt almost felt like he was right next to the guy.

You turned to him, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress.

"What do you think?"

"She runs sweet as apple pie."

You felt your heart stutter. Your boyfriend used to say the exact same thing.

"You alright there sweetheart? You look a little pale."

"Sorry. Just a little car sick."

Car sick was right - you were sick to hell of this damn car and the way it played with your emotions.

"C'mon, I know a diner just off the highway. We can stop for some fresh air and a bite to eat. You'll feel better in no time."

You didn't have time to protest before he switched lanes and turned onto the highway.

The diner he took you to really was just off the highway, a retro looking spot railed off from a steep cliff.

"How did you know about this place?"

He shrugged. "I must have heard about it from someone."

Strange. Colt didn't think he'd ever seen the place before, much less heard about it. But when you looked at him with that slight hint of panic, that sudden fear, somehow he knew this was the place to bring you.

He climbed out and opened your door for you before you had a chance to do it yourself.

"You know this place?" he asked.

If anything, you looked even paler than before. "Yeah. My boyfriend and I used to come up here pretty often."

He frowned, annoyed at himself for somehow making this even worse. "We can go somewhere else if you want."

"No!" You took a deep breath. "No, this is fine. I just need a moment away from the car, that's all."

He led you to a picnic table near the edge of the cliff. Far below you, the main road clung to the cliffside and disappeared into the trees.

"You just sit pretty and I'll grab us some chow."

You smiled up at him. "Thanks Colt. Really. I know this is probably eating into your day."

He waved it away. "Trust me, this is a much better way to spend the weekend than what I had planned."

It was true. He'd wanted to see the car and somehow that turned into lunch with a pretty girl at a table with one hell of a view. Maybe Christine had some good luck about her. Maybe all of this was just meant to be.

When he stepped into the diner, he was greeted by jukebox country music and the smell of good, strong coffee. He didn't bother to look at the menu. Somehow, he knew exactly what to order.

"I'll have a banana spilt, some fries and a toasted sandwich." He smiled at the elderly waitress. "Please and thank you Agnes."

"Sure thing sugar."

He frowned. How the hell did he know the waitress's name?

Must have seen her name tag, right? That made sense. Must have been a half second, subconscious glance.

When she handed him his change, he dropped his eyes to her lapel. No name tag. No label. Not even a necklace with her initials on it.

It was a warm spring day but he still shivered. Something strange was going on.

No, don't be ridiculous. Agnes was a common name, a vintage diner kind of name. That was probably why he said it. His mind must have just made a lucky guess. There's no way he could know her name when he didn't even know about the diner until he pulled up.

Unless... it wasn't him that knew her name. Maybe it was someone else, something else speaking through him.

"C'mon Colt, don't be an idiot," he muttered to himself.

"You say something sugar?"

He jerked his head to the side, his heart lurching. Just the waitress, just Agnes, looking at him with raised brows.

"No ma'am. Just thinking out loud."

"Alrighty then. Here's your order. Be careful not to spill the chocolate sauce. It's hell to clean up."

"Yes ma'am. Thank you ma'am. Have a good day."

He was stupidly happy to step out of the restaurant. The place must have been getting to him. Why else was he suddenly so superstitious?

"You doing okay Colt?" you asked.

He grinned at you. "Just dandy sweetheart. I got you a banana split and some French fries."

"Oh! That's perfect, thank you."

See? Nothing strange at all. He had a sweet ride and a sweeter girl waiting for him. Why worry about some weird diner?

He sat down across from you and unwrapped his sandwich. Behind you, Christine looked at him with a shining chrome smile.

"Listen, you can get a whole lot more for a car that fine. But if you're willing to let her go for the price in the ad, I'll buy her today," he said.

You froze, a fry halfway to your mouth. He really wanted her? He wasn't coming up with some lame excuse or hurrying off with a mumbled apology?

"Done," you said, a bit too quickly.

You were finally getting rid of Christine. No more nightmares, no more tip toeing around the garage like you were scared she might notice you, no more unwanted memories every time you laid eyes on her.

You were burying your past like it should have been buried on the day of your boyfriend's funeral.

He offered you his hand and you shook it, a genuine smile on your face.

"She's all yours." And thank God for that.

Colt drove you home and followed you into the house to collect the car registration papers.

You frowned at your empty desk drawer. You could have sworn you left the documents right here...

You popped your head into the living room where Colt was waiting.

"Give me a second. I think I left them upstairs."

"Sure. I'm in no hurry."

He wandered around your living room while you were gone, too keyed up to sit still. It was a neat, modern room with art on the walls. The big bay windows opened onto the front yard and the driveway where Christine sat waiting for him.

Part of him still couldn't believe it. She really was his dream car. The sort of ride all his work buddies would be green with envy over.

He leaned against the windowsil and then quickly looked down when his hand brushed something metallic.

Picture frames, the small kind that usually sat on a desk. He picked one up, the frame cool against his skin. It was a picture of you and someone he guessed to be your boyfriend. Both of you were in formal wear - you in a deep red evening gown and him in a tailored tux. Christine was parked in the background, her red a compliment to your dress.

Your boyfriend was handsome in a rough cut sort of way, his hair swept back and a tattoo just peeking out of his shirt. He was looking directly at the camera while you looked up at him, his arm curled tightly around your waist.

Colt frowned. There was something about the man's expression... a kind of possessive meanness. He seemed the type of guy to start a fight and then finish it no matter what, a real tough customer.

And the way he held you... some might call it loving but Colt found it more proprietary than anything else.

'Mine. My girl, no matter what. Try and take her from me and I'll show you a world of hurt.'

Colt put the picture down with a frown and scanned the others. Out hiking on the mountains, at the beach, holding a huge bouquet while he kissed you. A perfect couple except... except for the way he looked at you. Sweet, yes. But somehow dangerous, in the way rattlesnakes and cougars were. Fine if they weren't disturbed, but tread on their territory and there'd be hell to pay.

He moved away when he heard you coming down the stairs. You were a little flushed, a little out of breath, but you grinned at him and waved a stack of papers.

"Finally found them! Just need to sign the change of ownership forms and she's all yours."

He watched you as you searched for a pen, your sundress swishing 'round your thighs. He didn't like your boyfriend - dead or not, he seemed like one mean bastard - but seeing you so happy, so flushed with life and hope and joy, Colt found he could almost understand the other man. If you were his girl, he'd hold you just as tight.

You finally found a pen and he scribbled his signature on the dotted line.

"Well, seems like you're the proud new owner of a 1969 Ford Mustang. Congratulations."

He carefully took the papers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "Real good doing business with you sweetheart."

You lead him out to the car, going through the list of things he'd need to do to properly register the car as his. Real cute of you, to think he didn't know it all already.

He slid into the driver's seat and when he touched the wheel, he felt that same sense of power. And under it, a strange feeling of being not quiet alone in the car.

You stood outside his window, running through a catalogue of spares and repairs that he might want to check out. If he had to guess, you seemed nervous.

He leaned back and smiled at you. "It's alright y/n. I ain't changing my mind. Deals done, remember?"

It was the first time using your name and it sent a small bolt of electricity jolting through him.

'Her name is mighty sweet, ain't it? Meant to be said oh so softly, meant to be savoured.'

You looked at him like you felt it too, your cheeks just a little warmer than before.

Oh Lord, what sort of bastard was he? Feeling this way about you when your boyfriend was in the ground for scarcely half a year? You were probably still mourning, still nursing your broken heart. He should be a gentleman and leave you alone, shouldn't take advantage of your vulnerability. He should be a good man.

'You'd be an idiot to let her go.'

The thought streaked through his mind. It almost didn't feel like his own idea. Wherever the thought came from, it wasn't wrong. He really would be an idiot to not ask you out when he had a chance. He got lucky with the car - prize piece like this would have been snatched up in a matter of hours. If he didn't ask you out, if he didn't push his luck for the second time, the same thing might happen with you.

"How 'bout I take you out to dinner later this week? As a thank you."

You looked unsure, your eyes jumping down to the car keys like you were expecting an objection.

"Please? I know Christine must mean a lot to you. I'd feel a whole lot better taking her off your hands if I could thank you properly."

You bit your lower lip and he found his eyes drawn to the sight of it. Please say yes please say-

"Yes, I think I'd like that. But no later than eight, okay?"

YES! He rubbed a palm across his jaw to hide his smile.

"I'll bring you home early, promise."

"I'll hold you to that, cowboy."

Oh god, he wanted to melt when you called him that. It was so silly - big guy like him getting butterflies over a sort-of kind-of date.

'Atta boy. You ain't gonna regret it.'

He was too distracted watching you walk away to realise the thought wasn't his own.

That night, you slept without dreaming. For the first time since your boyfriend's death, you didn't see his face when you closed your eyes.

You woke up the next morning expecting to be relieved. Christine was gone, wasn't that exactly what you wanted?

Yes, but...but what happens next? You weren't an idiot nor were you unduly superstitious, but Christine didn't feel like a normal car. Maybe that's what happens after a violent death - things change, the blood seeps through the fabric and poisons the aura, or the energy, or whatever the hell you wanted to call it.

You made yourself breakfast but couldn't eat more than a few bites.

Okay, try and be logical. It was probably just your guilt playing tricks on you. You loved Christine and you loved your boyfriend, so it was only natural that you'd feel terrible about selling her. That's all. Blood and death can't change the nature of an inanimate object, no matter how violent or grisly it might have been.

Right. Just your guilty conscience. No need to work yourself up.

Across town, Colt slept through his alarm. He was dreaming, a sweet little fantasy of cruising down the highway on a brilliant summer day. You were next to him, your sundress even shorter than before, smiling at him and running your hand up his thigh.

You were his girl. His and his alone. He could feel the certainty of it in every part of him. You loved him, you stood by him, you did everything you could to support him, you were his.

Christine purred through her gears and he pushed the gas a little more, eager to get home. He would show you exactly how much he appreciated you - inch by inch and kiss by kiss.

"I love you darlin'. I need you to know that," he said. His voice didn't sound like his own. It was raspier, with an edge of meanness that not even love could soften.

You looked at him, smiling all soft and sweet. "I know. I've always known."

Colt jerked awake, smiling and shivering at the same time. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, disoriented and feeling like a stranger in his own body.

"One hell of a dream," he muttered.

'Not a dream cowboy. A memory from someone long dead.'

He ignored the thought, his mind already focused on the day ahead. He'd driven Christine home yesterday, but left his Jeep parked outside your house. He could either get one of his buddies pick it up or take a taxi over and get it himself.

Was it even a choice? He wanted to see you again. If he had to pay an ungodly amount for an Uber, he would.

Should he call you before showing up at your door? What would be a good time to see you? He didn't want to show up too late and catch you in a rush to leave.

'She'll be awake by now. But she'll only leave for work after twelve.'

How did he know that? Did you mention it yesterday?

He climbed out of bed and half stumbled to the bathroom. As the steam clouded up the mirror, he thought of his dream. And what might have happened if he'd stayed asleep longer. Maybe your hand would wander further up his thigh, and then...

He lathered up his fist and took hold of himself. He was already hard from just the thought of you. Your sundress looked so damn flimsy. He could probably yank it off you with just one hand.

He groaned, his forehead pressed against the tile. Picturing your hand dwarfed by his when you shook on the sale; how soft your skin was, how good it would feel if you touched him just like this.

'Fucking yourself like a dog at the thought of her.'

He agreed. You really were turning him into a dog.

You were sitting in your living room, trying and failing to read your novel, when he knocked on your front window. You struggled to smooth down your hair while you scrambled for the door.

"Hi Colt! Came to pick up your Jeep?"

He was wearing blue jeans again today, with a tight wife beater that showed off arms thick with muscle.

"Yes ma'am. Thought I'd stop by and see if you needed anything."

That made you smile. How often does someone go out of their way to check up on a stranger?

"I don't think so. But I've got some fresh orange juice and donuts, if you'd like to come in."

He smiled at you and for a second his gaze dipped down past your chin. "There's nothing I'd like better."

He took up a lot of space at your kitchen table, but you found it comforting. The room felt too big without your boyfriend to fill it.

You flipped open the box of donuts and he picked out the mint chocolate one.

"Never really liked the mint ones," he told you, "But I've got an awful craving for one right now."

"Oh I never liked them much either. It was my boyfriend who was the die-hard mint fan."

He looked away from you, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. "It must be hard for you. Losing him so suddenly."

"It was. It is. Everyone keeps telling me it gets easier, but it hasn't. Up until last night, I dreamt about him everynight."

"Dreamt of him?" he asked you suddenly, his eyes intense.

"Yep. Every single night. It was like I was reliving my memories again and again."

He looked a bit perturbed at your statement, but you put it down to him feeling awkward about the conversation. Death is never a fun or casual topic.

"So how's Christine treating you?"

"Like a dream. I was thinking of taking her down the coast next weekend. All open road and sea air." He paused, seeming to weigh something up in his mind. "Why don't you join me? The morning after I take you out to dinner. We can pack a picnic and have lunch at the cape."

"That sounds incredible." You looked down at your hands, slightly uneasy but not sure why. Your boyfriend spoke about doing that once. A mini road trip with the windows down and the sea breeze in your hair.

It's not that strange that Colt had the same idea, right? Everyone knew the coast road was a long, quiet stretch. Perfect for putting Christine to the test.

"You're gonna love it," he said. "I'll even make my world famous tiramisu."

You raised a brow. "You know how to make tiramisu?" Big guy like him didn't really seem the patisserie type. Did he have a cute apron with bows on it too?

He pointed his donut at you, blue eyes twinkling. "Not just any tiramisu. World famous."

You snorted out a laugh and for the first time in months, you kitchen felt like a happy place.

He dreamt about you again that night. Christine was parked in a dark corner on the edge of a cliffside hiking trail. He could hear waves crashing far below. It was nighttime, with the full moon outlining your face in silver and shadow.

He was in the driver's seat and you were straddling his lap. You were wearing a sweater and a cute pleated skirt that seemed oh so short with the way you leaned over him.

"You've been ignoring me," you accused him. You were pouting in an adorably petulant way. He looked at your lips - red and slightly swollen - and knew that he'd just been kissing you.

"I haven't been ignorin' you sugar. I've just been busy."

He spoke with that same raspy voice that somehow wasn't his.

"Too busy to say hello or drop by for dinner?"

You shifted in his lap and he had to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning. Oh, you damn tease.

"I'm filthy and tired after work sweetheart. You wouldn't want me."

You frowned, going from slightly annoyed to full blown angry.

"I always want you, you idiot. I'm not scared of a few stains. I like it when you come home smelling like the workshop. I like it when you're dirty from work." You tugged at his collar. "I like you. Why don't you get that?"

'Because you're too good for me.' He almost said it. It was on the tip of his tongue and it was only some dull instinct that kept him quiet. How couldn't you see it? You were everything he wasn't. You were educated and kind and selfless. He was just some bastard from the wrong side of the tracks.

He wanted to impress you. He wanted to be worthy of you. Fixing up the Mustang was just the start of it. He didn't care that it took him all summer and pretty much all of his pay cheque to do. He wanted a ride that he would be proud to pick you up in.

And it still didn't feel like enough. Nothing ever felt like enough.

He looked away from you and stayed silent.

You sighed and brought your palms up to his cheeks, gently turned his face back to yours. "I like you. I'm dating you. I want to spend time with you, no matter how grouchy you are. Okay?"

He should be a gentleman and let you go, shouldn't take advantage of your kindness. He should be a good man.

"Okay," he said and leaned forward to kiss you.

He wasn't a good man. He wasn't a gentleman. He was going to hold onto you for as long as he could.

Colt woke up with a snarl, slamming his fist on his alarm so hard the clock face cracked.

"I didn't want it to end, goddammit."

He rubbed his hand over his face. The dream felt so real. He could feel the late fall chill, could smell your shampoo and taste your cherry lip gloss. He wanted to go right back to sleep and fall back into that wonderful fantasy.

He scowled and threw the covers off. Dreams could wait, work couldn't.

All through the day he was snappish and irritable. One of the apprentices messed up an order and he snarled at them to stop being so fucking useless and fix it. His coworkers shot each other looks behind his back. He was behaving entirely out of character but both him and his buddies were helpless to stop it. It was only when he got home at the end of his shift that he realised why.

He wanted to dream about you again.

There wasn't any guarantee that he would. Dreams weren't exactly scheduled network programming. But somehow he knew it would happen.

He ended up going to bed before eight, a world record for someone who usually only considered sleeping when it was well past midnight.

He was right. He did dream of you.

You were in a bikini this time, lounging on a lawn chair in the backyard. You had sunglasses on and there was a slight sheen of baby oil on your skin. Your phone was on shuffle and pop music was blaring from the speakers.

You weren't expecting him and he kept his steps real quiet as he approached you. He kept expecting you to hear him and shoot up, and he was slightly annoyed when you didn't. What if he was a serial killer or some sick pervert, sneaking up on you while you were so vulnerable? Did you have no spatial awareness?

He made it all the way to the back of your chair and you were still totally oblivious. There was a magazine and a glass of ice tea on a small table next to you. You were softly humming along to the music.

He took a minute to just admire you. Your body stretched out and entirely at his mercy. His girl, his gorgeous girl.

He leaned down until his lips were right next to your ear.

"Hey there sugar. You miss me?"

You shot up with a shriek, your sunglasses flying. You whirled on him, grabbing your magazine like thirty pages of glossy Cosmo was going to help you fight off an attacker.

Your eyes narrowed when you recognised him and you smacked his chest, hard.

"You asshole! You gave me a heart attack!"

He couldn't help but smirk at the sight of you so riled up.

"You're lucky it was me and not someone else. Not everyone has such noble intentions."

"Yeah right. Was it your noble intention to scare the living daylights out of me?"

He held up his palms in a placating gesture. "Just teachin' you a lesson sweetheart. I was standing there for a good few minutes and you didn't notice a damn thing."

He cast a critical eye across your backyard. "I reckon some high wooden fencing would do the trick. 'Bout seven feet high, sunken flowerbeds on either side like trenches to make it even harder to get a leg up."

"I don't want a fence."

He ignored you, already mentally calculating how much lumber he'd need. "A nice light coloured wood. Pine maybe. Will match your house much better."

You sat back down, the fight draining out of you as your adrenaline dissipated. "What are you doing here? Did you get off work early?"

He narrowed his eyes but you didn't seem to notice. "Why? Don't want me around?"

That shocked you enough that you twisted around in your chair to look at him.

"Of course I want you around! Don't ever imply otherwise. This is a lovely surprise." You paused. "Near heart attack aside of course."

It was funny how easily you could calm him down. One sentence was all it took to get him smiling again. He leaned forward and hooked one finger under the strap of your bikini top.

"I haven't seen this one before. New?"

You blushed and looked down. "Mm-hmm."

"It's cute. But..."

You glanced up at him, suddenly self conscious. "But what?"

He grinned wolfishly. "But...you would look so much better without it."

He tugged at the bow holding your top up. The strings unravelled and fell down your back. The bra cups started to slip down too, and his eyes were glued to their steady fall.

He was going to teach you a whole 'nother lesson about wearing such a skimpy outfit where anyone could see you. Show you exactly what sick, twisted bastards would do to your body. Teach you a lesson you won't forget, so maybe, just maybe... you'd learn to be more cautious around men like him.

Colt woke up with a hunger like death. His cock so hard it was actually throbbing. He didn't feel well rested, despite having slept more than he had in two weeks.

It played over and over again in his mind. The strings unravelling, your bikini top sliding off... Always stopping right at the good part, the part he most wanted to see.

He got ready for the day with a savage efficiency. Bolting back his protein shake without even tasting it. He didn't realise it, but he'd started counting down the days until he could see you again. Just two more days. Two more nights of dreams and then you'd be there in the flesh and he could finally - finally what? He shook his head to clear away the dirty thoughts that were crowding him.

He was being a real bastard. Thinking about you, dreaming about you, when he had no right to. You hadn't shown any romantic or physical interest in him. You were clearly still grieving your man. He needed to get himself under control - what you needed in your life was a friend, not another man to obsess over you.

He forced himself to take a cold shower. Forced himself to avoid thinking about you. And to especially avoid thinking about the you from his dream.

'Good luck with that buddy. I used to be so tired I was falling asleep on my feet and I still couldn't get her out of my head.'

Work was thankfully busy that day and he threw himself into it with every feverish ounce of energy he had. Whenever his thoughts wandered towards you, he would find something else to do. He didn't eat anything at all and he didn't even notice getting hungry. He took on an extra shift and finished long after the sun went down, his muscles a hurting mess and his head not much better.

Christine was the last car left in the parking lot, sitting under a streetlight like she was waiting for him. He found his steps unintentionally getting slower the closer he came to her.

In the dark and lonely emptiness of the parking lot, she didn't feel like a normal car. If anything, she seemed to be watching him. Her headlights like eyes and her grille a silvery gash of a smile.

If he had to guess, he'd say the car was almost unhappy with him.

"Because I'm thinking about her?" He asked as he climbed behind the wheel. Immediately, he felt stupid and superstitious for talking out loud.

'Because you aren't thinking about her.'

He'd driven Christine to work the last few days despite not wanting to cause unnecessary wear and tear. Being in the car, driving it, was still a thrill.

Not tonight though.

He felt on edge, wanting to get out as soon as possible. She purred to life with the same thrumming power as always but his throat was tight with a nervousness he couldn't explain.

The inside of the car was suffocatingly quiet. He turned on the radio and old school rock 'n roll poured out.

'Just the sort of thing her boyfriend used to listen to,' he thought to himself. And then he laughed a stuttering, barking sort of laugh because there was no logical way he could have known that.

'Take it easy big guy. You and I are just gonna cruise. That's all.'

A nice cruise. Yeah, that sounded good. Calm his nerves, get rid of the nameless dread that was building all day. He relaxed into his seat, the streetlights crawling past in a hypnotic line of bright and dark.

He didn't notice when the radio dial moved on its own and the station changed from rock 'n roll to country. The singer sounded awfully familiar. His voice a kind of husky rasp. He was singing about his girl, his pretty woman, and he was singing about the grave and he was singing about the dark that waited.

'Oh,' he thought to himself dully, 'That's the voice I keep hearing in my dreams.'

When he finally reached home, it was two in the morning and the petrol gauge showed an empty tank. He'd somehow driven enough to eat through a full tank of gas. A drive that should have taken twenty minutes took five hours.

He got out of the car on legs that felt numb and cold. He couldn't remember driving. He couldn't remember the strange music or the even stranger passenger that rode with him. In his mind, there existed the clear cut memory of leaving work and climbing into Christine. Then there was nothing but a long, grey blankness that was tinged with a muted terror.

He collapsed into bed still in his work clothes. By morning, his mind would have stitched over all those things too terrible to contemplate. He would wake up feeling groggy and confused, and probably put it down to the strain of a long day.

Colt slept after driving with the dead and didn't dream.

On the day before your date, he found an engagement ring under the passenger side carpet.

He had no reason to look there, no reason to pull the carpet up by its seams. But he did it anyway and his reward was a silver and diamond band with blood dried in the crevices. There was an engraving on the inside and he had to take it out into the sun to try and read it.

'Mine. Forever and always.'

He shivered despite standing in the bright midmorming sun. Most rings would say 'yours' instead of 'mine.' He had no doubt that the change was entirely intentional. Your boyfriend was staking his claim on you - not just with the ring but with the intention behind it.

He looked at the brownish red stains and knew in his heart they were blood. Your boyfriend's blood.

Colt didn't know how the man died, but looking at the ring, he felt sure that it was bloody and far from natural. How would a blood stained ring end up in Christine? If the guy had been in accident sure. But the car was in perfect condition. The ring shouldn't have been there.

Unless he was murdered. Soaked in blood and tossed around during the struggle, the ring probably got pushed under the seam of the carpet. It was a sealed off spot and even a forensics team might miss something that small.

It was an outlandish and macabre theory to be basing entirely off one mysterious engagement ring. If he stopped to think about it, he would no doubt be able to poke a dozen separate holes into his theory.

Somehow, he knew it was true. The same way he suddenly knew Christine wasn't just an ordinary car and that his dreams about you were far from natural.

He felt a queer prickling all across his nape. He wasn't the type to scare easily, but this... This frightened him. He didn't feel alone anymore. He felt like if he looked up at the rear view mirror, he'd see someone in the back seat. No, not just someone. He'd see the dead man who owned the car before him.

He'd see the man who wanted to marry you.

He sucked in a sharp breath and forced himself to let it out slowly. He wasn't a superstitious man. He didn't let fancies of ghosts and ghouls affect him. But even he couldn't deny the way he felt. His gut was telling him something was terribly, terribly wrong.

He climbed out of Christine like a man scared of waking a sleeping bear. He didn't even bother to grab the keys.

He couldn't explain any of it. Not the dreams, not the thoughts that felt like someone else, not the prickling certainty that a man died right where he'd been sitting.

He got into his his Jeep and pulled out of the driveway, his eyes on Christine the entire time. Like she'd somehow roar to life and slam into him.

He didn't know where he was driving to until he parked. A bar across town, a real rough spot that on most days even he wouldn't want to stop at. But today wasn't like most days.

The place was dark and the folk sitting around weren't exactly the friendly sort. He settled at the bar and ordered a tequila without really thinking about it.

Funny. He used to hate tequila.

It went down like fire, and he shuddered. He wanted to laugh. What else was a mam supposed to drink when the world didn't make a lick of sense anymore?

"Give me another one." His voice was raspier somehow. Even though that never happened when he drank vodka or whiskey.

There were mirrored shelves opposite him and he caught sight of his eyes. A pale green. He tossed back his second shot and tried to tell himself it was just a trick of the light.

He wasn't sure who to talk to. Not the Sheriff's Office. Yeah officer, there was a man murdered in my car and now I can't stop dreaming about his girlfriend didn't exactly scream unimpeachable sobriety.

And not the pastor either. Father, I'm being haunted by filthy thoughts and I'm not sure if they're my own. He doubted the old man at his mother's church was qualified to deal with that sort of thing.

But he couldn't keep quiet either. He had to tell someone about it. If they called him crazy at least it was an acknowledgement. At least it was better than being dead drunk and being scared of his own eyes in the mirror.

Who could possibly know anything about it? Oh. Of course.

He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and almost threw it across the room when it wouldn't turn on. He charged it every night, goddammit.

"There a pay phone somewhere 'round here?" he asked the bartender.

The man jerked his face at the side door that lead to the back parking lot. Colt stumbled out - swaying on his feet far worse than two drinks should warrant.

It was late afternoon. He shaded his eyes and tried looked at the sun like it was deliberately lying to him. He arrived at midday and he couldn't have been in there for more than twenty minutes. How the hell was it this late?

'Time moves differently when you're dead cowboy. You should know that by now.'

The payphone was in the shadow of the bar and he shivered when he stepped out of the sun. Wrong. It was all wrong and he didn't know how to fix it. Why was the voice still in his head when Christine was all the way across town? Why did he still feel life he wasn't quiet alone?

It was only when he had the receiver up against his ear that he realised he didn't know your number. Shit.

He leaned his forearm against the payphone and rested his forehead against it. Could he maybe get a taxi and show up at your house? He scoffed. Yeah, that would go well. Showing up dead drunk just to say he knew you liked short skirts in fall and that he dreamed of pulling off your bikini top. He'd be lucky if you only mildly tazed him.

Fuck. Okay. Home again. Sleep it off. Charge his phone. Call you in the morning and try not to sound too crazy. He could manage that.

He called the taxi company listed in the phone book. Half wondering if they were still in operation. When it finally connected, the call was thick with static.

"Yeah?" The man's voice was raspy and standoffish.

"Can I get a cab at Ronnie's on Westside?"

The man laughed. "Oh you must be a real tough customer to be drinking there. Didn't think you'd have the balls cowboy."

Colt wanted to cuss him out. What kind of fucker answers the phone and insults you less than two sentences in? He squeezed the receiver until he felt he could control his voice.

"Yeah. I'm a real mean guy. So can I get my cab or not?"

"Oh, I'll send you a ride alright." There was a mocking tilt to his voice. "Best fucking ride you'll ever take. Just sit pretty. You'll know when it's for you."

The skin on the back of his neck crawled. He hung up without another word.

The streetlights were coming on and the gold of sunset was giving way to the awful in-between greyness of twilight. He waited for his ride.

You came home to find flowers on your doorstep. A bouquet of white roses. You froze. There was only one man who sent you flowers and he was cold and dead for the better part of a year.

You picked the card up by the edge and flicked it open.

Hope you didn't forget our date. See you soon dollface.

-Colt

Oh. You laughed, ridiculously relieved. Of course.

Dinner tomorrow night with the cowboy. You took the roses inside and hunted around for a vase. Was it actually a date? He'd said it was a thank you dinner, but it wouldn't hurt to dress up a little. Do your makeup a bit fancy, maybe wear your new heels. It'd been months since you'd gone out, had a nice dinner with a friend. This could be good for you. Just one more step back into normalcy.

The clouds were starting to gather and as evening came on, they broke with a shudder of thunder.

You curled up on your couch, all the lights on. It was going to be a bad storm. The first really awful one in almost half a year. You tried not to, but it got you thinking about that night. The night your boyfriend proposed to you. The night you killed him.

You closed your eyes and tried not to see it, but the memories followed you even past the darkness. You couldn't run from them for long.

It was cold outside, rain drumming on Christine's roof. Sharp, constant. Your boyfriend was in the driver's seat, buckling his belt. A lazy, satisfied smirk on his face.

You liked it when he looked at you like that. Satisfied. Mellow. It never lasted long, but in the few minutes after fucking you, he would agree to just about anything.

"I'm drunk on you baby," he'd said once. "Heads all woozy. Would do anything for you. Fucking anything."

Christine's windows were all fogged up, and you traced little hearts on the glass. To be honest, you felt a little drunk on him too. Heart still pounding, head reeling. Cunt still fluttering and full. He was so good at reading you, at fucking you just how you needed it. No man before him could make you come so hard, or do it so easy.

"I got something to ask you, baby."

You turned to him, hand reaching out for his and pulling it into your lap.

"Yes?"

He rubbed a thumb across your knuckles. He wasn't looking at your face, just down at your interlinked hands.

"You're my girl, yeah?"

"Obviously. I love you."

"And you ain't going to leave me?"

"Never."

He sighed. Managed to raise his eyes to meet yours. You weren't used to seeing him nervous. Usually he'd just bull doze his way through a conversation, not stopping until he got what he wanted. This was...new. It made a whole new crop of butterflies start up in your stomach.

"Will you marry me?"

You froze. What? Where was this coming from? You loved him. You cared about him. But marriage? That was such a big step. Such a grown up thing.

"I've got money put away. And Christine. I can put a deposit down on a house by the end of the month. Can pay for a nice wedding too. All white and frilly, like you want."

"I..."

"You don't got to worry 'bout your student loans neither. We can pay 'em off a whole lot faster if we're together. You can even go back to school if you want. Get that second degree you're always talking about."

"I...can't."

You pulled your hands away from his. Looked away from him.

"I love you. I really do. But it's too...much. We're too young. I... I just don't want to rush into things and make a mistake."

He was quiet. Awfully, dangerously quiet. His hand was still in your lap and you could feel when he clenched it into a fist.

"Is there another man?"

"What?"

You whirled to face him, suddenly angry. How could he even suggest...

"I haven't touched another man since the day you asked me out."

He wasn't smiling anymore. His green eyes were narrowed, mean.

"Who are you fucking? Which bastard is it? Huh?"

"No one! There's no one else. I just don't want to get married and make a -"

"Mistake? You think I'm a fucking mistake?"

You flinched. His voice was even louder in the closeness of the car. It made your ears throb.

His fist uncurled and he grabbed your hand, hard. Yanked you towards him so your upper body was sprawled across the gear shift.

"Was it a mistake to fuck me? A mistake to say you loved me?"

"No! That's not what I-"

He cut you off with a hand around your throat.

"You want to leave me. That it? You're going to fucking leave me?"

You pulled at his fingers with your free hand but it was useless. His grip was getting tighter the angrier he got. Your head felt all swollen, your nose and throat burning.

"Please just -"

"No! No fucking please. No changing your mind at the last minute. You ain't gonna be my girl? Ain't gonna be my wife?"

He pulled you towards his face, his lips barely brushing yours.

"If you won't be mine, then you'll just have to fucking die. It's me or no one else, baby. I told you that, all those months ago."

You scrambled for some way to get loose, but you were in an awkward position and he had all the leverage.

"I fucking warned you. I told you that if you dated me you couldn't ever leave. I knew I was going to fall in love with you. Hell, I was half in love before you even said hello. I tried. But you just didn't listen, did you?"

Your hand brushed something cold and metallic in the centre console. His switch blade. He usually kept it in his back pocket to help with work. Oh, and he kept it sharp. You grabbed it, more on instinct than anything else.

Your head was pounding and your heartbeat was pulsing in your ears. But the rain was somehow worse. Falling so loud you thought you'd never get the sound out of your head.

You tried to plead with him again, reason, beg, whatever it took. But when you tried to speak he just closed his fist even tighter and your words died in your throat with a shudder.

Oh god, he was really going to do it. He's eyes were wild, mad with something beyond reason. He'd seen reason in the rearview mirror about a hundred miles ago and now he was headed straight down the highway of fucking insanity.

How? How could the man you loved be choking the breath out of you?

Because he loves you. Because he'd rather see you dead than lose you. Because you were too damn blind with love to notice how dangerous he is.

White starbursts bloomed across your vision. Little fireworks to celebrate your brain dying.

You stabbed him.

You didn't fully mean to. You were half mad with fear, half dead in his grip. Not sure what you were doing until you felt the blood.

The switchblade sunk straight into his neck.

You didn't even pull it out. Just left it there and scrambled back when his grip on you loosened, your chest heaving. You throat and eyes and nose all felt swollen. Your lungs burned like fire.

He reached up and touched his neck. Looked down at his fingers like he couldn't believe the blood was his.

You might have tried to save him then. Might have come to your senses and called the ambulance, might have stripped off your shirt and tried to stop the bleeding.

But a knife in his throat apparently wasn't enough to stop him. He looked at you and there wasn't anything rational left in him. He reached for you again, hands curled like claws. He was dying and all he wanted to do was take you with him.

You screamed. So loud that it made your own ears ring.

You grabbed the knife and pulled. You didn't realise it was acting like a stopper until his blood splashed on you. Hot, stinking of metal. It sprayed across your face, got into your mouth and nose, soaked the whole front of your shirt.

You scrambled for the door handle and fell backwards out of the Mustang. Landed on your ass and pushed yourself away.

He was halfway over the passenger seat by then, hands still reaching, mouth pulled into an ugly snarl.

You kicked the door shut.

It slammed with a bang and mercifully blocked him from view. Your turned onto your knees, pushed yourself to your feet and ran.

The rain was coming down so fast that it stung your skin. You didn't rightly know where you were going. Only that it was away.

You still don't know how you made it home. You were a twenty minute drive away and it was too dark to see more than three feet in front of you. Must have been luck. Must have been fate.

When you got home, you were shaking so hard you couldn't even open the door for a good five minutes.

You stripped off your clothes right there on the doorstep and threw them in the trash. Switch blade too. You don't know how you managed to hold onto it during that wild, reckless run.

You took a long shower. Sat under the hot water with your knees curled to your chest. Too scared to cry.

At some point, the better part of your brain must have taken over. You vaguely remember burning the bloodstained clothes. Remember taking a drive and throwing the bleached switchblade out the window.

And when the call came a few days later, to please come down and identify a body, you were calm enough to not give yourself away.

If it was anyone else, maybe the cops would have tried harder. But your boyfriend was a rough man from the rough side of town. They gave you looks of sympathy but shook their heads behind your back.

Guy like him had it coming.

When it was all said and done, you and Christine were the only ones who knew the truth.

Colt waited all evening for a cab that never came. And when the storm started, he was annoyed enough to consider driving home on his own. He'd only had two shots. And that was a few hours ago. He'd be fine. Folk got away with worse all the time.

He left the bar with his jacket over his head and his eyes darting down the road. The rain was sheeting and he had to scramble to make it to his Jeep without getting totally soaked.

Wet and hungry and still a little drunk, Christine didn't seem like quite so big an issue. He was just jumping at ghosts. Tequila got his thoughts all twisted up, that's all.

Driving was miserable. Even with his headlights on bright and his wipers cranked all the way up, he was having real trouble seeing the road. The yellow line was the only thing he could properly rely on.

When the headlights showed up behind him, it took him a while to notice them getting closer.

"Guy's got a death wish, driving so fast in this weather."

The driver behind him was gaining quickly. Colt expected them to try and overtake, but they didn't. Just got closer and closer. A car's length away. And then half. And then almost kissing his bumper.

"Why is this dude so up my ass?"

He hit the gas, but the guy behind him didn't care. Just picked up and kept coming. Revved it a little and Colt could hear the engine even through the rain. Some kind of muscle car. A loud, growling thing.

Almost like a...Mustang.

His whole back suddenly felt icy. It couldn't be. Christine was back home, keys still in the ignition. Even if someone did steal her, why the fuck would they track him down? Must be another muscle car, with some ego tripping asshole behind the wheel.

He told himself all that and more, but his foot pressed harder on the gas.

And still the Mustang kept coming.

The speedometer crept upwards. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty.

Too fast for the narrow roads, and sure as hell too fast for a rainy night like this one.

A curve was coming up soon, the road ringed off with guard rails. He could see the reflectors glinting orange at him. Shit.

He took it wide, drifting into the opposite lane. He could feel his tires slipping a little and he hit the breaks just enough to steady the Jeep.

The Mustang didn't have any trouble with the curve. Stayed in its lane and gained a little more speed, so that when they were straight again, its hood was in line with his trunk.

Good. Maybe now the fucker would finally overtake him.

He couldn't see the car clearly. The headlights were bouncing right off his side mirrors. He couldn't even make out the silhouette of the driver.

Screech.

The Mustang's hood scraped against the side of his Jeep. The whole car lurched to the side, tires slipping.

"Fuck!"

Colt gunned it again, trying to out race the mad man. But whoever was behind him had no intention of letting that happen. They kept pace with him, blocking him from getting back in his lane.

Lightning flashed and Colt looked in the mirror just in time to see the car properly.

The thunder was loud enough to drown out his scream.

The car trying to run him off the road was none other than the 1969 cherry red Mustang that should have been sitting in his yard. Maybe he could have accepted it as a coincidence. Someone else had the exact same car as him and just happened to be driving like an asshole. Maybe he could have accepted that.

But the car didn't have a driver.

He saw it clear as day. The lightning glared straight through all the windows and there wasn't a single person in that car.

Impossible. This can't be real. There's no fucking way.

He could almost hear the laugh.

'Do I got you scared cowboy?'

Colt didn't have time to answer. The road was merging into the cliffside, and the wall of rock kept him trapped. There were lights coming straight at him, the blaring of a horn as whoever it was tried to warn him.

He slammed hard on the brakes. Christine shot ahead and at the last second he managed to edge back into his lane. The headlights roared past, the huge semi exhaling a spray of water and smoke.

It would have flattened him, even in his Jeep.

Christine's tail lights were a pair of glaring red eyes in the rain, until suddenly they weren't. Gone.

Colt slowed the Jeep, parked on the shoulder.

The rain was drumming on the roof and his hands were shaking. He got out of the car, water soaking through his shirt almost immediately.

The paint on the back door was scratched off in huge swathes. The metal was dented.

He climbed back behind the wheel, mind teetering on the edge of something past sanity. The world wasn't sane anymore. Nothing was.

He heard the growl of the Mustang through the rain. No headlights this time, just the whine of tires on slick tar.

Where?! Where was she?!

Christine slammed into the Jeep head on. All Colt saw was her red face and silver smile in the glare of his headlights before his whole world was filled with the grinding of steel on steel. His head slammed backwards, the whole car shuddering.

The airbags came on, blinding him.

Christine didn't stop after hitting him. He yanked the hand break up but she kept pushing forward, edging his car closer and closer to the edge. He felt it when the guard rail scratched against his bumper.

An ugly scream of metal, but the rails held. Christine didn't seem to like that. She pulled back, her tires shrieking as she got ready to slam forward again.

Colt jumped just before she hit the Jeep. His seat belt was almost the death of him. It wouldn't release and he couldn't see the catch in the dark. He must have had at least one lucky star though, because the door wasn't too mangled and he managed to kick it open just in time.

He landed hard, on his hands and knees.

Metal shrieked. Christine slammed into the Jeep hard enough to send it through the rails. He turned just in time to see his car go tilting off the road and down into the dark.

For a second, he thought he might have made it. Maybe she didn't notice him. Maybe it was all over.

Christine pulled back and her headlights washed over him, still on his hands and knees. One of the lights was hanging loose from the crash, making her look lopsided. The rain was still coming down hard and the droplets were gold in the light between them.

She revved.

Colt scrambled to his feet and ran straight for the guard rail. He jumped.

It wasn't a sheer drop. It was instead a steep slope, thick with shale and slippery with water. His knees buckled under him and he ended up on his back, half rolling and half sliding down the embankment. His palms were bleeding and as he fell, the gravel lodged itself in his open skin.

He couldn't see where he was headed. Could only try and and protect his head and brace for impact.

His slide ended with a boulder. He slammed into it his ribs first. Heard a crack before all the air was knocked straight out of him.

He could see the headlights way up above him, cutting through the rain.

At least she can't follow me down here.

True. Christine couldn't follow him.

But that's when Colt saw him. The driver. Coming to stand in front of the headlights, the silhouette of a man.

The silhouette stepped through the gash in the railing left by the Jeep and dropped out of the light.

Colt knew he should run. He could hear the shale slipping as the other man came down. Controlled. Measured. Nothing like his own tumble.

But he couldn't move. Everything hurt. Breathing sent sharp spikes of pain all across his chest.

"Well, well cowboy. Look at you."

The voice was low and raspy, mean. He knew that voice. Had been hearing it in his head and in his dreams and was fool enough to think it was his own.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. He could just about see the stranger. Tall, wearing jeans and a leather jacket. There was dirt thick on his boots, in the folds of his clothes. Not the black shale of the slope, but a reddish clay.

Kind of like in the cemetery.

No, he realised as the stranger squated down in front of him. Exactly like the cemetery. It was grave dirt he was seeing.

He was looking at a dead man.

The stranger might have been handsome once, but now one cheek was filled with holes. Ugly, clustered together things that showed his teeth. His other cheek was a mass of white. Worms, tiny little worms wriggling in and out of his face.

Colt wanted to scream. And vomit. And then scream some more.

There was a dark hole in the stranger's neck and when he moved it oozed a sticky, thick kind of blood.

"You know why I'm here?"

Colt didn't really notice it at first, but his voice was different. Thicker somehow. Like his vocal cords were packed full of dirt and blood.

Colt coughed and his whole chest hurt so bad he thought he was dying. Something was definitely broken. He'd be lucky if there wasn't internal bleeding too.

"Let me guess. Came to punish me for my sins?"

The dead man laughed.

"Not yours, no. Don't give much of a damn about you. I'm here to get what's mine."

The pieces were clicking together in his head.

"Your girl."

"My girl," your boyfriend agreed.

He reached for him, the nails on his hand either blue or totally ripped off. His skin filled with holes that showed pale white tendons and ugly pink flesh.

That was when the adrenaline really kicked in. Colt shoved at the man with one hand and pushed himself up with the other. It was like touching a carcass at the butcher. Cold. Limp. Just a piece of meat. No human should ever have to feel a body in that state.

He made it to his knees before the bastard hit back. Your boyfriend kicked straight at his jaw and Colt's head flew backward, smashed into the rock behind him. He dropped back down like a stone.

"Why you gotta be so fucking difficult, hmm?"

Colt was too out of it to pull away. The man reached for him and the skin of his hand was crawling with bugs. He grabbed his collar and dragged him up.

"Just gonna go to sleep for a little while cowboy. Maybe you'll wake up. Maybe you won't. Either way, I've waited too fucking long to let this chance go."

The corpse kissed him. Or more accurately, pressed his open lips against his and breathed.

His lips were cold and stiff and utterly beyond human. The taste was rancid. Worse than the worst thing he'd ever had. Metallic like blood, sweet like rotted meat.

Colt fainted.

The rain drummed down. Christine sat on the roadside and waited, her hood and paintwork back to normal. In bed, you tossed and turned in the hands of a nightmare.

The thing that was Colt Guilder opened its eyes.

It was your phone that woke you up. Your ringtone blasting even through your dreams.

You fumbled for it, eyes squinted against the brightness.

"Hello?"

The call was thick with static. Still, you recognised the voice. Would know it even from beyond the grave.

"Hey beautiful. Did ya miss me?" 

[wcnderlnds]

battlefield | choi su-bong (thanos)

・❥・ summary: running into your ex boyfriend during the squid games was the last thing you expected ・❥・word count: 719 ・❥・warnings: uh... usual squid game stuff. ・❥・ authors note: this is a short one just to test the waters but im obsessed with this man after watching squid game 2 <333

There he was. The last person you’d ever expected to see in this place. Player 230. Choi Su-Bong or, as the world knew him as, Thanos. The bright purple hair had been easy to spot. The last few months had been spent avoiding him so why did fate want to throw you together in this place? Wherever the hell this place was. You still weren’t even sure but as you walked up the stairs to the first game, you didn’t really care. All you wanted to do was lay low and make sure that Thanos didn’t see you. A conversation with your ex boyfriend was the last thing you wanted.

Things had ended badly between the two of you when he’d lost all his money thanks to the crypto scam. It had changed him, turned him into someone you didn’t recognise anymore so when the arguments started and his behaviour became erratic, you knew you had to get out of there. So, you did. You left and had never looked back. All you wanted was enough money to get out of the city and far, far away. There was nothing here for you anymore. If you could win the games then you could finally start fresh somewhere.

Walking through the doors onto a floor of sand and brightly coloured walls, you heard the voice of Thanos talking to his friend. Instantly, you looked down at the ground, hoping he didn’t see you. Unfortunately for you, he had stood next to you. His eyes scanned your face before recognition lit his eyes up.

“Senorita!” He said in a sing-song voice, wide grin on his face as he outstretched his arms. “What are you doing here? Come on, give me a hug.”

“None of your business and no thanks,” you rolled your eyes.

“I’m hurt,” he splayed his hand on his chest over his heart. As much as he was using his confident swagger to irritate you, deep inside he couldn’t be more glad to see you. “Not even going to give me a chance to talk, huh? That’s stone cold.”

As the rules of the game echoed through the speakers, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. His hand had raised to his friend to stop him from talking to him so he could get a proper look at you. When you had left, that had been the breaking point for him. Everything had gone downhill from there. For so long he’d been trying to seek you out, to apologise but he knew you’d been avoiding him. Your friends wouldn’t tell him where you were, your family had chewed him out the second he had showed up on their doorstep so, eventually, he’d given up. But, here you were.

As Player 456 shouted out about the game being a lie and that you were going to die, your head shot up. Surely he couldn’t be telling the truth, right? Red Light, Green Light was a children’s game. At most you were probably going to be out of the running for the cash if you were caught moving.

“He’s crazy,” Thanos said. It was his way of trying to comfort you. He had instantly noticed the slight panic in your eyes, the way you were rubbing your hands against your thighs. “Don’t listen to him.”

All you could do was nod but there was a gut feeling inside you telling you that maybe it wasn’t entirely all crazy talk. Something about this whole thing felt off. Your eyes caught some girl talking, her hands waving around then suddenly she was on the ground. Instantly, fear gripped you, your stomach dropping. The room around you started to spin – you were really going to die here.

“Hey, hey,” Thanos had reached out, his hand gripping yours as he stood in front of you, back to you. “Stay behind me. I won’t let anything happen to you. You hear me? Stay behind me.”

“But… what if…” The sheer panic in your voice made his heart clench.

“No. We’re both getting out of here alive, okay? Now, stay behind me.” His protective instinct had kicked in. Right now, he didn’t care if you hated him. All he cared about was making sure you survived this so maybe, just maybe, he could finally make things right.

[maskedbyghost]

What’s better than a jealous, possessive Simon? Nothing. Get ready for all the drama and dirty you didn’t even know you needed. cw: jealousy, possessiveness, explicit language, rough sex, dirty talk... MDNI

You didn’t mean anything by it.

Really, you didn’t. Just a harmless laugh at some half-assed joke from one of the new guys on base. He was nervous, awkward, trying to find his footing among a team full of people who didn’t blink twice before throwing themselves into the line of fire.

So you were being nice. You smiled. You touched his arm when he said something funny. You laughed—not even your real laugh, just the polite one. The one that lets people think they’re charming even when they’re not.

But Ghost saw it.

He was halfway across the room, but he saw the way you leaned in, the way your lips curved, the way you let your hand rest on that guy’s forearm just a second too long. His jaw clenched, his arms crossed.

You saw it out of the corner of your eye and figured he was just being his usual silent, broody self. But the look he gave you? That wasn’t just disapproval. That was something else...

You forgot about it after a while. Finished the briefing and headed back to your room. You got halfway through pulling your shirt off when there was a knock—no, a thud—at your door.

You barely had time to register it before the door swung open.

He didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask. He just stepped in, shut the door behind him, and locked it.

“Something you need, Lieutenant?” you asked, arching a brow, still standing in your half-unbuttoned pants.

He didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, jaw tight behind the mask, chest rising with slow, controlled breaths. Then he walked toward you, calm and quiet, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked. “Ghost—”

His gloved hand came up, grabbed your chin—not rough, but firm enough to shut you up.

“You like makin’ other men laugh?” he said low, his voice rough and close.

You swallowed. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” He tilted your face toward his. “Could’ve fooled me. Thought I was watchin’ my girl giggle like some fuckin’ schoolgirl over a guy who couldn’t make you come even if you spelled it out for him.”

You snorted nervously, trying to keep it light. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He leaned in until his mask brushed your cheek. “Next time you flirt,” he growled, “I’ll put a leash on you.”

Your breath caught, and that’s all it took.

He grabbed the waistband of your pants and yanked them down in one smooth motion, spinning you around and pressing you up against the wall. His hand was at the back of your neck, pushing you forward until your cheek was flat against the cold surface.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the sound got caught in your throat when you felt him behind you—already hard, already pressing into you through his gear.

“Ghost—”

“Simon,” he corrected. “You’re gonna say my name when I fuck the brat out of you.”

His hand slid between your legs, rough gloves against bare skin, and you gasped when he touched you—no teasing, no buildup, just dirty, possessive fingers sliding right through your slick, like he’d expected it.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he murmured, voice darker now, lower. “Drippin’ for me while you’re out there laughin’ at other men’s bullshit. You think they could make you feel like this? Think he’d know what to do with a needy little thing like you?”

You whined when he pressed harder, after yanking off his gloves and sliding two fingers inside, curling them deep, rubbing against that spot that made your knees weak.

“Answer me.”

“N-no, he wouldn’t,” you breathed out, already shaking.

“That’s right.” He pulled back just long enough to undo his belt, shove his pants down, and drag your hips back against him. “You’re mine. Been mine. Just forgot for a second. S’right—I’ll remind you.”

You moaned when he pushed in, when his cock stretched you open without warning, just thick, hard, possessive pressure that made you arch your back and grab at the wall for something to hold on to.

He groaned behind you, one hand fisting in your hair, the other wrapped tight around your throat. “Fuckin’ tight,” he muttered. “Can feel how wet you are—fuck, bet you were thinkin’ about me when he made you laugh. Bet you were hopin’ I’d get like this. Mean. Messy. Jealous.”

You couldn’t say anything, couldn’t breathe past the way he was fucking into you, deep and rough, hips slamming into yours with every thrust like he wanted to fuck the memory of that other guy right out of your body.

“Let me catch you lookin’ at someone else again,” he said, teeth at your shoulder, biting down hard enough to bruise. “I’ll make sure they know who you belong to. I’ll fuck you in front of him if I have to. Let him watch you come on my cock while you scream my fuckin’ name.”

“Simon—fuck—”

“Yeah, that’s it. Say it again.”

“Simon—please—”

“Please what?” he snarled, snapping his hips harder, angrier, dragging every inch of him out slow before slamming back in like he needed to ruin you.

“Please don’t stop,” you gasped, fingers scrambling at the wall, legs shaking.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Not until you learn your fuckin’ lesson.”

He reached around, rubbed your clit in tight, messy circles, just enough to send you spiraling. You came with a cry, body locking up, trembling around him, and he didn’t stop—not even when your legs gave out. He held you up, kept fucking into you with punishing pace, chasing his own release like he had something to prove.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, voice ragged now. “I’ll fuck you so full you’ll be leaking for hours—so every step you take reminds you who fucked you stupid.”

You whined, barely able to keep upright, and with one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, filthy growl, his hips jerking against you as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out. He just stayed there, chest heaving, hands still on your hips, like he couldn’t let go.

After a long pause, he leaned in and said, right against your ear:

“Do it again, and I’ll make sure the whole base hears what you sound like when you’re mine.”

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[marvelstoriesepic]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[julietsf1]

For Her - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: She came to support him. Instead, she was met with hate and a paddock full of people who acted like she didn’t exist. But if there was one thing about Lando Norris, it was that he loved out loud (3.2k words)

content: protective boyfriend, public relationship, public displays of affection, romantic grand gesture

AN: happy new season guys!!! what a race, I hope china will be kinder with my heart :') here's another fic for our race winner! muah <3

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The first race of the season should have been magical.

It should have been the kind of morning you’d always imagined—walking through the paddock with the giddy excitement of someone witnessing greatness up close, feeling the electricity in the air, the intoxicating mix of tire smoke, adrenaline, and champagne already waiting for its moment in the podium spray. You had thought of how proud you would feel watching Lando, how thrilling it would be to see him in his element, how belonging you might feel in a world that, until now, had existed for you in stories and through screens.

You had not imagined being denied entry.

"Miss, I’m going to have to ask you to step back."

The security guard barely spared you a glance, already moving on to the next person in line, his voice impassive, as if he had done this a hundred times before and you were simply another face in a sea of hopeful girls who had tried to talk their way into the paddock.

You gripped your lanyard a little tighter, your heart skipping slightly. "I have a pass," you said, voice gentle but firm as you lifted it to eye level, the McLaren logo glinting in the sunlight.

The guard exhaled sharply through his nose, unimpressed. "We've had a lot of fans trying to sneak in today. If you don’t have the right accreditation, I can’t let you through."

Your stomach twisted.

"I do have the right accreditation," you tried again, as kindly as possible, despite the heat creeping up your neck. "I’m with McLaren. My boyfriend-"

"Yeah, that’s what they all say."

The words were clipped, dismissive, and spoken with the kind of flat finality that suggested he had already decided you were lying.

Embarrassment coiled in your chest, wrapping itself around your lungs, making it suddenly difficult to breathe.

You stood there, cheeks burning, as people brushed past you, throwing curious glances your way. The seconds stretched endlessly, each one more excruciating than the last.

It wasn’t until a McLaren staff member recognized you—"Oh, she’s with Lando," they had said offhandedly—that the security guard finally stepped aside, not bothering with so much as an apology.

By the time you walked through the gates, the joy you had carried that morning had dulled into something smaller, something fragile.

And then, somehow, it got worse.

...

The McLaren motorhome stood like a beacon in the paddock, its sleek glass windows reflecting the bustle of team personnel moving inside. You exhaled slowly, shaking off the earlier embarrassment, and made your way toward the hospitality lounge, longing for something warm and familiar.

A latte, perhaps. Something to reset the day.

You stepped up to the hospitality counter with a practiced sort of grace, the kind that had been instilled in you from your childhood—shoulders back, chin lifted, a polite smile even when you wanted to disappear.

The woman behind the counter was stunning in a sharp, effortless way, her McLaren uniform crisp, her dark eyes shrewd, assessing. She barely looked up when you stepped forward.

"Good morning," you greeted, your voice light, pleasant. "Could I get an oat latte, please?"

The woman’s gaze flicked to you then, sweeping over you in a way that wasn’t unkind but wasn’t exactly warm, either.

"Are you with media?" she asked, already sounding bored.

You shook your head, still polite. "No, I’m—"

"Hospitality is for team guests only," she interrupted, her words clipped, a polite but unmistakable dismissal.

There was something about the way she said it, the way her lips curled just slightly, that sent something sharp down your spine.

You held up your accreditation again, your expression kind but unwavering. "I am a team guest. It is my first race though! I'm with Lando."

A pause. A flicker of something in her gaze.

And then, a small, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Ah," she said slowly, like she was only just now realizing. "Of course you are."

There was something else behind her tone, something you recognized.

You had met people like her before, in glittering lobbies, at perfectly curated events, in spaces where perception was everything. People who measured others in careful glances and quiet, ruthless judgments.

The woman tilted her head, her smile suddenly saccharine. "I’m afraid we’re only serving certain guests at the moment."

The words landed with the soft cruelty of a velvet dagger.

She wasn’t saying no outright.

She was refusing you while pretending it was about something else entirely.

You stared at her for a moment, your fingers tightening slightly over the strap of your bag.

You could have fought. Could have pointed out that this was ridiculous, that you had every right to be here, that her behavior was as transparent as it was petty.

But instead, you simply let out a soft breath and smiled.

Not the kind of smile that was warm and grateful.

The kind of smile that veiled the frustration you were feeling.

"No worries," you said gently, dipping your head, your voice smooth, graceful. "I wouldn’t want to trouble you."

And with that, you turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, because if nothing else—you were not the kind of woman who begged.

But it still stung.

...

The hotel room is quiet except for the faint murmur of the city outside. The occasional car hums past beneath the window, the distant noises of Melbourne nightlife drifting in through the small gap in the balcony door. Inside, the glow from the bedside lamp casts soft golden light over the pristine sheets, the half-finished cup of tea you abandoned hours ago, and your phone—face-down, untouched, deliberately ignored.

You had set it aside like it burned you.

And in a way, it had.

You don’t need to look at the screen to know what’s waiting for you there.

A photo. You, walking alone through the paddock, caught at an unflattering angle—your hands adjusting the strap of your bag, your gaze flicking off to the side. Out of context, impersonal, just another frame in someone else’s story.

But the caption beneath it?

That made it personal.

The caption beneath it, however, was anything but subtle.

"Classic gold digger. No personality, no job, just another wag looking for a paycheck."

The replies were worse.

"She looks so full of herself. I bet she spends his money like crazy."

"Lando deserves better. She looks disgusting."

"Does she even like racing or just his wallet?"

You had expected something like this eventually. Being seen always came at a cost.

But expectation doesn’t soften the blow.

It doesn’t make the words less sharp. It doesn’t stop them from settling in the quiet places of your mind, the ones that whisper in the dark when the world is still.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hand over the sheets, willing away the tightness in your throat.

It’s fine.

You were raised to handle things like this with grace, with an understanding that women who stand beside successful men are often reduced to spectators, accessories, footnotes in their own stories.

You know who you are. You know your worth.

And yet, knowing doesn’t stop the sting.

A keycard beeps at the door.

Then, the soft sound of it swinging open, of footsteps—light, easy, carrying a kind of restless energy even now.

"Hi, darling," Lando’s voice fills the space before he does.

You don’t turn immediately, letting yourself blink once, twice, composing yourself in the quiet before offering a small smile as he steps inside.

He looks effortlessly disheveled—his hair still damp from the rain outside, his McLaren polo slightly untucked, the fabric creased like he’d run a hand over it one too many times.

He is still buzzing—from the high of the weekend, from the thrill of being back in the car, from the sheer joy of doing what he loves.

And then he looks at you.

And everything shifts.

His grin falters. His brows pull together.

"Hey," he says again, but softer this time, slower. "What’s wrong?"

You hesitate, fingers brushing against the sheets. "It’s nothing."

Lando stills.

"You’re upset."

It’s not a question.

You exhale, tilting your head slightly, lips curving in something almost amused. "No big deal, this is your weekend."

But Lando doesn’t smile.

Instead, he moves—crossing the room in three long strides, sinking down in front of you, his hands warm against your thighs, his gaze level, intent.

"Tell me," he says, quiet but firm.

All day, you have been ignored, dismissed, treated like an inconvenience. And yet, here he is, giving you his undivided attention, his entire world narrowing down to this moment, to you.

You hesitate. Then, finally, you murmur, "People weren’t exactly kind today."

His grip on your legs tightens just slightly.

"Security thought I was a fan trying to sneak in. Hospitality wouldn’t serve me." You let out a small, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "And now there’s a photo of me online. People saying I’m a disgusting gold digger."

Lando doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even breathe.

Then, slowly, he reaches for your phone, flipping it over with careful precision before scrolling. He doesn’t need you to guide him—he finds it immediately.

His jaw tightens.

And then, in a tone so low and steady that it makes your stomach flip:

"Are you joking?"

You open your mouth, but he’s already shaking his head, pushing himself up, pacing now, running a hand through his curls.

"Such bullshit," he starts, turning sharply, voice too controlled, too even, "that after everything—after how much effort you’ve put into being here, after how much of your life you’ve adjusted for me—these people had the nerve to treat you like that?"

You shift under his gaze, biting your lip. "Lando, it’s not—"

"No, no, hold on," he interrupts, hands in the air like he needs a second to process. He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, but there’s nothing amused about it.

"Because from where I’m standing, you’re the easiest person to love in any room, and I genuinely don’t understand how anyone could be that dense."

He exhales sharply, shaking his head, jaw tight. "Honestly, I don’t even know whether to be pissed or impressed by their level of dickheadness."

He stops, inhales sharply, then turns back to you.

"Tomorrow," he says, voice steady now, decisive. "We fix this."

You raise a brow. "We?"

Lando tilts his head, giving you a look like you have just asked if the sky is blue.

"Obviously."

...

There are very few things in life that can silence an entire paddock.

Lando Norris walking in hand-in-hand with you is apparently one of them.

The usual morning commotion—the hurried strides of engineers, the murmured strategy discussions, the distant hum of espresso machines—all of it seems to slow, the air shifting as one by one, heads turn.

Eyes follow you as you move through the paddock, curiosity crackling in the air like static before a storm.Conversations taper off, whispers trailing in your wake, phones discreetly lifted, cameras capturing the moment in real time.

Lando, of course, is unbothered.

If anything, he thrives under the weight of their attention. His grip on your hand remains firm, steady, unwavering, his strides unhurried, his smirk bordering on self-satisfied.

He wants them to see.

It’s deliberate—the way he holds you close, the way his fingers brush over yours in soft, thoughtless patterns, the way his head tilts toward you slightly every time you speak, like you are the only thing worth listening to.

There is no question about what this is.

There is no question about where you belong.

He makes sure of it.

And then, with perfect, almost cinematic timing, he steers you toward McLaren hospitality.

Right to the coffee bar.

The barista from yesterday stands behind the counter, the same sharp-cut uniform, the same perfectly applied lipstick, the same calculating gaze.

Only now, it falters.

She sees Lando before she sees you, her posture straightening, professional mask slipping into place like second nature. But then, her eyes flick toward you—toward your hands intertwined, toward the subtle, unspoken intimacy of the way he keeps close.

You watch as realization dawns.

Oh.

Lando leans against the counter, effortless, grinning.

"Two oat lattes," he says, voice bright, easy, amused. "One for me, one for my girl."

The silence that follows is exquisite.

The barista hesitates—just for a fraction of a second, just long enough for you to see it.

Panic.

"Of course," she says, voice smooth but not quite as sharp as before.

And just like that, there are no shortages, no waiting, no excuses.

The coffees are made within seconds.

Lando watches, humming thoughtfully, tapping his fingers lightly against the counter as she slides the first cup toward him. He lifts it to his lips, taking a slow, exaggerated sip before letting out a long, obnoxiously satisfied hum.

"Mm," he muses, shifting his weight, sparing her a glance. "Tastes better today."

His smirk is dangerous.

"Must be the service."

The barista’s lips press together just slightly.

You take your coffee, cradling the cup in your hands, offering her a soft, serene smile.

"Thank you," you say lightly.

You watch as she winces.

And Lando, the ever-efficient instigator that he is, takes it one step further.

"You know," he muses, as if the thought has just occurred to him, "I think I should make this a tradition."

He turns to you then, eyes bright with mischief, voice just loud enough for the surrounding staff to hear.

"Morning coffee," he says smoothly. "Every race weekend. For the foreseeable future."

The barista looks like she wants to disappear.

You, on the other hand, can’t help but smile.

...

The checkered flag had waved, the roar of the crowd still vibrating through the air, but none of it mattered—not the celebrations, not the flashing cameras, not the McLaren team swarming the pit wall in victory.

Because the moment Lando climbed out of the car, eyes scanning the chaos, he found you.

And then—he ran.

Straight toward you, helmet discarded, race suit half-unzipped, curls a disheveled mess from the heat of the cockpit.

You barely have time to react before he collides into you, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing.

You shriek—an actual, real shriek—as your feet leave the pavement, the entire world tilting as he spins you in circles,laughter spilling from his lips like he can’t contain it.

And then—he kisses you.

Right there, in front of thousands of fans, in front of cameras, reporters, his entire team.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d won the race and you in the same breath.

The world erupts around you—cheering, chanting, Oscar groaning dramatically in the background.

"Oh my god. You two are disgusting."

None of it matters.

Because Lando is grinning against your lips, breathless, victorious, yours.

When he finally sets you back down, he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t even try to.

Instead, he beams down at you, cheeks flushed, curls damp with sweat, voice all cocky, all Lando.

"So, did I impress you or what?"

You roll your eyes, fond and exasperated all at once. "Eh. You were alright."

He gasps. Actually gasps.

"You’re joking." He turns toward the cameras, mock-betrayed. "Did you guys hear that? I win a Grand Prix, and she says I’m ‘alright.’"

You bite your lip, pretending to consider. "You were pretty fast, I guess."

"Pretty fast?" he repeats, positively scandalized. "Babe. I am literally the fastest man in Australia right now."

You burst out laughing. "I was kind of rooting for Oscar."

Oscar, mid-drink of water behind you, chokes.

"Lies." Lando pulls you back in, forehead resting against yours, his voice dropping into something softer, something just for you.

"Say you’re proud of me."

You sigh dramatically. "I guess I’m—"

"Say it."

You grin, heart pounding. "Fine. I’m proud of you, Norris."

He hums, satisfied, smug, still absolutely glowing. "Thought so."

...

Lando was still riding the high when he got to the media pen, his race suit unzipped to his waist, curls damp with sweat, and that stupidly charming grin still plastered across his face.

It wasn’t just a ‘first win of the season’ grin.

It was a ‘my girlfriend is here, and I just won a whole-ass race for her’ grin.

The interviewer barely got a word in before Lando pointed directly at you, standing just off-camera.

"Her."

You blink. "Me?"

"Yeah, you!" He turns back to the cameras, nodding enthusiastically. "Let’s just get this straight—I did this for her. Like, entirely. One hundred percent. Full motivation. If she hadn’t shown up, I probably would’ve parked it in a gravel trap on lap ten."

The interviewer laughed. "So, you’re saying she’s your good luck charm?"

"Absolutely," Lando replied, dead serious. "I mean, have you seen her? Look at her."

The camera did not pan to you, thank god. The poor guy running the live feed probably had no idea what to do.

But Lando? Oh, he was just getting started.

"She walked into this paddock today looking like an actual goddess, completely unaware that she is, in fact, the sun incarnate, and people want me to talk about tire degradation? No. I want to talk about her."

The interviewer tried so hard to stay professional.

"You—uh, you had great pace today—"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lando waved him off.

"Lando, I don’t think—"

"Listen, I need to emphasize something." Lando leaned in, tone conspiratorial. "Do you know how lucky I am? Not only is she breathtaking, but she’s also, like, annoyingly smart. Like, did you know she reads all the time? Real books.Not just memes and Twitter threads like me."

He gestured vaguely, suddenly overwhelmed by his own emotions.

"She doesn’t even realize how much people admire her. But I see it. I see everything. And I just think the world needs to start appreciating her at my level."

"That is… very sweet." The interviewer was visibly struggling to keep up.

"Just had to get that out there."

"Well, congratulations on the win, Lando," the interviewer finally managed, skimming over his list of unanswered questions he had prepared.

"Thank you." He nodded seriously, finally letting go of the mic. "And big thanks to the team, of course."

You rolled your eyes from behind the cameras, suppressing a smile.

...

The internet had seen many things, but no one was prepared for Lando Norris using his post-race interview as a full-blown love letter. 

"Lando’s race pace was great, but his girlfriend propaganda was even stronger."

"THE WAY HE JUST POINTED AT HER IMMEDIATELY I CAN’T."

"Lando Norris said ‘this win is for my girlfriend’ and proceeded to recite a romantic sonnet on live TV. My standards are ruined."

Later, as the two of you curled up in the hotel room, finally away from the cameras, Lando buried his face in your neck with a content sigh.

"You know," he murmured, voice sleepy, warm, full of love. "I really did win that for you."

You ran your fingers through his curls. "I know."

"I meant every word, too."

You smiled. "Don't you think it was a bit much?"

"I don't think it was nearly enough," he said, already half-asleep, grinning like he had never been happier.

[rafesangelita]

♡ when you’re so wet that rafe keeps slipping out..

warnings: making out, heavy petting, dry humping (not really, it’s pretty messy), finger sucking, cockwarming (?), unprotected sex, praise, teasing, rafe being super pussy drunk, belly bulge, size kink, biting, slight dacryphilia

“fuck, look at those hips..” rafe pulled away from your lips, a string of saliva still connecting you two as he dragged you up and down his lap, his large palms enveloping the soft globes of your ass. with shaky hands, you held onto his shoulders as you rocked on top of him, your panties drenched with your arousal. “need’ you, ray..” you whimpered, “please.” rafe pressed a trail of sloppy kisses across your collarbone, his tongue licking a stripe up the column of your throat as your eyes fluttered shut.

he navigated your body like it was the back of his hand, his skillful touch turning you into putty. rafe could feel your heat through his boxers, the soaked fabric making him groan as his hardened cock strained against the material. “i’ll give it you, baby, don’t worry,” he landed a harsh smack to your ass, ripping a yelp from your lips, “wet those fingers for me.” rafe could only imagine how slippery your cunt would feel swallowing him whole, your slick alone already making you glide easily on top of the layers separating you two from full penetration.

giggling softly, rafe watched as your hand disappeared underneath the waistband of your panties, his breath hitching once you held up your fingers, a pool of your sticky succulence glistening underneath the dim light. knowing that he was the one to make you like this made him twitch with need, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he brought your digits to his mouth. with a baited breath, you gasped softly when he took your juices on his tongue, the man in front of you moaning at the taste.

no matter how many times rafe found his head between your thighs, he could never get used to how intoxicating you were, all of his senses and primal instincts honing in on fucking you stupid. without wasting another second, rafe was quick to take himself out of his boxers, a hiss leaving his lips as his length smacked against your tummy. peeling back the lace material of your underwear, he slid them down your legs until he caught sight of the absolute mess between your thighs.

laying you down on your back, rafe brought your knees up to your chest, using one hand to press on your lower abdomen and the other to guide himself between your folds. he was so hard, he had to use his thumb to keep the tip of his cock down so he could enter your needy cunt. he marveled at the size difference, the head of his length stopping just below your belly button. “fuck, i’m gonna wreck you..” he trailed off, toying with your clit before slipping inside, filling you up inch by inch until you were crying out in both pleasure and pain.

with the hand that he had on your stomach, he guided your own over the budge in your tummy, your eyes widening slightly as he started thrusting into you at a steady pace. “you feel that? ‘feel the way my cock fills you up to the fucking brim?” your eyes rolled back at the same time you whined out a ‘f-fuck, yes!’ into your palm. your walls stretched deliciously around the the welcomed intrusion that was his length, your pussy clenching around him for all that he had. the sounds falling from your lips were nothing short of pornographic, the moans and choked sobs only pushing rafe closer to the edge.

he sped up until his skin was slapping against your own, your back arching off of the bed when he slipped out and stroked your clit with the underside of his cock. you shrieked at the sensation, your legs trembling in sensitivity. “too much..” you shook your head, bringing your legs down to wrap around his waist instead. rafe groaned, your slick dripping down his length as he tapped your glossy folds. “you’re so fucking wet, i’m slipping right out,” he grunted, “this is what i do to you, ‘pretty girl?” he leaned down, nipping the sensitive part of your neck.

he kept himself nestled inside of you for a few moments, letting you revel in being so utterly full. you gave him an approving hum, your nails digging into his skin as he bit you softly across your collarbone. starting up his thrusts again, he slipped out as soon as he picked up the pace, the action making him curse under his breath. your eyes watered in frustration, your bottom lip pulled tightly between your teeth. rafe saw your tears, the sight shooting straight to his cock. he loved seeing how delirious he made you, his chest filling up with pride as you looked up at him with that fucked-out gaze.

soon after he continued, your high was hitting you in intense waves, the coil in the pit of your stomach snapping in two as rafe watched your eyebrows knit together, the added mess between your thighs only making his hips stutter with his own climax painting your walls. “rafe!” you screamed in his ear, his thumb slipping between your lips for you to bite down on while he twitched and convulsed inside of you. a shiver ran down his back as he caged you tightly between his arms, his seed spilling out of you as you both went through the aftershocks of your orgasms.

once you were okay, rafe pressed a kiss to your lips, stroking the side of your face before rolling over to your side. “what’s your ring size?” he sighed, pulling you against his chest. you laughed softly, slightly confused at the words that left his mouth. “why?” rafe’s chest was rising and falling as he glanced down at you, meeting your eyes. “are you kidding me? i need to lock this pussy down. like tonight.”

[ridingthatd]

❝ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁𝙍𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙈𝘼𝙉 ❞

frontman! sukuna x guard! choso x fem! reader

this smut is inspired by squidgame.

your husband sukuna ryomen isn't only a dirty man in bed, but he's also a dirty man in work. he's known as the frontman ; the main man who created the business, squidgame where people can sell their lives for money. and you're his pretty little thing; his wife, his property. what happens when one of his guards lust over you?...

warning the content is very kinky and filthy.

good business is good business. doesn't matter how you make the money, doesn't matter if it's dirty money because good business is always going to be good business no matter what way you archive it; that's how ryomen business worked or more like that's how squidgame worked.

"RED LIGHT!".

a robotic loud voice echos outside the one way see through window. the sound of a wine glass being filled, fills the room along with a jazz song played out of the music box across the room. sukuna leans back against the leather couch as he gaze outside the window.

one hand holds the glass of wine close to his wet lips while the other is burried deep inside his wife's tight pussy. here you were seated like a good girl on your husband's lap, your face burried in his neck just like his fingers were burried inside your pussy. his fingers were curling against your soft sensitive spot, hitting it again and again and again making it hard for you to muffle your whines.

you were so wet that even through the loud music sukuna could hear the wet filthy sounds your dirty pussy made as it sucks his fingers in and out. he takes a sip of his wine before placing it back on the counter next to the couch, your hazey fucked eyes stare at him as he grabs your face.

"open." he firmly commands and you immediately follow, opening your mouth and sticking your wet tongue out as soon as you do you feel sukuna spitting thewine that he just drank inside your mouth before he leans in for a wet kiss, sliding his tongue between your teeth and shoving it down your throat all while his fingers don't stop rutting inside your pussy.

sukuna groans at the delicious taste of your spit mixed with the wine, he sucks hard on your tongue causing you to whimper indicating your close to cumming on his lap. he lean out leaving a wet string of spit connecting both of your tongues. you wanted to cum, you wanted to squirt all over his lap but you knew not to, you knew it wasn't the time to. you can cum only when-

"GREEN LIGHT!".

your back arch, mouth hangs open as you scream out while squirting on sukuna fingers. he doesn't stop fucking violently them in, draging your orgasm until he milks everything out. your thighs tremble, twitching as your squirt drips down sukunas leg to the floor. sukuna gently places your face inside his neck before placing a wet kiss on your forehead, muttering a good girl.

he stares outside the window one last time before caring you in his arms making his way to the door, as he opens the door he was greeted by one of the guards that stands outside the room. sukuna simply take one look at him before he heads down the hallway. not aware that this guard was shamelessly stroking his cock to the sound of his wife.

'CHOSO POV`

he can hear it. he can hear his bosses wife muffled whimpers, you cute little thing trying not to be loud yet failing not to. his fat cock was leaking through his red pants, making it hard for him to resist.

but you make it even harder for him to resist as his eyes widen once he hears how wet you are, he can't believe that your dirty little pussy is so needy and wet that he can even hear it from outside the room. you dirty slut he smiles to himself as he palm his ragging cock groaning as he pictures what your sore pussy looks like right now.

were you bend over? were you spreading your pussy on the coach? or were you on the floor getting fucked like a dog- he growls at that thought. he can tell you were close by how loud your whines were getting, by how rough his boss was pounding your sweet little pussy.

choso's breath gets heavy, he can't help the way drool slip past his lips as he squeeze his cock through his pants. he bets his cock is so red that it matches the color of his suit.

choso gasp as he hears the beautiful scream you let out- you were squirting everywhere, he can hear it- he can hear the pissing sound your pussy make as the clear liquid spurt out. the sound of the drops of cum hitting the ground.

and he loses it, biting hard on his lips before his cock tremble and robes of cum gush out of his tip. he came in his pants.

the loud sound of siren fills the air, it was a meeting call. choso and all of the guard stand in a line and run down the hallway, making their way toward ryomen office.

here you were standing next to sukuna nervously staring at the guards that were lined in front of you. what was happening? why was the meeting called and why were you here? did you find out the perverted act choso did. his heart pounds.

"shoot one of them." sukunas rough voice speak up behind the mask he had on, handing you a gun.

"but-".

"it's either you shoot one of them or I'll shoot all of them". your husband makes it clear. choso gaze at you, as you carefully hold the gun and your eyes examine the group of masked guards in front of you. before they land on choso.

his breath hitch, it feels like you were making eye contact with him even though you can't see his eyes because of the mask. choso was to lost in your eyes that he didn't notice his bleeding arm that you just thought. he only noticed the way you muttered a small sorry to him before handing your husband the gun.

his mind was blank as he follows his boss command to go to his room, making it down the hallway as soon as he closes the door of his room behind him, he moans out freeing his hard sensitive cock from his pants.

she shot ME! she chose to shoot me and no one else. and she shot me in the arm which means she didn't want me to die so she can see me again. choso whimpers at his thoughts stroking his cock faster. you chose him. you want him. you looked at him.

fuck he's going crazy.

'END OF POV`

"why would you do that". you sob out on your husbands lap as he shushs your cries. bouncing you on his leg, comforting you like a little baby.

"you're the one who insisted on me teaching you how to use a gun after I told you no". he says as he strokes your hair.

"so I gave you a gun lesson". he causally speaks out. you don't say anything, you know there's no point of arguing with him because he was right. if you can't handle killing a real person right now then there's no point of teaching you how to use a gun.

"is the guard going to be okay?". you question.

sukuna gives you a blank stare not answering your question, with one arm, he grabs you and lifts you, so easily you could be a rag doll. you let out a surprised noise as he carries you to the couch.

he throws you on the couch, sits next to you and easily pulls you over his lap. your eyes widen as you find yourself on your stomach. you feel his rough hands tearing up the dress you had and throwing it across the room, leaving you naked.

you try you lift your face up from the couch but sukuna growls before yanking you by the hair and shoving your face back into it.

"don't move you fucking slut". you whimper, already getting wet at the way he's handling you.

your is face down, so you dont see him pressing a button to call one of his guards.

sukuna rubs your belly bulge that you had from the cum that he plugged in your pussy hole, not letting any of his warm cum spill out.

he spanks your ass, you arch your back despite the strength of his spank when he hits your ass again.

then, he rubs your wet slit. you let out a whine.you push your hips up, aching for the touch, but when you get too eager, he pulls his hand away and slaps your butt again.

you hear the front door open and close.

"ah you came. have a drink and sit down". sukuna says. you can't see anything as your face is currently pressed against the couch.

you hear the someone walk behind you, and make his way to the armchair across from the couch and sits down.

sukuna starts rubbing your clit, holding you down still, and all while, he never breaks eye contact with choso. here you were on sukunas lap ass up, head down. your pussy spread wide open vulnerable for any eye in his office.

choso doesn’t dare move his eyes from sukuna. he stays completely still, while sukuna is sipping on his wine, staring calmly into his eyes.

"look at her". only at sukunas command does he let his eyes trail downwards. he sees the way you're plugged, ass full of handmarks. choso held back the growl that wanted to rip from his throat at the filthy sight in front of him.

he pours himself a glass and sips. with a relaxed sigh, he gently circles the plug that was in your ass hole with his fingers before he grabs it and slowly pull it. you whine as you feel sukunas warm cum that was inside of you gush out your sore pussy.

i own this that's what ryomen was trying to tell choso.

he scoops some of them that spilled out with his fingers and he fucks it back inside of you all while clamly staring at choso.

"ngh-! daddy- i can't please-!". you sob.

"aw your sweet little pussy can't take it right now? my fat cock was to rough with you?". sukuna coo at you while rubbing your pussy gently.

you sniffle bobbing your head up and down.

"hm how about we use your mouth then? is that good? you want me to feed your filthy mouth some cock?". you eagerly node.

sukuna then roughly grabs you by the hair and turn your head so you're looking at choso.

choso couldn't hide his bulge anymore. your eyes trail down widening as you see the way precum was leaking out of his huge cock through his pants.

"remember this guard you filthy slut hm? weren't you feeling bad for shooting him yea? how about you give him a favour right now and suck his cock so you can make it up for him?" sukuna growls out, shoving you on your feets and hands like a dog.

"crawl to him like a good puppy".

choso can't believe what's happening, he feels like he's going to suffocate under his mask from how hard he was breathing. he was going to drown with his own drool as he stare at your naked body as you crawl your way to him.

your red ass from being spanked by his boss sway left and right. choso whines under his mask as soon as he feels your delicate hands on his thighs, looking up at his him with puppy eyes hungry for his fat cock.

you slowly unzip his pants before your eyes widen at how embarrassingly flush his cock was, it was so pumped, his tip glowing red as white precum drips out of it.

his thighs shake once you lick the precum that was dripping before shoving his whole cock down your throat. choso couldn't hold it back anymore as he whines and sobs pathetically.

you can hear wet sloppy sounds. sounds from your husband stroking his fat cock at the sight of you. it made you even more horny. knowing he's watching you suck one of his guards cock. while pumping his own cock with his huge vieny hands.

sukuna makes his way toward you before you feel him grab your hair and shoves your head up and down, guiding your mouth down choso's cock.

hearing the way the guard was whimpering and gasping while sukuna is pushing your head down his cock was making your pussy really wet.

"just like that you fucking dirty whore". sukuna groans out while he fists his cock so close to cumming just as close as choso was.

choso throws his head back, eyes rolling back his skill, thighs tensing before he spurts his hot cum down your throat at the same time sukuna grunts and cums all over your face.

choso shakes under you, the pleasure overwhelming and too much. everything he’s ever dreamt of is right in front of his eyes.

"she's so wet, do you want a taste?" sukuna smirked before offering your fingers that were coated with your juice up to choso.

choso didn't care enough to hide behind his mask anymore. he desperately needed to taste you.

he swiftly removes his mask revealing his sweaty flushed face before wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulling his fingers closer to his mouth. his tongue rolled out of his mouth, sliding across your fingertips to taste your addicting juice.

choso popped your fingers into his mouth, fully drooling and sucking on your slender fingers. spit trailing from your rosy knuckles to your wrist, the lewd display causing you to clench your thighs.

sukunas tsk before firmly speaking up.

"you have two choices. you either fuck her tight little pussy right now and I'll kill you after".

"or you can leave the game and act like nothing every happened." sukuna offers.

choso doesn't have to think about it twice or hesitate before answering.

"fuck her right now".

taglist : @after-laughter-come-tears @princessbunnys-things @beetleluu @lavenderdaydream97 @des-todoroki @sukunadckrider @luvleyprincess @bunnygirlgonewild @cajunfootrub @iveivory @suicidollz @evieloves @mourart7 @okayiamkassandra @xxdiaqiaoxx @mjustag1rl @thequeenofcurses @mimi321us

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

ִ ࣪𖤐 . MADE TO FUCKIN’ TAKE IT ?!

ʚଓ.˚ warnings : multi-fandom men x fem!reader. nsfw/smut, size kink/difference, overstimulation, degradation & mocking, chocking (light breath control), hair pulling, man handling, breeding kink, multiple of orgasms, multiple of rounds, dirty talk & praise & cock warming? not proof read & pretty much a quick fic.

BIG MEN WHO… don’t give a damn how much smaller you are, how your body trembles under them, barely able to handle the sheer size of their cock stretching you open. They’ll press you down, keep you in place, making you take every inch until you’re crying out, gasping, nails clawing at their back or the sheets—whatever you can grab onto as they ruin you.

“You can take it,” he mutters, voice thick with desire, watching the way your tight pussy struggles around him. “Fuck—look at that, baby. So damn tiny around me.” His big hands hold your hips, keeping you still as he sinks deeper, making sure you feel every vein, every inch of him stuffing you full.

He doesn’t wait. He doesn’t go slow. The moment he’s inside, he’s fucking into you, rough and deep, your tits bouncing with every sharp thrust. A low groan rumbles from his chest when he sees them, his hands coming up to grab at them, squeezing, his thumbs brushing over your soft nipples. “So fucking perfect,” he breathes, rolling one between his fingers, smirking when you whimper.

He loves seeing you like this—helpless under him, your clit throbbing as his cock pounds into you, stretching you in ways no one else ever could. One of his hands slides down between your legs, two fingers rubbing fast, forcing you closer and closer to the edge. “Come on, sweetheart, let me feel you,” he grunts, leaning down, his weight pressing you into the mattress. “You’re gonna come all over my cock, aren’t you? Good fucking girl.”

Your walls tighten, body arching, your moans turning to desperate cries as the pleasure builds too fast, too strong. “Too much—” you gasp, but he just laughs, his pace never faltering.

“You can handle it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear before he bites down, making you whimper. “You were made for this. For me.”

His cock pushes even deeper, making you see stars. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, only groaning at the way your pussy clenches around him. “Fuck, I’m gonna fill you up,” he growls, snapping his hips harder, his grip on you almost bruising. “Gonna pump you so full of my cum, you’ll still be dripping with it tomorrow.”

Your mind is hazy, your body nothing but pleasure and overstimulation as his cock bullies your pussy into submission. His fingers don’t stop rubbing your clit, dragging you through another orgasm even as you cry out, thighs shaking.

“That’s it,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Just like that, baby. You’re fucking perfect.”

And he’s not done. Not even close.

Your legs tremble as he keeps pounding into you, his cock stretching you past your limit, but he doesn’t slow down—not when you’re this wet, this tight, this perfect for him. Your nails dig into his shoulders, desperate to hold onto something, anything, but it only makes him grin, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he presses you further into the mattress.

“Y-You're too big,” you whimper, voice shaky, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath. Your pussy clenches around him, your body betraying you, and his grin only widens.

“Too big?” he repeats, mocking, one hand gripping your thigh and pushing it up to fuck into you even deeper. “You keep saying that, but your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

You let out a sob when he grinds his hips against yours, the head of his cock pressing against that sweet spot inside you over and over until you're trembling beneath him. Your tits bounce with every ruthless thrust, and he watches, mesmerized, his hands sliding up to cup them roughly, rolling your nipples between his fingers.

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice thick with amusement and something darker. “Poor little thing, getting fucked too good?”

Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the way his cock stretches your walls, the way his fingers keep circling your clit, sending shockwaves through your already overstimulated body. But then his hand is on your throat, not squeezing, just pressing enough to make you open your eyes and look at him.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he orders, his grip tightening just a little, making your breath hitch. His cock pulses inside you, thick and heavy, dragging along every inch of your sensitive walls as he picks up the pace. “I wanna see that pretty face when I ruin you.”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back a moan, but he sees it—sees the way your body shakes, the way your pussy clenches around him like it never wants to let go. His smirk grows.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he groans, his voice rough, his thrusts turning almost brutal. “Give it to me. Let me feel you come all over my cock.”

Your body obeys before your mind catches up, your back arching as pleasure crashes through you, your pussy squeezing him tight. A broken moan escapes your lips, and he curses under his breath, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he fucks you through it, chasing his own release.

“Fuck—” his voice is strained, almost desperate, his cock throbbing inside you. He buries himself as deep as he can go, pushing past the tight clench of your walls, his pace growing erratic. “Gonna fill you up, baby. You want that?”

You nod frantically, your mind foggy with pleasure, your body still shaking. “Y-Yeah,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “Want it.”

That’s all it takes. He groans, low and guttural, his hips jerking as he spills inside you, filling you with thick ropes of his cum. He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, breathing heavy, before his thumb lazily circles your clit again, making you jolt.

“You thought I was done?” he chuckles, his cock still hard inside you. His grip on your thighs tightens as he pulls back, teasing you with slow, shallow thrusts. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m just getting started.”

Your whole body feels boneless, trembling under him, but he doesn’t let you rest—not when your pussy is still clenching around him, so warm, so tight, still desperate for more even if your mind hasn’t caught up yet.

“You’re shakin’, baby,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers over your stomach, pressing down just enough to make you feel the way his cock is still buried inside you, so deep it almost hurts. “But look at that—your greedy little pussy’s still suckin’ me in.”

You whimper, trying to squirm away, but his big hands grab your hips, pinning you down with ease. He tsks, amusement thick in his voice. “Where d’you think you’re going, sweetheart?” His grip tightens, fingers pressing bruises into your soft skin. “You wanted my cock so bad—now you’re gonna take it.”

Your breath catches when he pulls back, teasing, letting only the thick head of his cock stretch you open before slamming all the way back in, knocking the air from your lungs. Your legs shake, another weak whimper slipping past your lips, but he only smirks, watching the way your tits bounce with every brutal thrust.

“Fuck—so fuckin’ tight,” he groans, reaching up to grab a handful of your hair, tugging your head back so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His eyes are dark, hungry. “You feel that, baby? Feel how deep I am? Like I was made to fuck you like this.”

You can’t speak, can’t think—just moan as he rolls his hips, grinding deep, the fat head of his cock pressing against that sweet spot inside you over and over. His free hand moves to your throat, not squeezing, just pressing, keeping you right where he wants you.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he mutters, his voice dripping with amusement. “All fucked-out and dumb on my cock.” His grip on your throat tightens slightly, just enough to make your head spin. “Bet you can’t even talk right now.”

He’s right. You can’t. Your lips part, a broken moan escaping, and he chuckles, smug. “That’s what I thought.”

Your pussy clenches around him, your clit throbbing, and he notices—of course he notices. His other hand slides between your legs, two fingers circling your swollen clit in tight, teasing motions.

“Yeah? You like when I talk to you like that, huh?” His voice is low, teasing, his fingers moving faster. “Such a desperate little thing.”

Your body is too sensitive, too overwhelmed, but you can’t stop yourself from rolling your hips up into his touch, chasing another high. He groans, watching you, his cock twitching inside you.

“Look at you—so fuckin’ needy for me,” he mutters, leaning down until his lips brush against your ear. “Gonna come again, aren’t you? So easy. So fuckin’ easy for me.”

Your mind blanks as the pleasure slams into you, your pussy squeezing him tight, making him curse under his breath. His hips snap against yours faster, rougher, his cock bullying your tight, wet walls as he chases his own release.

“Shit—gonna fuckin’ fill you up,” he growls, his thrusts turning erratic, harder, deeper. “Gonna pump you so full of my cum, you won’t be able to walk tomorrow.”

You cry out, barely able to handle the overstimulation, your body trembling beneath him as he slams into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you. His grip on your throat loosens as he groans, his breath ragged, “Fuckin’ hell finally I bred this pussy good.”

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