#this is only barely scratching the surface too

[carnalcrows]

TEACHER'S PET - SANGWOO

pairing: professor! sangwoo x student! bottom male reader

synopsis: A struggling college athlete strikes a risky deal with his professor, unaware of the secrets lurking beneath the surface.

content warnings: 18+, age gap (reader is 21 and sang-woo is in his 40's), teacher x student, cheating, blood, unprotected sex, breeding, creampie, reader is a himbo and is slightly muscular.

word count: 2.5k

The classroom was quiet, save for the rhythmic tapping of Professor Cho Sangwoo’s fingers against his desk. You were only half-paying attention, your gaze drifting to the window as he continued his lecture on financial markets—whatever that meant. Numbers weren’t exactly your thing, and honestly, you were just waiting for class to be over so you could hit the gym.

“Since you all love talking so much, let’s see if you actually understand today’s lesson,” Sangwoo announced, his voice smooth yet carrying an edge of boredom. He scanned the room, eyes narrowing slightly before landing on you. “You.”

Your head snapped up. “Huh?”

A few chuckles echoed in the lecture hall, but Sangwoo ignored them. He leaned casually against his desk, adjusting his tie. “I asked what the three main types of financial markets are.”

You blinked, your brain scrambling for anything resembling an answer. “Uh… stocks?”

Sangwoo sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s one.”

“Um… crypto?”

Someone in the back actually snorted. You gave them a glare before looking back at Sangwoo, who only smiled, but not in a nice way. “Stay after class,” he said simply before moving on to another student.

You slumped in your seat. Great.

When the lecture finally ended, your classmates trickled out in pairs and groups, leaving you alone with your professor. You adjusted the strap of your sports bag and walked up to his desk, scratching the back of your head.

“Sir?” you said hesitantly. “Uh, about earlier—”

“You’re failing my class.”

That was the first thing he said, cutting straight to the point. His voice was calm, but there was something in his gaze that made you shift uncomfortably.

“Yeah, I figured,” you admitted with a nervous chuckle. “Numbers aren’t really my thing.”

Sangwoo just stared at you, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You do realize that if you fail my class, your scholarship could be revoked, correct?”

You blinked. That… wasn’t good. You needed that scholarship. It was the only reason you were here in the first place.

“But—”

“I could help you,” Sangwoo interrupted smoothly, stepping closer. “Private tutoring, after hours. One-on-one.”

“Oh, sweet! That’d be great,” you said, completely missing the shift in the air. “Man, I knew you weren’t as scary as people say.”

Sangwoo’s eyes gleamed. “Right,” he said. “Not scary at all.”

You waited in the empty lecture hall, tapping your fingers against your desk. Most of the students had already gone home, the hallways eerily quiet as the late afternoon sun cast golden streaks through the high windows. You shifted in your seat, rolling your shoulders. This felt… weird. One-on-one tutoring? You barely studied in regular classes—what were the odds this would actually help?

The door creaked open.

You turned, watching as Sangwoo stepped inside. He wasn’t wearing his usual suit jacket, just his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He carried his leather briefcase in one hand, and in the other, a slim stack of papers.

“You actually showed up,” he mused, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

“You told me to.” You leaned back, grinning lazily. “Not really one to disobey orders, sir.”

He set his briefcase down, eyeing you for a beat too long before moving to the desk at the front of the class. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered. Then, louder: “Let’s start.”

For the next twenty minutes, he actually taught. Well, sort of. He wrote on the board, explained concepts you didn’t understand, and made you do problems from his worksheet. Your brain, slow as it sometimes was, genuinely tried to keep up. You weren’t failing because you didn’t care—you just weren’t good at this stuff.

At some point, Sangwoo moved behind you, leaning over to check your work. The weight of his presence sent a strange shiver down your spine. His voice was low, smooth, almost teasing as he pointed out your mistakes.

“Not quite,” he murmured. “Try again.”

You exhaled sharply. “God, I suck at this.”

“You suck at a lot of things,” he said, tone unreadable. “But you’re good at listening.”

Your brow furrowed at his choice of words. Before you could question it, he reached over, guiding your hand as you wrote out an equation. His fingers were steady, firm over yours. Too close.

You swallowed. The air in the room changed, thickened with something unsaid. You turned your head slightly, only to find that Sangwoo was already looking at you. His dark eyes lingered, searching, waiting.

The moment stretched.

Then, he moved.

His hand slid from yours, trailing up your wrist, your forearm. You should’ve said something, maybe pulled away, but the way he looked at you—the quiet intensity in his eyes—made your brain short-circuit.

His fingers brushed your jaw. Your breath hitched.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, practiced, like he had been waiting for this—like he already knew you wouldn’t resist.

Your back hit the desk, Sangwoo pressing forward, one hand bracing against the wood while the other curled around the nape of your neck. His lips moved against yours with a kind of certainty that made your stomach tighten, that made your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt.

A quiet, broken sound left your throat as his teeth scraped against your bottom lip, as his hands roamed lower, as his body slotted perfectly against yours.

His hands went to the curve of your ass– gripping on the supple flesh as he pulled you closer into him. They trailed to the front, tugging your sweatpants off with a firm tug– making you gasp in surprise.

You looked at him with wide eyes, which only seemed to turn him on even more. He pressed his lips back onto yours before sliding one hand down your boxers, pulling your hard cock out of its confinements– the cool air making you shudder.

He turned you around so that your stomach was on the desk, and lifted your ass up– groaning at the sight of your hole puckering around nothing. He pulled out a packet of lube from his front pocket, did he come prepared for this?, before he ripped it open and spilled its contents onto your hole.

Before you could say anything, he slid the head of his cock in– eyes clenching shut at how you hole pulled him in. You gripped at the desk– having never been stretched out like this before.

“God– so tight f’me aren’t you love, “ he groans in your ear before sliding all the way in– making your back arch. “Only for you sir–” you manage to say before he pulls out and slams back in, making you scream.

He fucked into you at a relentless pace, the uncomfortable positon of your pelvis getting bruised by the edge of the table did nothing to you know. He was making you see stars.

He held you by the waist as you clenched around him– almost making it unable for him to move. You were practically milking the older man dry.

“Getting fucked by your professor for a few extra marks– what a filthy little slut you are, hm?”he mocked, getting riled up at the way you merely moaned, not being able to make sense of what he was saying. Your head was filled with the thought of his cock pistoning in you. 

It wasn’t like your head had much in it anyway.

Soon, he felt himself on the verge of a release, and came in you without warning– painting your insides a pearly white.

You came untouched, practically screaming as your cock spurted out ropes of cum onto the desk. He stayed nestled in you for a while, before slowly pulling out, his cum leaking out of your hole.

He felt himself getting hard again.

It was going to be a long session.

The next time you tried to do the homework he assigned, you realized you had learned absolutely nothing in that tutoring session.

Not about commerce, at least.

Giving up on that, you were sitting outside on the campus lawn with a few of your teammates, lazily picking at your food while the others chatted around you. It was the usual mix of locker-room banter and weekend plans, but you weren’t really paying attention. Your focus had shifted to the faculty building in the distance, where a familiar figure stood near the entrance.

Sangwoo.

Your professor looked different outside of the classroom. Less stiff, more relaxed. And, most importantly, not alone. A woman stood next to him, pretty and well-dressed, holding a little girl in her arms. Sangwoo’s hand rested on the small of her back as they talked, his head tilted slightly as he smiled at something she said. The woman laughed, leaning into him with a kind of familiarity that made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

Your appetite vanished instantly. Your fingers tightened around your fork, and you barely noticed your friend nudging you.

"Yo, you good?"

"Yeah," you mumbled, already standing. "Gotta go. Be right back."

You didn’t wait for a response. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you toward the nearest building. The second you were inside, you made a beeline for the restroom, locking yourself in an empty stall before bracing your hands against the walls, trying to steady your breathing.

Sangwoo had a wife. And a kid. A whole family.

The realization sat heavy in your gut, a sharp, sickening weight pressing against your ribs. How had you not known? Shouldn’t someone have mentioned it? Shouldn’t he have mentioned it? And why the hell did it feel like you’d been punched in the stomach?

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to swallow the rising bile in your throat. The image of him—smiling, touching her, looking like a man who had never done a single wrong thing in his life—burned behind your eyelids.

You had been in his office just last night. Had sat at his desk, let him touch you, let him pull you in like you were something he wanted. And the whole time—

The whole time, he had this? A wife? A daughter?

You turned abruptly, punching the stall door hard enough that the impact sent a dull ache up your wrist. Then, without looking at yourself in the mirror, you forced yourself back outside.

You weren’t going to think about this now. You just needed to get through the rest of the day.

Your legs still felt unsteady as you walked back across the campus lawn, but then—

You slowed down. Two professors were chatting near one of the shaded benches. You wouldn’t have normally paid them any mind, but your name caught your attention.

“—been doing surprisingly well in my class,” one of them said. “I thought he’d barely scrape by, but it looks like he’s putting in real effort.”

“Not surprising,” the other replied. “Athletic scholarships come with pressure. He needs to keep his grades up if he wants to stay on the team.”

“True, but honestly, he’d have to bomb every class for that to even be a concern. You know how it is—sports scholarships are basically untouchable. No single professor can take those away, even if they wanted to.”

A beat of silence passed. Then the first one chuckled. “Good thing, too. Can you imagine the scandal?”

You nearly tripped over your own feet.

Wait.

Your scholarship was secure? No single professor could take it away?

Then… What the hell had Sangwoo been threatening you with?

Your stomach twisted again, but this time, it wasn’t nausea. It was anger. Cold, creeping, slow-burning rage.

He had lied to you. Manipulated you. Used you.

And you had fallen for it, like an absolute idiot.

You sat through class that day feeling like you were going to be sick. Every word out of Sangwoo’s mouth blurred together into meaningless noise, his voice grating against your ears. When he announced the usual after-hours “coaching session,” you barely registered it. The other students filed out, and you stayed seated, arms crossed tightly over your chest, muscles coiled with anger you hadn’t fully processed yet.

Sangwoo closed the door, the sound echoing through the empty room. He turned, gaze sharp as ever, and for the first time, you hated the way he looked at you—like he had already figured out exactly what you were about to say.

“Something wrong?”

You stood up so fast your chair scraped against the floor. “You’re married.”

Sangwoo’s expression didn’t even flicker. “And?”

You let out a sharp laugh, shaking your head. “And? And?! You’ve been—You lied to me. About everything.”

“Careful,” Sangwoo murmured, stepping closer. “You’re getting all worked up.”

“Yeah, because I just found out the guy I’ve been—” You cut yourself off, pressing your fingers to your temple as if that would stop the storm in your head. “Not only are you a cheating bastard, but you lied about my scholarship.”

Silence.

A beat passed. Then another.

You scoffed, the sound bitter, disbelieving. “Yeah. I figured it out. You don’t have the power to take my scholarship away, do you?”

Sangwoo sighed, tilting his head like you were a particularly slow student who had finally caught up. “It got you to comply, didn’t it?”

Something inside you cracked open.

Your fists clenched at your sides. “You used me.”

He took another step forward, his presence suffocating, the air thick between you. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He was right there, close enough that you could see the way his lips curved, the glint in his eye that told you he still thought he had the upper hand. And maybe he did—because the moment he grabbed your face and kissed you, you let him.

It was hard, possessive, like he was staking his claim all over again. Your body reacted before your brain did, mouth opening under his, heat flaring up your spine. His hands dragged over your jaw, fingers pressing just hard enough to make your pulse stutter.

But then—

No. No, not this time.

Your eyes snapped open. The haze shattered.

Without thinking, your hand darted toward the desk beside you, fingers curling around the sharp metal of a compass. You gripped it so tightly your knuckles ached.

Sangwoo didn’t even notice until it was too late.

The compass plunged into the side of his neck, and for the first time since you’d met him, he was the one caught off guard.

He staggered back, hand flying to his throat. Blood—so much blood—spilled between his fingers, staining his crisp white dress shirt. His mouth opened, a garbled, wet sound escaping as he stared at you in pure disbelief.

You exhaled, heart pounding as you looked down at him. “Guess I am failing this class.”

The room smelled like iron. Sangwoo collapsed to the floor, the blood pooling around him in a slow, creeping tide.

You stood there, breath shaky but eyes steady.

And then, finally, you turned and walked away.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[saebyeokbliss]

JUST MEET ME AT THE APT.— K. SAE-BYEOK

CHAPTER SEVEN

synopsis: managing a rising rock band is already chaotic enough, but when you're stuck touring with four reckless musicians, things get even messier. between late-night facetime calls, teasing that feels a little too knowing, and a certain guitarist who might just be your biggest problem, keeping things professional is getting harder by the second. but hey, no one said the music industry was easy.

warnings: mutual pining, intense eye contact, teasing that borders on flirting (or maybe it is flirting), secondhand embarrassment, slow burn that burns, emotional whiplash

playlist: spotify

Sae-Byeok stormed back into the Kang household, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

The girls were still on their phones, their laughter filling the living room as they scrolled through whatever Jisoo had sent now.

It only made her angrier.

Without a word, she reached out and snatched Ji-Yeong’s phone right from her hands.

"Hey—what the hell, dude?" Ji-Yeong yelped, reaching for it, but Sae-Byeok was quicker.

Before anyone could react, she grabbed Se-Mi’s and No-Eul’s too, holding all three devices in her hands like some kind of hostage negotiator.

"The fuck is your problem?" Se-Mi scowled, making a swipe for her phone.

Sae-Byeok took a step back, her grip tightening. "Do any of you even realize what you did tonight?"

That made them pause.

Ji-Yeong frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sae-Byeok scoffed, shaking her head. "Her."

The room went quiet.

"You were so busy with this fucking group chat that you didn’t even notice her sitting there, completely left out."

Se-Mi’s face fell slightly. "Wait… are you talking about—?"

Sae-Byeok exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. "Yes."

No-Eul, who had been watching quietly, leaned back against the couch. "I told you she looked sad."

Sae-Byeok’s glare flickered to her. "Yeah, and none of us did anything about it."

That made the room even more uncomfortable.

Se-Mi shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of her head. "Shit… I mean, we didn’t do it on purpose."

"That doesn’t matter," Sae-Byeok snapped. "She was sitting right there, and none of us—none of us—bothered to make her feel included. And then we laughed about some stupid group chat she wasn’t even in, like it wouldn’t affect her."

Ji-Yeong groaned, rubbing her face. "Fuck."

No-Eul, still eerily calm, tilted her head. "You ignored her too, you know."

Sae-Byeok stiffened.

Se-Mi nodded slowly. "Yeah, like… we weren’t the only ones."

Ji-Yeong crossed her arms. "You barely even looked at her, Sae. And now you’re yelling at us?"

Before Sae-Byeok could retort, another voice cut in.

"You all ignored her."

They turned to see Cheol, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed.

Sae-Byeok’s little brother had clearly been listening in, his usually playful expression now serious.

"You guys didn’t see her face when she was sitting there," he continued. "She looked sad until I started hanging out with her."

Sae-Byeok’s stomach twisted.

Cheol’s voice softened. "She acts like she doesn’t care, but she does."

Silence fell over the room.

Ji-Yeong sighed, rubbing her temples. "We’re idiots."

No-Eul shrugged. "Took you long enough to realize."

Sae-Byeok clenched her jaw, the guilt now fully sinking in.

She had messed up.

They all had.

And now, she had to figure out how to fix it.

The small Seoul venue was buzzing with energy, fans already lining up outside, eager for an intimate performance from HOT DIVISION.

You arrived early, as always, ready to handle logistics, double-check schedules, and make sure everything ran smoothly.

Like always.

Like nothing had happened.

You greeted the girls with your usual easygoing smile, slipping into conversation effortlessly. You joked with Ji-Yeong, checked in with Se-Mi about the setlist, and made sure No-Eul’s equipment was all in order.

Business as usual.

But No-Eul wasn’t buying it.

Neither was Sae-Byeok.

Sae-Byeok lingered in the background, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

No-Eul, however, wasn’t one to stay quiet—not when something wasn’t sitting right.

You were backstage, adjusting mic placements when No-Eul casually leaned against the wall beside you.

"You don’t have to act like everything’s fine, you know."

You froze for half a second before forcing a small laugh. "What are you talking about? I’m fine."

No-Eul gave you a pointed look. "You’re not."

You swallowed, keeping your hands busy with the mic in front of you. "Look, it’s nothing. It’s stupid. I don’t want to make things awkward before a show."

No-Eul sighed, crossing her arms. "It’s not stupid if it hurt you."

You hesitated.

And then, quieter, she added, "I’m sorry."

That was what did it.

Your throat tightened, eyes stinging as you blinked rapidly, trying so hard to keep it together.

No-Eul noticed immediately.

"Shit, I didn’t mean to make you cry—"

You let out a weak laugh, quickly wiping at your eyes. "I’m not crying."

"You’re totally crying."

You shook your head, voice a little wobbly. "I just—thank you. For saying it. For noticing."

No-Eul nodded, stepping closer. "I should’ve said something sooner. Should’ve made sure you were okay instead of just watching it happen."

You took a shaky breath. "It’s okay. It really is."

No-Eul didn’t look convinced. But instead of pushing, she simply pulled you into a hug.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It wasn’t over the top.

Just a quiet, steady warmth that made you feel seen.

You exhaled, hugging her back. "Thanks, No-Eul."

She pulled away, patting your shoulder. "We’re gonna do better. I promise."

You nodded, forcing a small smile. "Now go kill it out there."

She smirked. "Obviously."

And just like that, it was time.

The show was about to begin.

And somewhere in the background, Sae-Byeok was still watching.

taglist: @everly-summers-solace @knfthxv @madebysae @knfthxv @katieschry1 @imlackingsleep @lyzem @stellssxo @wiltingconquest @peelover25@monroesturnns @laurenkens @yenyu1s @idontliketoread2137 @bitchybananaflower @lyuuw

[yourstrulyhri]

kind of a rant, this is not related to studying so please feel free to skip, if you'd like.

BUT it's absolutely pissing me the fuck off over how the political/government figures have started jumping on the 'moral policing' bandwagon over ranveer's comments on india's got latent. sure, what he might've said was crass. maybe slightly offensive too. but seriously? FIRs? court cases? for THAT?! so what you mean to say is that our country, despite being plagued with so MANY deep-rooted social evils, they choose to focus on this? like, they think this is a good cause to actually advocate for?

this is fucking nuts, i swear. we may make fun of america all we want, but we're literally no better atp. also, with the latest modi-trump meet where he literally endorsed MIGA, i genuinely cannot fathom how much worse this will get. and to believe that all of this, is barely a scratch/dent on surface level.

religious sentiment ≠ policy. i hate, HATE how they've transformed 'religion' as a weapon — to aid them in situations, to evade controversies, but only when it's convenient. yet, how can i even blame them, they've never had to face a competent opposition since 2014. you might as well just call us an 'autocratic' nation, and i'd probably believe you — the sheer amount of unconsolidated power that ONE party holds over the entire nation is scary, and will invariably lead to our downfall progressively. even after all this, they'll call the people who want to leave this shitty nation as 'traitors'.

[erinwantstowrite]

ERIN i cannot believe you are a fan of twisted wonderland too, you have feed me once again with your beautiful art thank you so much 🛐🛐

But who are your favorite tw characters?? And how do you think other batfam members would do in yuu's situation?

i love Twisted Wonderland!! in a sense that I ignore the Mickey Mouse plotline because what even is going on there LMFAO

It's so hard to choose a fav cause they're all so stinky and I adore the idiots so much,,, but my rankings are: Ace and Deuce for 1st place, Grim for second, Ruggie for third, Epel and Kalim for fourth, and Malleus for fifth. And this is if I HAVE to choose. the rest of them are so silly that I can not be contained. I need to torment Azul and shake him around <3

Tim would thrive the MOST in Twisted Wonderland, but we know how I feel about that by now. As for the others... I'm assuming we're going with them but when they were the same age as the first years in Twisted Wonderland (cause it's a school). In all of these scenarios, Crowley does not stand a chance. Also they all steal Grim.

Bruce isn't Batman yet when he's that young, but he's certainly just as crazy as he'll be in his twenties-fourties, maybe even MORE so because he doesn't have the experience of training yet. After figuring out that this isn't a hallucination or weird altered state that he's in (coma, spell, etc), he'd be an unbending force that gives them all a run for their money. He's incredibly smart and I doubt he'd be willing to put up with any bullshit that gets pulled. He would manage to get himself home and refuse to make any friends... but he would probably grow soft for Grim, Ace, and Deuce. Grim because Yuu takes care of Grim, and we all know how Bruce is about adoption. Same for Ace and Deuce, they're so stupid that Bruce would end up worrying about them 24/7. His paranoia about keeping them safe would prevent Azul getting a contract with them, etc etc.

Dick when he was Robin? He's terrorizing Crowley the entire time, with a smile on his face. He's so strong willed that anytime Crowley tries to put him into a situation where Crowley gets to fake being nice and magnanimous without actually helping, Dick calls him out and forces him into actually doing something, lest everyone see how he really is. (They know already but Crowley would try to save face.) He'd make friends with everyone- he'd tame Grim pretty fast and probably see it as an exercise to teach him how to be more patient. Honestly, Grim's temperament would remind Dick of himself when he was just starting off as Robin. It'd be like having a little brother and when Dick isn't stuck angsting about some shit Bruce pulled when being emotionally stunted, he's a good big brother. He'd make friends, but he wouldn't tell them anything about himself, keeping it close to his chest. Secret identities, and all that. Dick would also get himself home very fast, not willing to make B wait long. Plus he really missed Alfred.

He would try to steal Grim though. He would probably succeed, actually. All he'd have to do is tell Grim about the world he's from and how he knows magic users far beyond the level of the teachers at this school who could use a new student, and Grim would likely accept.

For Jason, when he was Robin, he was the sunshine kid. This would be after he's mellowed out with Bruce, when he's started to accept his life with B and Alfred, and started to grow into his own as Robin. They would all mistake his willingness to help as weakness, but Jason can be just as stubborn and clever as any other Robin. It's in their blood. He wouldn't be willing to let them talk down to him- he's used to people looking down on him because of where he comes from. The big fancy schools at home think he's trash from the bad parts of Gotham, and here isn't really any different. They think he can't get by without magic? Boy, will Jason sure show them. He's Robin.

I have a feeling that this, combined with Jason's love of school, would mean that Jason gets a little sidetracked with learning about this world, magic, and history, etc. He and Grim butt heads a lot, but Jason would get protective over him. Jason took care of the kids younger than him before, and his Robin is known for the comfort and kindness he shows.

He, too, would not make B wait a long time for him to come back. He's not as much of a detective as Batman or Nightwing, but he's clever enough to get himself home because of what he's learned. He would also steal Grim. In this scenario, it'd been a long time since anyone had cared about Grim the way Jason does about him. He'd come even without the speech about magic in Jason's world.

Tim... is the only Robin who'd make Batman wait. Not even out of a sense of being an ass about it, Tim would just thrive in Twisted Wonderland. He'd play up a role of being a "damsel in distress" or being silly and carefree and clumsy, etc etc. All the while Tim has been picking apart this mystery in front of him and he's got it all figured out. He's having a blast. It's Batman that comes to get him, and Tim probably wasn't expecting that, but, hey! Batman came to get him!

Damian. Holy shit is he a force to be reckoned with. He gets under everyone's skins, he doesn't bother hiding in plain sight, he demands to be treated the way he deserves. He's the son of Talia al Ghul and Bruce fucking Wayne. You try to put him in Ramshackle and he'll gut you with his sword for the disrespect. I think it'd be funny if Damian was like "this distasteful chandelier was only worth a billion of your currency?" and ADeuce try to kill him. Eventually they get along in the most hilarious way, but they're constantly fighting. Damian takes charge of their group, naturally, but he finds himself on equal footing with ADeuce at some point because they're from Twisted Wonderland and help him fill in the gaps of his knowledge. He's also studious (the PhD thing) and Deuce would ask for his help. Ace would get roped into it.

The only one that he gets along with? Grim. Because he's a cat with fire powers. Damian would think he's so fucking cool, he basically has a fuzzy little dragon. That can fit in his bed and cuddle with him and can talk. Come on. What 14 year old like Damian wouldn't think that's the sickest shit ever? He'd demand only the best for Grim, but would also easily start shaping him up to be a better mage. No, not better- the best. Damian would understand Grim's desire to find his legacy.

And, like, here's the thing. Even with all of that... Damian is a very empathetic kid. If he's about freshman year-aged, he'd be, what, 14? I think? That's after he started letting himself be more empathetic. After he lost his dad for a year and learned to be Robin because of Dick. Literally no one would expect Damian to be understanding or listen to the prefects' insecurities or hurt, nor willing to talk to them about it. But he does. He also hands their asses to them when they fight, but while that's happening, Damian is talking to them.

He steals Grim whether he wants to or not. But Grim does want to go with him.

This got WAYYY longer than I expected it to but this got me to thinking and we know I love to yap. I'd add Stephanie, Duke, Cass, Babs, etc, but I don't want this to get too long.

[bookwyrminspiration]

when homeboy G was making me he just hit copy and paste on my dad and slapped some tits on

[lesbiannieism]

i’ve watched dead boy detectives 4 times now and i haven’t even begun to emotionally process the effect niko’s death will have on edwin

[unboundprompts]

Can you do some more body language descriptions? For different emotions like Worry, sadness, love, etc!! Ty🩷🩷

Body Language Descriptions

-> feel free to edit and adjust pronouns as you see fit.

Worry

She wrung her hands together, her fingers twisting nervously as she struggled to keep her thoughts in check.

He glanced over his shoulder, his gaze darting anxiously around the room.

She pulled at her sleeve, the movement repetitive and absentminded as her mind raced.

He bit the inside of his cheek, a habit that betrayed his inner turmoil.

They hugged their arms tightly across their chest, as if trying to hold themselves together.

She paced the room, her steps quick and uneven as she tried to shake off the nagging sense of dread.

Sadness

She wiped at her eyes, even though no tears had fallen yet.

He let his shoulders sag, his whole body slumping as if the weight of the world rested on him.

She clutched her scarf tightly, her fingers gripping the fabric like it was the only thing grounding her.

He kept his head low, staring at the ground as if afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

They let out a shaky exhale, the sound heavy with unspoken grief.

She blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

Love

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile soft and shy as she met his gaze.

He brushed her hand lightly, the touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

They leaned closer, their knees nearly touching, as if drawn together by an invisible force.

She tilted her head slightly, her expression tender and full of quiet affection.

He laughed easily, the sound warm and unguarded, his gaze never leaving her face.

She reached out to fix his collar, her fingers lingering as she adjusted it carefully.

Guilt

He avoided her eyes, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

She rubbed her temples, her hands trembling.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, unable to stay still.

She clasped her hands tightly behind her back, her knuckles white as she fought to remain composed.

They bit their lower lip, their jaw tightening.

He fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve, his movements jerky and hesitant.

Fear

She took a step back, her breath quickening as her eyes darted to the nearest exit.

He clenched the fabric of his shirt over his chest, as if trying to steady his pounding heart.

She froze in place, her body stiff and her movements tentative, like a deer caught in headlights.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing visibly as he fought to calm himself.

They pressed their back against the wall, their hands splayed out.

She whispered under her breath, her words shaky and barely audible.

Jealousy

He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening as his gaze followed her every move.

She tapped her foot impatiently, the rhythm sharp and irritated as she forced a smile.

He clenched his fists at his sides, the tension in his knuckles betraying his calm demeanor.

She cast a sideways glance, her lips pressed into a thin line.

They shifted in their seat, their shoulders stiff.

He ran his fingers through his hair, his movements brisk and frustrated as he fought to contain his thoughts.

Relief

She exhaled deeply, her shoulders dropping as the tension melted away.

He ran a hand down his face, his smile faint but unmistakably genuine.

She laughed shakily, her hand pressed to her chest as if trying to steady her racing heart.

He slumped against the nearest chair, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him up.

They let their head fall back, their eyes closing as a soft, contented sigh escaped their lips.

She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the surface of the table as the weight lifted from her mind.

Embarrassment

She tugged at the collar of her shirt, her cheeks flushing as she avoided everyone’s gaze.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips twitching into an awkward, forced smile.

She bit her lip, her hands fluttering nervously.

He let out a strained laugh, scratching the side of his head.

They hid their face in their hands, peeking out between their fingers with a sheepish grin.

She stumbled over her words, her fingers twisting the hem of her shirt as her cheeks burned bright red.

[aureatelys]

red light kiss

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader rating: explicit w.c. : 4k a/n: the vest stays on

c.w.: 18+ MDNI PLSSSS, porn no plot, blowjobs in car!!!, newly established relationship, d/s undertones, some dirty talk and degradation, one hint of sir kink, reader has hair?, no y/n, size kink if you squint

summary:

You haven't had sex in a week, you're stuck in the car with your new boyfriend/boss, and he's wearing that damn Kevlar vest. How could you resist?

read below or on ao3 here <3

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You watch with dread as the train inches to a stop several feet in front of you. It was already going horribly slow for the past 15 minutes, taking so long that Hotch even took his foot off the brake and put the car in park. There’s been a line of cars piling behind you, a median on your left, and a field that goes nowhere on your right, so it’s not like you could escape even if you wanted to.

The team was currently in a small college town in Texas investigating a string of murders happening on campus, leaving the entire population of less than 5,000 on edge. You and Hotch were on the way to question a professor that lived only a couple blocks away from the campus with an old rap sheet a mile long. You honestly hoped that he would be good for it so you guys could go the fuck home.

“Relax,” Hotch murmured, putting a comforting hand on your knee while he called the rest of the team at the station to let them know you two were going to be stuck for a while and to have another pair go out to the professor’s house.

You understand that Hotch was trying to help put you at ease since you’ve been cranky all day. Scratch that, you’ve been cranky the past 3 days. It’s not your fault that the BAU was called on your Saturday off, especially when you planned to spend that day off in bed with your boss.

It had taken a while for you and Hotch to get your act together after gradually crossing that professional boundary. The past 6 months consisted of late-night dinners in Hotch’s office, going to the park with him and Jack on the weekends, and mind-blowing orgasms on possibly every surface in Hotch’s apartment.

You’re not sure when the lines had started blurring for you. Maybe that one day you came into Hotch’s office for dinner after a particularly brutal case and ordered from your favorite Thai restaurant despite everything on their menu being too spicy for him. Or maybe it was when you saw the wide smile adorning his face when Jack scored the winning goal at a soccer game, making him look younger. Or maybe it was when he told you you looked beautiful while you were riding his cock in the darkness of his bedroom, his hands pressing bruises into your hips, and the moonlight strewing in from the curtains illuminating the awe in his eyes.

Only several weeks ago did Hotch properly ask you out to dinner and it’s like everything changed. Suddenly, the glances across the bullpen meant something different, something sweeter. Now, you can be affectionate without fearing Hotch wouldn’t reciprocate. Now, he’s touchier— touching the small of your back when he walks by, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear when you’re having dinner in his office, or pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before you fall asleep on his chest.

It's new and you’re still adjusting. However, it definitely hasn’t stopped the sex.

So, your Saturday plans with Hotch got ruined, that’s fine. It wasn’t like the team had just gotten back from a week-long case and you had barely tumbled into bed with Hotch when his phone rang. And you haven’t even had the chance for a quickie in the hotel, both of you too tired and passing out before even thinking of sneaking in each other’s rooms.

You’re cranky because you haven’t gotten laid in almost a week and you work with possibly the hottest man alive and today, he’s wearing one of your top 3 hottest outfits he’s ever worn.

Your third favorite outfit is his green button-up with the sleeves rolled up, often paired with black jeans. The first time you saw him pull that out for date night, hair perfectly gelled down and sleeves rolled up his wide forearms, you had missed your dinner reservations because you were too busy on your knees in the middle of the doorway. He just looked so good wearing dark green— the way it complemented his complexion, and even better when he wore those tight jeans that made your eyes bug out of your head.

Your second favorite outfit was more intimate—a faded GWU shirt that was starting to stretch over Hotch’s shoulders and gray sweatpants that definitely left little to the imagination. At times, this combination felt straight up pornographic, especially if Hotch was relaxing on the couch, legs spread with his arms stretched behind his head. It felt like a siren call, and you fell for it every single time.

But Hotch right now, not only wearing a plain black tee that stretched over his chest, but also his Kevlar vest, was your most favorite outfit of them all.

You didn’t know why it was your favorite. You see Hotch wearing his Kevlar vest almost twice a week, usually over a white dress shirt, and it doesn’t distract you as much as this specific combination does.

Maybe it’s because you’ve always been a sucker for Hotch’s arms, as you stare at the way he has them stretched out lazily with his wrists resting on the steering wheel, muscles bulging. Or maybe it’s the way the vest hugs him so tightly it makes him look even broader, makes him stand up straighter and appear more confident. Or maybe it’s because Hotch inevitably starts sweating not even 10 minutes after the vest is on due to the constricting material, making his chest heave and sweat form at his forehead. You wear your vest just as often as he does, and you know for a fact that you don’t look as insanely sexy he does.

“Are you okay?”

You blink, brain brought back to reality, feeling a rising heat to your face and down to your stomach. You bring your gaze up from where you were ogling his jean-clad thighs to Hotch staring down at you in amusement. “Yep, why wouldn’t I be? We’ve just been stuck behind this train for hours.”

Hotch cracks a smile at that. It makes your chest tighten. “It hasn’t even been 30 minutes, don’t be so dramatic.”

You lean over to swat at his arm playfully and definitely not an attempt to quickly cop a feel. “How dare you! I’m never dramatic.”

Hotch huffs a laugh at that, used to your antics by now. “Morgan and Reid are already on their way to the Thompson house so we may as well relax.”

Someone several cars down honks, causing Hotch to twist his upper body as best as he could in the vest to look back incredulously, as if they could see him through the tinted windows. You’re suddenly enraptured by the sharp cut of his jaw and the line of his throat. “People here have no patience,” he remarks.

An idea slowly forms in your mind. Not only is it in the middle of the night, but the county-issued SUV that you were in had tinted windows the same strength as the ones back home. No one at the police station was expecting you since they knew you were trapped behind the train and it’s not like you brought any files or your laptop to continue bouncing around ideas about the case.

You watch thoughtfully as Hotch shifts in his seat, adjusting the vest to sit a bit more comfortably. How could you resist?

“I have an idea,” you say, feigning nonchalance.

Hotch’s eyes flit to you, eyes narrowing because, like you said, he knows you by now. “And what idea is that?”

“I can suck you off?”

You watch in delight as Hotch’s eyebrows raise, a flush rising up his neck. He clears his throat, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel, before saying almost breathlessly “And what makes you think I’ll let you?”

You know you’ve already gotten him, that he’s already going to let you go down on him. He wouldn’t be shifting in his seat if he wasn’t. Any other day, he would’ve turned you down instantly, a reprimand telling you to at least pretend to be professional at the tip of his tongue. If you’re sexually frustrated, he must be at least ten times hornier since his libido has always been worse than yours.

“Well, our weekend plans got ruined and this is the first time we’ve been alone in over a week,” you sigh, leaning over the console as gracefully as you could with the vest weighing you down to put your hand on his, running your fingertips up his forearms. “And I miss you.”

A smile quirks at the corner of Hotch’s mouth. “We work together.”

You roll your eyes, letting your fingers trace the veins decorating his arms. God, he’s so hot. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Hotch says, softly, watching you with a gaze so fond that it makes you want to cry. “That doesn’t mean you need to suck my cock while we’re on the job.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. Hotch is only vulgar like that in the privacy of the bedroom, knowing how much it gets you off when he’s muttering in your ear about how good you take his cock. The contrast of his soft gaze and lewd words has you shifting in your seat now, thighs rubbing together at the sudden onslaught of heat between them. You’re really about to do this.

“You just look really good in that vest,” you whisper, feeling a twinge of embarrassment.

Hotch hums, leaning back in the seat and moving his hips down. His right arm comes up to stretch out and rest his hand behind your headrest, watching you with dark eyes, almost beckoning you. “So that’s what’s got you all hot and bothered.”

“Yes,” you exhale, already feeling that familiar glaze over your brain. You glance down curiously at his lap and your mouth waters when you see the outline of his half-hard dick through his jeans, undoubtedly uncomfortable because all of his jeans are unfairly tight. “Can I?”

“Come here first.” His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, an action that’s lately been making you weak in the knees. He’s been clingier lately, pressing his lips to any part of you he can take, and you know what he’s asking for, his neck craned and his eyes zeroing in on your mouth.

You unbuckle your seatbelt and nearly bang your knee against the console when you lean over more to kiss him, something tender and gentle despite the way you desperately want to clamber over to sit on his lap. He tastes like cheap coffee and something inexplicably Aaron, warm and soothing, that makes you part your lips to deepen the kiss. His mouth is so soft, yet he kisses you in a way that’s all consuming, heady. His hold on your jaw tightens before sliding down your neck, and the way it would be so easy for him to take a hold of you there makes you dizzy.

When you pull away, he’s watching you with that fond look that’s been making more of an appearance recently. “Now can I?”

There’s that smile with your favorite dimple again, barely detectable even from the dashboard lights and the flashing railroad stop signs. “Yes,” Aaron says, exasperatedly.

You situate yourself with your knees on your seat, your own vest digging into your chest when you lean down lower, so your face is nearly in his lap. He doesn’t even need to move his seat back, his long legs already making him sit ridiculously far from the wheel, leaving you with enough breathing room.

You press your palm against his cock over his jeans and you preen a little when you feel a click in his throat before he clears it. He unbuckles his seatbelt and scoots down in his seat a bit more, causing him to push his hips up against your hand. You try to wrap your fingers around him, marveling at the heat seeping through the fabric. He’s fully hard despite not having done anything except talk and kiss, signifying to you that he may just be as desperate as you are.

“You have to be quick,” Aaron mutters through gritted teeth. You can almost imagine his eyes flitting back and forth out the window, anticipating when the train was going to start moving again.

“Don’t rush me,” you say and get the reaction you’re hoping for when you feel Aaron’s large hand on the top of your head, pushing your face down into his lap until your mouth is inches away from the outline of his cock.

“You have such a mouth on you,” Aaron sighs, feigning the type of nonchalance that makes your cheeks heat. “Maybe you should put it to good use.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hands swiftly unbutton his jeans and pull the zipper down, your mouth already watering. He helps you by lifting his hips up again and wiggling his jeans and briefs down until they’re mid-thigh, and then his hard cock is out, a pretty red with precum glistening at the tip. The way it looks against his vest, soft flesh contrasting against the rough material, has you licking your lips.

This has to be the best idea you’ve ever had.

Since Aaron was right about you possibly not having a lot of time, you forgo your usual teasing kitten licks for a broad stripe up his length and watch intently at the way the head of his cock brushes against his vest. Aaron jumps at the rough feeling against the sensitive head but lets out a low groan all the same. Something akin to glee fills you when you notice the wet patch his cock leaves on the blue fabric.

Aaron must notice because his hand is back on your head, putting pressure in a way that was hard to ignore. “You’re so filthy, practically begging me with those pretty eyes of yours to have my cock down your throat.”

You don’t answer, you know he’s not expecting one anyway. Instead, you grab his cock at the base, silently marveling at just how big he is in your hand, and lick another path up his cock before taking him fully in your mouth.

You always love sucking Aaron off— the weight of him on your tongue, the clean and musky taste of him, and the way he fills out your mouth and just feels so good in your hands. The best part is clearly the way he responds.

He groans deeply, a sound coming straight from within his chest, and you hear the thud from him throwing his head back against the headrest. You rest your free hand on his muscular thigh, marveling at the obvious way he’s attempting to hold himself back from immediately fucking into your mouth. He gives you a minute since it’s been a while, although you can feel the way his hand on your head clenches into a fist, patience already wearing thin.

You swirl your tongue around his head before taking more of him into your mouth, letting spit run down his length so you can stroke whatever you can’t fit in your mouth. You wish you had gotten a better look at his cock before doing this to marvel at the bulging veins, similar to his arms. Instead, you trace the vein on the underside of his cock with your tongue before coming back up to press against the head and coming up to flick your tongue against his leaking slit.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good, sweetheart.”

God, you wish you were able to see his face, the way he would be watching you with half-lidded eyes like he couldn’t decide whether to close them in pleasure or watch your lips stretch around him. He’d be biting at his lip, attempting to suppress his sounds because he’s still self-conscious about having his dick out in a government vehicle. He would have a crease between his brows, still trying to give you time to adjust and not giving in, and the flush on his neck would slowly rise up to his face.

But with the way you’re leaning with the console digging into you, your ass basically in the air, you can’t. As if Aaron read your mind, his right hand runs down your spine, leaving a hot trail in his wake, and down until he’s grabbing a handful of your ass. It’s so close to the aching heat of your pussy and your head spins when you start to wonder if he’s going to finger you like this or leave you wanting with wetness seeping through your pants.

The feeling of his hand on you and the way he inadvertently pushes you causes your mouth to slide another inch down his cock until your lips touch your fist. You moan, tightening your grip on his impossibly hard flesh, causing Aaron to let out another deep moan.

There’s another honk from behind the car and you suddenly remember that Aaron was right and you really don’t have a lot of time to waste.

So, you take a deep breath through your nostrils before you slide down until you could take as much of him as you could, spit starting to run out of the corners of your mouth, until he was hitting the back of your throat.

Aaron lets out a strangled sound, hips thrusting of his own accord. Luckily you were expecting it and you make sure to relax your jaw just a little bit more, slide down more until you move your hand away to settle on his thigh and your nose is pressed against neat curls. You focus on your heartbeat pounding in your ears and the feeling of his cock prodding at the back of your throat when you hold for two seconds and not the automatic way you want to gag before coming up to gasp in a breath. You barely hear the whisper of your name from Aaron’s lips before you’re taking him in his mouth again, easily due to how slick he is from your spit, until you’re deepthroating him.

“You always take my cock so well,” Aaron chokes out, his hands frantically coming to gather your hair in one hand before he barely pushes your head down and then back up. The hold he has on you isn’t rough, which you’re grateful for, but he still tugs you off his cock with a force that makes you dizzy. He makes you crane your neck at him, uncomfortably, but it’s worth it when you see the glazed look in his dark eyes and his parted lips as he pants in the air. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You know you’re panting just as hard, tears already starting to prickle at the corner of your eyes, and your mouth swollen. You know Aaron loves you like this, open-mouthed and silently begging. So, you can’t help yourself when you lick your lips, relishing in the way Aaron’s hungry gaze follows the movement, and say in a raspy voice “Yes, sir.”

You never would’ve guessed Aaron liked being called sir in the bedroom, though you secretly hoped, but you didn’t realize the full extent of it until you called him sir as a joke in his office and noticed the way his back stiffened and his breath stuttered. After that, you always got a kick out of teasing him, just to see what he had in store for you when you got home.

You know exactly what he has in store for you now, in fact you had planned it. Your skin prickles as Aaron’s eyes narrow and the line of his mouth flattens. His chest is heaving as he tries to catch his breath and you watch the way the vest moves with him, shirt underneath stretching across him. He doesn’t say anything as he pushes you down, gentle enough so you know you could always back out if you wanted to.

You ignore the sore twinge in your neck as you wrap your lips around him again, closing your eyes to focus on covering your teeth, leaving one hand on his thigh in case you need to tap out and the other bent at the elbow to lean on the plush upholstery. You hear Aaron sigh blissfully when his cock slides back into your mouth, a hand gathering your hair again in a vice like grip, like he’s been thinking about this all week.

The way Aaron starts to fuck your mouth, you think you may be right. The thought of holding back seems to have been thrown out the window based on the noises he makes; guttural and heavy groans and whispered praises. Seeing his hips come off from the seat and into the warm wetness of your mouth and the easy glide of his cock between your lips is intoxicating, especially when added with the fact that you’re letting him.

The ache between your legs is almost overwhelming, pulsing with every thrust of Aaron’s hips against your face, and you wouldn’t be surprised if your panties were absolutely ruined by now from your arousal.

The sound of him fucking your mouth is obscene, lewd as the car is filled with the sounds of him hitting the back of your throat and his breathless pants. You let him take over and you watch with tears brimming at your eyes as his hips barely need to lift off the seat since he’s focusing all of his attention pulling you on and off his cock by your hair. The feeling of his cock thrusting in your mouth, of him using you to get himself off quickly is heady and so fucking hot.

You know he’s close when he starts to speed up, hips bucking into your open mouth frantically. You feel him start to pull you off of him in a silent question of where do you want me and the thought of him coming down your throat, hot and desperate, has your eyes rolling in the back of your head. The next time he thrusts into your mouth, you hold him there, the spot in the back of your throat deliciously raw.

“Jesus Christ,” you hear Aaron mutter through the blood rushing in your ears. “You want me to come in your mouth, sweetheart? So no one knows you were letting me fuck your mouth?”

You whimper, a muffled sound from your lips stretched around his cock, causing Aaron’s hips to stutter again. You pull off of him but you don’t move far, instead just barely hovering over the head, panting with your mouth open and tongue out, the message clear as day. You watch as Aaron’s free hand comes down to quickly jerk himself off.  

“Fuck, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Everyone knowing how good you are for me?”

God, you really wish you could see his face, but to make up for it, you move to press your tongue against him as best as you could while his hand is a blur on his cock. You’re barely able to tongue the slit, the salty taste of his precum cutting through, when you hear the roaring of an engine and a train horn.

You realize the train’s finally moving, which means now you’re really running out of time.

You squeeze his thigh, not trusting your ability to speak, and Aaron wordlessly brings you down so you could further wrap your lips around the head of his cock, flicking your tongue against him, his hand continuing to bring himself off. The way his large hand envelops his thick cock, slick from your spit and squelching lewdly, has you pressing your thighs together in an effort to press the inseam of your pants against your clit, because the blur of his hand and his rhythmic grunts were so filthy.  

It didn’t take long for Aaron’s raspy exhales to turn into a stuttered groan, his muscled thigh underneath your hand tensing, and his hips to snap up once, twice, before his come is shooting into your mouth in hot spurts. The bitter taste coats your tongue, your throat, and you swallow before you can think of it. You hollow your cheeks, taking more of him in your mouth and press your tongue against the slit to gather whatever is left despite the hiss you faintly hear, Aaron undoubtedly sensitive.

You lift up off him, using his leg as leverage, and ignore the soreness in your abdomen from the console pressing against your vest while you sucked your boss’s cock in a government issued vehicle. The ache between your thighs is nearly overwhelming, your panties melding against your pussy from how wet you were, and you secretly wished Aaron used his thick fingers to give you some relief while you went down on him.

The train just barely passes by you before the red lights stop flashing and the barriers come up, causing Aaron to hurriedly tuck himself back in his jeans and put the car back in drive. You’re just barely buckling your seatbelt in before you’re speeding off, the glaring lights from the cars behind you now a distant memory.

“You okay?” you ask after you’ve been driving in silence for nearly 5 minutes. You glance over at Aaron to see him almost done catching his breath, however his chest is still rising and falling deliciously so, especially still in that fucking vest. His jeans are still undone and you bite your lip when you notice a dried spot near the zipper where some of him must have escaped from the corner of your mouth. Oops.

Aaron shakes his head, ducking his head to chuckle breathlessly. He’s so endearingly handsome. “Never been more okay in my life.” And then he’s placing his hand on your thigh, fingertips so close to where you need him most, and gives you a reassuring squeeze.

At the next stoplight, Aaron finally does his jeans back up and then twists his body towards you. His eyes are still dark, bottom lip raw from where he must have been biting it, and then says to you again in a low voice “Come here.”

You obey, because how could you not, and then Aaron’s hand that was on your thigh is cradling your jaw to meet you halfway and kiss you, deeply. It’s a different kiss than the one he gave you earlier, more intense as his tongue slides against yours. He groans at the taste of himself in your mouth and you swear you fall a little more in love with him.

When he pulls back, he’s looking at you like you’re something precious, despite the fact that your hair must be a rat’s nest from his hands and your lips are swollen and chapped. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, something sweet twitching at the corner of his mouth. “You think you can wait until we get back to the hotel?”

You fail to hide your surprise because Aaron rarely wants to spend the night together on cases, which technically explains how you got here in the first place, the taste of come still at the back of your mouth and your panties sticking to you. He must really want to fuck you. You run your eyes over him, at the red light sharpening his features and his dimple just barely visible. You imagine him looming over you and holding onto the straps adorning his sides as he fucks mercilessly into you. “As long as you keep the vest on.”

The smile on Aaron’s face is blinding, causing your heart to stutter in your chest. You’re so screwed.

“Deal.”

[harmonysanreads]

PUPPY PHAINON IS SO REAL OMG

i think it be so funny (extremely sexy) if he goes absolutely feral because his love got hurt on the battlefield

i'm talking absolute carnage, not a soul alive, people being genuinely scared because wtf man (bonus if his partner only got a minor flesh wound hehe)

Your lover has been acting... strange recently.

Though, the abnormalities have been so conveniently spaced, so intertwined with inconveniences that they could be brushed off as mere coincidences — in hindsight, at least. You'd be found guilty of this practice, as it becomes second nature to assume the best of people that can bear one's trust. There appears the occasional incident, where you find yourself second guessing that faith instead and question the normalcy of this particular genre of human behavior.

“Will you tell me now, who did this to you, melite?”

You find that you need to use force in order to push down the flinch that almost crawled all over your skin, unaccustomed to this tone of his.

You push yourself closer, your nails dig a bit harder into the fabric covering his arm ; sensing his gaze towards your direction. Your grasp is more labored than it should've been, you can feel the tendons beneath your grip flexing in barely held restraint. Murmurs follow their way to your ear, unintelligible in fear of feeding further the hero's wrath.

“I have been telling you this since the beginning, Phai.” in spite of your effort, exasperation bleeds into your words.

You glance from behind Phainon's shadow — pointedly at that — towards the knuckle tight grip he has on the fellow's skull. ‘Unfortunate’ probably does not suffice to describe this random pedestrian's situation. You're not given more time to ponder the validity of that claim as something reminiscent of a crack drifts to your ear, alerting you to hasten.

“It wasn't this man, it wasn't any human to begin with! You have to believe me, please.” you tilt your head and make sure to secure his gaze, ripples of discontent appear on the once placid ocean.

You knew it wasn't exactly unusual for one's protective instincts to be provoked in relation to a loved one, but for it reach this magnitude was concerning in your book. Especially so considering their increasing appearances, over the most mundane matters at that.

The Chrysos Heirs aren't known as without their fair share of eccentricities, you suppose they are suited for ones destined to be heroes. But every new scene over a scratch against a surface, a person standing too close, a different gaze lingering too long has you questioning if Phainon's ‘protectiveness’ can really be excused for long.

Perhaps the helplessness in your eyes had finally pushed through the layers of rage bubbling in his head and the contact with your skin had weakened the flames, as he loosens his clasp on the man's head, before shoving him aside with enough force to make you feel the kick of your heart against your ribcage.

You don't get to check the man's condition as Phainon takes your hand in his previously occupied one, his thumb ghosts over the scratch across its back, the swift difference unnerves you for a second.

You know not to waste your breath though, catching the implications. “It... was that pillar.” you avert your eyes upon feeling his caress halt.

“...Which one?” his curt inquiry alerts you. His fingers flex and relax around yours, you can no longer hear the crowd.

You bypass a breath to grasp his collar, caution clouds your mind. The abruptness of your action startles Phainon, as he meets your frown.

“Don’t.” you warn, the realization that makes itself known on his countenance at your order proves your hypothesis to be correct.

“But that pillar deserves it, melite.” something similar to a pout softens his face and at last you find traces of the Phainon you are so familiar with. “If it's hurt you once, it will do it again. Isn't it better to just remove it to avoid that scenario?”

You let go of his collar and rest your palm on his cheek, unable to restrain the sigh that escapes your lips, “Phai, the pillar is an inanimate object.”

He leans into your touch, you're certain he would've melted from it had it not been for the embers of his previous fury keeping his senses sharp, “So?”

You steer yourself away from face-palming, “So, I'm saying that you shouldn't make more of a scene than you've already had. I just want a peaceful evening with you, okay?”

He blankly stares at you for a moment, digesting each syllable. Only when the ‘with you’ reaches his ears does he seem to have sobered up. Phainon nods, taking your hand from his face to press a kiss on the scratch marring the skin. You notice his eyes straying, you would've missed it completely had you not been paying attention — a side-eye towards the fellow now scrambling away.

You've succeeded in preventing any major incident from occuring today, but your power in maintaining the consistency of this endeavor remains uncertain.

I tweaked the scenario a bit because it was funnier in my head orz but overprotective Phainon is so delicious, ty nonnie!

[metyouinthehallway]

𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟

Matt Sturniolo x fem!reader

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Holy fuck…” Matt groans, throwing himself face down on his bed, right next to where you lay. He’d been out at meetings for new merch ideas all day while you sat at home worry free.

“What’s goin’ on?” You didn’t even have to ask, poor boy was stressed out. You shift your weight on the mattress, rubbing comforting circles on his back.

“Stupid people, never listening to us.” He mumbles into the plush surface. The three of them left at 10am and it was now 5pm. Seven whole hours of meetings. Not only was he stressed but most definitely exhausted too.

Matt rolls onto his back, closing his eyes and letting you soothingly scratch at his scalp. “We deadass told them we didn’t want that design but the team insisted! And it’s god awful ugly y/n. Horrific.” He rolls his eyes at the memory, voice laced with frustration.

“I’m sorry baby… anything I can do to help?” you offer, as if going to the building downtown and telling off their management would be any help.

He thinks for a moment before speaking up. “Yeah, actually…” Matt turns his head to you, a devilish smirk painted on his face. You raise a brow at him, having an idea of what could come of this whole situation. “Strip for me.” He states, moving to the edge of the bed.

Without a fight, you stand in front of Matt, undressing yourself piece by piece. His eyes glued to your body as you do so.

“So fuckin’ sexy…” Matt growls, pulling you onto his lap. Wrapping your manicured nails around his neck, he wastes no time attacking your lips in a searing kiss. His hands roaming down to cup your ass, he begins to rock you against his denim clad thigh.

“M-Matt…” you whine against his lips, your bare pussy leaving a wet spot on the fabric beneath you. Matt only hums in response, trailing harsh kisses down your jaw and right behind your ear.

“Gonna let me take my stress out on you?” He purrs in your ear, his breath tickling your skin. Matt bucks his hips up, letting you feel just how aroused he is.

You intensify your grinding, searching for any sort of friction you can. The feeling of his jeans against your clit being pure ecstasy. He doesn’t let you continue for too long though.

Flipping you over, he climbs on top of you. Simultaneously pulling his shirt off and tossing it on the floor. Continuing to place wet kisses on your bare skin, he’s slowly making his way down to your heat, his nails gripping your thighs with vulgar intent.

“Mhm, so wet f’me already…” Matt’s voice tantalizing as he runs his index finger through your folds. He peers up at you, almost as if he’s seeking approval from you. When you meet his eyes with desperation, Matt doesn’t waver.

His tongue darts out, licking at your clit which causes you to arch your back off of the mattress. When he notices, he decides to add a finger into your sopping wet pussy, slowly stretching you out for his cock.

With vigorous flits of the tongue and his digits pumping in and out of you, you’re nearly already there. Your fingers grasping at his brunette strands in attempt to strengthen the pleasure.

“F-fuck…! Need your cock Matt…” your words are strung together in broken moans, Matt laps at your clit once more before hovering above you again. He fumbles with his jeans, speedily unzipping them, he wiggles the denim off of his body, followed by his briefs.

“How bad you need it, princess?” He teases, one hand stroking his already hard dick in preparation. The other hand holding him up above you.

“Don’t make me beg,” you pout, despite you words, you find yourself spreading your legs further apart. Matt chuckles, running his dick through your slick, eliciting a whimper from you.

Finally, he pushes himself inside of you, slowly stretching out your gummy walls at which you both moan. Your nails dig into his shoulder blades, sure to leave crescent shaped imprints later.

“Shit- so perfect… pussy was made for me.” Matt croaks, his thrusts starting off slow, allowing you to adjust to his size. He leans down, placing a chaste kiss to your lips before he quickens his pace. Now standing on the hardwood floor, his rough hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave bruises as Matt fucks himself into you.

The sound of skin slapping against skin and your echoed moans bounce off of the walls of Matt’s bedroom. Your eyes pinch shut from pleasure, Matt taking in the sight of you spread out on his silk sheets.

“Look at you, my girl…” he continues to praise you, talk you through it. You’re a babbling mess beneath him, his cock ghosting your cervix with each brutal thrust. He pulls out, hastily flipping you over.

Instinctually, you arch your back, showing off your ass as your face is buried into one of his few pillows. It doesn’t take long for Matt to slip himself back inside of you. Now, his pace even faster than before— if even possible. Matt snakes a hand around your throat, gripping onto it as if to steady himself.

“Gonna- gonna cum!” You yelp, now squeezing your palms around his pillow. Matt doesn’t verbally respond to your words, instead, his hips move with vigor. Long, deep thrusts into your pussy. He can feel you tightening around him he knows you’re approaching your limit, though, he doesn’t care.

Your walls clench around his cock, squeezing him tight. You can feel the knot in your stomach— it’s about to snap in half. Your lewd moans are muffled by his pillow as your body shudders with each of your boyfriends thrusts.

Your body falls weak against his bed. Matt still slamming into you and he didn’t plan on stopping until he got his fix. He looks down at where the two of you are connected, his now cum coated base disappearing inside of you as slams your hips back toward his.

“Fuck- I can’t… sh-shit,” you mumble into the plush fabric. You could most definitely go for another round, maybe even two more rounds. It felt so fucking good. You didn’t want him to stop.

“Yes you can, I’ve- mm… fuck- I’ve seen you go longer.” He grunts between moans, pulling your hair into a makeshift ponytail. Matt continues his intense thrusts, not once slowing down.

Matt had rendered you speechless. The euphoric high from your previous orgasm still washing over you, the few coherent words you’re able to speak are nonsense.

“Got you fucked dumb? Look at you, all stupid on my dick. You love it baby.” Matt snickered, his own climax approaching. “Talk t’me, angel. Feel good?” He continues, in response, you reach behind you, grasping his wrists. “Feels fucking perfect for me- shit, you want me to cum in you?”

Given your current state, you’re shocked at the fact that Matt is even able to form complete sentences. Your grip on his wrists tightens and you whimper out a weak ‘yes’. Matt pulls you upward so you’re kneeling on the bed, your back against his chest.

He forces your head toward his own, connecting the two of you with a kiss. Matt whimpers against your lips, both of you feeling his cock twitch inside of you, his thrusts becoming sloppy and inconsistent.

“Gonna fill you up so…fucking good…” he moans into your mouth. Prodding himself as deep as he can, you feel thick ropes of his cum shoot inside of you. The both of you panting and breathless from your interaction.

“Shit…” you sigh, Matt’s now softening cock still buried in your hole. He leans down, placing a sweet kiss on your shoulder.

“Always so good for me.” Matt chirps, his hands resting on your hips. You pull off of him, your juices and his dripping down the inside of your thighs.

“C’mon, gonna get you cleaned up.” Matt stands, offering his hand for you. “Feel much, much better now. Just letting you know.” He smirks, slapping your ass when you get off the bed.

“Mhm… glad I could help ‘ya.” You giggle, leaning up on your toes for yet another kiss.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

[wadewnstonwilson]

need you close;

summary: when your busy schedule leaves logan feeling neglected, he craves your attention in his own way—by showing up with small, thoughtful gestures and lingering touches that hint at his pent-up need. despite his rugged exterior, logan’s vulnerability shines through as he tries to remind you he’s still there, waiting.

word count: 1k

a/n: okay so this was originally a headcanon idea but this was my most popular headcanon so I definitely wanted to post it as a one shot! always feel free to leave an ask if you guys want anymore logan themed headcanons or fics!

Logan wasn’t used to being ignored. Or at least, not by you. It had been weeks since you’d been swamped with work, and while you appreciated his support, you couldn’t help but feel the strain on your relationship. He’d never say it, not out loud at least, but Logan was needy, and he craved your attention like nothing else.

The soft scratch of a pen met your ears, but you didn’t even look up from your laptop. Logan stood by the counter, lazily scribbling something on a piece of paper. He’d been in and out of your office all day, never staying long but always making his presence known. His scent—musky, earthy, all Logan—lingered long after he’d leave. It used to comfort you, but now it only reminded you of the time you couldn’t give him.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. “Logan, I’m really busy.”

Without missing a beat, he crossed the room and placed a steaming cup of your favorite coffee on the desk. His fingers lingered, brushing against yours as he slid the cup toward you. You glanced up and caught the faintest smirk on his lips.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up,” he grumbled, leaning in closer. His warm breath fanned over your cheek, and you could feel the tension melt from your muscles, despite how desperately you needed to focus. “Been workin’ too hard.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, trying to sound casual, but your voice betrayed you. The way his hands rested on your shoulders—rough yet tender—sent shivers down your spine. He started massaging the knots in your shoulders, his fingers kneading the tension from your overworked muscles. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—missed him—until now.

“You need a break, darlin’,” Logan muttered, his voice low and rough, sending a familiar heat through your body. “Can’t have you burnin’ out on me.”

You chuckled, but the sound was weak. “I’ll take a break soon, I promise.”

Logan let out a soft grunt, clearly unsatisfied with your answer. But instead of arguing, he pulled back, leaving a small note on the corner of your desk before disappearing from the room. You picked it up, your heart softening at the sight of his messy handwriting: Missin’ you. Don’t forget to take a break.

For a moment, you considered following him. You could see the hurt in his eyes, the frustration simmering just beneath the surface. But you had deadlines to meet, work piling up faster than you could keep up with. You’d make it up to him later—at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The next few days were more of the same. Logan was always around, but never directly demanding your attention. He’d leave notes scattered around your workspace—short, sweet messages like Thinkin’ ‘bout you or We’re overdue for some time together. He brought you food, sometimes your favorite meal, other times just a snack to keep you going. He’d make excuses to touch you, his hands lingering on your back or brushing against your arm as he walked by.

But you noticed the shift. His touches were growing more possessive, more intense, as if he was trying to remind you that he was still here, waiting for you to give him the attention he so desperately needed.

One evening, you returned home from a long day at work, exhausted and drained. You dropped your bag by the door and collapsed on the couch, barely managing to kick off your shoes. Within seconds, Logan was beside you, pulling you into his lap without a word.

“Logan, I’m—”

“Shh.” His arms wrapped around you, and you could feel the weight of his need in the way he held you, so tight you thought he might never let go. “You’re always busy, darlin’. Let me take care of you.”

The frustration in his voice was clear, but so was the affection. He wasn’t angry—he was hurt. Hurt that you hadn’t been giving him the time he needed. You felt a pang of guilt as you melted into his embrace, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your head resting against his chest. His heart thudded steadily beneath your ear, a comforting sound that you hadn’t realized you’d missed. “I’ve been so caught up in work, I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologizin’,” Logan interrupted, his voice softer than before. He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “Just... don’t do it again, alright? I miss you.”

You nodded, your heart aching at the vulnerability in his voice. Logan wasn’t the type to openly express his emotions, but the way he held you now—tight, protective, needy—said more than words ever could.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his lips lingering against your hair. “I’ve been patient,” he muttered, his voice rumbling through his chest. “But I need you. Not just here, but with me. You get what I’m sayin’?”

“I do,” you replied softly, shifting to look up at him. His eyes met yours, and you could see the raw emotion swirling in them—jealousy, frustration, but above all, love. “I’m sorry I haven’t been around much.”

Logan grunted, but this time there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Guess I can forgive you, but only ‘cause I know how hard you’ve been workin’. Just don’t make a habit of it.”

You laughed, feeling the tension in your chest ease. “I’ll try not to.”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a soft, lingering kiss that made your heart race. You could feel the heat of his need, the way he poured every bit of his pent-up affection into the kiss. It was almost overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I’m not gonna stop remindin’ you I’m here,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You’re mine, darlin’. Don’t forget that.”

You smiled, your fingers tracing the edge of his jaw. “I won’t forget.”

For the first time in weeks, you allowed yourself to relax completely in his arms, savoring the warmth of his touch and the strength of his embrace. Logan wasn’t one to be needy often, but when he was, it only made you fall harder for him.

And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what you needed too.

[withahappyrefrain]

Just a Game

You and Peter like to play a game. It requires no trivia or plastic pieces. Just two people and feigned innocence.

Warnings: CNC (which has been discussed explicitly) unprotected sex, language, minor breeding kink at the very end

You and Peter like to play a game. 

It's not a board game, though you two enjoy those from time to time. Not a video game, though Peter has expressed interest. 

This game doesn't require any trivia knowledge or plastic pieces. No one has to keep track of points. There isn't a timer. 

All this game requires is a surface and your two bodies. 

Sometimes it was a couch, when you two were in the middle of watching a movie. Other times it could be your kitchen counter, dinner be damned. Rarely, it would be the back of a car, which was your favorite. Peter’s favorite-against a wall- depended on when and where. 

Today the surface was your shared bed. 

It started innocently, like it always does. Peter found you curled up in bed, reading. He hadn’t considered playing today. But then he saw you, wearing only one of his hoodies and those pastel yellow panties that drove him wild. 

It didn’t help that Peter could smell you. Though the cover of your book didn't look out of the ordinary, your arousal revealed the true nature of your reading choice. 

“What’cha reading ladybug?” He asked, curling up to you. 

You put on an innocent smile, keeping the book to your chest, “Oh nothing. Just one of those silly romance books.” 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Silly? Let me see.” 

Before you could squeak out an objection, Peter snatched the book away, his eyes scanning the page you were on. 

“He pushed her dress up to her hips, revealing her wet core. He dove in, lapping up her arousal like a starved man, his mouth quickly attaching itself to her clit.”

Sometimes you got so caught up in playing your role. Peter had said much dirtier things to you and yet there you were, head in your hands and a warm flush coursing through your body. 

Peter placed the book on your nightstand before bringing your hands away from your face. 

“Oh baby. You’re too sweet to be reading something like that. Why don’t we cuddle instead?”

With his brown puppy dog eyes and sweet smile, he actually sounded genuine. For a moment, you thought he wasn’t inviting you to play. Not when he had his head in your lap, practically purring as your fingernails gently scratched his scalp. 

But then his long, nimble fingers made their way under the blanket, grazing against your bare skin, drawing shapes along your thighs as he made his way up your body.

“Peter.” His name was said in a sweet, sing-song voice, “Thought you wanted to cuddle.”

He sat up, pulling you closer, “I do bug.” Peter's other hand was now underneath your shirt, creeping up to your chest.. 

“Peter,” you could barely breathe, too enthralled with how good his fingers felt kneading your breasts, “This isn’t cuddling.” 

“I know,” He sighed, as if he felt some guilt about what he was doing, “But doesn’t it feel good bug?”

You could only nod, breath hitching up when one of his large hands began to toy with the elastic waistband of your panties. 

The foreplay was fun, but it wasn't the main focus of the game. 

That didn't come until you were underneath him, completely bare and withering as his hard cock slid between your soaked folds. It was a battle, fighting the urge to jerk your hips up, potentially catching him. 

“Peter, w-we shouldn't,” your voice was shaky as you tried to come across as worried rather than in a pleasure laced haze.

“I know. We shouldn’t.” He's panting. Peter's lips ghosted over your bare skin, leaving a trail of open mouthed kisses. 

In this game, your birth control and five year relationship didn't exist. 

No. In this game you were wide-eyed and innocent. In this game, both your heads were clouded with lust, longing threatening to overtake common sense. 

“Maybe,” His voice is soft, addictive. “Maybe I-we-just the tip?” 

You throw your head back when the head of his cock makes contact with your clit. Desire racked through your body, fingers creating crescent shaped marks along his back as you searched for something, anything to ground you amidst the pleasure haze that was clouding your judgment. 

Part of you wanted to break character so he would fuck you sooner. 

But where was the fun in that?

“But we-fuck- we don’t have a condom?” A box of condoms was currently stashed away in your nightstand. You had been on birth control for years. There was no concern.

Again, not in this game. 

With your wide, doe-like eyes, sweet voice, and withering body, Peter was truly surprised he hadn’t come already. 

But where was the fun in that? That didn’t allow him to play, to take off the friendly neighborhood hero mask and act out his deepest desires. 

His head dropped down to your chest, his thin pink lips quickly latching on to one of your breasts. Your back arched in pleasure, hands grabbing Peter’s soft chestnut locks upon feeling the scrape of his teeth. His hips continue to thrust forward, reminding you of what was within reach. 

“I know, forgot to bring some. It would just-just be the tip,” He sounds like he just ran a marathon. You’re so warm and wet. Everytime the plush head of his cock nudges against your clit, he can feel your walls clenching, trying to catch him, enticing him in. 

“Peter,” the way you moan his name is sweeter than any song he’s heard, “We-no. Peter, don’t.”

He’s already grabbed the backs of your thighs, hitching them up to your chest. Now he has the picture view of his cock sliding through your slicked folds. You have the prettiest cunt Peter’s ever seen and God, does he want to use it.

Your hips twitch as he nudges his cock towards your all too welcoming entrance, entranced by how your walls eagerly suck him in. Eyes roll to the back of your head upon feeling the head of his cock begin to stretch you, nearly forgetting your role in all this. 

“W-wait!” You try to prop yourself up, try to jerk your hips away. 

But Peter is stronger. It drives you crazy, his strength. His hands grasp your shoulders, pushing you back down onto the mattress. 

“It’s okay bug. Just the tip, remember?” The ambered irises are blown out with lust. Combined with the downright wicked smirk adorning his handsome face, he looks more devilish than heroic. 

It thrills you. No one else sees this side of him, only you. Only you does he feel comfortable enough to indulge in these desires. 

For a few moments, it's only the tip, sliding in and out of your tight walls. 

Sometimes he’ll dive right in, other times he'll drag it out, as if Peter is truly at war with his morals when it comes to your sweet cunt. 

“Just….just the tip,” he whispers, as though he’s trying to convince himself, trying to convince you. 

The outcome is clear, but you still nod your head. “Just the tip,” you agree. 

“So…fucking tight,” He watches where you two connect in awe, lips parted, “So warm. God…feel fuckin’ incredible.” 

The praise leaves goosebumps on your skin, almost distracting enough to not notice that Peter has been slowly pushing his cock in more and more with each passing moment. Your body betrays you, hips jerking upwards in a desperate, near pathetic attempt to get more of his cock. 

Sometimes the game is hard to keep up with. There have been times where you both forfeit, craving each other far too much to continue. 

If Peter noticed you breaking character, he didn’t acknowledge it. He’s too mesmerized by the way your cunt eagerly welcomes him. 

“Fuck, baby, m’sorry, it’s-you feel s’good.” His speech is slurred, drunk off your body. Before you can react, he thrusts forward, filling you to the brim. 

Finally. 

“Pete-no! We can’t!” You plead, despite your body enthusiastically welcoming the intrusion, “You said-ah! You said the-the tip!”

His cock twitches at your words, at the feigned concern in your voice. His lips ghost over your face, hips increasing the speed of their thrusts. 

“I know, I know,” it’s almost convincing, that he truly feels bad for this, for giving in to lust. As if neither of you wanted it. 

He picks up his pace, shushing your fake protests. His cock feels incredible, so full. No matter how much prep beforehand, the sheer size of Peter is still an adjustment. 

“You'll- you’ll pull out, right?” You gasp, eyes meeting his. 

“‘Course bug,” He chuckles. 

He won't. But it's the false promises that keep you going.

“As-ah- as long as you pull out, it's okay, right?” You're committed to the role of the naive girlfriend, Peter will give you that. The concern in your eyes is incredibly convincing. 

Sometimes he's so caught up in the euphoria of you that he forgets to play along. All he has to do is look you in the eyes to remember his role. 

“Yeah, it's okay. God, feels incredible. Your pussy.” He hitched your legs further up until they were nearly resting on his shoulders. The change in angle allowed him to thrust deeper, reaching the spot that made you see stars. 

Bliss quickly overcame you, causing you to focus less on the game and more on the coil that was currently winding up in the pit of your stomach, threatening to snap at any moment. 

“God, you're clenching me. Can barely pull out.” His pressed his lips against yours, capturing them in a messy kiss. 

You shake your head, “Y-you should. Peter!”

But Peter continues, relishing in how tight you're gripping him. It's addictive. 

“Everytime I try to pull out, your little cunt sucks me back in. Think she wants me to stay.” His words elicit a downright desperate whimper from you. 

“How’s this? I'll stay ‘till ya cum.” His composure was incredible, his voice so soft you almost believed him. 

Almost. 

Weakly, you nodded as Peter’s perfidious promise promptly pershing into the periphery of your mind. Who could express you to focus, when his nimble fingers were toying with your clit? 

Your pleas to stop fade away, occasionally a feeble no falling from your lips. His massive hands were all over you, kneading at your soft skin, sure to leave bruises. 

It's one of the best things to Peter, waking up and admiring the work he did on your body from the night before. 

But for now, he could enjoy another favorite-you. It was cute, nearly adorable how your legs shook, your hips jerking upwards, desperate to get more despite already being full of him. The pathetic whimpers that fell from your lips, unable to form anything coherent. With each thrust, your breasts bounced against your chest. 

It was picturesque. Peter wished he could grab his camera to immortalize this moment, but that would break the illusion. 

So instead, his fingers skim your soft skin, tracing over your plush curves, downward until he reaches his desired location. 

After all, he promised he'd pull out once you cum. So why not help? 

His fingers on your clit felt like lightning, sending a crack of electricity up your spine. It's euphoric, you can't even bother to play along, hands gripping the strands of his hair tightly as the bedroom is quickly filled with your moans. 

When you finally get pushed over the pleasurable edge, it’s loud. There are no whines or pleads for Peter to pull out. Only raucous moans that fill the bedroom, combining with the erotic sound of his skin slapping against yours. 

“Shit, feel s’good. S’fuckin tight,” He pants, “Babe-baby. You feel s’good. Don’t know if I can pull out.”

His words jolt you out of the lavender haze, reminding you of the part you were still playing. 

“N-No. You can’t!” 

Peter nods his head, though he’s not agree with you, “M’sorry,feel s’good.”

You try to sit up, to put up a fight. But just as you do, you’re pushed back down, your hands above your head, enclasped with Peter’s. His body covers you like a warm weighted blanket, the kind where it’s so soft and deceptively confining, you can’t get up even if you wanted to. The spicy scent of cinnamon that always lingers on his body floods your nostrils, his mouth swallowing your pleas to stop as his hips erratically slam into yours. 

It was blissful. You were enraptured by Peter, by his body, roleplay be damned. Your legs wrapped themselves around his lithe waist, pulling him closer. 

Peter reaching his own high triggers yours again, walls clamping tightly down on his cock as he floods you with his warm. 

“Baby, m’s’sorry, feels too good,” it's then you register he's still rutting his hips against yours. 

Well this is a new move. Usually the game ended at this point. 

The chance to prolong, to try something new was thrilling. 

So you shook your head. “Peter!” Your moan contained more desire than it did distress, “N-no, you need-oh- pull out!” 

But Peter just grunts. It's so animalistic, your thighs clench at the sound. His refractory period was much shorter than anyone else you had been with, no doubt thanks to a radioactive spider bite. 

Now sensitivity is surging through your body, pain and pleasure mixing together. He's hitting the spot that makes you see stars, the spot you didn't think existed until you met Peter. 

It's getting harder to stay in character. But as long as Peter is trying, so will you. 

“Y-you promised you'd pull out!” 

“I know,” he groans in your ear, “Shouldn't have such a fucking tight cunt then. Don't know how ya expect me to pull out.” 

His teeth sink down into your throat, earning a sharp gasp. 

“God, your cunt,” the scruff of his beard scratches against your skin, “Think you want me to cum in ya again.” 

You shook your head, “No! Please!” Fingers claw at his strong back to no avail. He continues with his harsh thrusts, paying no attention to how your mixed arousal was leaking onto the sheets. 

“No- stop!” But that wasn't your safe word. 

He could tell you were already close, your moans increasing in pitch, how your walls were clinging to his cock. 

You just needed a little help getting there. 

“Gonna cum in ya again. It might just take this time. Is that what you want? For me to fuck a baby in ya?” 

The illusion of your feigned innocence shatters, his words igniting a flame in you that can't be fanned out. 

You're now wailing, nodding enthusiastically at Peter's words. Fingers which were once clawing at him now grip his shoulders. Instead of jerking away, your hips move upwards. 

“Y-yes! Want it to take s’bad! Please fill me up!” 

Your voice was nearly unrecognizable; whiny and desperate. It only spurs him on, his cock thrusting into you at a near bruising pace. 

Peter's next high is with your’s, hips stuttering as he fills you once more. He knows he could go again, but everyone needs a break, an intermission before the next act. 

The next few moments, you two are speechless. The only audible sounds are that of heavy breathing and the overhead ceiling fan.

“Well, that was fun,” you chuckled, running your fingers absentmindedly through his hair. 

Peter finally made eye contact with you. His eyes are dark, almost black with lust. The grin on his face is downright wolfish. 

“Oh sweetheart, I'm far from done with you.” 

You were in for a long night. 

[heartlessvirgo]

No Saints Left

Summary: You hesitate too much, too naive for your own good. And Joel can’t stand it. He’ll make sure you learn.

warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI. DARK!JOEL. Blood, Gore, Death, Murder, Unprotected sex (PxV), raiders, language, assault, weapons. Please read these warnings.

word count: 9.4K

a/n: This was dirty, filthy, and I hope you like it.

The nights in Jackson were quiet—so much so that it felt wrong. Joel wasn’t used to quiet. Quiet was dangerous. Quiet was the breath held before the crack of a gunshot. The lull before the wet thud of a body hitting the dirt.

But here, in this town where fools believed in redemption, the quiet wasn’t a warning. It was real. And it clawed at him, sharp and relentless, prying him open and leaving him alone with the wreckage of his mind. With every single goddamn thing he’d done.

He didn’t dream much anymore—not the way he used to. No hazy glimpses of Sarah’s face lit by sunlight, her laughter bouncing off the walls of a life that had long since crumbled to dust. Those dreams were gone, suffocated under years of blood and bone.

What came now were nightmares. Brutal, unrelenting things that clung to him like the reek of gunpowder and rot. They didn’t fade when he woke—they stayed thick and heavy in his chest, like a hand pressed over his mouth, forcing him to swallow it all down.

In his sleep, he saw flashes of violence, red and raw. The swing of his fist, the crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles. The glint of a blade catching light before it plunged deep. The sound of a man choking on his own blood, gurgling as Joel turned away, cold and unflinching. Sometimes, he’d watch closely and savor the way they died in his hands. 

And then there were the eyes. Wide and wild, reflecting fear and something worse—recognition. That moment when they knew he wasn’t going to spare them. When they understood that mercy had no place in him. Not anymore.

Tonight, he dreamt of a girl. She couldn’t have been older than Ellie. Her hands trembled as she pointed a gun too big for her grip, the muzzle wavering as Joel stepped closer. He’d told her to drop it, his voice low and steady, a predator’s calm. But she didn’t listen. They never did.

The shot rang out, a deafening crack that lit up the night. It missed. They always missed.

And then he was on her. His hands around her throat, her small frame pinned beneath him. She fought, nails raking his arms, legs kicking in panic, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. The sound she made—wet gasps, desperate and animal—rattled in his ears long after she went still. Deadweight, dead eyes, death that followed him everywhere he went. But sometimes, Joel wondered if he brought it with him on purpose, like an old friend.

He woke with a gasp, his chest heaving like he’d been drowning. The room was dark, shadows pooling in the corners, but the dream still lingered, vivid and consuming. His hands ached, curling into fists against the mattress, phantom blood slick on his palms.

Joel sat up, dragging in shallow breaths that barely scratched the surface of the hollow inside him. The air in the room felt too thin, pressing down on him as he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. The quiet of Jackson surrounded him, warm and safe, but it felt like a fucking lie.

Because in the dead of night, when everyone else in this godforsaken town was dreaming of brighter tomorrows, Joel Miller didn’t dream.

He remembered.

And it was worse.

You were one of those people. Consumed by the good, too naive for your own good. Joel hated that. He hated you. And he despised his younger brother for pairing you two together for patrols. He didn’t need to carry extra weight anymore; his bones had enough pain, fused together in a fucked up way that reminded him of all the times he’d snapped them back together. 

Joel didn’t know why he deemed you naive. Maybe it was because you were half his age or that you had a little sparkle in your eyes that he wanted to stomp out, crush it beneath his worn boots. He wanted to smother the goodness from your body with his battered hands, and what little humanity that was left in him was scared for you, of what he would do when you were alone with him. 

So he kept to himself on your first patrol together. 

You didn’t think much of Joel Miller, not at first. Just another broken man, old enough to remember the world before it fell apart. You couldn’t imagine what that did to someone—what it carved out of them, what it left behind.

So, you tried. Tried to be kind. Tried to bridge a gap that he didn’t seem to care about closing. Why? You didn’t know. Maybe it was habit, maybe hope. 

You didn’t mean to be so hopeful—it wasn’t something you chose. It was instinct, like breathing. You searched for the good in people, even when it was buried under layers of filth. You looked for light in the cracks, no matter how faint, and clung to the belief that dawn always came to shatter the dark.

You swallowed the looks he gave you, sharp and cutting like he wanted to dissect you with his eyes alone. You learned to read the grunts he gave when he wanted your attention, when he needed to show you something, or when he was about to warn you in that low, gravelly tone that left no room for hesitation.

Being near him felt like walking a tightrope over broken glass; every word and step was a risk you couldn’t afford to miscalculate. You never knew when the silence between you would break—whether it’d be his voice or his violence that shattered it. 

Out there, beyond Jackson’s walls, the infected were mindless. Predictable. Joel Miller wasn’t. And you couldn’t decide which one you were most scared of. 

Joel pounded on your door before dawn, his knock sharp and insistent, like he was trying to crack the wood. He always came early—always fresh from his nightmares, his face shadowed by whatever horrors had dragged him from sleep.

“You’re up,” he’d mutter when the door creaked open, his voice rough, scraped raw by whatever hell had played out behind his closed eyes. “Time to ride.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He never did. Out there, beyond the walls, the world didn’t wait, either—not for you, not for him.

By the time you stumbled out, the day had already started for him. Patrols to begin. Horses to saddle. Mistakes to point out before the sun even dared to rise.

“The knot’s wrong,” he’d mutter, jerking the reins from your hands like you were a goddamn rookie. “Gate wasn’t shut right,” he’d add, his voice a low growl as he tested the latch with unnecessary force. “Bag’s too heavy,” he’d snap, shoving it back at you without so much as a glance, as if your failings were as predictable as the cold morning air.

“Mistakes like that’ll get us both killed,” he growls, his voice low and sharp, like the edge of a blade. He doesn’t even spare you a second glance—he doesn’t need to. His words cut deep enough without it.

What stings more is that he’s right, and he knows it. That’s the part that gnaws at you.

“You’re not steppin’ outside those gates again ‘til you fix this,” he snaps, the finality in his tone hitting harder than any shout ever could.

So, you obeyed without question, silently cursing your luck and wishing for a partner who didn’t wear indifference like armor. But deep down, you understood—this was necessary. One wrong move could be the slip that sent everything crumbling. So, you swallowed the fear that knotted your stomach and followed his lead, even though he unsettled you in ways you couldn’t fully explain.

Now, your horse moved ahead, its hooves landing softly on the mossy gravel, the rhythm muted against the damp earth. The air was thick with the sound of the river—a rushing torrent that swallowed your steps and left the world hushed. This path was deliberate. You chose it because stealth was your only true ally. You were always going to be smaller than your enemy. 

This was a test—your first patrol where the choices were yours to make. And Joel? He wanted you to fail.

The trail slithered through the forest like a vein under pale skin, narrow and treacherous. Each twist and turn pulled you deeper into its grip, leading toward the stretch you’d been assigned to patrol. You’d studied it obsessively, tracing every jagged curve on the map, committing each blind spot, every lurking shadow to memory.

Out here, familiarity wasn’t just an advantage—it was the only thing standing between you and a knife in the dark. Joel had made sure of that, drilling it into your skull until it felt less like a lesson and more like a scar carved into your mind.

“Rest here.” Joel’s voice cuts through the stillness, more command than suggestion. You glance back at him, perched on his horse, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you like a physical thing. You nod, trying to salvage some scrap of control. You’d wanted to stop here anyway, you tell yourself. Not that it mattered.

Swinging your leg over the saddle, you drop to the gravel with a jarring thud, the impact shooting up your legs. The sound feels too loud, too exposed, in the vast, empty quiet.

Your eyes flick around the clearing, scanning the treeline for any sign of movement. Shadows stretched long in the morning light, shifting with the breeze but revealing nothing. Still, you nod to Joel, your throat tightening as he dismounts with ease. His rifle hangs heavy on his back, a constant reminder of what he’s capable of. What he’s always prepared to do.

He doesn’t speak again; he doesn’t need to. The air between you is thick with unspoken expectations. It didn’t matter if he let you take the reins today. This was his call, his pace, his world—you were just moving through it. 

You eat in silence, chewing mechanically as the cool air presses against your skin. Spring in Jackson is deceptive—the thaw feels like a promise, but the nights still bite, and the mornings cling to the kind of cold that sinks into your bones. Behind you, Joel disappears into the treeline, his pack slung over one shoulder, rifle in hand.

He never ate with you. Never waited. Never said anything unless it was necessary. Lately, even the necessities have felt strained, like pulling teeth from a wolf.

Your horse snorts softly as you give him the scraps of your meal. You pat its mane and glance toward the direction Joel had gone. He wasn’t one to wander aimlessly. If he left, there was a reason. And yet, the silence around you feels off—too hollow, too still.

You grab your rifle and sling your pack over your shoulder, boots crunching against the damp ground as you follow the faint trail he left behind. Twigs snap underfoot, and the smell of wet earth fills the air. The woods are coming alive with the season—patches of green breaking through the gray, shoots of wildflowers curling toward the light.

Still, you don’t find him. The trail vanishes into the dense brush, and frustration creeps in. He wouldn’t have gone far.

Your fingers graze the bark of a nearby tree as you pause to catch your breath. That’s when you see them—small, scattered patches of wild strawberries, bright red against the muted earth. You crouch down, brushing away a stray leaf, plucking one, and rolling it between your fingers. The smell is faint but sweet, a strange comfort in the middle of all this quiet.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

The voice snaps through the stillness like a gunshot.

You barely have time to turn before Joel’s on you. His hand clamps around your arm, dragging you to your feet and shoving you back against the rough bark of a tree. The impact knocks the breath out of you, your back stinging where it scraped against the trunk. A ringing clouds your thoughts before Joel’s voice pierces through it.

“Out here pickin’ berries like it’s a fuckin’ picnic,” he growls, his face inches from yours. The bark digs into you through your jacket, his forearm pressing against your collarbone, pinning you there. His eyes are dark and furious. “You think this is a game? You think the world gives a shit if you stop to smell the goddamn flowers?”

Your chest heaves, but the words catch in your throat. He doesn’t let up, his grip firm, his presence overwhelming. The smell of leather and sweat clings to him, sharp and suffocating.

“I could’ve been anyone,” he snaps, his voice low and venomous. “You wander off like that again, and I won’t bother comin’ after you.” 

“I wasn’t—” you start, but his arm digs into your throat just enough to cut you off. You can taste the blood in your mouth from where you bit your tongue.

“First mistake,” he growls, leaning in close, his breath hot against your cheek. “Second mistake was not keeping your head on a swivel. Thought I taught you better than that.”

The air is thick with the taste of metal, your lungs screaming for a breath that doesn’t come. You can’t see much—everything is blurring, the world dimming at the edges. Your hands flail uselessly, but it’s useless. His arm is a vice, a wall you can’t scale, suffocating any defiance before it even starts.

“Joel, I—” The words catch in your throat, swallowed by the tightening of his arm, choking the air from your lungs.

“Gonna get us both killed,” his voice low, cold, like gravel scraping across exposed bone. “Maybe I should just end it for you now, one less mouth to feed. Do everyone a favor.”

The bite of his words cuts deeper than the grip on your throat. His eyes—those eyes—aren’t just cold anymore. They’re something else. Something dangerous. Like he’s weighing your life, watching the fear play across your face with a detached curiosity. A hunter deciding if he’ll kill his prey now or later. There’s something raw about the look. Something savage.

Just as the darkness starts to close in, when the world begins to slip away, he finally lets go. You gasp for breath, your chest heaving, but his eyes never leave you. They watch with a strange, detached satisfaction as the life slowly filters back into you.

It almost seemed like... he wanted it. Wanted to see you shatter. Wanted to know if you’d fight, claw, beg for your life.

He shoves himself off you, turning his back without a second glance like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just threaten to carve your life out with his own hands. You feel the burn of his grip still, the imprint of him on your neck, and the bruises linger long after he’s gone.

You rub the tender skin, the faint pulse of pain a reminder of how easily he could’ve ended it all. You don’t question him again. You don’t ask. You just do what you’re told, stay out of his path.

Of course, you begged Tommy to switch you out of Joel’s patrols and pair him with someone more capable of handling his... rage. Someone more his speed. But Tommy wouldn’t hear it. Said someone gentle was good for his brother. You never told him what happened in the woods. You didn’t speak of it ever again. 

There was something wrong with you recently—something in your head that didn’t quite fit anymore. Maybe it was the blow to the skull, that crack against the tree that left you gasping for breath. Whatever it was, it twisted you. Rewired you.

It was the dead of night, the kind of darkness that crept under your skin, suffocating in its silence. And there you were, hands searching places they shouldn’t. Fingers tracing a path down your body, touching with a desperation that was as violent as it was uncontrollable.

Your mind wandered to him—Joel. The way his body felt pressing into yours, the weight of him suffocating you, his heat seeping into your bones. His hands, rough and unforgiving, find your throat. He wasn’t gentle. Never was. It was slow, the pressure building, suffocating, until you couldn’t breathe—until you didn’t want to. Every breath, a struggle, every second a rush of power, his dominance a dark, intoxicating force.

It wasn’t love. God, no. It was death. The kind that burned, that crawled under your skin, settling deep in places you shouldn’t let it. The type of death that made you burn in ways you couldn’t explain. Maybe it was because you knew he could kill you and didn’t, and that made you feral. 

And then the release—the moment when everything shattered, your body betraying you, desperate and uncontrollable. Slick, burning heat on your fingers, streaking down your thighs, staining the sheets with every desperate, filthy inch of it.

But it didn’t matter. None of it did. Not the fantasy, not the sick thrill that came with it. All that mattered was the ache that lived inside you—an ache that would never be filled.

“You don’t sleep, you’re not in control, you’re not in control, then you’re dead,” Joel says, the words coming out like they’ve been chewed and spit out a hundred times. He doesn’t even look at you as he speaks, his gaze fixed ahead, scanning the horizon with that hard, unblinking stare. The shadows under your eyes are deep, and he noticed without even so much as looking twice at you. 

The smell of damp earth rises around you, clinging to the cool spring air. The soft squelch of your horse’s hooves in the mud seems deafening like a beacon giving away your position. The morning sun filters through the canopy of budding trees, its warmth streaking the ground in golden patches. But it doesn’t reach you. There’s a chill in the air, one that creeps up your spine and settles at the base of your neck, making the fine hairs there stand on end.

Joel sways with the rhythm of the horse’s stride, just enough to betray the tightness in his every move—like a coil wound so damn tight, it might snap at the slightest touch. The tension’s crawling in his shoulders, the muscles under his shirt flexing with its weight. His fingers are locked around the reins, his knuckles pale, and his grip is so savage it’s a wonder they don’t snap in his hands. The leather groans under the strain.

And you—you can feel the sickness stirring in your gut, that sick, twisted hunger. You wanted to be those reins, wanted that grip on you so hard it’d leave marks, bruises you couldn’t hide. Something about the way he holds everything in like he's just waiting for something—anything—to break makes you want to be the thing that breaks him.

You notice then, suddenly, when Joel’s horse halts abruptly. The birds, which had been chattering just moments ago, have fallen silent. Their absence feels unnatural like something has swallowed their songs whole, leaving behind a silence so dense it presses against your ears.

Joel senses it, too. You can tell by the way he stiffens in the saddle, his back straightening ever so slightly. His horse stops, and you stop yours beside him. His jaw tightens, the muscles flexing beneath the uneven scruff of his beard. His eyes flicker toward the treeline, scanning the shadows, searching for something unseen. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at you, but his fingers drift toward his rifle anyway.

"Silent," he mutters; his voice is quiet but seems so loud in the space. 

You nod, gripping the reins tighter, though your palms are already damp with sweat. The weight of the quiet grows heavier. Every creak of your saddle and snort from your horse feels amplified, each sound bouncing back at you from the tangled trees.

It feels like eyes. Like something is watching, hidden just beyond the edges of your vision. The kind of feeling that prickles along your skin, primitive and raw, whispering to you that you’re being hunted.

You glance toward Joel, hoping for reassurance, for him to tell you this was another test, and you just failed. But his face is hard and carved from stone. He doesn’t look at you. His focus is ahead, unwavering.

Your heart slams against your ribs, a frantic, erratic beat that drowns out everything else. Fear and adrenaline twist together in your chest, cold and electric. You try to tell yourself it’s nothing, just your mind playing tricks, but the feeling won’t leave. It’s real, as though the woods themselves are holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

Nothing moves. Nothing happens. But its weight doesn’t lift.

So you press on, hooves sucking at the mud left behind by last night’s rain, each step dragging like the earth itself wants to swallow you whole.

The town comes into view in fragments—weathered rooftops tilting under the weight of age. It should be a relief, a sign that the unease crawling up your spine was just paranoia, but instead, the sight twists something in your gut. The houses are scattered and quiet, their windows hollowed out like staring eyes. Like every shadow has teeth.

A chill brushes the back of your neck, light as a whisper, and instinctively, you glance over your shoulder. Nothing. Only the trees swaying softly in the breeze, their leaves trembling against the stillness. But the feeling lingers—the prickle of being watched, the sense that something, or someone, is just out of sight.

Somewhere ahead, there’s a faint crack. Just a shift, subtle but sharp, like a twig snapping under a deliberate step. Then, a rustle. It’s soft, barely a sound, but it’s all wrong. 

And then you see them.

Four figures slip from the edge of a tattered home, their movements slow and deliberate, like predators testing the range of their prey. They melt out of the shadows one by one, their shapes cutting sharp and jagged against the soft spring light.

They don’t bother hiding. They don’t have to. The way they move—languid, assured—screams of dominance. Like they’ve been watching you for miles, circling just out of sight, waiting for this moment. One of them shifts slightly, armed with a glint of metal catching the sunlight. A dull machete. 

One man slinks forward, tall and skinny, a shotgun slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. Two of them circle around you like sharks that smell blood.

His face is filthy, streaked with layers of grime so thick it’s like the dirt has become part of his skin. The sun catches in the cracks of his skin, highlighting the deep, gnarled lines etched into his face like a map of pain and neglect. His eyes, though—they're the actual weapon.

They’re wide, bloodshot with a sheen of madness that makes the back of your throat tighten. There’s something feral about them—dark pits that seem to draw you in, colder than the death itself, slicing through you with a hunger that goes beyond survival. And the way he looks at you—like he’s already measured you up, already tasted your fear. Like he’s made his decision. You can almost feel its weight as if it were a decision carved in stone.

You’d heard of the people who resorted to cannibalism out here—sick, desperate souls that had been chewed raw by this world. But hearing about it and seeing it are two different things. You never imagined it would leave such a mark. His lips curl back, exposing broken teeth that make your stomach turn. You can’t help but notice the faint, sickening smell that follows them—something rancid, like the last remnants of human decency had rotted away years ago, leaving nothing but a shell.

They’re all scrawny, the bones in their faces jutting out sharply. But it’s the way they surround you. You can see the monster lurking beneath the skin, the beast that’s waited for too long to feed.

Joel’s hand drifts toward his revolver, the movement fluid, but he doesn’t draw it.

The man tilts his head, the hint of a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth to reveal broken teeth. “Told ya I heard somethin’,” he drawls, his voice thick with amusement. His eyes flick to you, lingering too long. “Didn’t think anyone’d be out this far. Lucky us.”

The others chuckle softly, a low, rumbling sound that ripples through the still air. 

“Got yourself a pretty little partner, huh?” the man continues, his gaze crawling over you. “What’s she good for? Bet she’s—”

Joel’s voice slices through the air, low and venomous, like a predator of his own. "Don’t."

"Don’t what? You gonna protect her, old man? You think you can still play hero?” The man bristles but doesn’t back down. Instead, he steps closer, his boots grinding against the dirt, dragging his posse with him. Your horses start to stir, their breaths heavy and sharp, restless under the growing pressure. They can sense it—everything about this feels wrong, off. You can feel it, too.

The world narrows until all you can hear is your pulse in your ears and the low, dangerous hum of Joel’s silence, the weight of his restraint. You could run. You could get away if you had to. But you don’t know if you can get through them without blood spilling. Without—

The man makes a cold, humorless sound. “Those are fine horses." He raises the barrel of the shotgun so it's pointed at you. Only you. 

“Off,” he spits, his voice low and rough as if he’s talking to a dog. He jerks his head toward the man next to Joel, who has his own rifle trained on him.

Your eyes flick to Joel, trying to read him, searching for any sign of what he might do. His gaze meets yours, but there’s nothing there. Just emptiness, like the void behind his eyes, swallowed everything that ever mattered. You swallow the knot in your throat, but it doesn’t help.

He dismounts slowly, his movements stiff, like the weight of the world is pressing down on him with each deliberate step. Below you, the men loom larger, their bony frames stretching unnaturally tall, like dead trees in the winter. Their faces are gaunt and hollow-eyed, stretching skin tight over bone. The shadows twist around them like something alive and hungry.

The man gestures with his gun, the barrel cutting through the air toward Joel. "Hands up," he orders, and you both do, watching as he takes Joel’s weapons.

Joel’s eyes flick up, but there’s no surprise. No fear. Just that cold, unwavering look that always sits behind his gaze. His mouth pulls into a thin, sardonic line.

“Big talker for a small guy like you,” Joel says, the words thick with disdain, a flicker of sarcasm that rings far too loud in the silence between them.

Your head snaps to Joel, disbelief flooding you. Why the hell would he say that? Did he want to die?

Before you can even react, the blow lands. It’s brutal—an unforgiving hit with the butt of the shotgun that sends Joel stumbling down, falling to his knees from the force. His cheekbone erupts in a burst of red, blood splattering like a twisted painting, dripping from his face in thick streaks. The sickening sound of metal meeting bone rings in your ears.

Joel grits his teeth, his breath ragged, a low groan of pain escaping his throat, but his eyes—they don’t waver. His gaze is locked onto the man with a quiet fury, like the blood running down his face doesn't matter. It’s just another fucking wound.

The man steps forward, his grin splitting his face, sharp and cruel. “You think you’re tough?” His voice is venomous, each word spat out like poison. “Not so tough now, are you?”

Joel spits on the man's feet, blood splattering against the cracked asphalt and his boots. 

“Take the horses,” he commands to the other two behind you, the two sneering and grabbing the horses by the reins. You watch them take them away, your heart sinking every step. 

”Please, we don’t want trouble.” you beg, trying to be the voice of reason here. Since Joel seemed incapable.

“Seems to me he’s already asked for it though,” 

“No—I swear, let us go; you can keep the horses,” you beg. 

"Shut the fuck up, or I’ll give you somethin’ to beg about." the man snaps, so close to your face you almost gag. 

Joel’s eyes flicker to you for a second, so quick it’s almost nothing. But it’s enough. There’s no word, no sign, just a flash of something desperate. He’s telling you to run. And you know it’s not a suggestion, it’s a fucking order.

When the other two men disappear into the distance, leaving you with the last two, Joel moves. He’s a blur of muscle and force, using their hesitation to slam one of the men into the other, the three of them falling to the ground with a sickening thud. The crack of bone, the wet sound of flesh hitting dirt— a sound you’ll never forget.

But you don’t think about that. You don’t think at all. The guilt claws at your insides like a poison, but the fear is worse. You run.

Tears burn down your cheeks, hot and shameful, but you don’t have time to care. You run, legs pumping, every muscle in your body screaming at you to stop, but your feet won’t obey. You charge through the mud, slipping and sliding, the cold air ripping at your lungs like shards of glass. Your chest burns with the effort, and you push yourself harder, faster, your body on fire.

But then you hear it. The sound of footsteps. Heavy, fast, closing in. Your heart thunders, adrenaline surging, and suddenly, you feel him—the wind knocked from your lungs as he tackles you down into the muck. You crash to the ground with a sickening thud, pain blooming through your body. Your head rattles against the dirt, your vision blurs, and for a second, all you can taste is blood.

Then his weight is on you.

“Be good— for me,” He says in the struggle. He’s grinning down at you, his breath hot, fetid, mixing with the smell of sweat and rot. His hands are everywhere, tearing at your clothes. The desperation in his grip, his hands slick with grime, slides over your skin like the feel of a predator’s teeth sinking into flesh. He doesn’t want to kill you first. No, he wants to break you.

The thought makes your stomach twist, bile rising in your throat, but you can’t let him win. Not this. Not ever.

“Fuck you!” You fight back, not with hesitation but with pure instinct. You headbutt him hard—your skull connects with his nose with a sickening crack. Pain explodes in your forehead, white-hot, blinding, but the blood that splatters across your face, his blood, makes you want to spit. 

“You fucking bitch!” He roars, hands coming up to clutch his face, and that’s when you see your chance.

Your fingers rake through the air, finding purchase in his eyes. His scream is feral, a guttural, panicked thing, and you push harder, gouging into the soft, vulnerable parts of him. He’s stronger than you—bigger, more powerful—but he’s not faster. You’re smaller, quicker, and you use it to your advantage, sliding beneath his grasp, slipping out of his grip, making him chase you.

“Get back here, you little fucking cunt!” You’re on your feet again, lungs burning with the effort, but your legs don’t want to carry you. Still, you fight. You turn, every ounce of strength pulling into your fist as it crashes into his throat. The force behind the punch is brutal. His Adam’s apple caves in with a sickening crunch, and he stumbles back, gasping, choking, bloody eyes wide with shock. He claws at his neck, gurgling, but it’s too late. You strike again and again until the fight leaves him entirely, and all that’s left is a ragged body collapsing into the dirt.

Your hands are slick with his blood, the crimson staining your skin, thick and tacky. It clings to you like a sickening reminder, seeping into every crack, every groove. Your whole body shakes—nerves on fire, muscles trembling from the raw, jagged shock of it all.

“Fuck,” You whisper to yourself. Your blood, hot and wet, trickles down from your forehead, coating your face and dripping into your eyes and mouth. The taste is iron and salt, foul and sharp. You spit, your teeth gritting, but it doesn’t help. It’s everywhere. It burns as it slides down your throat, coating your lips with something worse than just blood—something... savored.

The ringing in your ears grows louder, a high-pitched whine that drowns out the rest of the world. You stand there, trembling, staring at the mess you’ve made. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting into your palms as your pulse hammers in your veins. Adrenaline’s a rush, a sick, sweet flood that courses through your body, making everything feel alive.

You felt the pain—raw and gnawing, a fire that burned through you. You felt the anger, deep and savage, boiling up from somewhere darker than you thought you knew. But underneath it all, in the twisted wreckage of your mind, there’s something else. Something ugly.

You felt... good.

Joel felt the pain radiate through his limbs, the ache setting in as the adrenaline wore off. His body throbbed, but that was nothing new. He'd earned every bruise, every wound. And the fight had been nothing but instinct. He'd killed the three raiders quickly, just like he always did. Their blood soaked into the earth, staining the ground beneath him with a crimson that could never be washed clean.

Gripping the machete by its handle, Joel shoved his boot against the skull of the nearest raider, pressing down hard. The sickening sound of bones cracking was almost comforting. He twisted the blade free from the man's head with a wet, sucking sound, his machete covered in blood and grey matter. The stench of it hit him like a punch to the gut, but Joel didn’t flinch. He wiped the blade off on the raider, the fabric catching a streak of viscera.

The horses whined quietly, tethered nearby. Their quiet snorts and twitching ears as they witnessed the carnage caused by Joel. 

Joel’s mind was already somewhere else, locked on the next threat. The raider who’d gone after you. His gut twisted with certainty—the bastard was still out there, lurking in the shadows, maybe covered in your blood. The thought didn’t churn up guilt, just a sour pit of dread. Dead or alive, you were his responsibility now. And if you didn’t make it back to Jackson, the blame would land squarely on him, just like everything else.

The machete felt heavy in his hand, slick and sticky from someone else’s blood. He followed the faint trail of footsteps stamped into the mud, his boots squelching with every step. Eyes scanning, ears straining for the faintest sound. A misplaced breath. The snap of a twig. He couldn’t afford to miss it.

Then he saw it. The churned-up earth where a fight had broken out, the mud streaked red. Blood, fresh and still shining in the sunlight. So much of it. Joel crouched, running his fingers through the dirt, smearing it between his fingers. You’d bled out fast or close to it. He shook his head, swallowing the bitter weight that came with the realization. Deadweight was heavier, and he could already feel it in his shoulders, the drag of carrying your lifeless body back to Jackson.

A pair of grooves marked where they’d hauled you away, your boots carving lines into the mud. Joel followed, his steps methodical, dropping the machete as he withdrew his pistol. The trail led to a house, and the door cracked open just enough to show the yawning black inside.

Joel stops short, his breath hitching, sharp as broken glass in his chest. The bastard was in there—waiting. He could feel it in his bones, a sixth sense honed. The tension pressed against him, thrumming like a live wire.

The rusted hinges scream as Joel nudges the door open, his pistol raised. Inside, the scent hits him like a punch—rotting wood, stagnant water, the sour tang of mildew baked into the walls. 

His boots scrape against the floor, the sound muffled by the filth beneath them, as his eyes follow the trail of blood. Dark and glistening, it streaks jagged lines further into the house, smearing the warped floorboards like a cruel breadcrumb trail.

And then he sees you.

His sharp inhale is reflexive—because, for a moment, you look like another corpse. There’s a wildness in your eyes that’s unrecognizable. You're crouched, your hands tangled in the dead raider's limp arms, dragging him inside. The body’s throat is mangled, caved in with such force that bone and cartilage poke jaggedly through torn flesh. 

Joel's grip loosens on his pistol, dropping his arm to his side. Your head snaps up at the sound, eyes blown wide like a cornered animal. Your chest heaves, breaths tearing out of you fast, and for a second, Joel can see the adrenaline surging through you—hot and primal. For a moment, all he can do is stare. Joel was confident you were dead. Hell, he’d been ready to write you off. But here you are, standing in front of him, smeared in gore like something dragged out of a nightmare.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, a short, humorless huff. “Well, I’ll be damned.” His voice is low, gravelly, but there’s a sliver of something in it—surprise, maybe, though it’s buried beneath the usual roughness.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” Joel steps further into the room, holstering his pistol with a casualness that feels deliberate. Like he’s trying to downplay the moment. 

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t show a hint of surprise as he steps closer to the body, nudging the lifeless arm with the toe of his boot. His eyes flicker across the mess, his jaw tightening as he surveys the ruined throat—just another death. Just another moment. The cold, detached look in his eyes makes your stomach twist like he’s seen this so many times it doesn’t even register.

“Messy work,” he mutters, his voice flat, void of anything resembling emotion. “But it got the job done.”

You swallow, your throat tight with the residue of rage and disbelief. You don’t know why you say it—maybe it’s the blood, perhaps it’s the tension gnawing at your insides—but you find your voice rough and raw. “Thought you died.”

The words are a bitter mix of relief and frustration, still edged with that wild energy from the fight. The animal instinct that drove you to act.

Joel turns his back, scanning the room, his eyes taking in the sight of this abandoned house. It’s a shitty place to stow a corpse, but you did what you could.

“Can handle my own,” he mutters, and you want to roll your eyes. Of course, he could.

“That’s not what I mean,” Instead of replying, he crouches beside the body, pulling a knife from his belt and inspecting it before taking it. 

“Guess I should be grateful I don’t have to drag your ass back to town,” he says, the words more of an observation than a concern.

“That’s all you got to say? He’s dead.” You swallow, avoiding the body in the room, your eyes still on Joel. The blood on his face—on his hands—isn’t so different from your own, but his expression remains stone cold. You know he’s seen worse, lived through worse. To him, this is just another day. Just another body, just another death. But for you, it’s different.

It’s your first.

"You think feelin’ bad’s gonna bring ‘em back? Grow up. They were gonna kill us. Doesn’t matter either way. What’s done is done.” His tone is flat then, low and cold, and he adds, “Get used to it.”

And somehow, despite the weight of the horror pressing down on you, despite the reality of what you've just done settling into your bones, you can’t look away from Joel. Not now, not when he's standing there—bloodied, indifferent—and yet still so... there. His presence, his stoic stance, even with all that carnage around you, makes that sickness stir. 

“I’m not like you,” You say, trying to fight it. For a moment, there’s a flicker in Joel's dark eyes—maybe it’s annoyance, maybe it’s hatred. It’s gone in an instant.

“No. You’re not like me,” he growls, voice jagged. “You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes. You’re a goddamn fool. Draggin’ that body in here like you wanna die. Anyone could’ve cornered you. You must be real fuckin’ stupid. If it weren’t for me following your trail, you’d be a corpse already.” His tone bites deep like he’s daring you to argue with him.

"I didn’t drag him in here for fun. I did what I had to do." You narrow your eyes at him, voice cold now. "Maybe you're too old for this shit, but I’m still breathing, so I guess I’m doing something right.”

“Ya think you’re doing somethin’ right?” Joel steps closer. “You’re still here because I’m letting you breathe. Ya ain’t smart; you’re just lucky. Don’t get that twisted.”

“What, you gonna kill me? Do it, then.” you wager; the anger in you bubbles up, thick and heavy, like blood sputtering. You cross the room, shoving at his shoulders, but it’s useless. He’s like a goddamn rock—sturdy, too damn big, too hard for you to move.

“Know what, maybe you are like me,” he says as he studies your eyes.

“You’re a fucking dick,” you spit, pushing again, harder now, but it only makes him take a step back. He doesn’t even flinch. His eyes flicker with something like amusement, but there’s a darkness in them that makes your skin crawl. The gash on his cheekbone is still bleeding, slow and steady, and it churns something sick inside you.

So you push again, and this time, his hand snaps out to grab your wrists, his grip like iron. You don’t even have a chance to fight it. “Ya done yet?” he growls. His face is close now, the sweet smell of his sweat thick around him. 

His eyes bore into yours. His grip on your wrists tightens, bones creaking under the pressure, and he shoves you back against the wall with a thud that rattles your teeth. You barely have time to gasp before his hand clamps around your jaw, forcing your face upward and locking you into his stare.

He presses into you hard—every inch of him a dead weight, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. His body is a cage, but it’s not just about dominance. This is a test. Another one of his twisted games.

There’s no escape, no help coming. Just him and the sick thrill in his eyes as he waits for you to snap. How far will you go before you claw, before you scream?

But you didn’t care anymore. Thoughts weren’t yours to hold—excessive blood, too much death. For once, the silence was the only thing that felt real. But even that was poisoned. You hated him. Joel. The way he made you feel small.

But the hate… it was thick, slow, like tar. It oozed between your legs, crawling until it reached places you never wanted it to. Making your pussy clench around nothing. Your body twisted in response, involuntary, as you arched your back, hips grinding into his in the chaos. You hoped that it would go unnoticed. But Joel noticed everything, down to the slightest shudder of breath.

And against your hip, you felt him heavy and hard through the worn denim, like a brand in your flesh. The weight of his cock is solid— and just a slight shift and you feel him stir behind the confines.

Your shock didn’t stand a chance against the gravity of the moment. But in this instance, there is no room for shame. No room for anything but the hunger, the violence, the inevitable collapse of everything you’d tried to be.

“Fucking filthy…look at you,” Joel growls, his tongue feels heavy in his mouth. His hand that cages you brushes away the tangled strands of matted hair clinging to your face—strands that once might’ve been soft, now hardened by the soft pulse of blood still trickling from your head. 

Your eyes—those eyes—narrow at him, blazing with hatred, slits of fury cutting through the haze of the room. There’s no fear in them. Just rage.

“You like that?” Joel’s hand drops to the column of your throat, pressing hard enough to choke the breath from you. He leans into it, staggered breaths, each one trembling with the same anger that’s boiled over in every kill he’s made, every life he’s ended. 

“Like when I can fuckin’ feel your pathetic life in my hands?” His words hit like a slap, but they only made the gnawing emptiness inside you worsen. “No one’d notice if you didn’t come back.”

That dull ache deep in your core twisted, something dark and instinctive rising in response to the violent tension between you. You felt it low in your stomach, a heavy pull as your arousal pooled. Joel's face, the roughness in his eyes, stubble on his jaw, now covered in filth. It should’ve disgusted you. Should’ve made you pull away, retreat to whatever small semblance of dignity you had left. But you didn’t.

The pressure was a fire. It burned, it scorched, but it also made you want to dive deeper into the wreckage. The ache was something you couldn’t shake. It pulsed deep in you, and you wanted—needed—a way to release it. The anger, the fear. You wanted him just to feel the friction of all the ugliness between you two collide in some twisted outlet.

The world outside was cruel, and the one inside you wasn’t much better. So, you nod, and Joel’s eyes burn before narrowing. By your throat, he pushes you around the room, shoving you until you’re up against a dilapidated couch. 

“Am I wrong?” Joel questions darkly. 

“No,” you answer, and that satisfies him. His rushed hands find the waistband of your tight jeans and drag them down with your underwear. You’re completely exposed to him. And he is brutal, grabbing your shoulders, turning, and pushing you onto your knees on the cushions. Forearms against the head of the couch, you arch, pushing your bare ass against the front of his jeans. 

“No, what?”

“No, no one would miss me.” You can’t help it; you rub against the rough material, and you're already so wound up. It would only take a few more seconds, and you’d be coming all over the front of him. You were like a feral cat in heat, and you preened knowing he was watching you. Exposed, arching into him, rubbing your pussy until you were raw. 

“Knew it,” he rasps, his words dripping with grim satisfaction. “Pussy this wet? You’re just as fucked up as I am.”

“I’m not—” The words falter, sticking in your throat as his hand presses against the curve of your back. Rough, calloused fingers, stained with a violence that never washes clean.

“Stop fuckin’ lyin’.” His voice is low, guttural, a growl pulled from the depths of something broken. “And I’ll let you have it.”

You flinch, squirming as his hand drags upward, slow and deliberate, the scrape of his palm a warning in itself. The grip tightens, tangling in your hair, pulling hard enough to sting. It forces your head back, exposing your throat.

“Fuck—I am, I’m fucked up… and I want it, please.” you plead, pulling against his grip on your hair to look at him with hooded eyes. Joel responds with the rustle of his jeans as he unzips and drags them down enough to pull his cock out. 

Joel can feel the blood rush to his head as he watches you beneath him. Begging for him, needing him— your wet lips parting with a sigh as you feel the fat head of his cock pushing against you. 

“Dirty little thing, turned on by fuckin’ death.” Joel breathes out, almost a gasp, as he runs the tips along your soaked folds. Joel hadn’t been fucked in ages, and your young tight cunt before him made his balls tighten. He didn’t know how long he’d last, but still, he slammed into you with one fell thrust. 

“I know ya can take it,” You cry out at the way he splits you with his cock, giving you no time to adjust to his length. You search for purchase with your hands, but the fabric of the couch disintegrates as you pull on it. So, you push back against him, feeling the head of his cock nudge against your cervix. A jolt of pleasure fuses with the pain as you feel his balls against your clit.  

“Joel—oh my god.” You whine, your skin overly sensitive. 

Joel fucks into you, the stain of blood on his hands as he clutches the flesh of your hips savagely. 

“Should fuck the innocence outta you for your own good.” Joel feels your pussy clench around his girthy cock—stretching you, filling you completely with each thrust. 

A pathetic cry slips from your lips as his hand tugs at your hair, fingers weaving through the strands, tightening their grip. He drags you closer, your back flush against his chest, the weight of him pressing against you as he thrusts into you. His fingers slip around your throat again, finding their hold with familiar, bruising ease.

“Said ya could take it, so shut the fuck up,” he threatens, squeezing at your throat. Your pussy swallows him, and every time he withdraws, she sucks him back in. 

"I can—I can take it," you murmur, a sigh slipping from your lips. Your head falls back slightly, lost in the haze of numbing pleasure, the world around you fading into the background. The sensation builds, all-consuming, and you find yourself craving more. "Faster," you breathe, the words slipping out before you even realize you’ve said them.

Joel wanted you to suffer, just as he did when he felt that knot in his stomach every time he looked at you. To endure the hurt, he squeezes your neck as he thinks about it. He wanted to give you pleasure, to completely control you, to ruin you. His cock spears you with wet squelches, your pussy gushing with how fucking wet you are. You completely drench him, the hair at the base of his cock now coated with your arousal. 

“Always makin’ too many mistakes, too fucking stupid—fuck.” Joel pounds into you now as if he were driving his point into you with every thrust. 

"I'll be better," you whisper, the words heavy with meaning, though you’re not sure if you believe them yourself.

"Not for you to decide." Joel huffs, a hot puff of air against your tender skin. His lips brush against the side of your neck, teeth grazing before sinking in. 

The pressure tightens in your stomach as his teeth sink deeper, his grip on your throat tightening with an almost suffocating certainty. The tip of his cock pushes and grazes the spongy spot inside you that intensifies your pleasure. Joel can feel it when you suffocate his cock as he rams into you sloppily.

You look down at the arm circled around you; the blood splatters like paint on his skin. You feel the sickness tangle inside you, but the feeling unravels more and more as he continues. Like Joel was the one who had planted this inside you, and he was the only one who could fuck it out. 

A throaty moan vibrates under Joel’s grip as the thoughts consume you. It eggs him on, your silent cries, your loss for words—and he chases his release selfishly. His fingers slide from your neck to your face, the pressure firm as he squeezes your cheeks, forcing your lips into a pout.  

Your lips part instinctively, soft and eager, but Joel is quick—he twists your body in his grip, tilting your head back so that your mouths collide in a rough, open kiss. It’s sloppy, fervent—slick, so desperate. The heat of his mouth burns against yours, his tongue sweeping in to taste you, hot and hungry. The scrape of stubble on his jaw drags across your cheek. As he thrusts against you, his lips slide messily, reaching for you—again and again, leaving a trail of wetness behind. His teeth graze your bottom lip, pulling at it hard enough to draw blood.

The smell of his sweat overwhelms you, the weight of his body pressing against yours, and without warning, the tension snaps. Your walls tighten, pulse racing, and you feel every inch of him as your body reacts instinctively, urging him deeper. Pulsing, as if your pussy wanted—no needed to milk him inside you. It’s almost as if your body itself is begging for him, claiming him. The thought spins you into a daze, making you cry out his name, imagining him taking you completely. Your eyes roll back as your body loses itself, pliant under him, molded to his will. With a rough shove, he presses you down again, your arms against the couch.

Joel fucks your swollen pussy relentlessly until he’s on the verge of coming. His balls tighten, a warning he fights to suppress. Joel holds off, biting down on the need to release, but it doesn’t last. With a growl, he pulls out, gripping his cock as his hand pumps in quick, tight strokes. The surge hits hard, and he comes—hot, creamy spurts splattering against your bare skin. He paints you with thick, molten heat, groaning low, biting back the sound that follows as he watches you, chest heaving.

You pant, throat dry, your breath shallow and quick as a shudder rolls through you. Slowly, you twist your sore neck, casting a glance back at Joel. He’s a mess—blissed out, eyes half-lidded, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. For a moment, he’s completely still. No biting remark about how you could’ve done better. No gruff comment, no criticism. Just silence. It's not the kind that hangs heavy with something else, but it's a quiet one you almost don’t know how to read.

"Don’t be expectin’ anything from this.” His voice is gruff, as if the words were meant to warn you and distance yourself from him. Like you didn’t already do so. Watching him, he tucks himself back into his jeans, fixing his belt before straightening up with a quiet sigh. 

"You’re too old for this kind of shit anyway." You lie with a smirk, a tired but almost amused glint in your eyes. You pull your jeans over your ass once you clean yourself off, pulling your shirt down.

"Don’t get cute.” He grunts, his jaw tightening, but there’s a hint of something beneath it—exhaustion. 

“Scared I’ll make you feel somethin’?” you quip, standing from your kneel on the couch cushion. 

He shoots you a glance, his eyes flicking up to yours with a quiet edge, but his lips twitch—just slightly, a nearly imperceptible shift that betrays the bite in his words. “I ain’t scared of you. Just tired of your shit.”

You laugh softly, not backing down. “Sure, Joel. Whatever you need to tell yourself.”

"Quit fuckin’ around, let’s go.” He replies, his movements stiff, like he’s already mentally moving on. You can hear his boots hitting the floor as he heads for the door, his back to you. 

He doesn’t need to say anything else. There’s no need to explain what just happened. No need for words. You know you’ll never speak of this—never speak of the violence and pleasure, of the heat between you, of the power his hands had when they were all over you. You’re too young, too naive, too goddamn full of life for someone like him. But he still finds you. Back in Jackson, he finds you when he wants, when he needs…

You know better than to expect anything more—this was what it was, nothing more. So, you mount the horse, the leather of the saddle creaking under your weight, and without another word, you both head back home. Bloody. Battered. And thoroughly fucked out.

Back to Jackson. Back to survival.

masterlist!

[pseudowho]

ummmmmmmmmmmm so i really haven’t been able to get that nanami thirst out of my head, the one where he has girls vying for his attention at all times but he only has eyes for you. THAT ONE MADE ME WANNA START KNAWING ON MY PHONE I LOVE YOUR WRITING BTW but can i possibly ask for something like how the reader takes nanami home after a nice, long, and full day of girls falling over themselves to get his attention and absolutely rocks his world to show that he’s yours….. you get my drift 🌚🌚🌚 (sorry if this ask is too long ive just been thinking about your writing and nothing elseeee 😭)

Oh, you mean THIS OLD THING? I get you...it's hot.

...anyway:

"I'm just sick of it, frankly. It's disrespectful. A total wild abandon of even the most basic manners..." Kento ranted as you followed him through the door, biting your lip, your smile barely-there. You had been on Cloud Nine all day. Any time you had looked up, his eyes were on you. Any time another woman tried to touch him, he shied away as if she were poison. Seeing Kento completely lose his mind at Gojo's flirtations had been the final straw.

Kento may have worshipped you, but you were obsessed with him. You burned for him. You would walk through fire, if he would ignore the lick of the flames just to hold your hand.

Kento was so lost in his rant, that he could barely look at you, grumbling to himself as he stripped off his tie. He tossed it to the floor, stalking away, infuriated...before pausing, heading back and hanging his tie up with a huff. You heard him pace into the bathroom, hearing the taps begin to run as Kento drew a bath.

Knowing he was climbing into the tub to try to scrub away the covetous stares of other women, you waited. And thought. And pondered. And stewed. Each glance, each fingertip-brush of his sleeve, each filthy pointed glare in your direction. You festered with the audacity. While you were gracious, and magnanimous in public, in private, Kento was yours. You heard him slip into the bath. You slipped into something darker.

The bathroom door swung open, slowly, thoughtfully. You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. Kento lay draped in the clawfoot tub in the bathroom, bespoke, and big enough for him to lie down without needing to bend his legs. Those arms that you loved, thick and corded, flipped over the edges, bubbles tracing down the edges of his biceps. He frowned, his eyes closed, deep in thought.

"I'm sorry." Kento murmured, finally. "I don't try to make other women...act like that."

You hummed, examining your nails.

"I know," you purred, stepping over to him, perching lightly on the edge of the tub, "you're just too...just too much, aren't you?" Kento's eyes flicked open at your tone, seeing your unbridled rage behind some gossamer veneer. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, as that hungry, vengeful gaze trailed down his naked body, a soapy Adonis. The bubbles masked how his cock twitched beneath the surface, too primal to restrain itself just for Kento's uncertainty.

"...darling?" Kento asked, swallowing thickly. He may not be in trouble, but he knew when he was in danger. You pressed one finger to his lips, your other hand beginning to trail circles across his chest, your gaze holding his own. The trails scorched, wildfires left in the wake of your touch. By the time your fingertips started grazing light circles over his nipples, Kento squirmed, his lips parting in a humid gasp beneath your finger.

"How could they know how it is, after all?" You whispered, your fingernails scratching lightly down his chest and belly, now. You leaned over Kento, your clothed breasts dipping into the water, bubbles rushing to invade the valley of your cleavage. Kento trembled, his mind going blank as you silenced him, held him hostage, blood rushing to his cock and making him dumb.

"How could they know that you fall over yourself to sink your tongue inside me?" Your fingers grazed through the honeyed hair on Kento's lower belly, and you clapped a hand over his mouth, capturing the muffled little groan in your palm. The tip of his cock, long, thick and ready, bobbed to the surface, pre-cum mixing with bubbles on his slit.

"How could they know the sounds you make when I ride you? The sounds you make when you cum down my throat? Show me them." You released your hand for just a moment, a husky, ragged moan bursting free. Kento's eyes beseeched you, for release from this blissful punishment. You bit your lip again, a wicked smile in your eyes, and god, how he'd start riots and burn cities for you for just one chance one shot for you only yours for your eyes alone--

"Look at you...such a big man. So strong. The truth is, you could pin me down and do whatever you wanted to me. And you do." You laughed, reaching lower to fondle Kento's heavy, aching balls beneath the surface, feeling him cry out, muffled behind your hand again, twisting and arching out of the water.

"But we both know that behind closed doors...I'm the one that has you pinned down, right? You'd drop everything for me...right?" Kento nodded frantically, a bead of sweat dripping down his chest. He saw stars when your hand gripped his cock, the squeeze tight and possessive. You moaned, soft and wet already, just with the silky-steel weight of him in your palm.

"So just remember, when you're dancing away from all those other girls..." Your hand gripped harder, netting Kento's desperate rumbling moans in your fingers, and beginning to stroke his cock, twisting gently from ball to tip until he bucked into your fist. You kept your hand still, letting him fuck upwards into you. You ignored the splashes as hot bubbled water crept over the edge, splattering onto the floor.

"...remember who you're dancing for, Nanami Kento." Kento was lost, overstimulated by your filth, the myriad erotic images you cast upon his vision, the sheer biting ownership you placed upon him...and, god, it was good. You moved your hand faster now, lubricated by the soap, masturbating Kento until he panted, his eyes glazed and hot beneath your hungry cross-examination.

Reaching for the showerhead, still working on his cock, you set the pressure high, and dipped it beneath the water. So lost was he in being wetly jerked off by you, Kento shouted, fucking upwards again to feel you aim the jet at his balls, forcing them to clench and tighten. Kento couldn't think anymore. Being edged so ferociously had him reeling, and his existence narrowed to just your hands on his cock your hands on his mouth the shower jet pulsing hot water at the base of his length.

"--do anything I'll do anything please-- get in here-- let me love you, please-- shit--cum inside you, please, I-- I can't-- can't take anymore--"

He felt his orgasm building at speed, feeling so pathetic, like a desperate rutting virgin, to be spending himself so easily in your hand. You released the showerhead, and he grasped at your thighs, trying to urge his fingers between your legs. He needed to dip his fingers into your pussy to make this orgasm golden, needed that wet heat around his thick digits--

You grasped his hand, licking his forefinger into your mouth, and Kento cursed aloud, crying out in anguish.

"--fuck...darling I promise I promise, I-- I--"

"...you...you...what?" You urged, fisting around his cock harder to drag him towards the edge. With the hook behind his navel, and the lick of your tongue against his fingers, Kento's eyebrows drew together, his thighs beginning to twitch as his balls tightened up, ready to spend himself in your hand.

You stopped, releasing Kento's twitching cock abruptly. Kento gasped, his chest heaving, rendered stupid and confused.

"...remember who takes care of you, yeah?"

Cooler than a winter morning, you stood, your breasts dripping with pre-cum glossed bubbles. Walking towards the doorframe, you turned, and blew Kento a kiss. He watched you with feverish eyes, gasping and twitching, leaned half forwards, white-knuckled hands gripping the tub.

"--don't--don't leave-- darling-- please-- so close, I--I'm so close..."

With one further bite of your lip, you rubbed his pre-cum between your fingers and reached down, dipping them just inside your entrance with a sweet, high moan.

Throwing his head back, cursing, and spitting, Kento came untouched, thick ropes of seed striping up his abdomen. Kento groaned, bucking against thin air and wishing desperately he was nestled, like your fingers, inside your tight little pussy, taken most of the way to heaven just by imagining it as he came.

You touched yourself to the convulsing, jerking image of him moaning your name, for months to come. Knowing Nanami Kento was yours, and knowing Nanami Kento was yours, were two different beasts entirely.

It was only when you heard Kento's hulking form stand from the bath, the water cascading down as if off a demon's back, that you realised it was your turn to be in danger.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 5

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life��afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: Sex. Minors DNI. Also, barely proofread, sorry for any mistakes!

✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 3.8k

✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: February 1, 2025

✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Sorry it has taken me a while to get this part out. But I think you’ll like it. *fingers crossed* FULL TAGLIST TO FOLLOW. Sorry, I'm in a rush today. This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. 

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part 4.5 | Part Five | Masterlist

A fancy hotel takeout sits untouched on your kitchen counter, the smell of roasted garlic filling the small space. You glance at the clock—6:47 PM.

Yoongi promised to take you to dinner, but given the circumstances, a quiet night in felt more appropriate. Safer for him. After all, the media has been relentless since the Dispatch scandal dropped close to midnight like Cinderella’s kitten heel at the ball.

You’re kind of pissed, actually. Scratch that—you’re furious. Just when it felt like you finally had Yoongi—finally had the chance to explore whatever this was between you—this bullshit had to rear its ugly head. A photo of his kind of ex leaving his building was enough to set the internet on fire, and now it felt like the flames were creeping dangerously close to your life.

You’ve talked to him once today, and even that conversation was clipped. A text from him at 5 let you know he was about to leave HYBE and swing by his place first. “Be there by 7,” he’d said.

You stare at the pristine takeout containers, willing yourself not to spiral. You’re not that person anymore. You’re not the insecure girl who lets her emotions run wild over things she can’t control. You’ve done too much good work to let this unravel you.

“You’re fine. You’re fucking fine,” you mutter under your breath, pacing the kitchen.

Your phone vibrates on the counter. Namjoon. Always coming to your rescue at the right time.

“Hello?”

“You doin’ okay?” Namjoon asks, his voice calm but laced with concern.

“Define okay,” you quip, though your voice wavers slightly. “It’s been a lot.”

“I figured,” Namjoon says gently. “That’s why I’m calling. Just wanted to check in. Yoongi’s been swamped today, and I know how this stuff can mess with your head.”

You exhale slowly, grateful for the concern but also acutely aware of the simmering emotions just beneath the surface. “I’m trying, Joon. Really, I am. It’s just�� exhausting. The waiting, the overthinking, the noise. I just want to know where I stand with him, you know?”

“He’ll tell you,” Namjoon assures you, his voice steady. “Just… don’t let the noise get to you.”

You swallow hard, his words striking a chord. “Thanks, Joon. Really.”

“Anytime,” he says warmly. “And hey, take it easy on him tonight, okay? He’s under a lot of pressure, but trust me, you’re his priority.”

“Will do, dad,” you tease, and for the first time all day, you feel a flicker of lightness.

“Bye.”

You set the phone down, Namjoon’s words lingering in your mind as you glance at the clock again. 

You think about Yoongi and the kind of pressure he must be feeling now. You can take care of him tonight. He deserves it.

You’re rearranging the pillows on the couch, trying not to glance at the clock again for the hundredth time. It’s not even about tidying the place anymore. It’s about occupying your hands, distracting yourself from the swirling mix of emotions in your chest.

Then, the doorbell rings.

7:01pm. 

You take a breath, smoothing your sweater. Calm. Casual. You’re fine.

You open the door.

And there he is. Yoongi stands in the dim light of the hallway, a dark jacket zipped up to his collarbone, a black mask shading his face, somehow directing the focus on the exhaustion in his eyes. But what caught your attention is his hair—slicked back with a little sprout of inky locks on top.

He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking bashful at the heat in your gaze.

Christ. He looks good. Criminally.

He steps in. “Hi,” he says softly, his voice carrying that calm rasp you’ve missed.

Your heart clenches. “Hi,” you reply, your tone quieter than intended. You clear your throat, stepping back to let him in. “Come in.”

He steps inside, pausing in the entryway as he glances around. 

You then notice the bouquet in his hand—gorgeous white roses and baby’s breath wrapped in brown paper. 

He hesitates, scratching the back of his neck as his eyes flick over your face. Something in your expression must’ve softened, because he quickly averts his gaze.

“I brought these,” he says, holding them out a little awkwardly.

Your chest tightens, a strange warmth spreading through you. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

When you reach out to take the bouquet, your fingers graze his, and the contact lingers for just a second too long. Impulsively, your free hand rises to cup his cheek. Maybe it’s too much for whatever the hell this is between you, but the moment feels too honest to stop yourself.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly.

Yoongi freezes under your touch, his dark eyes widening ever so slightly. Then, as if the tension in his shoulders breaks all at once, he leans into your palm, just a fraction, and the smallest, most heartbreaking smile tugs at his lips as his eyes flutter close.

“I am now.”

You head to the kitchen, busying yourself with a vase to give the flowers the best chance to survive. You do not have a green thumb, so you pray to the gods the beautiful arrangement does not wither overnight.

“Hungry?” you ask, not turning around. “I bought chicken, shrimp fried rice, and some random banchan.”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Yoongi replies, his voice closer than you expect. You glance back to find him leaning against the counter, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You place the vase on the counter and fold your arms. “So,” you start, forcing lightness into your tone. “Survived the day?”

“Barely,” he admits, a tired smirk tugging at his lips. “Had to dodge more cameras than usual. Sat in meetings for a couple of hours. Si-hyuk personally called Sung Kyung’s agency. They assured me that they will investigate thoroughly. I couldn’t eat. I get home and there’s still press camping out. So yeah, shit day and I almost didn’t make it out alive.”

“That’s the longest response I’ve ever gotten from you.” You tease. “You really must be stressed out.”

Yoongi chuckles and for a moment, it feels like the tension that’s been hanging over you both all day melts away. 

You go around the counter and stand facing him where he’s sitting on your bar stool. He parts his legs and you immediately take that space, crowding him a bit more by placing your hands tentatively on his shoulder.

His eyes, warm like molten chocolate, meet yours. “How about you?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling a little exposed. “I’m fine,” you say, though the tightness in your chest betrays you. “I mean, it’s not like this is new territory for you, right?”

“Doesn’t mean it’s easy,” Yoongi says quietly. “And I don’t like that you’re sort of affected by it.”

“I can handle it,” you reply, trying to sound more confident than you feel, projecting strength since he looks a little broken right now.

Yoongi’s lips press into a thin line, like he’s not entirely convinced. 

“I kinda knew what I was getting into when I knocked in your studio yesterday,” you say softly. “And I’d do it again. For you.”

His eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across his face at your admission before it softens into something else. Something deeper. “For me?”

You nod, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Yeah. For you.”

For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say. Then he straightens up from his slouch, taking one of your hands from his shoulder, pressing his lips softly against your pulse point.

“Dinner first,” he says. 

“Then what?” you challenge.

Yoongi just grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

As you sip the last of your drink, you steel yourself to ask the question that’s been bugging you all day. “So,” you say finally, broaching the topic. “Sung Kyung.”

Yoongi pauses mid-bite, his eyes flicking to yours. He sets his chopsticks down carefully, leaning back in his chair. “What about her?”

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to look him in the eyes. “Namjoon told me you’re co-parenting. But I need to hear where you two… stand?”

Yoongi exhales slowly. “Yeah, we’re co-parenting. That’s it. I don’t have any intention of getting back together with her. At all.” His voice is calm but firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I want Haneul to know his biological mom, but she and I—we’re done. That’s been over.”

Relief washes over you, but before you can fully settle into it, you notice the shift in his expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes dart briefly to the table before returning to yours.

“There’s something else,” he says quietly, the words heavy with hesitation.

Fuck. You don’t like the sound of it, but you ask anyway. “What is it?”

Yoongi sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “A few weeks ago… she kissed me.”

Your stomach twists, and the room feels suddenly colder. “What?”

“I put a stop to it immediately,” he says quickly, his tone insistent. “I told her it couldn’t happen again, that if she wanted to keep seeing Han, she had to respect that boundary. And she has. She knows where we stand.”

You don’t respond right away, staring down at your plate as you try to process his words. 

Oh my god. This is so fucked up. You knew Sung Kyung’s reappearance wasn’t as harmless as it seemed, but hearing it confirmed still stings.

“I just thought…” you start, but the words trail off.

Yoongi’s voice is soft but steady. “You have every right to be upset.”

“Do I?” You think out loud. “We’re not…” You nod slowly, pushing your chair back. “I… need a minute.”

When you get to your bathroom, you release a long steadying breath. You stare at your reflection in the mirror, hands gripping the counter tightly. Fuck. You’re okay. This is–

A knock sounds at the door, startling you.

Yoongi’s voice is muffled as he says your name, but it’s gentle as can be. “Can I come in?”

You glance at the lock and realize, too late, that you forgot to turn it. The door creaks open, and there he is, standing in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and something softer.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him and his arms immediately slide around your waist. The warmth of his touch seeps into you, and you meet his gaze through the mirror.

“Hey,” he murmurs against your hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You lean back against him, the tension in your shoulders easing but just slightly. “I just… I don’t know how to feel about it.”

“That’s fair,” he presses his lips to your temple. 

“But I need you to know–” presses another on your cheek.

“That I don’t want anyone else–” presses the last where your neck and shoulders meet. 

“Just you.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, and when your eyes meet again in the mirror, the tenderness there leaves you so breathless.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you turn in his arms, your hands sliding up to his face as you pull him down for a kiss. His fingers tighten on your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him.

You walk back to your bed, lips fused with his, your fingers tangled in the soft strands of his hair. The urgency between you grows as you push him down onto the mattress, his back hitting the sheets with a quiet thud. You follow immediately, straddling him, your body molding against his as you capture his lips again. The kiss is deep, consuming, his hands gripping your waist like he’s anchoring himself to you.

You stay like that for a while, tongues teasing, breaths mingling, drunk in the taste of each other. Then, a sharp pull of his lower lip between your teeth has him groaning into your mouth.

You’re driven by lust, and something else. A possessive demon seems to be overriding your better judgment, thinking you’ve been timid with your feelings for long enough. No woman, not Sung Kyung, even if he is Han’s mom, can take what you and Yoongi have been building up to for so damn long.

“You’re in your head,” Yoongi says, nudging his nose against yours.

“Did she kiss you like this, huh?” The words leave you before you can stop them. Your lips return to his, sucking greedily, staking your claim.

Yoongi’s breath shudders as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes. “No, baby.” His voice is rough, lips pink and swollen.

Your fingers slide under his shirt, pushing the fabric up and over his head, tossing it aside before your hands explore the newly exposed skin. He’s warm, toned beneath your touch, and the way his muscles tense under your fingertips only spurs you further. You lean down, lips dragging along his jawline, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his throat. He tastes sweet, salty, and entirely intoxicating.

“Did you fuck anyone else when I left?” you mumble against his skin, your teeth grazing the sensitive spot beneath his ear.

His breath hitches, “No, shit. No.”

“Good boy.” You hum in satisfaction, your lips venturing lower, your tongue flicking against the hollow of his throat. He groans, head pressing back into the pillow.

“Baby, you’re making me lose my shit right now,” he grits out, his voice strained, desperate. His hands now get braver, sliding underneath your top to fondle your tits. 

Maybe you’re delirious. Maybe you’re too turned on to think straight. Or maybe—maybe this is exactly what you’ve wanted since the moment you saw him again.

Your hand drifts down, fingers tracing the outline of his hard length through his trousers, feeling the way he twitches under your palm. 

“You’re mine, okay?” you whisper, nipping at his bottom plush as your fingers give his dick a squeeze.

He exhales a shaky laugh, his lips curving under yours. “Yours.”

He lets you revel in your greed for a few moments, allowing you to do whatever you pleased as you lose yourself in the heat building between you.

He ruts up towards your hand, grunting slightly. Honestly, he’s so hard, it’d be a mercy to release him from the confines of his jeans. So you do, helping him unbutton, unzip, and undress, until his cock springs free and flops on his stomach.

What a pretty dick. Literally lickable—solid, girthy, veiny, a bead of white pooling at the slit. You take him in your mouth, tracing the tip with your tongue, the taste of pre-cum coating your throat. You let drool cascade down his length, slick fingers pumping his shaft while your mouth suctions his mushroom head.

His hand goes to the back of your neck, guiding you in a bit more. “Mmm… that’s it, baby.” 

Yoongi moans your name as you go faster. You feel him twitching inside your mouth. He’s so hard but you don’t want him to cum yet. You pop him off to lap at the base, before your tongue travels upward to trace the thick veins on the underside of his cock. 

Jaw slack, his eyes are dark, dark as he observes you while propped up on his elbows. “Come up,” he says when you reluctantly pull away. “Wanna eat you out.”

Your clothes are yanked off your body as you take his place on the cushions, not a single piece of fabric now separating your skin. He takes you by the hip and adjusts your position so he can get his face close to your mound. Before you can mentally prepare yourself, he shoves his hot tongue against your folds, locating your clit in 0.001 seconds and you know you’ll be careening off a cliff in no time.

“I—Yoongi, that’s… shit that’s nice.” You can’t help it. It does feel nice.

You reach for the little ponytail on his head, gripping it for dear life. He hums against your bud when you pull, the vibrations only driving you more insane.

“You taste so good baby,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?”

“I can eat you out for days, make you cum,” he vows, delirious just like you are. “Over and over… my favorite fuckin’ snack.” 

“Oh my god, Yoongi…”

He feasts, and feasts, and soon enough, you’re shuddering in ecstasy, hips bucking in the process, as he slurps all you give him. He wears your cum like a gloss as he comes up for air, a lazy but proud smile on his face.

You reach for the drawer on your nightstand and pull out a new, sealed, and unopened box of condoms shoving it on his chest. He holds it in one hand, nose scrunching as he suppresses a laugh.

“Someone prepared…”

You shrug as he plucks one and unwraps it quickly, “What?”

“Nothing. You’re too cute for me.”

“Shut uppp.”

He rolls the condom on his dick, propping one hand by the side of your face as he uses the other to rub his blunt tip against your entrance. Your pussy is drenched and he slips right in and bottoms out with a grunt against your ear. He’s thick and big against your walls.

A smack against your ass cheeks makes you clench. “Ah, shit.” And another one lands before he soothes it with a gentle massage. 

You’re going crazy but you need him deeper. Sensing your needs, Yoongi pushes the back of your knees higher and snaps his hips with more force, pounding your pussy as your bed creaks against the wall. Your lids are heavy but you keep your eyes open long enough to see how fucked out he looks, cheeks flushed pink with a coat of sheen on his forehead, teeth caging his lower lip.

“You’re so hot. I wanna ride you,” you declare, stuttering a bit from his thrusts.

“Yeah?” He pants, slows the roll of his hips, waiting for your confirmation. 

When you nod, he slips off with a wince and you feel your juices trickle down your skin. You reverse positions, mattress dipping as you shift your knees on each side of his hips. 

“Do your thing, baby,” he urges, lacing his fingers behind his head, elbows bent outward in a relaxed pose.

Your smile is watery as you use his tip to prod against your clit one or twice before you sink him inside your wet heat. You moan in unison when you're fully seated, the feeling of him snug and warm and so full inside you driving you mad.

You tip your head back, palms planted against his chest as you swivel your hips in a slow dance. 

You look down on him, hair cascading over your shoulder, and you think how much you like this view. And how you won't mind this view everyday, actually. Seems the possessive streak from earlier still has not satiated. 

“Shit—you’re so hot like this.” 

You rock against him, clit stimulated deliciously as you ride his cock. He’s got a cocky little grin as you use him. You throw your ass back, and he has a front row seat and VIP access to your bouncing tits, his tongue slack on the side of his lips. He cups your tits with both hands, the wet pads of his thumbs rubbing against your nipples.

“My turn,” he grabs hold of your waist and thrusts upward so roughly your eyes roll back in pleasure.

He pistons into you, finger digging on your skin to keep you in place and a long moan rips from your throat when he jerks up particularly hard.

Your hands slip to his shoulder as your body bounces by the force of his movements, tits sliding against his chest. His thighs must be burning and when he slightly lets up, you dip your head, shamelessly to lick the side of his face, moaning his name against his ear. 

“Baby—” you beg, not really saying what you need, but he knows.

He uses a sweaty hand to guide a tit in his mouth, suckling at it with a bit of teeth. 

Not a moment later, he’s fucking you again from below, deeper, faster, and when rapidly presses into your sweet spot, you’re a goner.

“I’m close, Yoongi. So close…”

“Me too, baby,” his voice is rough as he lets go of your bruised nipple, brows furrowed in concentration like he is fully intent to give you the orgasm of your life. He pushes into your depth relentlessly, 

White hot heat is blooming inside you, and you feel his cock throb, abs tightening, before he spills his seed in the condom, groaning with his eyes shut to savor the intensity of his release. It’s the pure unadulterated pleasure painted on his face and his deep delicious moan that tips you over the edge, too, clenching against his solidness as you slip into the sinful pleasure of your orgasm.

Chest to chest, you rest your full weight against him, softening dick still nestled inside you. You press your lips against his neck, feeling the vibrations of his throaty chuckle. Then he asks, “Was it good?”

“So good.”

“Mm.” He hums, nosing the side of your face so you’d look at him. “Did you really mean what you said earlier?”

“Which one?”

“That you, uh, despite everything, you’d do it again, for me.”

You start to feel a bit shy, but then you remember you’re literally naked. On top of him. And he is still inside you. The point of bashfulness is long past. It’s time for the truth. “Yeah.”

“Bold of you, no?”

“Dumb, too.”

He pushes an errant hair behind your ear, eyes still glazed from the sex, but fond. “You know I really like you, right? If it isn’t painfully obvious.”

“Me too, Yoongi. Since Stan. Maybe even earlier.”

“Will you be my girl, then?”

Yoongi watches you carefully, waiting for your response. The earnest curve of his lips, the slight scrunch of his nose, the way his fingers still rest on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away—it’s all so achingly real.

You study him for a moment, letting yourself take it in. Everything about him—his caring nature, his tenderness, his immense love for Han, his ability to drive you absolutely insane and still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The outside world is still in chaos. The scandal, the noise, the questions that neither of you have all the answers to yet. But here, in your little apartment, wrapped in the warmth of him, none of that feels as important as this.

“I will,” you finally say, voice steady.

His breath catches, just for a second. Then, his lips spread into the softest, gummiest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, almost like he’s making sure he heard you right.

You nod, “Yeah.”

Your lips meet for a gentle kiss that feels like a promise and the rest of the world falls away. For now, no matter what comes next, it’s the two of you—finally honest, finally sure, and finally together.

:]

A/N: YASSSS. Our babies have finally figured it out. How do you feel right now? Would love to hear your comments! 

Thank you for reading, you lovely, beautiful human! Xo

P.S. Am gunning for 1,000 followers before Yoongi’s birthday. :) I think I’ll get there with your help. Feel free to reblog the story if you like, and that can help more people find our lovely L&L couple.

Love you!~

Permanent Taglist (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @hyukaluve @glossdebut @kiki-zb @kookiewithluv

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm @angellekookie

The rest to follow in a reblog.

[yourcutelittlegayfriend]

✦✧✦ CHAPTER 5 ✦✧✦

Poor Goldilocks, Nothing Is Just Right

Warning this part contains: Mania, Self- Harm (wanting to remove your skin), Body Pain, Blood & Bleeding, Pain, Cursing, being held down, minor drugging (just to make you eepy) Dark Theme, becoming pwd , mentions of being crippled or disabled, manipulations/manipulative actions, platonic kisses(?), tons of typo, barely proofread and Evil Reader

Note: I forgot to mention but In the previous chapter MC is 8-9 and in this one MC is 10-11 years old, The scary part is only in the first part, second is me just giving you a Victor treatment and a very nice sort of closing for Bruce's part, also again forgive me if Bruce is OOC it's hard to see Bruce/Batman as a cold person when the batman I knew in my childhood is selfless and compassionate and yes batman cries he cried plenty of times before what do you mean?.

MASTERLIST pages ↻4 , 5.....➢

NOW PLAYING ↻◁ ||▷↺ 4ÆM - Grimes ılıılıılılılıılıılı

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My body aches, bones feels like they're breaking and healing again, my skin is so heavy and itched, it itches, it's itchy, I want it off, I want to rip it off, I GET IT OFF, GET IT OFF ME!!!!.

My eyes opened with a sharp jerk of my body I screeched out in disgust, jumping from where I was laying as I used my hand to scratch and scratch and scratch till my nails dug through my skin and let blood seep out from the wounds.

'EVERYTHING IS WRONG! RIP IT! RIP IT! RIP IT! WE DON'T WANT THIS! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF! OFF!' We scream and yell as the room reverberates from my voice and the pounding in my head. The shadows rush, bouncing off the walls, and it seems like there's a shift in reality as I feel my soul and body splitting up into many, many pieces.

I can feel my veins pumping too much blood, traveling around and not being received properly, my eyes almost pop off from how hot, searing, and boiling my new blood is inside of me.

'I DON'T WANT THIS! IT'S WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!' They yell out more as they use my hands to hit my head and try to pull the hair out of my scalp.

The room kept spinning and everything seemed to glitch out in my brain as I fell off from something high and landed smack on the floor their hand gripped the back of my head and pulled it back preparing to smash my head on the ground.

As my forehead nears the hard surface, a sudden force tackled me. I become aware of a pair of hands pinning my wrist on the floor making my legs kick out in the absence of my hands in retaliation and raging out trying to twist their hold as my spit mixed with blood foams on my mouth as I yell for them to not touch me.

Another pair then reached out to trap my legs down, hearing someone else voice whisper to me as I slowly became weary and groaned in the ache of the harm caused to my body, focusing up as my vision came back clearer, as air fills up in my lungs and settling my breathing again, my eyes make out the head of Bruce as he stares down at me while my vision gets better.

He was peering down at me wearing a look of fear and guilt on his face as I caught the movements of his mouth realizing that he was talking directly to me, I calmed down, and slowly my body slacks on fatigue as he let go before moving to scoop my body up.

He lays my head on his chest making sure it won't move before standing along with me in his arms and laying me back to something soft and cushiony under my form, I stare back at him with my eyes half-lidded and tired while he sits on the side from what I can discern as a bed.

'It's too fluffy and silky for my taste, this isn't my bed, it's not right' I thought as I watched Bruce study me with a look of sadness as someone was moving behind him, Alfred holding a tray of glass with a pitcher of water walk towards Bruce's side -noting the patchiness of my throat- and setting it down as I observe the two talk, the pounding of my head muffled their voices to the point it's the only the vibrations of my eardrums I can hear.

I kept eyeing them until Alfred moved, pouring the water, and reached out to tilt my head before slowly tipping the glass assisting me to drink and feeling my body weight like lead.

Bruce then leans down and lays a kiss on the top of my brows surprising me even when I'm deep on falling asleep as he holds my limp hand and holds it under his warmer one, gripping it and squeezing in broken rhythm with a thumb over the pulse on my wrist, either to count my heartbeats or maybe to make sure if I'm still alive? I couldn't care less.

'You aren't supposed to notice me, you're not a part of this, you shouldn't be anywhere near me, you don't belong in my new family'

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Staring at the beautiful wooden handcraft cane, I reach out and caress the squeaky clean polish to the head where soft leather wraps around its handle along with a cute carving of a tiny baby bat on top.

Picking it up from the opened box with the fancy brand name printed over the cover where it was situated on top of a black cushion, I held it on my lap and tested its weight on my palm.

A brand new cane made just for me he said, to help me walk around since after the dip in that pit only my right leg was the casualty in the accident, it was all new, and with no study from what it truly is, it's hard to know what really causes the damage on my leg.

Which was confusing since from my basic understanding and knowledge from before, The pit was filled by Lazarus and weirdly enough it's the Joker who found it, even more suspicious is the location of the pits are only a few and the one I was tied to was never near the original one here in Gotham before.

Not only that Lazarus was supposed to heal, to resurrect the dead even give someone powers or just the simple physical enhancements, so why did I become crippled instead? why did it become the opposite instead?!.

Gripping the cane tightly, I huffed and screamed as I threw it away from me proceeding to thrash everything on the table.

"This isn't supposed to happen!! I didn't want this! all I wanted was a normal life and I ended up becoming a handicap!" I punched the wooden surface before kicking myself off the chair.

As I try to get even just one step, My right leg completely fails to carry my weight causing me to fall and painfully drop on the carpeted floor ending me just curling down and wailing in anger.

In the corner of my eye, I pick out their form standing in the corner of the room just staring at me blankly before blending back in the shadows when Bruce entered the field of my vision and kneeled in front of me.

"Hey hey hey you're ok, everything we'll be fine". He lifts up my upper body and hold me close.

"I'll find away to fix this, ok?" He said as he tried to comfort me but I just snap at him and tried to push me away.

'Liar' they slither out behind him and sneer lowering their head on the side of his face and going back like the way they came out as my vision glitched before me.

"Fix? Fix me?!" I shout slapping his hand away. "How?! huh? Tell me how?! This wouldn't even happened if you just listened to me in the first place!".

"I never wanted to have a stupid debut! I never wanted to be kidnapped by that goddamn clown and this is what I get?! becoming a fucking limping idiot for the rest of my life?!"

"Because of you! It's because of you I ended up having my leg practically useless! THIS IS YOUR FAULT!". I spitted out as I balled up my fist and started hitting him anywhere my hands could land.

As I holler and shriek at his face, he just closes his eyes and takes my hits head on not even trying to defend himself.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! I wish I never stayed here! I wish I never met you! I wish you just left me in that orphanage and let me rot ther-".

"That's enough! I know it's my fault that I was too late to save you and I shouldn't have forced you to do anything". He cut me off by grabbing my hands and stopping me as he looked me in the eye.

"But I promise to do anything I can to make sure you live a better life, you're my child and I am your father, you are my responsibility and my only priority from now on". He declares as he lowers his head and lays his forehead on my small knuckles.

They sneak in there and put their hands on top of his as they shake their head 'no' to me before moving out of my sight.

"Don't hate me for only doing what's right for you, I only want to do what's best for you because I am your father, so give me one more chance to make things right". He pleads as I feel small droplets drip on my skin and I see him quietly crying.

I watch him in disbelief, listening to his words and seeing him cry in front of me, for me. He never did that before, not ever Ha! Not even once in any of my resets! this is different, everything about this is different.

'Somethings not right'

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Bruce was acting more and more strange these couple of days, He kept checking up on me, staying or lingering around me and where I went, and even smiled more often when he went out as Batman.

Not the typical Brucie shit smile but a genuine one, a simple soft looking one, and the scariest part it's always on his face when I'm anywhere near him.

'You can't stay here anymore' I hear their voice again in the back of my head but I barely see them anymore.

What's more weird is that the voice keeps getting quieter each time I hear them, the little drawings and the hallucinations start appearing less and less.

I don't know what's happening and I don't have any idea what to do, I lived through many lives before and nothing like this ever happened, What the fuck?

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Staring dumbfoundedly at him and then back at the wrapped present in his hand, I blinked in bewilderment at his words.

"W-what? A portrait? For what?". I asked him as he gently placed the box on my lap as I sat on the leathered couch located in the more private living room in the mansion, A family room I think?.

"An official portrait of just the two of us since the old one with your grandparents looks a little bit lonely by being on that wall alone," He says as he sits on the other cushy armchair next to me.

I follow where he is looking and see the large portrait of a younger him wearing the equivalent of a boy's suit and a big boyish smile on his face in the tapestry with him was his mother, Martha Wayne wearing a simple yet fashionable creamy white dress as she wears her iconic pearl necklace around her neck and lastly was a man behind them, Thomas Wayne who just like Bruce was wearing an expensive black suit and an award-winning smile even for a doctor.

The three look so much like how a happy family should be, all smiles and comfortable just being together and complete.

"As for your present, you can take a look now if you want," He said as he leaned over to look at my reaction I carefully opened the box but not before sending him a weird look.

"It's something for you to wear for the portrait next week" He stated before standing up and standing next to the end of the couch near me.

"I know I might be asking a lot but a portrait is one of the things that comes in tradition for this family" Kneeling down as he lays a hand on top of my head.

"Something that lasts longer, to remember the memories again and I want you to be a part of it, a memory we can always look back on, something nice and has a great sentimental value for us". He disclosed to me before leaning down and pecking the top of my head before ruffling it, walking away, and leaving the room afterward.

Looking down at the clothing on my lap I rub the fabric together and deduce that it's an expensive one based on the silky feel then back at the painting again and study the old portrait on top of the fireplace, the fire's light illuminating the brush strokes and their still faces.

"How funny, I never was in any of your portraits before, was I?" I whisper a smirk curling on my lips as make the decision in my head.

"Well then, maybe this won't be so bad". Grabbing my cane, I get off the couch and slowly walk till I'm standing directly under the painting in front of the fireplace.

"After all a family needs a father right?"

"I'll just have to make sure you become the perfect one first, my new family, my rules". I smile looking at the younger version of Bruce before walking out as well.

"You're not the only one good at manipulating, Bruce".

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Patting out any dust or wrinkle on my clothes I stare at my reflection on the new dresser in my new room that Bruce renovated near his -do I have to call him Father or maybe Dad now?.

Observing my appearance as Alfred was fixing or checking anything on my clothes, I noticed a sudden change in my look, I was the same as always between from before but healthier and less drained, upon inspecting closer I caught a brief glow of something green under the real color of my irises.

'Lazarus Green'. I hear their voice making me smile as I spy them in the mirror, they stand just behind the large bed curtain over my new bed peeking their head over then vanishing in the blink of my eye.

After that, Alfred handed over my cane and led me to a studio-like room a little bit further inside the mansion we entered and saw Bruce talking with someone who I guess might be the painter seeing a large canvas along with some paints and brushes beside them.

Smiling I headed towards Bruce as he introduced me to the painter who greeted me with a hello and a nice compliment in their French accent, I looked at Bruce with a raise of my brow as he just chuckled and smiled down at me.

"What? I wanted the best painter to make our family portrait". He remarked before sitting on a fancy armchair with a red cushion back and cushioned seating fixed on it.

He then pats a stool with a similar design and red cushion seat that perfectly partnered with his chair and helps me sit on it, an exception for me since I can't stand for too long, The painter then walks forward and fixes our poses as we talk.

"And there are many incredible painters here in Gotham as well-" I countered before hesitating and gripping my cane when the painter positioned in over my lap to hold.

"F-......Father, if you wanted to start making Gotham a better place, maybe you should look into the lives of the people as well, it's only fair after all" I convey what I meant then look into his reaction.

There he sat with his eyes widened in fascination and surprise before changing it with a large smile and reaching out to caress my cheek.

"Smart thinking kiddo". He then held my small hand in his as the painter asked for us to look at him to start with the painting.

A perfect Father looks out for his Family, Batman looks out for Gotham and this city is my first family, won't be too selfish of me to use you right, Father?

I'm just making sure everything is just right

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yeesh the plot is leaving my head but yes this is the end of Bruce and MC finally now we can head to the rest of the fam.

I don't like some yandere fics out there that straights up just let's MC be captured or under control of yandere's I want to have something different for a change, No hate to the other yandere writers out there y'all are amazing because I know yandere genre is all about that I just want a little twist in mine.

In the end, Y/N will be using what the fam did to them and use it against them to get what they want, Like I said I wanted Y/N to be mature, and calculative and use people to their advantage, their old and hopeful version is no longer with us.

Taglist are still open my peps.