#trigger warning power imbalance

[gorentaya]

いただきます Itadakimasu ( Thank you for the food / I humbly receive )

[obsidiannebula]

Just saw someone tag their fic "age gap" when the couple's ages are *22* and *25*

You people do not fucking understand what an age gap is and you need to be stopped

[cumironi]

CREAM-OF-THE-CROP CUNT, MAMA

feat, gojo, geto, nanami, toji, sukuna, shiu, higuruma

summary. what? just because you are six months pregnant your husband is gonna stop worshipping you? nooooo. . . he became worse, and the idea of making sure you are pregnant (despite the bump) makes them go crazy, especially with your little sweet bump.

trigger/warnings. non-sorcerer, everyone trying to be a gentleman (fails), calling reader “mama,” pussy-drunk behavior, pregnant sex, belly worship, size kink, deep penetration, unprotected vaginal sex, leg-folding position, full nelson vibes, praise kink, possessive language, swearing / explicit language, references to breeding kink (implied), overstimulation, internal ejaculation, cum leaking, soft dom / feral energy blend, emotional intensity, aftercare / caretaking (gentle touches, kisses), power imbalance (older man / younger woman), oral fixation (kissing, belly + knee worship)

GOJO SATORU

“—you’re gonna kill me,” gojo groans, forehead pressed against yours, voice ragged like he’s been running for miles, but really, all he’s been doing is holding himself together—barely—as your legs wrap tighter around his waist and you moan his name like it’s a damn prayer and a curse all at once. “no, seriously, baby, i’m—i’m dying. you’re murdering me with this pussy. it’s a crime. i should call the cops. except i am the fucking cops. i’m the fbi. i’m the law. and you’re under arrest. for being—fuck—for being too hot while pregnant.”

you try to say something, maybe something like “shut up” or “just keep going” or maybe just his name again, but you can’t—you’re too full, too stretched, too wrecked already and he hasn’t even really started yet.

“so tight,” he breathes, like the thought has him hypnotized. “how are you tighter while pregnant? is that a thing? can i google it later? because this is—jesus, baby—this is like heaven. like… like heaven wrapped in velvet wrapped in a vice grip wrapped in the greatest porn i’ve ever watched except it’s real and it’s you and it’s mine.”

he kisses your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts that’s grown fuller over the last few weeks—his obsession. he talks to them like they’re separate beings. he’s lost his mind and he’s made peace with it.

“gonna feed our baby with these,” he mutters, latching onto one nipple like it’s instinct, groaning like the taste of your skin alone could make him cum. “gonna wake up at 3am to help you, promise, swear to god. but only if i get to do this first. every night. every fucking night, sweetheart.”

you whimper, and it makes his whole body stutter, hips rocking deeper, harder, like your sound gives him permission to lose rhythm entirely.

“there it is,” he grins, breathless and boyish, completely wrecked and stupid and so very in love. “that’s the sound. the one that says i’m the best dick you’ve ever had. right? right, baby? tell me. tell me i’m better than anyone you’ve ever let near this sweet pussy.”

you moan, back arching. he whines, literally whines, like your approval is the only thing keeping him alive.

“please—please just say it. tell me i’m your favorite. tell me this cock is your favorite. tell me i ruined you for other men. tell me you forgot what it feels like to walk straight.”

you grab his face and pull him down to kiss you, hard, messy, open-mouthed and wet, your teeth knocking a little and your breath catching when he grinds into that exact spot inside you that makes you cry out his name again, and he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“fuck, fuck, yes. that’s it, baby. say it again—no, scream it, moan it, tattoo it into my brain. god, i’m so fucking obsessed with you. you don’t even know. you don’t. i think about you 24/7. i check your pregnancy tracker app more than you do. i’m unwell. i’m feral.”

his hips move faster, deeper now, but not rough—he still holds your body like it’s made of glass, one hand bracing under your lower back to tilt your hips just right, the other rubbing slow, firm circles over your clit like he’s trying to make you finish before him and prove a point.

“wanna cum in you again,” he growls against your throat, “wanna fill you up more even though you’re already pregnant, like my dumb caveman brain doesn’t understand we already did it. it just wants to do it again, because it likes you like this. likes you glowing, round, leaking—fuck, baby, you’re leaking, i’m gonna go insane—”

“satoru,” you gasp, fingernails digging into his shoulder as your thighs start to tremble, “satoru, i—i’m gonna—”

“yes,” he hisses, pace erratic now, “do it, do it, cum on this cock, make it tight, milk me, baby, do it so good i forget my own damn name—”

you shatter under him with a cry that hits the ceiling, your body pulsing around him so hard he lets out a strangled noise, like he’s not sure if it’s a moan or a sob or both.

he falls apart seconds later, buried deep, coming with a broken gasp of your name and a string of barely intelligible worship like “so good, so pretty, made for me, mine, mine, mine” until he finally collapses onto your chest, heart racing, sweat-slick, and completely, utterly gone.

a long beat of silence passes.

“…you good?” you murmur, stroking his hair.

he doesn’t move. just groans into your neck like he might cry.

“i think i left my soul in your pussy.”

you laugh.

“i’m serious,” he says, lifting his head with that wild, disheveled, utterly sexed-out look he wears so well. “if you don’t name our baby after this pussy i’m gonna be personally offended.”

“you want me to name our child… pussy satoru gojo?”

“well, i mean—middle name at least. or like a secret codename. for the groupchat.”

you sigh, rolling your eyes.

he grins like you’ve just married him.

“love you, baby. love you so much. let’s do it again in like fifteen minutes. or five. i’m stupid. i make bad decisions.”

“clearly.”

“i would literally die if you asked.”

“…fine.”

“i’m naming the second one ‘round two.’”

GETO SUGURU

“you know what you do to me?” geto growls into your mouth, lips slick from kissing, voice thick like smoke and syrup as he thrusts into you again—deep, slow, brutal. “you fuckin’ know what this pussy’s done to me, baby?”

you gasp—louder than you mean to, thighs trembling where they’re wrapped around his hips, nails clawing down his shoulders because there’s no logic in your body right now, just raw sensation. he laughs—a dark, low, chest-rumbling sound—and grabs your jaw, thumb pressing into your cheek, not hard, just enough to keep you right there.

“oh, don’t go dumb on me now,” he coos, filthy and fond and absolutely feral. “we’re just gettin’ started, sweet thing. gotta give me that voice, yeah? lemme hear what my good girl sounds like when she’s pregnant and cockdrunk.”

you whimper, and he moans, like your breath is enough to push him right over the edge.

“that’s it,” he hisses, licking the corner of your mouth, forehead pressed to yours. “fuck. fuck, you’re so good like this. all fucked out, all round and soft and warm for me—jesus, this body? i could live inside you. no house. no job. just this pussy, twenty-four-seven. put me on your goddamn lease.”

his hips snap forward hard, and the sound your body makes when he hits bottom is wet, obscene, absolutely unholy.

“listen to that,” he pants, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder, splitting you open wider. “god, you’re so fucking wet, baby—like you like when i fuck you like this. like you want me to ruin you. knock you up again, even though you’re already full.”

he palms your belly—his belly, really—with one big, gentle hand, cupping the firm swell like it’s the most sacred thing in the world. his thumb moves in lazy circles as he rocks into you, slower now, deeper, pressing against every spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

“you’re everything,” he says, softer now, reverent in the worst way, like he’s praying to the altar of your body while rearranging your insides. “everything. this body—fuck. your tits are bigger. hips too. got this glow, baby, you know that? like you were made to carry me. to take me. to breed for me.”

you clench around him so hard he stutters, eyes going wide, mouth falling open.

“oh fuck—fuck,” he moans, suddenly undone. “you like that? yeah? you like when i talk about putting a ring on this pussy? you like hearing how ruined i am for you?”

you nod, frantic and breathless, and he kisses you hard—sloppy and hungry—before dragging his lips down your neck, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“gonna cum inside,” he growls against your skin. “gonna stuff you full and hold it in with my cock. keep it there. make sure every drop stays in, yeah?”

“suguru—” you cry, already close, voice breaking on his name like it’s the only thing you know anymore.

he fucking shudders.

“say it again,” he gasps. “say my name while i fill you up. say it like you want it.”

“suguru, suguru, i—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“yeah, baby,” he moans, gripping your hips, thrusts rougher now, faster. “cum on it. cum on this dick, show me how good i fucked you, lemme feel this pussy milk me dry—”

you tighten, legs locking around him, and then you're gone—clenching, shaking, falling apart under him while he watches you unravel with this fucking look on his face like you’re a miracle and a sin and the only thing that matters.

he cums right after, hips jerking as he empties into you with a loud, broken sound, like he’s dying and being reborn at the same time.

you nod, dazed. “you’re insane.”

for a long moment, all you hear is your heart racing and his breath—harsh, warm, uneven—ghosting across your skin. then, soft, “you okay?” he whispers, stroking your thigh, still inside you, not even thinking about moving yet.

“mhm,” he grins, kissing your temple. “insane for you. and for that pussy.”

you slap his chest halfheartedly.

he just laughs, still deep in you, still hardening again.

“round two?” he murmurs, voice all wicked sweetness. “or you want me to eat you ‘til you cry first?”

NANAMI KENTO

“i can be patient,” nanami grits out from behind you, voice low and sharp like he’s holding himself together with string and sheer willpower. “i can be—gentle.”

you’re on your side, belly cradled by soft pillows, one leg bent forward over his thigh as he moves behind you, slowly rocking into you like he’s afraid you’ll break if he goes too hard—like he doesn’t already know how filthy you get for him when he’s trying to behave.

and he’s trying. god, he is. his hand’s on your hip, warm and steady. the other one cups under your belly, like he’s shielding you even as he’s pushing deep, deep into you from behind.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmurs, voice hoarse and reverent, brushing kisses to your shoulder. “i don’t want to hurt you. i want to take care of you. i want to make you feel good, not—”

you moan.

just a little. just a soft, breathy “kento—” as your fingers grip the sheets and your hips push back into him.

and that’s it.

the last thread of his control snaps.

he groans—growls, almost—and suddenly he’s pressing forward harder, deeper, his breath catching as he ruts into you like he’s been holding back for weeks.

“fuck,” he grits, forehead pressed to your back. “you’re so goddamn warm. too soft. too tight. i can’t—I’m trying to—shit—”

his grip on your hip tightens, dragging you back against him with every thrust now, and his hand slides from under your belly to your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his hip so he can push in even deeper.

“you feel that?” he groans into your neck, teeth grazing your skin. “feel how deep i am, sweetheart? god—i can’t be gentle when you sound like that. when you feel like this.”

you whimper, back arching, and he moans again—louder this time, raw and low and completely undone.

“you’re perfect,” he pants, hips snapping faster. “everything about you. this body—this sweet, wet little cunt—fuck, it’s made for me. even pregnant, you take me so well. better than anyone ever has.”

you choke on a moan and he presses his palm to your belly again, as if the feel of it grounds him.

“i think about you all day,” he confesses, fucking into you now with slow, brutal depth. “about this. about how you sound. about how you feel when i’m inside you, tight and hot and fluttering like you’re made to be full.”

he kisses your shoulder, your neck, his other hand sliding between your legs to find your clit—slow, careful, precise.

“come for me,” he whispers, mouth right against your ear, filthy and tender all at once. “come around me while i’m deep inside you. show me how good i make you feel.”

and you do—shaking, moaning, gasping his name like it’s the only thing you know, and he follows with a desperate groan, spilling into you so deep you feel the warmth spread through your belly, his body trembling against yours.

after, he doesn’t move. just stays inside you, one hand over your womb, the other tangled with yours in the sheets.

“…i was trying to be gentle,” he says quietly, embarrassed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

you hum, sated. “you tried.”

he sighs. “i’ll try again tomorrow.”

pause.

“after round two.”

TOJI FUSHIGURO

“slow,” toji murmurs, his big hands gripping your hips just barely, letting you grind down on him with shaky control, his cock sheathed inside you and twitching like it’s barely surviving this torture. “take your time, baby. i’m good. i’m—fuck—i’m fine.”

he is not fine.

he’s seated on the couch, thighs spread wide, muscles tense as hell under your legs, back arched ever so slightly, jaw tight. you’re four months pregnant, round and glowing and gorgeous, your belly pressing against his abs as you roll your hips slow and sweet—just like he asked for. like he said he wanted.

and he’s dying.

“look at you,” he groans, eyes glued to the way you take him. “ridin’ me so good. so pretty. so fuckin’ wet. you were always tight, but now? now you’re perfect.”

your hands are on his shoulders, clinging. your breath catches every time your body takes him deeper, and he feels it—feels how warm you are, how your walls squeeze around him like you don’t want him to leave. it’s driving him insane.

“you said slow,” you remind him, voice breaking with a whimper as your rhythm falters.

and that’s his breaking point.

because your voice? shaking, breathless, wanting?

it wrecks him.

“fuck that,” toji snarls suddenly, surging forward, arms wrapping around your back and pulling you flush to his chest. “nah. no. fuck slow. i can’t. you sound like that, and expect me to wait? you’re outta your mind.”

he lifts his hips, thrusting up into you so hard your mouth drops open in a silent moan, hands scrambling for his chest as he sets a brutal pace from underneath.

“you wanted gentle?” he growls against your throat, licking and biting at your skin while he pistons into you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “you’re riding me, baby. i’m not gonna sit here like some saint while this tight fuckin’ pussy squeezes the life outta me.”

you cry out, and he grins, savage and wild and in love with the way your face goes all slack and overwhelmed.

“that’s it,” he pants, one hand gripping your ass, the other sliding between your bodies to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “gimme that look. gimme those sounds. lemme hear how good i’m fucking my pregnant girl.”

you whine his name, and he loses it.

“say it again,” he groans. “fuckin’ say it, baby. tell me who put this baby in you.”

“you,” you cry, clinging to him, “you did—”

“damn right i did,” he growls, pounding up into you, your belly bouncing slightly between your bodies with each thrust, “and i’ll do it again. and again. keep you pregnant. keep you full. keep you so cockdrunk you forget how to fucking walk.”

your orgasm hits you like a lightning bolt, your whole body spasming in his lap, and he catches you with a moan of pure worship, holding you tight as you milk every drop of his release from him.

“shit, baby,” he pants, hips twitching. “you were made for this. made to take me. made to carry me.”

he collapses back against the couch, pulling you with him, still inside you, cradling your body in his massive arms.

a beat of silence.

“that was you being gentle?” you ask, breathless.

he shrugs, smug. “i didn’t bend you over. that counts.”

you groan.

he kisses your shoulder and mutters, “round two, though? i’m not holdin’ back.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA

“slow,” he grits out, jaw clenched, breath shaking as he presses his hips flush to your ass, thick cock buried deep and throbbing inside your soaking heat. “we’re going slow, sweetheart. we’re taking our time. i’m not gonna break you.”

he says that, but his hands are already digging into your thighs, thumbs pressed to the crease between your cheeks and your legs like he’s trying to brand you with his grip. you’re four months pregnant, hips rounder, belly starting to show—and you’re on all fours, arms trembling, moaning into the pillow with every slow, too-deep roll of his hips.

“you good?” he mutters, pretending to breathe through it like he’s not the one seconds from blacking out. “you okay, baby?”

you nod, gasping, “yes—yes, ‘kuna—feels so good—”

and that breaks him.

“fuckin’—shit,” he growls, slamming into you with a sharp, wet slap, and you cry out, head dropping, body jolting forward from the force. “don’t say my name like that. don’t moan for me like that and expect me to stay sane.”

he grips your hips hard, pulling you back into every brutal thrust now, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“you were made for this,” he snarls, staring down at the way your body takes him, slick and tight and fluttering around him like you like being used. “look at this greedy little cunt. fuckin’ dripping. goddamn soaking me. you like getting fucked with my baby in you, huh?”

you sob out a moan, and his grin turns feral.

“you want me gentle?” he pants, fucking into you so hard your thighs shake. “or you want me to fuck you like i own you?”

you can’t even answer. you’re too wrecked already, too full, too overwhelmed by the pressure and heat and the way he hits that deep spot inside you like he knows exactly what it does.

“that’s what i thought,” he hisses. “fuckin’ moaning like you need it rough. like you need me to snap. you want it, don’t you? want to be fucked so hard you forget where you are. want to feel me dripping outta you all day like a good little cumdump.”

his hand snakes around your waist, palm spreading over your bump, possessive and so wrong and reverent all at once.

“this?” he mutters, low and filthy in your ear as he leans over your back, “this is mine. you’re mine. and this pussy? fuck, this pussy’s the tightest shit i’ve ever had. i could stay buried in you for hours. days.”

your legs buckle as your orgasm builds, loud and fast and impossible to stop. he feels it.

“there it is,” he growls, fucking into you harder, faster, punishing. “you’re close, huh? gonna cream around me like the perfect little thing you are? let me feel it. let me feel you lose it.”

you shatter—screaming, shaking, convulsing around his cock—and sukuna doesn’t slow down. he snarls, slams into you one last time, and groans as he cums deep, spilling inside you with a raw, broken moan like he’s being torn apart.

he stays there—buried, panting, shaking, his chest pressed to your back, both hands cradling your belly now like he’s apologizing with touch.

then:

“…i was trying to behave,” he mutters, voice raspy, and you wheeze out a laugh.

“you said ‘slow’ and then folded in thirty seconds.”

“yeah, well,” he grins, cock still twitching inside you, “you were moaning. that’s cheating.”

he kisses your shoulder, pulls out with a groan, and watches his cum spill from you with the most self-satisfied, absolutely feral look you’ve ever seen.

“round two’s gonna be worse,” he promises.

“worse how?”

“i’m not gonna pretend to be nice next time.”

SHIU KONG

“you feel that, mama?” shiu murmurs low, breath thick with smoke as he exhales slowly, cock buried deep inside you from behind, dragging it out slow just to watch your legs shake. “feel how this pussy keeps suckin’ me back in? like she misses me every time i pull out.”

your cheek’s pressed to the desk, fingers curled around the edge, thighs trembling. you try to say something—but he thrusts back in, sharp and deep, and your words turn into a soft, broken moan.

“fuck, yeah,” he grins, watching the way your back arches. “that’s my good girl. takin’ it like a champ even with my baby in your belly. still greedy. still so tight. you got no shame, huh? gettin’ fucked over my desk like this?”

you whimper, and he groans, gripping your hips tighter, his tone dropping deeper.

“god, look at you. four months pregnant and still so fuckin’ sexy. makin’ me obsessed. makin’ me stupid. you know what it does to me when you walk around like this, belly all round, tits all full, smellin’ like sweat and sweetness and mine?”

he grinds his hips forward again, harder now, making your body jolt. you moan his name, voice wrecked, and he smirks around his cigarette.

“there we go,” he breathes. “that’s it, mama. keep callin’ me like that. makes me wanna knock you up all over again, see how many times i can stretch this body before you break.”

he pulls out halfway and slams back in, deep and deliberate, the desk creaking beneath you. you gasp, and his hand slides down your spine, warm and heavy, keeping you flat against the desk.

“y’know,” he says, smoke curling from his mouth as he fucks you in slow, ruthless strokes, “i tell myself every time i’ll go easy on you. that i’ll be nice, treat my baby mama with respect.”

he laughs, low and wrecked.

“and then you bend over like this, ass up, pussy drippin’ down your thighs, beggin’ for it—an’ suddenly i’m back to being a filthy fuck who can’t stop.”

you cry out as his hips slam into you again, and he moans—loud and shameless.

“you feel that, mama?” he pants. “that’s my cock hitting the back of your fuckin’ throat from the wrong direction. you’re so full right now—goddamn, i can feel you pulse.”

his hand slips down, two fingers circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your knees buckle.

“c’mon, baby,” he urges, voice hoarse and wrecked, “give it to me. let this cock ruin you. let daddy hear how good he’s fuckin’ his perfect little mama.”

you cum with a cry, clenching around him so hard he curses, nearly drops the cigarette, and loses rhythm entirely as he groans, slamming into you once, twice, again—before burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a rough, filthy moan of your name.

he stays there, panting, one hand on your belly, the other sliding up your back to your neck, grounding you both.

then—

“...we’re doin’ this again after you nap,” he mutters, pulling his cigarette back between his lips, grinning like a devil. “mama needs to be real full tonight.”

HIGURUMA HIROMI

“that’s it, mama,” higuruma groans, voice low and rough as he presses deep into you, eyes locked on the curve of your stomach where your bodies meet, “just like that. let me in. let me make you feel good.”

your thighs tremble where they rest on his shoulders, and he tightens his grip around your ankles, palms warm and broad, grounding you as he starts to move—slow at first, like he’s savoring every inch of you, every slick drag of your walls squeezing him in.

“fuck,” he breathes, watching your face contort as you gasp, “you’re so tight. how are you still this tight, mama? this pussy was made to milk me.”

you whimper, one hand cradling your belly, the other tangled in the sheets as he rocks into you with long, deep strokes. your bump rises slightly with every thrust, your body pliant and flushed and already soaked from the way he touched you before this even started.

and he adores it.

he adores you.

“look at you,” he mutters, pace growing faster without meaning to, “legs up, belly out, takin’ my cock like a good mama. my perfect mama.”

you moan his name—ragged and helpless—and his eyes darken, hips snapping harder.

“that’s it,” he growls, leaning in until your knees are almost beside your head, his cock reaching so deep now. “say it again. let me hear how good i fuck my mama.”

“hiromi,” you gasp, back arching, “feels so good—too deep—”

he groans—loud, wrecked—and fucks into you harder.

“you can take it,” he hisses, lips grazing your ear, “you’re so strong, baby. carrying our child, takin’ this dick like it’s yours—‘cause it is. this cock belongs to you. every part of me does.”

your eyes roll back as he slams into that perfect spot inside you, over and over, his pace no longer controlled—he’s feral, now, panting and moaning, eyes flicking down to where you’re stretched open around him, cum-slick and pulsing.

“gonna fill you up again,” he whispers, reverent and wild all at once. “stuff you full, even though you’re already carrying mine. fuck, mama—this pussy needs it. she’s beggin’ for it.”

you’re trembling, legs shaking against his shoulders, and he grabs under your knees, folding you further, giving you nowhere to go—just take it, every inch, every praise-dripping thrust.

“cum for me,” he commands, rough and soft all at once. “cum with me inside. let me feel you. let me feel how good this pussy knows her man.”

you cry out as your orgasm hits, tightening around him like a vice, and his whole body shudders.

he groans your name, hips jerking, and spills inside you with a low, desperate moan.

“fuck, mama—fuck. you’re everything.”

he stays buried for a long moment, breathing hard, watching your body twitch beneath him—flushed, used, loved—and then lowers your legs gently, kissing your knees, your belly, your lips.

“did so well,” he whispers. “my mama’s so good for me.”

you hum sleepily, still dazed. “you went crazy.”

he smiles, brushing your hair back from your face.

“i am crazy,” he says, kissing your forehead, “for you.”

[jacksabbotts]

introducing . . . MORGUE TECH!READER . ᵒ . 🥼 🩺 🩻

you ( morgue tech!reader ) are a shy, soft-spoken, and far too good for the world you work in—but dr. jack abbot wants you anyway. wants you especially because of it. he’s older, bigger, rough around the edges, and completely undone by the way you squirms in his lap and stumbles over your words.

you never had anyone take their time with you—never been praised, teased, or touched the way he plans to. and when he finds out just how untouched you really are?

he makes it his mission to teach you everything you didn’t know you needed.

this is not just a series — this is a world. this is out of body experience for morgue girl ( and the reader ). this is a life-altering. this is a soft cinematic universe built from spilt coffee, sterile fluorescents, and jack abbot's absurdly soft hands wrapped around someone who didn't think anyone would take care to notice. this is GOOD GIRL CONFESSIONS .

CHAPTER ONE .' cold and predictable ( wc 1.6k ) CHAPTER TWO .' cold storage ( wc 1.4k ) CHAPTER THREE .' a cold shoulder ( wc 2.1k )

CHAPTER FOUR .' too cold to touch ( wc 2.2k ) CHAPTER FIVE .' cold cut ( wc 2.3k ) CHAPTER SIX .' caught in the cold ( wc 1.3k )

CHAPTER SEVEN .' tbd ( coming soon ) CHAPTER EIGHT .' tbd ( coming soon ) CHAPTER NINE .' tbd ( coming soon )

jack abbot x morgue tech!reader concepts

⤷ dead on arrival ( wc 1.1k ) ⤷ a cardiac event ( wc 1.7k ) ⤷ porcelain in storm ( wc 3.4k )

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf   @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv  @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags   @twiddledeedumsworld  @jetless  @thedamnqueenofhell  @topnerd03  @abllor @loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040   @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @painment  @namgification   @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @shadowfoxy @thesnugglingduck @britt217 @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @chuiisi  @Lumpypoll @generalstarlightobjest @dlljdhsh @misshoneypaper @Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @Cherry_cosmos @idontcarenoughtonamethis @Sammiib444 

if your user is white instead of gray it means i was not able to tag you, i copy and pasted straight from the forms so that means there must be typo, feel free to resubmit a form ( linked below ) and i will update the taglist. this not all the people who have requested to be tagged ( i am one person and i will get everyone on the list at some point. thank you !!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

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possible trigger warnings * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ lowercase intended!!!! \ medical trauma \ mentions of death \ hospital setting ( graphic references to autopsies, corpses, injury, blood ) \ social anxiety \ self-worth issues \ body image insecurity ( specifically surrounding reader’s curvier body ) \ reader internalizes micro-aggressions and negative self-talk \ emotional repression \ low burn with eventual power imbalance ( not exploitative, but notable that jack is of higher rank but NOT reader's direct superior ) \ age gap dynamic \ jack is gruff and emotionally avoidant at first ( but in his bf!era dw ) \ SMUT in later chapters ( pls read all content warnings posted at the beginning of each part )

[velvetsserenity]

Bite Down

alpha!sevika x omega!reader

word count: 2.8K

content warnings: nsfw, explicit sexual content, alpha omega dynamics, power imbalance, heat-driven behavior, aggressive dominance, biting/marking, non-consensual undertones, mild pain, reader restrained and overpowered, knotting, breeding implications

She’s going feral.

Sweat glistens along her throat, veins bulging, arms straining hard enough against the reinforced restraints that the cuffs grind against the metal chair legs with a low screech. Every breath she takes is a guttural growl, like it hurts to inhale without you in her mouth. Her eyes are bloodshot, unfocused, locked on you like she’s going to eat you alive.

You lean against the wall.

Remote in hand. Thumb poised above the trigger.

“You’re not thinking straight,” you say, trying to keep your voice even despite the way your knees want to buckle. “It’s the heat. It’s making you insane.”

She snarls, teeth bared, jaw flexing like it’s fighting the muzzle that’s not even there. “I’m not fucking insane.”

Her thighs spread wider. Her hips roll against nothing. Her voice drops to a snarl. “I can smell you. I know you want it.”

You don’t deny it. Can’t. The air is thick with her scent, dark, musky, blistering with pheromones that make your brain want to shut off and your body want to give in. But you won’t.

“Sevika. Listen to me.” You push off the wall, take a step closer. Her breath hitches, nostrils flaring. “You almost mauled me this morning. You don’t even remember it, do you?”

She doesn’t answer.

Her eyes drop, stare at your thighs.

Then her body jerks forward, houlders straining, cords of muscle flexing as she lunges.

“Sevika, don’t—”

Too late.

You hit the button.

The collar lights up electric blue. It hits her like lightning, sparks cracking across her neck, the scent gland flaring red as her body seizes. She screams, an animal sound, low and pained, and slams back into the chair, the restraints yanking tight with a violent snap.

When it ends, her head droops forward. Shoulders shaking. Breath rasping hard through clenched teeth.

You step back to the wall. Let the silence settle.

“I told you,” you say softly. “You’re not in control.”

She doesn’t lift her head. Just spits blood onto the floor.

Then—quietly—she chuckles.

“You think that’s gonna stop me?” she rasps. “Keep playing with that button, sweetheart. I’m not done yet.”

The static hasn’t even cleared from the first shock before she twitches again,like her body doesn’t care it’s just been punished.

She growls, voice cracking. “You smell like you’re ready. You want this just as bad as I do, don’t lie….don’t fucking lie to me!”

Her muscles coil. Her wrists twist in the cuffs so hard they creak. The chair groans beneath her weight.

Then she lunges again.

You don’t flinch.

You press the button.

BZZZZT.

The collar lights up again, violent and cruel, a hungry electric hum snapping through the air as Sevika seizes up mid-lunge. Her back arches like she’s about to snap her own spine, and she lets out a strangled roar as her body locks down and slams hard into the chair again. Sweat flies off her jaw as she shakes, teeth gritted so tight they might crack.

When it stops, she collapses forward in the chair, arms trembling, hair clinging to her slick forehead.

And then—she laughs.

A low, broken, deranged sound.

“You think you can train me?” she huffs, voice ragged. “That little toy’s the only thing keeping me from fucking your guts full of my knot until you scream my name like it’s a goddamn prayer.”

You say nothing.

You just let her talk.

“I’ll bite you,” she says, more desperate now. “I’ll mark you so deep they’ll smell me on you for weeks. You want that? You want to be mine?”

She tries to shift her hips. The restraints don’t let her. The chair holds.

But the way her eyes glint when she hears her own cuffs creak, it’s almost euphoric.

“I’ll tear your fucking clothes off,” she moans, rolling her head against the backrest. “I’ll split you open and knot you so good you’ll forget your own damn name.”

You lift the remote.

Her eyes widen.

“No—no—fuck—please—”

BZZZZT.

She screams through her teeth, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, not from the pain, but from being denied again. She bites her lip until blood stains her mouth. Her whole body spasms in the chair, knees twitching, thighs drenched.

When the buzzing fades this time, she doesn’t speak.

She sobs.

Low, hoarse, furious.

She hangs limp in the chair, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven gasps. The collar’s still sparking faintly—tiny pulses of leftover current twitching across her flushed throat. Her mouth is wet with spit and blood. Her pants are soaked.

You think maybe she’s done.

You think maybe she’s finally broken.

And then—

SNAP.

One of the chair legs screeches sideways with a bang.

You freeze.

She moves again.

Another jolt of violent strength, and this time the cuff on her right wrist shreds clean through the leather with a sharp crack. Metal groans. The entire chair shifts with her weight.

You step back.

“Sevika,” you warn, voice razor-thin.

She lifts her head.

Hair stuck to her face. A snarl behind her teeth.

Her left arm breaks free next.

She doesn’t hesitate.

She lunges to her feet, dragging the chair’s frame still shackled to her ankles. She stumbles, roars and charges.

You press the button.

BZZZZT.

It lights her up, but she doesn’t go down. She keeps coming, mouth open in a savage moan, eyes rolling back even as her muscles spasm and her knees buckle. She crashes against the wall just inches from you, her body jerking violently from the voltage, but she slams her hand out, knocks the remote from your grip, sending it clattering across the floor.

The collar finally shorts.

Smoke rises from the edge of the device, and the light dies with a pitiful fizzle.

She looks down at you. Panting. Grinning.

“Oops,” she growls.

You try to bolt.

But her arms cage you in, one braced above your head, the other grabbing your wrist hard enough to bruise. She pins you against the wall with her hips,hot, throbbing, soaked through the fabric grinding into you like a promise.

You fight.

Push at her chest, twist in her grip, but it only makes her growl, low and mean, like your struggling’s just foreplay.

“You shocked me,” she pants against your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “Over and over. And now you’re gonna fucking pay.”

Her hand slips between your thighs and cups you over your soaked panties, pressing into the heat of your omega core like it belongs to her. You cry out, hips jolting but her thigh is already wedged between yours, keeping you open, caging you in.

She grins when she feels the wetness. “Knew it. You’re just as ruined as I am.”

“Sevika—” You try to speak, but she doesn’t care.

She bites down on the side of your neck, hard. You yelp, writhing as she suckles the skin between her teeth, leaving a brutal, red mark. Not a mating bite. Not yet. Just a warning. A stamp.

Her hands tear your clothes apart like paper. Shirt ripped open, bra yanked down, panties dragged roughly to your knees. You’re gasping, shivering under her weight, skin flushed and raw, scent slick and begging and she devours it.

“Gonna fuck you so full of me,” she snarls, pressing her nose to your chest, your belly, your thighs. “You’re gonna forget every command you ever gave.”

Her fingers dive between your folds and find you soaked,pulsing, dripping, ready. She groans, thrusts two in without warning, and your back arches hard off the wall. The stretch is sudden, brutal, perfect.

“That’s it,” she breathes, pumping them deeper, watching your mouth fall open. “That’s my girl.”

You try to speak, tell her to slow down, to wait but you can’t. Your body betrays you, hips grinding against her palm, core clenching so tight it makes her hiss through her teeth.

“You’ve been teasing me for hours. Days.” Her fingers speed up, thumb circling your clit like she’s hunting a reaction and she gets one. Your legs twitch. Your moans get louder. “How many times you press that button? Huh? You liked seeing me beg, didn’t you?”

You shake your head, but she only laughs rough, breathless, and hungry.

“No? Then why are you this wet?”

She pulls her fingers out. You whimper.

She licks them clean.

And growls.

“You taste like heat. Like mine.”

Her boxers are off in seconds, exposing her strap she’s been wearing all day. From this morning when she planned to take you, but got interrupted by your own plans. It brushes your slick folds and you sob, biting down on your own lip as your omega instincts scream yes—yes—yes.

Sevika grins like she feels it in your scent. “There she is.”

Then she thrusts in.

All at once.

You cry out, half pain, half desperate, shattering relief, as she fills you completely, barely giving your body time to adjust. The stretch is brutal, the pressure dizzying. She grabs your thighs, lifts you higher, lets your back press against the wall as she holds you open and starts to move.

Hard. Fast. Punishing.

“You wanted this,” she grunts, slamming into you over and over. “You fucking wanted this.”

Your body gives up. Folds under her. Fists tangled in her hair, breath coming in ragged moans as she drives into you like a hammer, her knot already swelling, threatening to lock.

Her teeth are at your neck again.

Not teasing this time.

“I’m gonna mark you,” she growls. “Gonna take you.”

You gasp—“No—don’t—wait—”

But she’s past the point of listening.

She sinks her teeth into the crook of your neck, a deep, savage bite, and your body explodes.

You come so hard it rips through you like lightning. Your vision whites out. Your walls clamp around her strap, milking her, and she growls against your skin as she gives in, thrusts deep, deeper, and imagines locking inside you, her knot swelling and snapping into place.

She pulses.

She wishes she could actually fill you.

Hot, endless streams of her release would coat your insides, her hips jerking against yours, the mark on your neck still bleeding when she finally pulls back and pants against your ear.

“Mine.”

You’re still trembling.

Still trying to breathe.

Still completely, helplessly tied to her.

And Sevika?

She’s smiling now.

A wicked, blood-stained grin.

“Next time you collar me,” she murmurs, nuzzling your jaw, “you better hope I don’t break it sooner.”

plagiarism not authorized

[buckybarnesluvr]

Trigger Point

//Pairing// Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

//Summary// Someone tries to trigger Bucky’s Winter Soldier programming—and it nearly works.

//Word Count// ~1.4k

//Warnings// Rough sex, PIV (use protection!!!), m&f orgasm, metal arm kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, dominance/submission dynamics, PTSD implications, possessive behavior, consensual power imbalance

You knew something was wrong the second he stalked off the jet.

Bucky didn’t say a word during debriefing—barely looked at anyone. You caught the tremor in his jaw, the tightness in his fists, the way he kept flexing his left hand like it was burning through his wrist.

You didn’t speak until you found him in the dimmed corridor below deck, near the emergency equipment lockers, pacing like a caged animal.

“Bucky—”

“Don’t,” he snapped, turning toward you, wild-eyed.

You froze. His pupils were blown, sweat beading at his temples. His face looked like a war zone—gritted teeth, flared nostrils, storm in his chest.

“They tried it,” he growled, voice gravel. “They tried to use the words.”

Your stomach dropped.

The trigger words.

You closed the distance carefully, like you were approaching a lit fuse. “But they didn’t work, right?”

His silence was the answer. Not because they succeeded—but because they almost had.

He stepped in close, breathing hard. His metal hand clenched and unclenched at his side, the plates groaning with tension.

“I need something else to take over,” he said, voice low and shaking. “Before the memories eat me alive.”

You met his eyes and nodded, barely whispering, “Take it.”

Then his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t a kiss—it was a claim. His flesh hand grabbed the back of your neck, the cold press of vibranium pushing up under your shirt like it needed to mark you, own you. He backed you up into the wall with a growl, mouth devouring, dragging your bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re mine,” he snarled, voice rough. “You hear me?”

“Yes,” you gasped, fingers already tearing at the straps of his tac vest. “Always.”

His metal hand tore your shirt open like paper. No finesse—just need. You moaned at the cold glide over your breasts, the sharp contrast against your heated skin.

“You gonna let me fuck the Winter Soldier out of me?” he hissed, rutting his hips against yours, already hard and straining in his combat pants. “Remind me who I really am?”

“Please.”

That’s all he needed.

Your pants were ripped off you and thrown somewhere you couldn't see. He shoved his down quickly, not wasting another second. He lifted you against the wall, metal fingers digging into your thighs as he lined up and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.

You screamed—not from pain, but from the shock of fullness, the way he filled you so deep it felt like he reached your soul.

“Fuck—this pussy,” he grunted, snapping his hips up. “Always so fucking tight. Like you were made for me.”

You clung to him, fingers fisting in his hair as he fucked into you, rough and relentless. The metal arm held you effortlessly, locked in place like a vise while his flesh hand slid between your bodies, thumb circling your clit with no mercy.

“You like this?” he growled. “You like me losing control on you?”

You whimpered, already close, already unraveling from the brutal pace. “Yes, Bucky—don’t stop—please, don’t stop—”

“You’re gonna come,” he ordered, thrusts picking up speed. “You’re gonna come, and then I’m gonna fill you up. Fuck a baby into you, make sure nobody ever fucking forgets you belong to me.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm slammed into you, sharp and overwhelming, and Bucky didn’t slow down. He kept thrusting through it, chasing his own high, whispering broken things in your ear:

“Mine.” “No one else touches you.” “Need you. Only you.” “Can’t lose myself—not with you here—”

Then with a final deep thrust and a guttural growl, he buried himself to the hilt and came—hot, thick, pulsing inside you in waves. His hips jerked with each spurt, and he held you so tight it felt like he was trying to mold your body to his.

But he wasn’t done.

You were still shaking when he pulled back just enough to watch your pussy flutter around him. He slid out halfway, then slammed back in—again. And again.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, overwhelmed.

“One more,” he said, lips brushing your ear. “Give me one more. I know you can.”

His thumb found your clit again—faster this time, rougher. Your legs trembled. His cock throbbed inside you.

“I need to see you fall apart,” he whispered. “Need to know I didn’t hurt you. That I didn’t become him again.”

The second orgasm hit like lightning—your body arching, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent cry as you clenched down on him like a vice. He grunted, hips faltering, spilling into you again with a broken moan.

You sagged against him, completely spent.

His hold on you loosened, just enough to let you breathe. His forehead rested against yours, sweat dripping onto your cheeks as his breath came in ragged gasps.

“I didn’t mean to be that rough,” he murmured, shame already creeping in.

You cupped his cheek, pulling him in for a soft kiss.

“You needed it. And I needed you.”

For a second, the Helicarrier didn’t exist. The mission, the words, the war—it all faded. Just him. Just you. Still here. Still whole.

“I don’t know what I���d be without you,” he whispered, voice cracking.

“You’ll never have to find out.”

[marylxvrr]

" THE KING'S OBSESSION "

read part 2 here

𐙚 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 — a ruthless ruler who commands loyalty from all, yet becomes a desperate, obsessive mess when it comes to you, willing to destroy kingdoms just to keep you by his side . . .

𐙚 Trigger Warnings: Obsession, power imbalance, emotional. manipulation, implied captivity, and threats of violence.

You kept your head down, your hands trembling as you scrubbed the grand marble floors of the royal palace. Just another nameless servant in the king's vast estate, you worked tirelessly to keep your place in a world that cared little for someone like you.

The rumors about King Adrian were whispered in hushed tones among the maids. He was ruthless, ruling with an iron fist, but his charm was undeniable. His mere presence could silence a room, his sharp green eyes piercing through even the bravest of souls.

You had only seen him from afar—until the day fate crossed your paths.

It happened when you were carrying a heavy vase filled with fresh flowers, your arms straining under its weight. You misstepped, the vase slipping from your grasp and crashing to the floor. The sound echoed through the grand hall, and your heart dropped into your stomach as you realized King Adrian himself had just entered.

He paused, his eyes landing on you. You froze, breath hitching as you knelt, frantically gathering the shattered pieces.

“I-I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” you stammered, your voice trembling as you avoided his gaze.

“Leave it,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

You stopped, your hands stilling. Slowly, you dared to glance up, meeting his piercing green eyes. His expression was unreadable, his gaze intense as it swept over you.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Y/n, Your Majesty,” you whispered.

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Y/n,” he repeated, as though savoring the sound of your name. “How fitting.”

---

From that day on, you felt his presence everywhere. The king would linger in the halls where you worked, his gaze burning into you. At first, you tried to dismiss it as your imagination, but the gifts began to appear.

A necklace of pearls left on your cot. A fine dress, far beyond anything a maid could afford, folded neatly on your small bed. The other servants whispered, their envy thinly veiled, but unease churned in your chest.

One evening, a royal attendant summoned you to the king’s chambers. Your heart pounded as you stood before the massive double doors, anxiety tightening your throat.

When you stepped inside, Adrian was seated by the fireplace, a glass of wine in his hand. He looked up and smiled, motioning for you to approach.

“You’ve caught my attention, Y/n,” he said, setting the glass down. “And I am not a man who lets go of what he desires.”

Your breath hitched. “Your Majesty, I’m just a maid—”

“You’re mine,” he interrupted, his voice firm and unyielding. “From the moment I saw you, I knew. No one else will ever have you.”

You stepped back, fear curling in your stomach. “Your Majesty, please. I don’t belong in your world.”

Adrian rose from his chair, his imposing figure towering over you. “You belong to me,” he said, his tone soft but laced with steel. “Whether you realize it or not.”

Tears pricked your eyes, and you shook your head. “I can’t… I can’t be what you want.”

He stepped closer, cupping your cheek in his hand. His touch was deceptively gentle, but the obsession in his gaze was unmistakable. “You already are,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your skin.

You flinched, trying to pull away, but his grip tightened. “There is no escape from me, Y/n. You will stay by my side—whether as my queen or my prisoner. The choice is yours.”

Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Why me?”

His smile darkened. “Because you’re perfect. Because you’re mine. And I will destroy anyone who tries to take you from me.”

[writesvani]

down low | 04

SUMMARY: There's no love, there are no fights with Jungkook—just a twisted addiction that keeps you crawling back. You tell yourselves it’s not toxic. After all, you never argue, never get jealous. Just fuck, lie, and slip back into the arms of the people who will never know.

It’s not love.

But it sure as hell isn’t nothing.

friends with benefits au, situationship au

TRIGGER WARNINGS: SIGHS... jungkook's pov, explicit sexual content, rough sex, public sex risk, infidelity, choking (light breath play), degradation, possessiveness, voyeuristic elements, emotional manipulation, profanity, alcohol use, smoking, power imbalance, graphic sexual language, references to violence (boxing), mention of injuries/bruises, emotional distress, references to sexual frustration, suggestive texting, sexually explicit dialogue, smoking, praise kink, angst, class differences/wealth disparity, lying/deception, fingering, fucking against a wall, bathroom sex

comment here for the Down Low taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 7,5k // date: 11th of July 2025

CHAPTER FOUR — Dirty Little Detour; happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay hi everyone. down low 4 is HERE — are we excited or what?! because writing this chapter was fucking amazing for me, not even gonna lie. i think it might actually be the best thing i’ve ever written in my life and that says A LOT.

it’s jk’s pov and i had to crawl into his brain like a raccoon in a trash can. this was supposed to be my cute lil toxic smut story but NOPE. now i’ve got a 20-page character sheet for down low jungkook. and one for y/n too because queen deserves lore.

you’re not supposed to think jungkook’s a good person. you’re not. but i swear this fic is gonna show how complicated he is. how every word, every action, every thought clashes inside him. he’s so fucked up. and somehow he’s my fave male character i’ve ever written. like, i love him. i shouldn’t, but i do.

ANYWAY. note goal for this chapter is 700 because y’all hit 500 in four days and i wanna see how insane you can be for this toxic demon. love you. go read. go scream. enjoy the chaos.

Jungkook drags in deep breaths, chest rising and falling as he tries to steady his pulse. He closes his eyes for a moment, picturing the ring in vivid detail. He sees the opponent’s stance, the way his feet shift on the canvas, the glint of sweat on his brow. He knows the combos the guy might throw, the rhythm of his jab.

Sweat drips down Jungkook’s temple, stinging his eyes as he slams his fists into the heavy bag. Leather cracks against leather with every punch as he drills a rapid-fire combo: jab, cross, hook. He pivots on the balls of his feet, launches an uppercut that makes the bag shudder. His breath comes fast, sharp in the cavernous echo of the gym.

Namjoon circles him, holding up the pads, voice crisp and commanding. “Chin down. Eyes up. Slip left after the hook, don’t stay in the pocket too long.”

Jungkook grits his teeth as fire creeps up his arms from the earlier sets of battle ropes. His shoulders feel like stone, but he forces himself to keep moving, forcing himself to find the rhythm. He imagines his opponent again—closing in, feinting, looking for an opening.

He can’t drop his guard. Not here. Not ever.

Jungkook has never been the type to give up. Not in life, not when it comes to his family, and definitely not in the ring. He’s always measured his punches, calculated his steps, chosen his words with precision. But lately, that carefulness is starting to crack at the edges.

His life has always mirrored his work. And now, no matter how hard he tries to visualize the match—no matter how clearly he sees the punches landing—he feels too slow, too heavy, not sharp enough. For the first time, Jeon Jungkook is letting his guard down. And it’s fucking him up completely.

He slams a counterpunch into the speed bag, but the rhythm falters. The hit doesn’t have the snap it should.

“Footwork lighter, Jungkook!” Namjoon yells from behind him, voice bouncing off the gym walls.

Jungkook ignores him. His legs feel like lead. His shoulders burn. Everything feels off.

His work today is shit. His training session is shit. And, worst of all, he feels like shit.

Jungkook swipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his glove, feeling salt sting his eyes. Namjoon tosses him a towel, and he catches it one-handed, draping it around his neck. His chest heaves as he grabs his water bottle, unscrewing the cap with trembling fingers before chugging half of it in one go. The water tastes metallic, but he doesn’t care.

“What’s wrong with you, man?” Namjoon asks, voice edged with frustration, one hand planted firmly on his hip. His brows are drawn tight, sweat darkening his hair at the temples. Great. Now he’s pissed.

“Nothing,” Jungkook deadpans, dropping the bottle to his side. “I’m just tired.”

Namjoon studies him for a beat, eyes sharp. “Looks to me like you’re distracted.”

Jungkook lets out a dry laugh, though it sounds more like a scoff. “Hah. As if.”

But the words feel hollow as soon as they leave his mouth. His pulse still thrums in his ears. His gaze drifts back to the heavy bag swinging gently from his last hit.

He knows it’s a lie. He is distracted.

“Cut the shit, Jungkook,” Namjoon snaps, eyes blazing. “The match is in days. You don’t get to check out now—not when we’re this close.”

Jungkook doesn’t flinch. “I’m not checking out,” he mutters, digging into his backpack. “I’m just breathing.”

“Breathing?” Namjoon scoffs. “You call this breathing? You’ve been off since you walked in. Slow, sloppy—”

“Yeah, I know,” Jungkook cuts in, pulling out a half-crushed pack of cigarettes like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. He doesn’t even wait for Namjoon to finish—he’s already moving, dragging his tired legs toward the exit.

“Where the hell are you going?” Namjoon calls out, voice louder now, tinged with disbelief.

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look back. Doesn’t give him the satisfaction.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

Just for now. He’ll deal with the consequences later. Right now, he needs quiet.

Cold wind punches him in the face the second he steps outside, sharp enough to steal the breath from his lungs. Goosebumps rise across his arms, sweat cooling into a chill that seeps through his shirt. But he barely notices.

He leans against the rough concrete wall, pressing the back of his skull into it like he’s trying to ground himself. For a second, he just stands there, eyes closed, chest rising and falling, as if the wall itself might hold him up.

Then he digs into the cigarette pack, fingers clumsy and trembling, pulling one free and placing it between his lips. His teeth clamp around the filter like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

He flicks his lighter. A tiny spark flares—and dies instantly in the wind.

He tries again. And again. And again.

The wheel of the lighter scrapes under his thumb, biting into tender skin already rubbed raw. Tiny flecks of black debris fall onto his palm. The lighter sputters, flames snuffed out before they can properly catch.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice tight with frustration. He cups his free hand around the cigarette’s tip, trying to block the wind, but the gusts slip through the gaps between his fingers. His breath hitches as he exhales, the sharp edge of a growl in his throat.

He shifts position, hunched forward like he’s protecting something precious, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed in concentration. The cigarette quivers in his mouth with every shiver of cold.

His thumb aches with every flick. He knows he should stop—that he’s hurting himself for nothing—but there’s something deep in his chest, clawing at him, whispering that he needs this.

Because when Jungkook craves something, nothing—not cold wind, not bruised skin, not the world falling apart—can keep it from him.

He tries one last time. Flick.

A fragile flame catches, burning stubborn and bright. He brings it closer, shielding it like a secret, and finally ignites the cigarette. Smoke hisses around the filter, swirling into the night air.

He drags in a long inhale, and the burn sears down his throat, settling into his lungs like an anchor. His lashes flutter shut as his body unwinds, shoulders sinking against the concrete.

For a moment—just one blessed, fleeting moment—everything else disappears. And all that’s left is the taste of smoke, the throb in his thumb, and the relief of having what he wanted.

He taps the end of his cigarette, watching ash crumble away and scatter like silver dust on the breeze. The wind catches it, swirling it into the night air before it disappears.

With his free hand, he digs into his pocket, fingers brushing over the frayed lining, searching for his phone. Empty. His lips twist into a silent curse. Great. He left it inside.

Now he’s stuck out here—alone, with nothing but his thoughts gnawing at him.

His mind flickers to Eunji. She’d texted him before training, sending three, four messages that buzzed against his thigh, but he couldn’t bring himself to reply. He makes a mental note to text her back later. If he leaves it too long, she’ll get clingy. Dramatic. Suspicious.

And he can’t afford her being suspicious. Not when there’s you.

Fuck. He hates how quickly his brain jumps to you. How there’s barely any distance between Eunji’s name in his phone and the thought of your skin, your mouth. Like a hairline crack in glass, ready to shatter with the slightest pressure.

And he hates you.

No. He doesn’t.

Hating you would mean feeling something. And he can’t afford that, either.

You’re cool. You’re sharp, funny as hell. And fuck, you’re beautiful in a way that makes his pulse trip over itself. The kind of beautiful that demands attention the moment you step into a room. The kind that makes it impossible to look away.

But it’s not just that. It’s the way your lips part when you’re turned on, breath catching like you’re surprised by your own need. The way your nails dig into his shoulders when you’re close, as though you’re afraid you’ll break apart if you let go. The way you look up at him through heavy lashes while his name tumbles from your lips like a secret.

You fuck like you’re starving for it—like you’ll die if he’s not inside you, filling every inch, claiming every sound you make. And the worst part is how fucking good it feels. How easy it would be to let you become the only thing that matters.

But you weren’t made for him. This…whatever the hell this is…is just a glitch in the system. A glitch that’s lasting way too long. A glitch that could tear everything apart if he’s not careful.

He doesn’t see you like that.

He doesn’t.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burns, his eyes fixed on the dark street beyond the parking lot. The wind slices through him, but he barely feels it.

And yet, as he exhales, he swears he can taste you in the back of his throat—sweet, electric, impossible to forget.

Eunji opens the door with a soft smile, the kind that looks like home if he were in the mood to recognize it. There’s a dusting of flour on her cheeks, her hair a bit tousled and her apron hanging lopsided on her frame.

“Missed you,” she says with a bright grin, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook. She holds him like she means it—like her entire body is trying to memorize the shape of him.

His hands fall to her waist automatically. Because they’re supposed to. Because that’s what she expects. It should feel natural.

But the scent that wafts from her apartment wraps around him like smoke.

Cinnamon.

Fuck. You smell like cinnamon.

It’s a dangerous thought. A betrayal blooming in his chest.

“Missed you too,” he mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to her lips.

She giggles, bright and easy, and tugs him inside, locking the door behind them. “God, you always smell like sweat and cologne. It’s so unfair,” she teases, pressing her nose to his neck. “It’s hot.”

He gives a quiet laugh, not quite forced—but not quite real either. “You baking something?” he asks, nodding toward the oven as he slips off his shoes. He tries to sound curious. Invested. Present.

She turns back toward the kitchen, checking the oven through the glass. “Mhm, cinnamon rolls. You’re a sucker for anything with cinnamon, right?”

“Yeah,” he says, sinking into her couch and stretching his legs out. “Something like that.”

She hums, walking back toward him, hands still slightly damp from washing. She dries them on a kitchen towel and then climbs into his lap without hesitation, straddling him, arms curling around his neck again. “You okay, baby? You seem… off.”

“Just tired from training,” he murmurs, running a hand up and down her back. “You know how it is.”

“Mhm,” she whispers, planting a soft kiss on his jaw. “You always push yourself so hard. You never know when to slow down.”

“Can’t afford to. Not right now. The match is too close.”

“I know,” she pouts, resting her forehead against his. “But you’re still human, Jungkook. You need rest. You need to take care of yourself, too. What if you burn out?”

“Then I burn out,” he mutters, half-joking, eyes flickering away from hers.

She grabs his face in her hands, gently guiding his gaze back. “Don’t say that. You matter more than a match. You matter to me.”

He holds her stare for a moment, feeling the weight of her sincerity pressing down on him. She means every word. And he wishes—he really fucking wishes—he could meet her halfway.

“I know,” he says quietly, giving her hand a light squeeze. Her skin is warm and soft beneath his fingers. Familiar.

But it doesn’t feel like silk.

Nothing feels like silk these days.

She kisses his jaw again, pressing soft, fluttery kisses along the line of his throat. Her lips are gentle, hesitant, like she’s afraid he might pull away. His hands twitch by his sides, uncertain.

“Well… if you’re tired…” she murmurs, her lips brushing over his skin as she speaks, “I could help you relax.” Her voice drops, shy and breathy. She keeps kissing lower, nudging her nose against the pulse hammering in his neck.

He tilts his head, watching her closely. The way her cheeks glow pink, the small crease between her brows as though she’s nervous she’s being too forward. Eunji isn’t coy. She isn’t seductive. She’s sweet and earnest and a little shy.

And none of that is what he craves right now.

But she’s the right one.

“Mhm… maybe you could, pretty girl,” he says, his mouth curling into a smirk as he cups her face and pulls her into a kiss. He kisses her slow and warm, letting it linger longer than he feels.

She sighs into the kiss—a soft, pretty sound any man would kill to hear. The kind of sigh he should be dying for.

But he isn’t.

Even as she melts against him, all he can think about is you. The way you’d already be grinding your hips into his, your fingers fisted in his hair, your lips tugging at his ear as you whisper the filthiest things. The way you’d be half-moan, half-laugh, daring him to shut you up.

You’d be begging for it. Fuck, you love to beg.

Guilt claws at his chest, sharp and sudden. He hates himself for thinking about you. For letting your phantom touch creep into this moment that should belong to Eunji.

He knows he should stop. Not because he’s cheating. Jungkook has cheated before. Plenty of times. He never felt guilty about it. Never felt guilty about fucking you while pretending to love someone else.

But this… this feels different.

He feels guilty because he’s cheating on himself. Feels like he’s betraying the person he’s supposed to be.

And he doesn’t even know why.

Eunji pulls back just enough to look into his eyes, searching his face for permission. For connection. “Let me take care of you,” she whispers.

He swallows hard, then nods, letting his hands slip under her shirt, palms skimming warm skin. She shivers at his touch, eyes fluttering shut, and slides off his lap to sink to her knees in front of him.

He watches her, detached and almost clinical, as she fumbles with his belt. Her fingers are soft, reverent, touching him like he’s precious. Like he matters. And he wishes—for the briefest second—that it felt as good as it’s supposed to.

So he lets her. Lets her take him into her mouth, lets her cheeks hollow around him as she moans softly. Lets her look up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, seeking praise he can barely summon.

He pulls her up afterward, lays her down on the couch, kisses her neck as she gasps his name. He fucks her slowly, because that’s what she likes. Because that���s what a good boyfriend would do. He watches her come apart, moaning into his mouth like she can’t get enough of him.

But in the back of his mind, he’s kissing different lips. Whispering different words. Hearing different whines.

He fucks someone else—through her.

When they finish, Eunji lays on his chest, her breath still uneven. She rests her head over his heart, letting the quiet thump lull her. He threads his fingers through her silky hair, absently staring at a crack in the ceiling paint.

She shifts, twisting her head to look up at him. “You know… Jimin’s throwing a party tonight at his place,” she says, her fingertip lightly tracing slow circles over his chest.

He’s instantly on alert. He knows exactly what she’s hinting at—and hates that she can’t just say what she wants. He drags his eyes down to hers, pretending to look puzzled. “Okay…?” he says, voice pitched innocently.

Jimin. Right. Her classmate from college. But more importantly, your friend. The same Jimin who, from what he remembers, you’d said was throwing the party. If you’re going to be there… he’s going to be there. He doesn’t even have to think about it.

He fucking hates that.

“So I was thinking…” Eunji continues, hesitating, “…maybe we could go tonight? Together? We never really go anywhere as a couple…” Her eyes are wide and shiny, full of quiet hope. She blinks up at him, lashes sweeping her cheeks, like she’s afraid he might say no.

He clears his throat, stalling for time he doesn’t actually need. Because the answer is already decided.

“Sure, bub. I’m in.” He forces a smile, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

She lets out a high, delighted squeak, then kisses him hard on the mouth. “Oh my God, I have to call Lili—she’s been asking if I’m going!” she babbles, already scrambling out of his arms, hair mussed and cheeks flushed.

He watches her disappear into the other room, voice floating back as she dials her friend.

Good.

The second she’s out of sight, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lights up as he unlocks it, thumb moving fast and familiar. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds yours.

He stares at the name for a second, thumb hovering over it. A tightness squeezes his chest, but he doesn’t let himself think about it.

He taps your name. Types out a message.

him: you going to jimin’s tn?

It’s simple. Careless. It should be.

His phone pings seconds later. Your reply comes almost instantly, like you crave him just as much as he craves you.

you 🧃: yea i will? why?

him: i’ll be there tn

you 🧃: tf?? you can’t just show up. i’m going with tae. do u even know jimin personally??

He rolls his eyes, thumb flying over the keys.

him: going w eunji. he’s her classmate or some shit

him: and i don’t give a fuck about tae

him: might be fun seeing how quiet i can make you with my cock in front of him

He can’t stop himself.

you 🧃: fuck off

you 🧃: wonder what your sweet lil girlfriend would think about that

you 🧃: seriously, don’t come. please.

him: i don’t care what she thinks

him: i’m coming. try and stop me

you 🧃: jesus christ. fine. come.

him: i am. hard already thinking about it

you 🧃: shut the fuck up. just don’t look at me or talk to me or anything

you 🧃: pretend you don’t know me

him: yeah, sure. i’ll ignore you.

him: but you owe me. at least show me what you’re wearing tonight. or nothing at all.

you 🧃: fuck no

you 🧃: wait and see tonight, kook

him: you’re torture

you 🧃: cry about it

him: i will. in your pussy.

you 🧃: bet. let’s see if you’ve got the balls

He steps into the party with Eunji’s hand in his, his palm clammy against hers. He’s hyperaware of it, the way sweat slicks their skin. But when he glances over, she’s beaming, eyes wide with excitement. She doesn’t even seem to notice—or care. She’s too busy glowing under the lights, like she’s been waiting to show him off.

The bass thrums so deep it shakes the floor beneath his sneakers. The place is packed—college kids shoulder to shoulder, red cups in hand, shots poured over tongues, laughter spilling into every corner. There’s a pair already half-naked on the stairs, making out like they’ll die if they come up for air. Secrets are being passed around like expensive cologne—quick, intoxicating, and gone before you can ask.

It all feels… familiar. And distant.

It reminds him of when he was still in college. The chaos, the freedom, the recklessness. He misses it. Misses being the guy who only had to worry about finals, not whether the rent’s late or his knuckles are bruised too raw to train.

But that’s over. He dropped out. He’s different now.

He scans Jimin’s parents’ house. It’s nice—too nice. Hardwood floors polished to a shine, tall ceilings, expensive vases he could probably hawk for enough money to pay off half his mom’s debts. Jimin’s family is doing well, clearly. Lucky bastards.

Eunji squeezes his hand tighter, dragging him deeper into the crowd.

“Let’s find Jimin—I wanna say hi!” she shouts over the music.

He grunts, distracted. “What about Lili?”

“We’ll find her too. But he’s the host,” she rolls her eyes, like he’s being dense. “We gotta be polite.”

She tugs him along, weaving around dancing bodies and throwing polite waves to friends he vaguely recognizes from campus. She leans close to mutter something catty about a guy’s hair, and he lets out a quick snort, because that’s what she wants—a boyfriend who listens.

They make it to the kitchen.

“There he is!” Eunji says, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, hiiii!”

A blond guy turns around, grin bright and wide, his energy buzzing like a live wire. Jimin. The name Jungkook’s heard enough times from your lips to piece it together.

They shake hands, Jimin’s grip warm and easy. Jungkook forces a polite smile, though his mind’s already drifting.

And then—he sees you.

It’s like getting punched.

Behind Jimin, half-hidden by the kitchen island, sits a guy perched on a stool, laughing way too hard, head tossed back like he’s trying to steal the spotlight. A redhead is giggling beside him, some other guy gesturing wildly as he talks.

But all Jungkook sees is you.

You’re slotted between the guy’s spread thighs, your back snug against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder. One of his arms hooks around your waist, possessive, fingers splayed across your stomach. You’re laughing too, the kind of bright, carefree sound that scrapes something raw inside Jungkook’s chest.

He can’t drag his eyes away. The way you tilt your face when the guy—Taehyung, he realizes, your idiotic boyfriend—leans in to whisper something in your ear. The way your fingers toy absently with the thin chain around his neck. The way your bare thigh presses tight against the denim between Taehyung’s legs.

Jungkook wets his lips, jaw tightening. His pulse hammers in his throat.

Well, hello Kim Taehyung.

I’m screwing your girl.

But he doesn’t say it.

He just stands there beside Eunji, nodding along to whatever she and Jimin are talking about. Acting like the perfect boyfriend. Smiling when he needs to. Even as he keeps stealing glances at you.

“Yo!” Jimin shouts, cheeks flushed from booze and the adrenaline of playing host. “Let me introduce you to my besties.”

Perfect. Jungkook resists the urge to smirk. Jimin’s about to serve this up on a silver platter—and doesn’t even know it.

Jungkook drifts forward, casual, eyes lazy under half-lowered lids. But he clocks the way your gaze darts to him. Fast. Like a spark. Gone again almost instantly.

But he saw it. Of course you’re looking.

He slings his arm around Eunji’s shoulders, drawing her closer until her hip bumps his thigh. She leans in, pink and glowing, oblivious to the way the air just shifted around them.

“Guys, this is Eunji,” Jimin announces, gesturing at her. She gives a shy little wave, her eyes wide as she glances around.

“And this is her boyfriend, Jungkook.”

Jungkook inclines his chin slightly, scanning the circle of faces. “Hey.”

“Yo, I’m Rob,” says a tall guy with wild gestures, grinning as he shakes Eunji’s hand first, then Jungkook’s.

Jungkook takes his hand, firm. So this is Rob—the friend you once described in breathless detail as loud, funny, and annoying as hell.

“I’m Taehyung,” the guy perched behind you says next, voice smooth, deep. He unwinds one arm from your waist to reach out and shake Eunji’s hand, then Jungkook’s.

Jungkook’s eyes flick to the arm that was just gripping your waist. He wonders how Taehyung would look if he knew how many times Jungkook has held you there. How many times you’ve gasped when Jungkook pressed you into a mattress, hands digging into those same curves. How many bruises you had to cover up with makeup so he wouldn’t see.

“Nice meeting you, man,” Jungkook says, voice silky, lips tugging into a polite curve.

Then his gaze slides over to the redhead.

Her eyes go wide the instant they meet his. Recognition flashes across her features like lightning, then vanishes behind a polite mask.

Jungkook feels a slow grin stretch across his lips.

Ah. So your little bestie knows. Of course she fucking does.

“Lara,” she says crisply, shaking his hand. Her fingers are cool, her eyes flicking nervously to you before dropping away.

Then your voice cuts through the hum of music and laughter like a blade.

“Hi, guys. I’m Y/N.”

Your tone is breezy. Effortless. You bat your lashes and smile at both him and Eunji, your whole posture dripping casual calm.

But he sees it.

He sees the faint tremble in your fingers as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. The way your eyes keep darting toward the spot where his hand rests on Eunji’s bare shoulder. The way you press your palm firmly onto Taehyung’s thigh, like you’re staking your claim—or steadying yourself.

“Mm,” Jungkook hums, as you hold out your hand to him. He takes it slowly, deliberately, pressing his fingers around yours. He lets the silence stretch as he traces his thumb lightly over the delicate skin of your wrist. Then, as you try to pull away, he lets his pinky glide along your palm, grazing lightly beneath it.

A violent shiver ripples through your body. Goosebumps break out along your arm.

No one notices. Except him.

“You seem familiar,” he says finally, voice dropping low enough that it’s almost private.

Your eyes flash, just for an instant, like you want to slap him across the face. But you catch yourself, biting the inside of your cheek instead.

Beside you, Lara swallows hard, her fingers tapping out a frantic rhythm against the kitchen counter.

“Must’ve seen me around campus or something,” you say lightly, shifting your weight, your back pressing tighter against Taehyung’s chest.

“Really?” Jungkook murmurs, tilting his head as if he’s genuinely curious. “I don’t go to college anymore.”

“Well…” You tip your chin up, and there’s a dangerous glint in your eyes now. “Maybe while you were still going.”

He laughs softly, a sound that vibrates in his chest. “Ah. Right. While I was still going.”

He lets his eyes slide down your body, lingering just a fraction too long at your mouth, then your throat, then the line of your waist tucked so neatly into Taehyung’s possessive arms.

Your lips part, ready to retort, but for half a second your eyes betray you. Something dark and hungry flickers across your face.

Oh. So you do want to play.

“Guys, do you wanna join us?” Rob pipes up, waving a bottle of tequila in the air. “We were just about to take some shots.”

Eunji immediately glances at Jungkook, eyes wide and hopeful, practically vibrating with the need to fit in. She doesn’t even have to say anything. Not with him. Not under these circumstances.

“Sure,” Jungkook says smoothly, sliding onto an empty barstool.

Eunji doesn’t hesitate; she plants herself right onto his thigh, squealing a little as she balances her weight. She’s already laughing with Rob, talking a mile a minute about some asshole professor who’s apparently making their semester hell.

Whatever. Jungkook barely hears her.

He’s focused on you.

Specifically, on the way Taehyung leans forward and buries his face in the curve of your neck. His lips brush over your skin as he whispers something low and secretive, and you giggle, the sound bright and too goddamn pretty.

Taehyung’s a good-looking guy. Jungkook will give him that. The kind of face people stop to admire. Art-student cheekbones. A dangerous grin.

You’ve got excellent taste in men, apparently.

Jungkook’s eyes slide lower, tracking the possessive way Taehyung’s hand spreads over your waist, fingers splayed wide like he’s claiming territory.

Soft hands, Jungkook thinks. Untouched. The hands of a man who’s never thrown a punch hard enough to rattle his own bones. Hands that don’t know how it feels to hit until your knuckles split open, or grip leather so tight your fingers go numb.

He glances down at his own. The knuckles are dry, scabbed over, ridged with old scars. His palms are rough, callused from rope burns, leather, and sweat.

For a split second, something hot and ugly boils in his chest. Envy.

Resentment.

His fingers twitch, curling subtly against Eunji’s thigh.

When he finally looks back up, your eyes are waiting for him.

You’re watching him right back, face unreadable, your lashes low as if trying to hide how wide your pupils have gone.

Jungkook schools his features into an easy grin. Pretends none of those thoughts just crawled through his skull. He reaches out and grabs a shot glass, knocking back the tequila in one clean tilt.

It barely burns at all.

Eunji’s phone vibrates on the counter, the screen lighting up bright enough to catch Jungkook’s eye.

“It’s Lili,” she announces, thumb already flying across her screen. “We have to go find her.”

Fuck.

Jungkook doesn’t want to go look for Lili. Not when you’re standing right there in front of him. In those tiny fucking shorts. In that dark green tube top hugging your chest like a second skin. Not when you keep looking at him with those eyes—eyes that flicker to him like you can’t help yourself, no matter who’s touching you.

But if he stays behind now, it’s gonna be suspicious.

So he forces himself to nod, pressing a quick kiss to Eunji’s temple.

“We gotta find my friend, guys,” Eunji says brightly to the group, scooting off his lap. “We’ll come back later!”

She gives a cute little wave, beaming at you and the others. Jungkook trails after her, his hand wrapped around hers, every muscle in his body strung tight.

And just as he’s about to step through the doorway, he hears it.

Your voice.

“See you later.”

It’s casual. Breezy. Soft enough that it could be meant for both of them.

But he knows better.

That’s not just a goodbye for now. That’s a fucking promise.

A slow, wicked smile curls his lips as he glances back over his shoulder.

“See you,” he sing-songs, letting the words roll off his tongue as he disappears behind his girlfriend.

Because you’re going to be his tonight. Again.

Jungkook feels like hours have crawled by since he last saw you, though in reality it’s maybe forty-five minutes. An hour at most. Who fucking knows. Who fucking cares.

He’s sitting beside Eunji, who’s laughing with Lili about some college lacrosse game. He’s not even pretending to listen.

Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.

His mouth twitches into a smirk as he slides it out, already knowing who’s waiting on the other end.

He cuts a glance at Eunji. She’s oblivious, completely absorbed in her conversation. Perfect.

you 🧃: she’s pretty

He can practically hear your voice in his head. That sly, taunting little tone.

him: not prettier than you bent over for me

you 🧃: fuck you

him: u will. soon.

you 🧃: tae’s hands are on my thighs rn

him: and i bet all u can think about is mine on ur throat

you 🧃: jungkook.

him: mmm say it again

you 🧃: did u really have to say i look familiar? r u fucking crazy?

him: crazy for u. u look too good in that top. i keep thinking about pulling it down and sucking those pretty tits right in front of ur little boyfriend

you 🧃: you’re disgusting

him: and u love it. ur pussy’s prob wet rn just texting me

you 🧃: have u ever considered shutting the fuck up?

him: i would

him: but then who’d make u cum so hard u cry?

you 🧃: asshole

you 🧃: you still here? at the party?

him: why? wanna sneak away and ride my cock like u did at my place last week?

you 🧃: just answer the question asshole

him: i’m here

you 🧃: 2nd floor. last door on the right. it’s a bathroom but no one uses it.

him: i fuckin knew u’d fold.

you 🧃: you have 5 minutes or i’m going back downstairs to tae.

him: u won’t. u wanna feel my cum dripping down ur thighs too bad

“Bub, I gotta hit the bathroom,” Jungkook murmurs in Eunji’s ear, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

“You feeling sick, babe? Should I come with you?” she asks, worry creasing her brow.

He gives her a pained wince, feigning discomfort, and crafts the perfect lie.

“Must’ve eaten something fucked up… You know how it is.”

She wrinkles her nose, giggling. “Okay, okay—I get it. Go do your thing.”

And so he does.

He doesn’t sprint or rush. He walks casually up the stairs, shoulders loose, his pace easy. He knows you’ll be there waiting. No reason to hurry.

The upstairs hallway is empty, muffled bass from the party thudding distantly below.

Jungkook stalks toward the last door on the right. Opens it like he owns the fucking house.

You flinch the moment he steps inside.

“Fuck, I thought it was someone else—” you blurt, breathless, hands waving, but Jungkook’s already flicking the lock shut behind him.

“Why? Were you expecting someone else?” His voice drips sarcasm, arms folding over his chest as he leans against the door.

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, actually. I sent the same text to all my hookups. Gonna see who shows up first and—mmph.”

He cuts you off, crashing his mouth onto yours.

You gasp into the kiss, fists grabbing his shirt collar, yanking him closer like you’re furious and starving at the same time.

Jungkook groans low in his chest, biting your lower lip just enough to make you whimper. Your moan melts into his mouth, sweet and sharp as tequila.

He slides a hand around your waist, dragging you flush to his chest. You smell like cinnamon and sweat and that expensive perfume you only wear when you want him wrecked.

It’s working.

“You talk too fucking much,” he mutters against your lips.

“Then shut me up,” you shoot back, breathless.

He smirks.

“Oh, baby. I intend to.”

And his mouth claims yours again, fiercer this time, teeth grazing your tongue as his fingers dig into your hips like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or swallow you whole.

“You’re such an asshole,” you choke out, voice ragged, as Jungkook’s mouth drags hot and wet across your neck.

He can’t fucking stop. He’s rabid for your skin, your scent, the way you shiver when his lips brush over your pulse.

“You had to—”

Your words dissolve into a broken moan when his teeth graze hard over your collarbone, biting down just shy of leaving a mark.

“Had to flaunt her in front of me,” you spit out, breathless, fingernails digging into his back through his shirt, clutching him like you’re hanging on for dear life.

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Jungkook snarls, voice a ragged growl, as he fists the top of your tube top and yanks it down.

Your tits bounce free, nipples tight and pebbled in the cool air. No bra. Nothing to hide how fucking perfect they are.

“You were practically about to let him fuck you right there in front of me,” he hisses, voice venomous, already lowering his head.

And then his mouth crashes onto one nipple, lips closing around it hard, sucking deep until your whole body jolts.

“Fuck—Jungkook—” you sob, twisting under him as he drags his tongue over your sensitive flesh, swirling and flicking until you’re panting like an animal.

He switches sides without warning, devouring the other nipple, biting just enough to sting, then licking the ache away, his spit cooling on your skin.

“Look at you,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to breathe hot words against your chest, “acting so fucking pure when you’re soaking through those tiny shorts for my cock.”

One of his hands snakes down, roughly cupping your pussy through the thin fabric, pressing his fingers against the damp heat.

“Already wet,” he mutters darkly, eyes glittering with feral hunger. “Fucking knew it. You’d let me fuck you right here if I wanted. Wouldn’t you?”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled moan as he rubs you harder, dragging the heel of his palm over your clit until your knees threaten to buckle.

“Say it,” he demands, breath coming harsh. “Tell me whose cock you’re thinking about while he’s got his hands all over you downstairs.”

“You—yours, yours Jungkook,” you stammer, voice cracking as your hips grind helplessly into his touch.

“Fucking right it’s mine,” he snarls, crushing his mouth to yours again.

His tongue dives between your lips, filthy and possessive, devouring every sound you make as his fingers work you through your shorts, pressing tighter and faster.

“You keep acting like you hate me,” he breathes into your mouth, “but you’re gonna cum all over my fingers in 5 minutes. Bet.”

He doesn’t waste time. Doesn’t have a single fucking second to spare.

His hands fly to the button of your shorts, popping it open in one practiced flick. He shoves them halfway down your thighs, fingers slipping beneath the band of your panties like he’s got a goddamn right to be there.

And maybe he does.

“Fuck,” he mutters, forehead pressing to yours as his eyes search your face, wild and dark. “You’re fucking drenched for me.”

His fingertips drag through your folds, gathering slick, but purposely avoiding the spot where you need him most. Instead, he teases you, tracing slow circles just above your clit, close enough to make you twitch, never close enough to satisfy.

He leans forward and ghosts a soft kiss over your lips, deceptively gentle.

Then he finds your clit.

Your body reacts like he’s shocked you. You arch hard, tits thrusting toward him again, nipples flushed and begging for attention.

He’s more than happy to oblige.

His mouth clamps over one tight bud, sucking it deep as his fingers rub ruthless circles over your clit, fast and relentless, like he’s trying to etch his name into your nerves.

Your moans spill out ragged, desperate. His name rips from your throat over and over, raw and shameless.

His free hand shoots up, slapping over your mouth, palm pressing hard.

“Quiet it down, beautiful,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t want anyone thinking we’re being… inappropriate in here, do we?”

You shudder, eyes rolling back as you bite down on the fleshy base of his palm just to keep from screaming.

He loves it. Loves the way your pupils blow wide, the way you fight to breathe against his hand, the way your thighs quake around his wrist.

His breath saws in and out as he slides two fingers deep inside you, groaning low in his chest when your heat clamps around him.

“Shit… so fucking tight… you’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind,” he rasps, voice shredded with need.

He pumps his fingers into you, curling them just right, the heel of his hand grinding against your clit. Slick sounds fill the bathroom, obscene and wet, echoing off the tile.

“Look at me,” he commands, pulling his mouth from your nipple just long enough to stare into your dazed eyes. “Look at me while I make you cum all over my fingers. Right fucking now.”

Your body locks up, trembling, teetering on the edge of detonation. And he can’t wait another fucking second.

Because if he doesn’t bury himself inside you soon… he’s pretty sure he’ll fucking combust.

He spins you around in a blur, pressing your chest into the wall so fast you gasp, palms splayed out flat against the tile for balance.

Before you can catch your breath, his hand leaves your mouth. He’s fumbling with his belt, cursing under his breath, the metal buckle clinking wildly until he finally shoves his pants down.

But even while he wrestles his clothes off, he never stops working your clit. His fingers grind merciless circles, slick and fast, until you’re trembling, arching your ass back into him, the back of your head pressing desperately against his chest.

“That’s right… that’s just how you were perched on that loser’s lap downstairs,” he snarls, breath hot against your ear, his voice dripping with venom and lust.

A broken moan rips out of your throat.

His hand slaps over your mouth again, silencing you just as he lines himself up.

And then he slams into you. No warning. No hesitation. Just thick cock spearing deep in one brutal thrust.

Your muffled cry echoes through his palm as your body jolts forward, forehead bumping the wall.

Jungkook groans like an animal, fingers digging bruises into your hip as he holds you still and sinks even deeper.

He doesn’t fuck you soft.

He fucks you like he’s trying to own every inch of you. Like he wants to split you open and crawl inside. Like the entire world outside that bathroom can burn for all he cares.

His hips pound into you, relentless, hard enough the slap of skin on skin echoes off the tile walls. His chest is flush to your back, breath ragged as he snarls in your ear:

“Fucking take it… take every inch, baby…”

Your eyes roll back, tears springing from the corners as the pressure builds impossibly tight.

He twists his hand in your hair, wrenching your head sideways until he can see your face. His other hand is still clamped over your mouth, catching every broken sob.

“Look at me,” he growls, hips hammering you so hard your tits bounce against the wall. “I wanna see your fucking eyes when you cum.”

Your vision blurs, heat flooding your core, body clamping down around him so tight he chokes on a curse.

And Jungkook loses it.

He fucks you faster, deeper, like he’s chasing the end of the world, until there’s no room for thought—only moans and sweat and filthy skin-on-skin.

He’s gonna ruin you. And you’re gonna let him.

Your body convulses around him, every nerve firing white-hot as he rams into you, over and over. Your moans vibrate against his palm, strangled and desperate.

“Fucking hell, look at you,” Jungkook snarls, sweat dripping down his temples, teeth bared as he stares into your tear-glazed eyes. “So fucking perfect when you’re stuffed full of me.”

His hips snap forward, every thrust slamming your hips into the wall so hard you swear it’ll leave bruises. You feel everything—the thickness of him stretching you wide, the rough drag of his cock hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go black around the edges.

And he just. Won’t. Stop.

He rips his hand from your mouth and replaces it on your throat, squeezing lightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your next breath tremble.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, voice broken, “please—”

“Please what, baby?” he hisses, rutting into you so deep your toes curl in your shoes. “Say it.”

“Please… lemme cum…” you sob out, nails scraping helplessly at the wall.

“Ohhh, you wanna cum for me?” His lips graze your ear, filthy and mocking. “Go on, then. Fucking cum. Show me how this pussy belongs to me.”

And then his thumb finds your clit again, circling it fast and merciless, perfectly synced with the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

The orgasm hits you so hard it feels like your soul leaves your body.

You scream his name, loud and raw, voice echoing off the bathroom tiles as your walls clamp down on him in pulsing waves. Your legs nearly give out, trembling violently as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Fuck—fuck—” Jungkook grits out, hips stuttering, eyes glued to where he’s buried deep inside you. “You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—shit—”

He pulls you back flush against his chest, his teeth biting his lips so hard he thinks it’s going to bleed, as he pumps a few more frantic thrusts.

And then he’s spilling inside you, a broken groan tearing from his chest as his cock pulses, flooding you with heat. His entire body shudders against yours, breath ragged as he rides it out, grinding into you until he’s milked every last drop.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of panting, of your wet, slick bodies pressed together.

Finally, he loosens his grip on your throat, dragging his lips along your jaw, voice hoarse.

“As I said, knew you’d fold for me.”

He kisses you, filthy and deep, like he’s trying to claim your soul along with your body.

“Now fix your fucking hair,” he murmurs against your lips, smirking. “Don’t want your little boyfriend getting suspicious, do we?”

taglist: @mochi13 @wobblewobble822 @jkvamp @sunnikthv @whoa-jo @kimyishin @asyr97 @pjmname @shesscorpio7 @daarla07 @jeontids @bellefaerie @kissyfacekoo @lily-lilacsky @bammbi-jeon127 @httpjeonlicious @belleilichil @minghaosimp @marrtyaa @livluvsjungkook @leahsummms @septemberskies @yok00k @ioanatodorova @rokshi @b2407 @boommoom @kookienooki @avawants2havefun @bhonbhon @taekritimin123 @ana-marais98 @deeznutkooks @oraiseok @thenamesathy @superchamchi88 @lenamercedesworld @candygalx @notsevenwithyou @heesuvk @ahgasegotarmy116 @jeonsinsatiablekitten @saki-gojo @piratekingateez2001 @0-0rot @bangatanily @justbelljust @plusultra0 @softhaes @bangtanily

[jkwrites-m]

Pull Over

Pairing: police officer!Jungkook x female reader

Genre: smut, yandere, dark (PLEASE READ WARNINGS!!)

Word Count: 7k

Summary: A dark road becomes forever when obsession wears a badge.

Warnings: MDNI, Explicit, 18+, DD:DNE, speeding, police, power imbalance, yandere, obsession, explicit manhandling, defiance, handcuffs, guns, lying, manipulation, threats, harsh language, fear, chasing, hitting (slapping), shoving, despair, helplessness, mocking, kidnapping, disdain, mentions of past murder, jungkook is crazy!, explicit: noncon to dubcon, heavy degradation, sexual fantasies, spanking, groping, unwanted sexual touch, primal kink (predatory/prey), humiliation kink, breeding/claiming kink, dominant!jk, forced undressing/nudity, gunplay, unprotected sex, restriction/bondage (handcuffs), overstimulation.

A/N: when i tell you that this is dark- i mean it. like wayyy darker than chp 8 of another time. this can be very triggering so PLEASE!!! proceed with caution. also, i know this is very different from my normal fics but i rlly love yandere/dark/horror fics and novels & i rlly wanted to try it out. if this isn’t your thing, i totally get it! i won’t be offended if this isn’t for you! pls lmk what you think 🫶

Note: this fic sometimes flips back and forth between OC & JK (2nd person). you’ll be able to tell!

♡ MASTERLIST

═══════

before - 

You’re just trying to get home. That’s all.

The last thing you want is to be out here, alone on some empty road with the sky bleeding from gold to purple.

But you had class. Late lab section. The professor wouldn’t let anyone leave early. Your notes are crammed with half-legible scrawls about enzymes and practical test dates. You toss the notebook onto the passenger seat. Your bag spills open. Pens roll onto the floor. You curse, leaning over to grab one.

Your eyes flick to your phone in the console. 5% battery. Of course. You don’t even have a charger. Your roommate’s probably wondering where you are.

Shit.

You promised you’d be home in time to watch your show together. She even saved you takeout.

You tap your GPS. It flickers in the low light. The screen dims, saving battery. Shortest route home.

You know it’s risky- some little back road through the edge of the woods. Barely even a proper highway. But you’re late. And the sky is getting darker.

You sigh, tapping “Start.”

Your phone lights the route in cold blue.

You turn onto the narrow two-lane road, your tires crunching over gravel at the edges. Wind rattles the leaves in the trees on either side. You glance at your reflection in the mirror. Your hair is messy from the long day. Your eyes look tired.

You let out a breath, trying to relax. It’s fine. It’s just a shortcut.

You’ll be home in twenty minutes. Your roommate will tease you for taking so long. You’ll microwave dinner. Laugh. Forget the way this road feels so lonely.

Your music plays loud enough to distract you. You tap the wheel with your thumb. Try to keep your speed steady but slowly getting faster. 

You don’t see the headlights yet.

But they’re coming.

═══════

You hate this fucking town. The same back roads every night, the same broken fences and sagging porches. Every call on the radio is the same bullshit: a drunk husband screaming at his wife, kids throwing rocks at windows, noise complaints from people who can’t stand each other. You drive past it all in your cruiser, listening to the static chatter with your fingers drumming the wheel, wishing someone would give you a reason to care.

Because you don’t.

You don’t care about these people. You don’t respect them. You don’t even see them as people most of the time. They’re livestock that got too used to thinking they’re in charge. Worthless. Pathetic. You feel the anger simmering under your ribs, a constant heat you’ve learned to control. Your pulse stays steady. Your face stays blank. That’s what they all see: Officer Jeon, professional, calm, in control.

But you know what you are.

You want something real tonight. Someone you can feel. Someone you can make feel you. You want a reason to use your hands. To hear begging that isn’t in your head. Your tongue drags across your teeth as you shift in your seat, the leather creaking. The holster presses into your side. You think about using it, not to kill- no, killing is boring- but to threaten. To dominate.

You remember the last one. The one who wouldn’t stop screaming until you showed her how quiet she could be with a hand around her throat squeezing the life out of her as you came inside her. That memory makes you shift uncomfortably, heat pooling low in your belly. You let out a slow breath. You’re calm. Always calm. Even when you’re imagining things that would get you fired, arrested, killed.

Especially then.

Your mind wanders. You imagine pulling over some stupid, clueless girl on one of these dark roads. She’d look up at you with big eyes, all fear and confusion. She’d talk back. Try to act tough. You’d fix that. You’d break it. You’d make her beg. Cry. Say she’s sorry even when she doesn’t know what for. You’d make her yours.

Your mouth twists into a humorless smile as you stare at the empty road. Nothing. No one.

You’re just about to turn around when headlights appear in the distance. Bright. Moving too fast. You see them swerve slightly around the bend, tires scraping gravel at the shoulder.

You sit up straighter.

Finally.

Someone worth your time.

You rest your hand on the switch. You see her car whip past you with feminine stickers on the rear windshield. 

Perfect.

You flip on the lights. Red and blue strobe over the dark trees like warning fangs. The siren blares, screaming through the quiet night.

Your heart rate doesn’t spike. Your breathing doesn’t change. But you’re smiling.

Because you know you have her now.

═══════

present - 

You shouldn’t even be on this road. It’s one of those winding, narrow lanes that cuts through the trees like a scar. Blacktop crumbling at the edges, the center line barely visible in the dusk.

But you were late, and your phone’s GPS told you this was the fastest route. You’re going too fast. Music too loud. Heart racing from caffeine and stress.

Then- flashing blue and red behind you.

Your gut lurches. You swear and slam the brakes. Your car shudders to a stop on the gravel shoulder, rocking slightly. The dash lights glow on your face as you stare at the rearview.

He hasn’t gotten out yet. For a second there’s only the ticking of your cooling engine, the throb of your pulse in your ears. Then the cruiser’s door swings open.

Boots first. Black, polished, heavy. Then the uniform. Dark navy. Badged. Armed.

And him.

He’s taller than you expected. Lean but strong. Broad shoulders that make the bulletproof vest look molded to him. His black hair is slightly mussed but neat, framing a face that’s almost too pretty to be real.

But the eyes ruin it. Dark. Flat. Assessing.

Predatory.

He walks slowly, no rush. The flashing lights paint him in red and blue, making him look like some demon come to collect a debt.

═══════

You see her for the first time through the glass of the window.

There she is.

A little thing, clutching her wheel like it’ll save her. Wide, innocent eyes flashing with fear. Lips parted like she’s about to beg.

You can already hear her whimpering.

You want that. No- you need it. She’s perfect. Young, naive, mouthy just enough to make it fun. The kind you can break. The kind you can own. You imagine her pinned beneath you. Sobbing. Trying to talk back even as you force her to submit.

Your cock throbs in your uniform pants at the thought.

Mine.

You smile as you approach her window.

═══════

Your hand trembles as you roll down the window.

“Officer…” you try to keep your voice steady, friendly, harmless. “I- I’m sorry. I know I was going a little over. But there was no one around-”

He leans down. Eyes don’t blink.

“You know how fast you were going?”

You swallow. “About… maybe fifteen over? I wasn’t really paying attention.”

His gaze drifts lower, over your body even though you’re in the car. His nostrils flare like he’s scenting you. He leans in even closer, shadow swallowing your door frame.

“You been drinking tonight?”

Your head jerks back. “What? No! Nothing.”

“Smells like weed in there too.”

Your mouth falls open. “It does not- I don’t even smoke!”

“Step out of the car.”

Your brow furrows. “Wait- what? I- I can give you my license and-”

He tilts his head slightly. A smirk plays on his lips.

“I smell alcohol.”

Your mouth falls open. “What? No- you don’t! I haven’t had anything!”

“I said. Step out. Now.” There’s no inflection. No raised voice. Just cold command.

You freeze, then shake your head. “I’m not drunk. I’m not getting out for that- ”

He moves. So fast you don’t see it coming. His hand snakes in through the window, grabbing your chin hard enough to make you gasp and clack your teeth together.

“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?” he murmurs, voice like oil on water.

You try to pull back. He holds tighter. He’s holding you in place, fingers pressing painfully into your jaw. 

“Officer, let go of me- ”

“Get. Out.”

Your heart stutters and you’re breathing too fast as he lets go. Your seatbelt is still on. He waits, watching you with dark amusement as you fumble it off. He steps back half a foot to let you out, but still close so you can’t breathe.

The forest is silent. The only sound is your heartbeat and the wind. You stumble onto the gravel, shoes crunching. And he starts to circle you like a shark.

You try to keep your voice steady. “I didn’t do anything. You can’t just- ”

“Hands on the hood.”

“No. I want your badge number! I’m not drunk or high or whatever! This is ridiculous-”

Suddenly he’s behind you. A hard shove between your shoulder blades sends you stumbling forward. Your palms slam onto cold metal.

“Fuck- you can’t- ”

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, fingers digging into your skin.

“I said.” his voice drops lower, crueler, “Hands. On. The. Fucking. Car.”

Your breath fogs the hood. Your fingers splay on the metal. Your vision swims and you can’t move.

“Why are you doing this?”

He chuckles. “Because I can.”

Click.

Cold metal snaps over one wrist. 

“No- wait! Stop it!”

He yanks your other arm back and cuffs it- a snap that echoes in the trees. You wince at the tightness. He leans over you, breath hot in your ear.

“You’re under investigation for DUI and possession of alcohol and marijuana.”

“Bullshit! I don’t have anything! Search my car!”

“Oh, I will.”

His hands slide down your sides. You flinch as he palms your ass roughly.

“Sto-”

“Shut up.”

His hands slide up under your hoodie, lifting it cruelly so your bare stomach hits the cold air. He palms your breast, fingers closing hard over your nipple through the fabric.

“Please- don’t-”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

He pinches it until you’re shaking.

“Look at you,” he purrs, voice low. “Squirming for me.”

He laughs in your ear.

“You’re probably wet from my hands all over you, right?”

“I’m not- you fucking pig! LET ME GO!”

He laughs softly.

“God, I love it when you fight.”

You can’t see him, but you feel him behind you. Pressed in close. His belt presses into your hips.

“I should arrest you for resisting.”

“I’m not resisting- I’m innocent- ”

He slides a hand down between your thighs, forcing them wider. Your cuffed arms can’t protect you. He jams his fingers roughly against your clothed slit, enough pressure to make you yelp. Your knees buckle. He holds you up with his grip on your hair, yanking your head back so your throat arches.

“You want me to stop?”

“YES!”

He kisses your neck. Just once. Cruel, biting.

“Liar.”

He steps back but keeps a hand on your cuffs, jerking you so you slam back onto the car.

You sob, humiliated.

“Please- I didn’t do anything,” you whimper.

He breathes in your ear.

“You did everything,” he hisses. “You just don’t know it yet.”

He finally steps back. The loss of heat is almost as jarring as his touch.

You’re shaking.

“Look at you,” he says. “All worked up over nothing. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you’re thoroughly searched.”

You sob, humiliated. You want to spit at him. Scream. But you’re too busy breathing in shuddering gasps.

He turns his back to you, sauntering to the cruiser door, checking his belt, like he didn’t just manhandle you.

“Wait here.”

He doesn’t even look back. Your eyes dart around wildly.

The forest is darkening.

Your breath saws in and out of your lungs. You feel the cuffs biting your wrists. Your chest heaves and your legs tremble.

He’s not holding you. He’s not looking. He’s going to put something away in the car, or call dispatch, or get something worse.

Your pulse hammers.

Run.

It’s now or never. 

You spin on your heel and bolt. 

Your feet scrape on gravel, then hit dirt. You plunge into the trees. Branches whip your face. Rocks bite at your soles. The cuffs limit your balance.

But you don’t stop. You don’t dare look back.

Behind you, there’s silence for half a second.

Then:

“Ahhh. Fuck.”

He sees you. You hear the car door slam.

“Run, baby.” his voice calls, too calm, too amused. “Run all you want.”

Your blood turns to ice. You push deeper into the tree- the forest swallowing you whole. You know it’s not over. Not even close. 

Your lungs burn. The cuffs around your wrists bite with every misstep, the metal digging in with cruel precision. You’re running blind- just trees and shadows, your feet slipping on roots and moss. Your breath saws in and out, loud and ugly.

He’s behind you.

He’s behind you.

You don’t know how far. You don’t dare look.

His last words still ring in your ears:

“Run, baby. Run all you want.”

There’s no mistaking the amusement in his voice. The thrill. He’s not mad. He’s playing.

You dart between two trees, nearly slamming into a trunk. Your shoulder scrapes bark. You don’t stop. Everything inside you is screaming- panic, shame, pure adrenaline.

You think you hear his boots. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just your heartbeat. Your jeans are soaked with dew. Your hoodie snags on brambles. One shoe nearly flies off, but you can’t stop.

Your breath hitches as you stumble into a shallow dip in the earth. Your knees slam into cold dirt. You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

Then-

snap

A twig behind you. Too close.

You choke on your breath and duck behind a tree. Crouching. Trembling. Trying to become invisible.

Then:

“You’re so fucking bad at hiding, baby.”

Your blood freezes.

“Don’t cry yet,” his voice is closer. Almost gentle. Mocking. “You haven’t even seen what I do when I catch something.”

You cover your mouth with your cuffed hands. Your knuckles are scraped raw from the fall.

Leaves rustle. A boot crunches. He’s circling you. And you can’t stop shaking.

“Little rabbit thinks she can outrun the wolf.”

You bolt. Again. No thought, just pure terror.

═══════

You grin.

She’s faster than you expected. Desperate. Cute. But not smart.

You’ve been tracking every clumsy step she’s taken since the second she ran. She thinks she’s hiding. You let her think that. Her breathing is so loud. Her cuffs jingle every time she flinches.

You could’ve grabbed her minutes ago. But where’s the fun in that? You want her terrified. Wild-eyed. You want her stumbling through the dark with her pretty mouth shaking and her thighs slick with fear.

You love the way she looks when she thinks she has a chance. She doesn’t. She never did.

You lick your lips. Time to collect what’s yours.

═══════

He laughs. Loud. Deep. Guttural.

You don’t get far. Maybe twenty steps before a strong arm loops around your waist and slams you backward against a tree.

The bark digs into your spine. Your scream is muffled by a gloved hand. He’s right there. Face inches from yours.

Smiling.

“There you are.”

You kick. Twist. Thrash in his grip. But he doesn’t budge. His thigh wedges between yours, grinding into you obscenely just to humiliate you.

“Thought you could outrun me?”

You try to bite his hand. He chuckles and slaps you. Not hard enough to knock you out. Just hard enough to make your cheek sting.

“Bad girl.”

His hand fists in your hair. Yanks your head back. Your throat stretches, vulnerable.

“You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”

Your voice finally breaks through. “Let go- please, let me go- I’ll never say anything-”

“Let you go?”

He laughs and shoves you harder into the tree. His hand snakes under your hoodie, slides up your back, nails grazing skin.

“You think this is about what you’ll say?” he snarls into your ear. “You think you matter that much?”

“I-  didn’t do anything- ”

“Oh, no baby, you did,” he growls. “You looked at me. You made me feel things. You’re mine now.”

He kisses you.

Rough. Unwanted. His tongue forces its way into your mouth. You try to scream, but his fingers are tangled in your hair too tight. He pulls back. Licks your bottom lip.

“That mouth,” he whispers. “Gonna make you say such pretty things when you’re under me.”

You shake your head violently. “Please… please don’t-”

He cups your cheek. Smiles. Then slaps it again. Harder.

“Beg better.”

Your legs go weak. He grabs your throat. Not to choke but to remind you he could. That he wants to. Your whimpers make his eyes burn hotter.

He leans in. Sniffs your neck.

“You smell so fucking sweet.”

His free hand slides between your legs again. Presses. Rubs. You twist, cry out, try to break free. The cuffs stop you. The tree behind your back stops you. He stops you.

“I want to hear you beg for me to stop,” he whispers. “And then I want to hear you beg me to keep going.”

You cry. He moans like it’s music.

Then, he pulls you away from the tree and throws you over his shoulder. Like you weigh nothing. You pound your fists into his back, even though it was useless. He just laughs.

“Kick all you want, baby. I like when they squirm.”

The forest spins as he walks deeper. You scream into the trees. Birds scatter. No one comes. 

His palm cracks across your ass. “Louder. Maybe someone will come save you.”

Another slap.

“Spoiler alert: they won’t.”

You sob. As his grip on your thigh tightens as he hauls you like stolen prey, his voice a low growl:

“You’re mine now. And the fun’s just getting started.”

He doesn’t stop walking until the woods swallow every last trace of the road behind you.

You’re thrown to the ground. You land on your stomach hard, your breath whooshing out in a pained gasp. The cuffs clank as you instinctively try to brace yourself. You start trying to push yourself up but you can’t get up. He’s already on you.

A boot presses down on your back. Not enough to break you. Just enough to pin you, humiliate you, remind you what you are.

“Such a good little runner,” he hums. “Almost made me work for it.”

You sob.

“Please- please don’t do this.”

He laughs- low and delighted. He crouches down, fingers twisting in your hair, yanking your head up so you have to look at him.

Your eyes meet his, fear mingling with something else- something you couldn’t name. His gaze was intense, his expression a mix of annoyance and desire. He ran a hand down your side, his touch deliberate, his fingers grazing the curve of your hip.

“Look at those tears. Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

He shakes your head roughly. “Eyes. Open.”

You obey, trembling.

He smiles. “Good girl.”

His thumb smears a tear across your cheek. Then he presses that wet thumb to your lip, forcing you to taste it.

“You know you were never getting away, right?”

“Please, just let me go. I won’t tell anyone. I swear-”

He snorts. “No, you won’t.”

He stands, dragging you up with him by your hair and you whimper loudly. Your knees scrape against dirt and roots as you struggle to stand. He shoves you hard against a tree trunk. Your face presses into the rough bark.

His hands wander immediately- rough, entitled, unkind. He grips your hips, grinding himself against your ass.

“Mine.”

You squirm.

“Stop- don’t-”

He pulls you back by the hair, arching your spine. His other hand snakes under your hoodie, dragging it up, exposing your back, your bra, your shivering skin.

“Fuck, look at you. So innocent.” He sniffs you, moaning. “Smelling like fear.”

You try to pull away.

He laughs in your ear. “Keep fighting. I fucking love it.”

He bites you between your neck and shoulder. You cry out- turning your head and slightly scraping your face against the bark. 

“Shhh.” He licks the bite. “Don’t want you too bruised. Yet.”

You try to push him off with your bound hands. He grabs them and slams them higher up the tree, pinning them there with one hand. His other hand drags over your stomach, lower. You clamp your thighs together. 

He kicks your foot. “Spread.”

You don’t. Making him growl.

Then you feel it. The barrel of the gun slides between your knees. He nudges it higher, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh.

“Spread,” he repeats.

“You want to see what happens if I don’t ask so nicely next time?”

Sobbing, you obey. 

He puts the gun away and slides his hand between your legs. Over your jeans at first, then under the waistband, fingers finding your panties. He strokes you through the fabric, deliberately slow.

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed against your panties, his touch both gentle and demanding. You felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet there was a part of you that thrilled at his dominance.

“So wet.”

You sob.

“Please… please stop.”

“I already told you baby, you need to beg better.”

He rips at your hoodie, pulling it over your head roughly. Your arms can’t help you. It bunches around your bound wrists, leaving you in just your bra. He steps back to look at you.

“Fucking gorgeous.”

You shake. Teeth chattering.

“Please… I’ll do anything, please don’t hurt me…”

He hums, pleased.

“Oh, I’m going to hurt you.” He smiles. “But you’re going to like it.”

He unbuckles his belt slowly, eyes never leaving you. You let out a strangled sob., making him chuckle.

“Good girl. Cry for me.”

He leans in. Kisses your cheek. Softly. Tenderly.

“You’re mine now. My pretty little pet. My plaything.”

You flinch as his hand closes around your throat. Not squeezing. Just there. A promise.

“Say you’re mine.” He growls

You shake your head frantically. He slaps you.

“Say it.”

“No! No- please- ”

He sighs like he’s disappointed. Then you see it. He draws the gun from his holster again and holds it lazily at his side.

“You’re really going to make me use this?”

He presses the cold metal barrel to your stomach. You freeze.

“So fucking say it,” he says again, softly. “Say you’re mine, or I’ll make a mess right here in the woods.”

“I’m yours!” you sob instantly.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

He licks the tears off your cheek.

“Now beg me to keep you.”

You sob.

“I- I don’t want- I can’t- ”

He grips your hair again, yanking you back. He pushes the gun deeper into your stomach.

“Beg me.”

“I- please… keep me…” you say sobbing loudly. 

His eyes blaze.

“Fuck. That’s better.”

He releases you. You slump to the ground, half-naked, shaking.

He circles you like a wolf around prey.

“Clothes off.”

You stare up at him, horrified.

He cocks his head. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you.”

Hands shaking, you try to wriggle out of your bra. Your jeans are harder with the cuffs. You fumble. Fail. He sighs dramatically.

“Pathetic.”

He crouches. One hand grabs your hair again, the other rips at your jeans. The button pops. The zipper drags painfully over your hips. He forces them down roughly, taking your panties with them.

You’re left shivering, dirty, humiliated. He leans back on his haunches to admire his work.

“Look at you. Perfect.”

You try to curl up. He doesn’t let you. He grabs your ankle and drags you flat on your back.

You scream. He clamps a hand over your mouth.

“Shut up. Don’t want you scaring the wildlife.”

He leans close. His hair brushes your face.

“Gonna fuck you so good you’ll forget your own name.”

You shake your head violently. He surges forward and kisses you, shoving his tongue in your mouth. Deep. Wet. Disgusting.

You gag, causing him to laugh.

“Don’t worry. I’ll make you love it.”

He presses his knee between your legs, forcing them apart. You try to fight. He pins your wrists above your head again with one hand. His other hand roams your body freely, groping your breasts, pinching your nipples until you whimper and squirm.

“Shh, baby. Don’t worry. The real fun’s about to start.”

You sob. He smiles down at you, eyes dark, hungry. “You’re not going anywhere. Not until I’m finished with you.”

He pauses, “And I’m never finished.”

The forest is quiet except for your sobbing.

Your face is streaked with tears, hair tangled from his grip. Dirt smears your skin. Your bare chest rises and falls with panicked gasps. Jungkook stands over you, belt coiled in his hand like a leash. His eyes are bright in the gloom, teeth bared in a smile that’s all wolf.

“Look at you.”

He says it like an accusation.

You try to scoot back on your ass, bound wrists scraping roots. Your jeans are gone. Your panties lie shredded nearby. Your bra dangles from a branch where he flung it. You’re naked. Exposed.

He moves before you can blink. His boot presses on your thigh, pinning you. He leans over, grabbing your wrists and wrenching them higher above your head. He uses his belt to tether them low on the slanted tree trunk.

Your scream is high and broken.

“Please! Don’t- don’t do this! I’ll do anything, please let me go!”

He just hushes you.

“You are doing something for me.”

He leans close, nose brushing your cheek.

“You’re going to make me feel good.”

You twist, trying to buck him off. His laugh is a rasp. He lets you squirm- watching you fight. You feel him getting harder through his uniform.

“God, keep fighting. Makes it so much sweeter when you break.”

You sob, words failing you.

His hands roam. Palms you like meat. Gropes your breasts, thumbs flicking your nipples. He pinches them until you squeal.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say you’re mine.”

You shake your head.

He slaps you. Hard. Your head jerks.

“Say. It.”

“I’m-” your voice cracks. “I’m yours.”

He sighs in pleasure.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

He kisses you violently. You gasp, trying to turn away. He bites your lip until it bleeds.

“Taste that?” he says against your mouth. “That’s you giving yourself to me.”

You sob. He breaks the kiss to slide lower. His mouth on your neck, biting, sucking hickeys that will stay for days.

“I’m going to mark every fucking inch of you.”

He places the gun beside your head in the dirt, just close enough for you to see it. You stare at it with wide, panicked eyes.

He watches your gaze and smirks. “One wrong move, and I’ll use that to remind you who owns you.”

He licks a path down to your chest. Sucks your nipple so hard it hurts. Bites the swell of your breast. You wail, trying to twist away.

He growls. “Stay. Still.”

Your wrists burn in the belt restraint. His hand slides down your stomach. He cups your mound.

You jerk. “Please- don’t touch me there-”

He smirks. “Sweet thing, that’s the only place I want to touch.” he says while laughing in your face. 

He parts your folds with rough fingers. You’re wet. You whimper in humiliation. He hums like it’s praise.

“Fuck, you’re soaking. Did you know that?”

“I’m not- I’m scared-”

“Same difference to me.”

He thrusts two fingers inside you without warning. Your back arches. You keen in pain.

But there’s something worse.

Heat. Low in your belly. A flutter you try to crush. You whimper in horror at the way your hips rock helplessly. 

“No- please-“

He moans at the feel of you clenching. “Tight little cunt. Made for me.”

You sob, shaking your head violently.

He scissors you open. Your feet scrabble at the ground uselessly. He pulls his fingers out and smears your slick over your clit. You squeal, trying to twist away. 

He grabs your throat. Not choking but controlling “Stop.”

He rubs you mercilessly, circles your clit until your hips betray you and buck. You sob in shame.

“That’s it. Good girl. Show me how bad you hate it.”

Your breath hitches in a moan you didn’t mean. He notices and grins.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You shake violently. “No- I- I fucking hate you-”

He slides his fingers back in. Crooks them cruelly.You feel something building despite everything. Your thighs tremble.

You gasp.

“No- please- I don’t want to-”

He leans in, teeth grazing your ear. “Cum for me.”

You shake your head, silently crying. He moves faster. More relentless.

“I said. Cum.”

Your whole body locks up. You scream.  But it’s not just pain. Your vision whites out. You cum. You tried to hold back, but it was no use. Your body betrayed you, your walls clenching around his fingers as you cried out, your orgasm tearing through you like a storm. Your walls spasm around his fingers, pulsing slick. You moan and sob at the same time. He moans at the feel of it.

He groans, grinding his cock against your thigh through his uniform.

He didn’t stop, even as you trembled, his fingers continuing to stroke you until you were a quivering mess.

When he finally pulled away, you were breathless, your legs weak. He smirked, his eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Fuck yes. That’s what I wanted. Look at you. Perfect.”

You sob so hard you can’t breathe. He pulls his fingers out and smears your wetness on your lips.

“Taste it.”

You try to turn away. He holds your chin. Forces it. He hums in satisfaction. He unzips his pants. Your eyes widened as he freed his cock, thick and hard, the sight of it sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

“You know what’s next.”

You turn your head away, tears soaking the dirt.

“I- I can’t- I’m sorry-”

He grabs your chin.

“Don’t be sorry. You’re mine, remember?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “And I’m going to remind you just how much.”

Your eyes go wide. You try to fight but you’re powerless.

He lines up. You scream. He sighs in bliss. He thrust into you without warning, his cock filling you completely. You gasped, your head falling back as he began to move, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you breathless. 

The handcuffs bit into your wrists, a constant reminder of your helplessness, but you didn’t fight it. You couldn’t. His dominance was absolute, and you were lost in it.

“That’s it. That’s fucking it.”

You kick. Your cuffs rattle. He just grabs your hips and forces you to take it all. He bottoms out. Holds you there.

You’re shaking. Crying. But you’re wet. You feel it. You hate it. Your mind screams but your body clenches. A humiliating moan slips out and he hears it.

“There she is. Good girl.”

You sob, shaking your head. Your mouth was dry, your thoughts scattered as he pounded into you, his movements relentless. The forest around you faded away, leaving only the two of you, his body pressing into yours, his cock stretching you open. You felt full, overwhelmed, and yet you can’t believe you wanted more.

“You’re fucking good for me.” He starts thrusting. Hard. Deep. You feel every humiliating drag. He moans in your ear.

“Gonna ruin this pussy. Make it mine.”

You sob. He fucks you harder. The belt creaks where you’re tied. Your wrists bleed. He doesn’t care.

“Please- I don’t want- ”

“But you need it. Look at you. Dripping for me. You love this, don’t you? Being used like this?”

He thrusts. Hard. Deep. You cry out, but it’s a half moan.

You want to die. You hate that you feel good. You hate him. But your hips buck anyway.

He laughs darkly.

“Say you love it.”

You shake your head. He slaps you again and thrusts harder. 

“Say it.”

“I- I love it,” you choke out.

“Louder.”

“I love it!”

He roars in triumph. He pounds you harder. Your voice breaks. He tells you all the sick things he’ll do. How he’ll keep you. Breed you. Lock you away.

“You’re going to look pretty when you’re pregnant with my child, baby.”

He pounds you relentlessly. You’re so close. You beg him through small moans. And he brings you there.

He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Cum for me again. Do it, or I’ll make you regret it.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but they were unnecessary. Your body was already on the edge, his rough thrusts pushing you closer and closer. You cried out, your walls clenching around him as you fell apart, your orgasm tearing through you like a wave. Hard. Sobbing. Hating every second.

He kisses your wet cheeks.

“That’s it. Good girl. Mine forever”

He finishes inside you. his grip tightening on your hips as he thrust one last time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came. “That’s it,” he groaned, his voice rough. “Take it all.”You feel the hot spill. He collapses over you, panting. He kisses your face like a lover.

“All mine.”

You can’t even cry anymore. He pets your hair. For a moment, neither of you moved. 

“Don’t worry. We’re just getting started.”

Your body feels heavy. Boneless. Used.

Your wrists burn where the belt held them to the tree. They’re red, raw, leaking small rivulets of blood and sweat. Your thighs are sticky with his cum, your own slick, the mess of it cooling uncomfortably in the night air.

You don’t even have the energy to sob anymore. Just ragged, broken breathing. He’s still inside you, buried deep.

Not thrusting anymore. Just there. Holding you open, claiming you with every second he stays sheathed inside.

His breath is hot on your shoulder. Slow. Satisfied. You flinch when he finally pulls out. Your body clenches uselessly.

A whimper breaks from your throat.

He hushes you.

“Shhh. It’s okay.”

He sounds so gentle you want to vomit. You try to turn away. The belt binding your wrists tugs painfully. He unloops it slowly, letting your hands fall. They’re so numb you can barely move them.

You collapse onto your side. He catches you before you can hit the dirt. Arms wrapping tight around your waist. You flinch, letting out a cracked, broken sob.

He just shushes you softly, rocking you like a child. “Shhh. Shhh. No more crying. It’s over.”

You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter.

He hums against your ear, soothing, twistedly affectionate. “You did so good for me.”

You try to pull away with the last bit of strength you have. He tightens his grip.

“No, baby. Don’t fight. Not now. You’re mine.”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Please… let me go…”

He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your back where he holds you.

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again.”

He turns your face roughly with one hand, fingers digging into your jaw. You can’t even close your eyes.

He leans in and kisses you. Slow. Deep. Your lips crack from the dry sobbing, split from earlier. The taste is copper and salt. He moans into your mouth like it’s a love letter.

When he pulls back, you’re gasping, tears starting again.

He wipes one away with his thumb, “Look at me.”

You don’t want to. He pinches harder.

“I said look at me.”

You obey. Eyes blurry. Red. Broken. His own eyes shine with that mad gleam.

“You’re mine now. Do you understand that?”

You don’t answer. He slaps you. Not hard enough to break anything. Just enough to feel it.

“Answer me.”

Your voice cracks.

“I’m… I’m yours.”

He breathes out a pleased sigh.

“Good fucking girl.”

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. You try to shy away but his fingers hold you in place.

“I’m going to take care of you. Feed you. Dress you. Fuck you whenever I want.”

You let out a broken sob.

He smiles, “Shhh. Don’t cry. You’ll learn to love it.”

You try to speak. Nothing comes out but wrecked sounds. He rocks you again. His gloved hand trails down your body possessively. Over your ruined thighs. Between them. Smearing what’s left of his cum against your skin with sick reverence.

He presses the gun to the inside of your thigh once more. Firm. Icy.

“You keep crying, but you haven’t said thank you yet,” he whispers. “Thank me, baby. Or I’ll make this night worse than you thought possible.”

You sob harder- voice cracking, “Th- thank you.”

He hushes you, “Shhh. It’s okay. I know. It’s messy. Let’s clean you up.”

He drags his fingers through your folds slowly. You squirm weakly, sobbing at the overstimulation.

“So sensitive. Poor thing. So fucked out.”

He brings his fingers to your lips. You clamp your mouth shut. He waits. Calm. Patient. Then pinches your nose.

You can’t breathe. So you gasp. He pushes his fingers in.

“Taste what you did to me.”

You start tearing up again.

He smiles.

“Good girl.”

He finally lets you go, your body slumping in the dirt. But he doesn’t leave you there. He tucks himself back into his pants, adjusting calmly like nothing happened.

Then he leans down. Hands under your knees and back. He lifts you. You’re limp in his arms. Exhausted. Broken.

Your arms dangle, raw wrists leaving trails of blood on his uniform. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“You’re going to sleep so good tonight.”

You sob weakly against his chest.

“Please… don’t… I want to go home…”

He chuckles.

“We are going home now. I’m your home.”

You can’t stop crying. He carries you through the forest slowly, like a bride. But there’s nothing romantic about the way he tightens his grip every time you flinch.

When you reach the road, his cruiser is waiting.   He sets you on your feet, but holds you steady as your knees buckle.

He opens the back door. You see the cage partition. You see the locked handles. 

You try one last time. “Please… I’ll be good… let me go…”

He sighs like he’s tired of explaining. “Stop asking. You’re mine.”

He throws you inside. Your bare thighs stick to the cold plastic seat. He reaches in and buckles you, snapping it so tight you can barely move. He cups your face in one gloved hand. Smiling.

“Say it.”

Your voice is a scratchy ruin, “I’m… yours.”

“Good girl.”

He softly kisses your lips.

“Forever.”

You shiver.

He closes the door. You hear it lock. He walks around to the driver’s side. Gets in. Starts the engine.

You can’t stop the tears. You don’t even try.

As the cruiser pulls away, bumping over the dirt road, you hear his voice in the front seat, low and dark and happy.

“Mine. All fucking mine.”

He keeps driving, the forest swallowing the narrow road in darkness. He kills the lights, letting only the low hum of the engine and your broken sobs fill the air.

You press yourself into the corner of the back seat, wrists raw from the cuffs, legs pulled up uselessly to your chest.

He glances at you in the rearview mirror. His dark eyes catch yours, and his mouth curls into that smile you’ve learned to fear.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Let it all out.”

Your breathing hitches. You can’t stop the tears.

He laughs softly.

“Fuck, you’re even prettier when you cry. You look so real now. No more of that tough act from before.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. It doesn’t help. His voice wraps around you like a noose.

“Shhh. Don’t be scared. You’re safe now. No one’s going to hurt you except me.”

Your shoulders shake.

He keeps talking, voice low and calm, like he’s confessing something intimate.

“I’m going to take such good care of you. Feed you. Bathe you. Dress you. Strip you. Fuck you until you don’t even remember what being alone felt like.”

You let out a cracked sob, shaking your head frantically. He hums contentedly, fingers tapping the wheel.

“We’ll have such a good life. I’ve got a place ready for us. Bed with fresh sheets. I’ll get the closet full of clothes your size.”

You gasp in horror, voice strangled.

“Please… let me go… I won’t tell anyone- plea-”

He cuts you off with a low growl.

“Don’t. Say. That.”

His eyes blaze in the mirror.

“Don’t you ever fucking say that again.”

You whimper, shrinking against the door. But he smiles again. Softer. Sicker.

“You’ll learn. You’ll see. I’m patient.”

He turns his gaze back to the road, the trees blurring by in the dark.

“You’re going to shower when we get there. You’re fucking filthy. I’ll watch. Make sure you’re clean everywhere. Don’t want you hiding anything from me.”

You let out another sob.

“Then you’ll sleep in my bed. Right beside me. Don’t worry, baby. I’ll tie you up nice and tight so you don’t wander off.”

Your entire body trembles. He chuckles. 

“Next time you try to run?”

The amusement fades from his voice. Cold steel seeps in.

“I’ll break your fucking legs. Understand?”

You cry harder. But he just sighs like he’s exhausted by your disobedience.

“I’m not a bad man, pretty. I just hate liars. And I hate runners.”

You stare at the cage barrier. Your own reflection in the glass. Eyes puffy. Skin raw.

Empty.

He hums under his breath as he drives, tapping the wheel, like nothing is wrong at all.

“You’ll see soon enough. I can be so good to you. As long as you’re good for me.”

Your mind screams.

You think about your apartment. Your roommate. The show you were supposed to watch together tonight. She’ll surely wait up for you. Call you. Text you. Leave the porch light on. She’ll think you’re just late. 

She’ll never know you’re gone.

Never know that you’re crying in the back of a cop car, naked, dried with his cum between your legs. You sob so hard your throat burns.

He clicks his tongue. “Shhh. Don’t wear yourself out. We have a long drive home.”

Your vision blurs. But you can’t block out his words. You’ll never see any home again except the one he owns.

“By morning, you’ll understand you’re mine. Not today. Not tomorrow. Forever.”

He doesn’t look back again. Just drives deeper into nowhere.

And you realize, with cold, perfect clarity, that no one is ever coming to save you.

═══════

♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 07/05/2025

Taglist: @mar-lo-pap @lovingkoalaface @whoa-jo @kiliskywalker666 @sucker4jeon @annpeachy @kaiparkerwifes @nikkinikj @elithenium @asyr97 @heyinwluv85s @jjkluver7 @bammbi-jeon127 @kookoo-kachoo @angelsdecalcomania @kayswatanabe @granataepfelchen @kelsyx33 @tatamicc @blubird592 @llallaaa @chromietriestowrite @k1ll1ngcl0wns @jahnaviii @mfsitscho @traumaanatomy @mellyyyyyyx @yu-justme @bangtaniess @mygukkiebaby @roseda

[byfawn]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[musingsofheaven]

Hello!! I adore your Art fics and was wondering if you’d do one with top/dom!Art x Sub!reader and she has a really bad oral fixation throughout her normal day buts it’s especially bad when she’s upset, and she is, also if possible if you could somehow fit in NSFW themes I’d really appreciate it! Once again love love love your work!💕

Sorry if this is gibberish I suck at requesting stuff

SLURRED, SLIPPY, SHINY.

summary: It’s not new. You’ve always had a thing for using your mouth when your feelings get too big and you go quiet. And Art knows that silence, knows exactly what you need when it hits. He never makes you explain. Just cups the back of your head and tells you, “Breathe through it, baby.”

pairings: ceo!art donaldson x young girlfriend!reader

warning: 4.2k words. mature themes. oral fixation. age gap. power imbalance. oral sex (m!receiving). gagging / light choking. spit / drool / mess. aftercare. read responsibly.

note: this request has been sitting in my inbox since june 7 and i swear i wasn’t ignoring it :(! sorry … sighs. anyway, i saw “oral fixation when she’s upset” and i immediately felt exposed. why would you call me out like that. do you know how many things i’ve put in my mouth just to not cry?? like it was a coping mechanism. and surprise!!! it was!!! 🤪 and yep… we’re here now. she’s soft. she’s messy. she’s gagging a little. and she’s regulated by one (1) emotionally available dom named art donaldson. (I WANT SOFT DOM ART) To anon, i’m sorry it took me long. i love you. thank you for requesting this. 💗

You should’ve grown out of it. That’s what everyone said- quietly, politely, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it’s just a phase. Just something you’d stop doing once your brain settled, but it’s not. As much as you want it to stop, it didn’t. It started when you’re young, with your thumb, then your shirt collar that you’re subtly putting between your mouth when you’re alone, hoodie strings chewed until they frayed. Note: Each one of your hoodies.

Teachers, doctors, and relatives offered solutions: rubber sticks, bracelets, soft pens. You tried. But nothing worked like having something in your mouth. It doesn’t work. You almost broke down when someone asked what it was when you left your bag open. It wasn’t just a habit. You know that. It was need- pressure, focus, quiet. It’s something. It’s yours. Something to help you feel safe. A comfort.

You learned to hide it as you got older. No more thumb sucking (when you’re at public), but your pens still had bite marks. You went through straws too fast. Got flattened and looks like it has been murdered. You pressed your fingers to your lips, mouthed your sleeves, and gnawed your cheeks. You thought it would fade. It didn’t. There’s a time you think it’s fading, not until it happened again, when something triggered you.

It’s worse when you are upset, more than the normal things you do. You didn’t cry or yell. You just went quiet. You bit down. Sucked your fingers raw. Let your sleeves stay wet. Full of drool. You hated how it looked. How did it make you feel small. It can be disgusting, but a good feeling at the same time. You tried to be better. Find solutions on your own when you get older. Therapy, coping tools, breathing tricks- you did it all. But your mouth always ended up full again. Again. And again.

It got harder to ignore around people, especially during sex. When your mouth was busy, your head was quiet. Not because you wanted to be good. Just because it helped. But it got messy- too much drool, too fast, too desperate. You look like you’re eager to suck them off or get fucked. You could always tell when they felt weird about it. They’d pull away. Wipe your chin as if it’s giving them problems. Give you a break you never asked for.

So you stopped letting anyone see it. Bit your cheek. Sometimes it’s too hard you can taste the metallic flavor from your blood. Swallowed the need. Tried to act normal. Masking it in front of other people. Tried to stay quiet without help. You didn’t want to explain. It’s too hard to do it anyway. You didn’t want to see that look- confused, a little uneasy, like they didn’t know what you were doing, or why it mattered.

And then you met him. A quiet gala. A borrowed bracelet. A drink you didn’t finish. He noticed you- not because you were young or pretty, but because you stirred your glass too long, because your fingers kept brushing your mouth like they didn’t know where else to go. The way you lick your lips too much to the point it’s making them dry. You didn’t even realize. But he did.

And for once, someone didn’t look confused. He just watched you more than he spoke. Noticed your jaw, your hands, the way your voice caught when your mouth was empty. But he never pointed it out. Never asked. He just made space. Let you sit closer. Let you speak less. Let you handle yourself. Let you do your mannerisms. Let you know it. And for the first time, you didn’t feel like you had to hide.

Now- now that you’re here, curled up on the floor of his penthouse, sleeves damp, fingers trembling, mouth aching for something to hold- he still doesn’t ask questions. Just let you stay there. Not really get you up because he knows your habits by now. And he’s in the middle of a meeting. Remote. Earbud in, laptop open, voice low. Even as he talks about projections and timelines and things you don’t understand but his other hand- his free hand- is resting gently on your face, two fingers pressed into your mouth like it’s second nature.

You keep his fingers warm inside your mouth. You’re curled against his thigh, knees tucked under you, breathing soft and shallow as you suck on them. Slow. Steady. Sloopy. Like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart. You’ve already soaked his skin. Spit clings to the knuckle and to your chin. Your jaw aches. Your lashes are wet. You don’t even know how long it’s been.

You haven’t spoken since you crawled across the floor and tugged on his sleeve. Soft and with the purpose of disturbing him in the middle of his meeting. Your chest is tight and your eyes are glassy, too full to say a word. You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to. He looked down once, watched your lip tremble, and slipped his fingers past your mouth like he was giving you medicine. Like he knows what you need. Like it’s your fix.

You’ve been like this ever since- mouthing and whimpering, drooling quietly while he keeps talking like there’s nothing unusual happening. Nothing at all. Just you. You’re on the floor. His fingers dig deep into you. “…no, we’ll review it again on Thursday,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin.

“I’ll send over the final numbers after this call.” You whine around his fingers- quiet, desperate- and he doesn’t even blink, just looking straight at this damn meeting. “Shh,” he quietly murmurs, barely audible. His pinky strokes your cheek. “You’re fine, baby. Just keep going.”

You try to behave. You really do. Keep going, he said. But the second he pulls his fingers free- spit, wet, and warm- your mouth feels too empty to breathe right. So you whimper again unintentionally, lips still parted, breath catching in your throat like you’re falling.

He doesn’t look down. Just wipes his hand on the thigh of his sweats and lifts the edge of the desk with his knee so you can crawl more between him. You do- immediately, silently, settling between his legs like you’ve done this before. (You do. Multiple times. Like you already trained for it.)

He’s seated in his office chair, laptop balanced in front of him, camera on. Framed from the chest up. Mic hot. Voice calm. Authoritative. Composed. “… No, we need to revise the it if the acquisition falls through. We can’t afford a delay.” You kneel more comfortably under the desk, hands light on his thighs, cheek pressed to his lap. Like a lap dog. But you didn’t do anything much, you just pressed it, just for closeness, just to feel him- but the second you catch the heat of him through the fabric, your lips part again. You mouthed at him through the cotton. Lips moving with intent. Soft. Unthinking. Your body leads before your brain can follow. A soft noise escapes your throat- barely anything- but enough to be heard.

There’s a pause. “…everything alright over there?” He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Doesn’t glance down. His voice doesn’t change. He’s acting like you’re not below him. Like you’re not needy. Like you don’t want more of him in your mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Just a beat. “All good.”

His hand slips under the desk again, finds the back of your head, and presses down gently against his thigh. Then, without pausing the call or breaking eye contact with the screen, he pulls his cock out- slowly, one-handed- just tugging the waistband of his sweats low enough to let it rest heavy and flushed against his thigh.

“Come on,” he whispers to you, too quiet for the mic to catch. “Since you’re already shaking.” You lean in automatically, lips parted, spit already pooling, and wrap your mouth around the head with a soft sigh. You lick the tip like a lollipop. Tasting his pre cum under your tongue. He exhales through his nose, doesn’t react. “…we’ll circle back on Friday,” he says into the call, calm and smooth, while you suck him quietly under the desk.

He doesn’t know what upset you. Not yet. Not ever since you crawled underneath, since he’s already in the meeting when you did that. But he knew something was wrong the moment you knelt beside him- sleeves tugged over your hands, mouth trembling, silent. You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t need to. You just looked up with your glossy eyes, like you just came from crying and your mouth shining with spit. You touched his wrist, and he gave you his fingers like it was instinct.

Now your mouth is stretched around something thicker, deeper, and you’re curled between his legs, hands braced on his thighs, jaw working slowly. Your spit drips down your chin and onto your hands, but his voice doesn’t change. “…that’s fine. Just update them before it goes to legal,” he says evenly. You hum around him like you’re agreeing. Like you’re part of his little meeting. His hand flexes at the back of your head after you hum, must the vibrations of it have affected him. He holds it not for praise, not control. Just contact. You always need contact.

He glances down once. Just to see you like this- lips soaked, brows furrowed, throat working hard to take more than you should. He almost thrust so deep that you could be stuffed, but he didn’t. He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t slow you down. He knows you’ll talk later, after your jaw stops aching and your head clears. Right now, this is the only way you know how to speak. But you’re struggling now- your lips stretched wide, eyes burning, spit messier by the second.

The harder you try to stay quiet, the worse it gets. The more noise threatening to escape your mouth. A whimper escapes, soft and broken, and he feels it. He’s aware of how you are acting below him. Still, he doesn’t pause the meeting. He just lifts one hand off the desk and presses his thumb into the corner of your mouth- not rough, not gentle, just there. Steady. Firm. Guiding.

He eases you off with slow pressure, lets your lips fall from his cock with a gasp. Then pushes his thumb over your tongue, wetting it, quieting you. Grounding you from breaking from it. He knows sometimes you can get overstimulated even if you've already stuffed your mouth.

He lets his cock rests hot against while his thumb plugs into mouth beside it like a stopper, keeping the sound in. “…yes, I’ll review the contract tonight,” he says calmly to the meeting. “No changes on my end.” You blink up at him, glassy-eyed, his thumb still resting against your tongue. You suck on it too, softly, rhythmically, just to keep yourself grounded. To stay in your body. To not cry.

And he lets you. Keeps you there- knees sore, chin sticky, heart pounding, mouth full of him- because this isn’t about making you feel better right now. It’s about keeping you still. Quiet. Held. Just content until the meeting concludes. He doesn’t stroke your hair. Doesn’t tell you you’re good. He just finished his work. Lets you stay where you are, sucking on him like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. When the meeting finally winds down- just wrap-up and sign-offs- he clicks once, flatly: “I’ll review everything by tomorrow. Thanks, everyone.” And then he ends the call.

Click. Silence. Like he’s so eager. The shift is instant. He exhales once, slow, and reaches under the desk to grab your wrist- not rough, just firm enough to say: you’re not staying down there. You don’t have time to react and you barely get your hands beneath you before he’s pulling, slow and steady, making you crawl out with your knees catching on the floor. You pout at him because it made you remove your mouth from him.

Your lips are swollen, eyes stinging, his spit and slick cock brushing your cheek as you move. You end up kneeling between his thighs, half slumped in his lap, fingers clutching at his sweats like you’re afraid he’ll take it all away again. But really? In this state? You’re afraid he’ll do it. His thumb shoved back inside your mouth, lazy and wet, soaking from how long you’ve had it before he pulled it out for a moment to get you underneath the desk.

He brushes your chin, glances at your face- pink, glossy, ruined... and pretty. “You gonna tell me what that was about?” he asks, voice low. You shake your head. Just enough. Too shy to say it. Not ready to talk about it. “No?” he repeats, brow twitching.

You pull off his thumb slowly, spit stretching from your lips, then whisper, “Don’t wanna talk...” It cracks your voice. He knows what it means. He knows what he needs to do. You sound shameful. Quiet. Like it hurts to admit. He looks at you for a long second, blank, unreadable- then leans back in his chair and spreads his thighs. “Alright,” he says. “Come get it.”

You’re already moving the moment he said that, dragging your palms up his legs, mouth open before he finishes speaking. You open your mouth wide enough to cater it. You take the head in first- soft, slow, then deeper. Just enough. Maybe the tip is almost kissing your throat. He doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t hold your head. Just watches. Admiring the way you take what you need. The way your lips wrap around it. The way you look.

When you moan around him, eyes slipping shut, he finally lets one hand drop into your hair. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.” You press your palms to his knees and sink until your lips meet the base, breath catching, tears stinging your lashes. But you don’t gag, you move slowly, adjusting to it even though you’ve done it many times now. He doesn’t move. Just lets you fuck yourself on him- slow, sloppy, desperate- until your spit coats his thighs, dripping in strings from your chin. Your whole body trembles from the stretch, from how full you are, from how long you’ve been holding everything in.

Then he shifts. Just a little. He put his hand on your hair and grips your hair tightly, not in a way that hurts. He tilts his hips forward once, deep, slow, and the sound you make around him shudders straight up his spine. God, you sound so good, so he does it again. Then again. Three soft thrusts, lazy and controlled, just enough to hear you choke. Just enough to test you to see if you can take it much today. You flinch, but don’t pull away.

You moan- weak, ruined- and he groans softly. “Fuck. You’re really not gonna stop, huh?” Another push, deeper now, hitting your throat. “Not even gonna try.” You look up at him through wet lashes, mouth stretched, eyes pleading. He holds you halfway down, barely letting you breathe, cock throbbing on your tongue like it’s trying to get something out of you you haven’t said yet.

“You needed this bad, didn’t you?” he murmurs, brushing your cheek, wiping spit from your lip. “What happened, sweetheart? Hm? Who made you like this?” He asks. So filthy, making you squirm. Making you feel the tingling through your body because of the sound of his voice. And then, just to feel your throat a little panic, he thrusts again, rougher now, and you gag, tears spilling free.

He doesn’t stop. Just sighs, voice soft. “There you go. That’s better.” Even when your throat clamps, even when your nose presses tight to his skin and your jaw starts to shake, you don’t stop. You learn to love this, giving a head, because he makes it enjoyable. You make a noise- high, wet, almost hurt- but you take it, nails digging into his thighs, spit dripping down his cock like it’s what keeps you breathing.

He exhales again, heavier this time, brushing your hair back from your face. His thumb wipes your chin clean, then strokes your cheek, down to the corner of your mouth where you’re still twitching, still open, still aching. You let him caress your face while you rest there, and your mouth is still full, but he’s not moving yet. “You still with me?” he asks, voice quiet. You nod, slow at first, then again, more sure-eager, already needy.

“You want more?” he asks, voice warm, cock still heavy on your tongue. You whimper around it. He smiles. “Yeah? You want me to fuck your throat, baby?” Your eyes widen- shiny, breathless- and you pause like the weight of it just hit you. You know he’s asking for a consent, knowing that it can be overwhelming for you to do it... especially when he fucks your throat, considering he’s above average and thick too. Then you pull off with a wet gasp, gaze locked on his, and say it like a confession: “Yes. Please.” That’s all he needs. “Good girl.”

He gathers your hair in one hand, lifts your chin with the other, and slides back in with no resistance- just heat, just hunger, just you opening for him like it’s instinct. “Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs, guiding you like always. Reminding you of the same things even though you already know what to do.

“Tap my leg if you need me to stop.” And then he starts- slow, careful, one deep push forward until he meets the back of your throat. He holds there, steady. Not teasing. Just giving you time. Like he’s training you. His hand stays in your hair, grounding you while your body adjusts, while your breath learns to shape around him.

You’re already trembling. Not from fear- just from fullness. From the weight. From the leak. From quiet. Your lips tremble around the base, your fingers curl into the arms of his chair, and your eyes flutter shut as he begins again- a slow drag out, then deeper on the next thrust. His thumb strokes your cheek. “That’s it,” he says, calmly.

“Don’t rush.” You hum before you feel the gag, soft and shallow, then swallow around him, and he groans- not from need, but from how good you are. How willing. He moves again, never too deep, never rough- just enough to feel your throat clench. “You feel that?” he murmurs. “That’s your limit. We’re not going past it yet.”

Your jaw aches. Spit spills freely now. He lets you sit there, face pressed to the root of him, mouth stretched and wet, like you’re trying to breathe through need alone. “You’re doing so good,” he says, like it’s just the truth. “Making space.” Then he slides out, dragging slick along your tongue, and pushes back in deeper this time- firm, measured, until your nose brushes his stomach and your whole body gives out. You’re crying again- he can feel it in the way your throat tightens, then relaxes. In the shift of your breath, the way your hands go soft. The way you go quiet.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes, and this time he means it. He rocks forward again, deeper, surer now- committing. You don’t gag. Don’t flinch. Your lips are red and swollen, your throat open and warm, and you’re wrapped around him like you were made for it. He feels the moment you surrender- when your tongue goes lax, when your breath slows, when your whole body holds still like you’ve given up everything but him. And it hits him all at once- not restraint, but awe. The way you fall apart just to feel full. Just to be good for him.

He lets you breathe there a moment, thick in your mouth, thumb brushing under your jaw while your lashes flutter and your body twitches. Then he leans forward, voice low and too gentle for how he’s looking at you. “Can I go a little faster now?” he murmurs, thumb swiping your spit-slick bottom lip. “Only if you want it.” You blink up at him, tearful and eager, nodding before your brain even catches up. You try to say yes, but it comes out muffled around his cock- your throat flexing like your body’s already answering for you. He groans quietly, settling back in the chair with both hands in your hair, still gentle, still grounding. “That’s my girl,” he says softly. “You’re sure?” Another desperate hum from you. That’s all it takes.

He starts slow again, but this time there’s rhythm, pace, weight, and pressure. His hips roll deeper, steadier, his grip guiding you only slightly as your lips stretch around him. Not forced. Not rushed. Just deliberate. Just enough. You gag once, shallow and quick, then breathe through it, moaning as your spit runs down your chin. You’re making a mess, and he loves you like this- loves how badly you want it, how completely you give yourself up to stay full. “So fucking good for me,” he murmurs, breath catching. “Look at you.”

And then he starts fucking your throat- slow and controlled, rocking into you with more force now, just enough to give you what you asked for. Something to keep your mouth too full to cry. “You’re okay,” he says through gritted teeth. “You’re doing so good.” And you are. You take it all, steady, obedient, dripping, and let him use your throat like it’s the only thing you were built for. You fall apart quietly, trembling with each deep push, your whole world narrowed down to the pressure, the stretch, the weight of him keeping you still. You’re safe. You’re here. And your mouth is where it belongs.

He’s getting close. You feel it in the way his hips start to stutter, the way his breath catches, how his cock throbs a little harder with each thrust. He slows down, lets you breathe around it, and rests heavily on your tongue. “Gonna come soon,” he murmurs, voice low. “Can I do it in your mouth, baby?” You nod right away- messy, needy, already whimpering for it. You don’t pull back. You don’t even think. Just press closer, mouth slick and stretched and shaking, and he groans when he sees how much you want it. “Good girl. Don’t move.”

He doesn’t thrust. Just holds you there- deep, swollen around the base- as he comes in slow, warm pulses, filling your throat while you take it, tear-streaked and open and perfect. You don’t stop. You swallow around him like it’s all you’ve ever known how to do. His hand stays in your hair, thumb stroking your temple, like he’s holding you together while you shake. You stay like that even after he’s finished, mouth still parted like you’re not ready to let go.

He slides out slowly, wet and sensitive, and your breath hitches at the loss. His thumb catches what’s leaking from your mouth and tilts your face up, not rough, just enough to see you. Your eyes are red, your jaw still twitching, your lips parted like you don’t know how to close them yet. He says nothing. Just breathes out quietly and reaches for your wrist.

You’re still trembling when he pulls you into his lap, steady but gentle, guiding you into place like he’s done it before. The office chair isn’t built for this- not wide enough, not soft- but you climb in anyway, folding messy and small. One leg drapes across his, the other hanging off the edge, and you curl into him instinctively, arms around his neck, face buried against his shoulder like you’re trying to disappear.

He holds you close. One arm across your back, one hand in your hair, thumb stroking slow circles through your sweater. You don’t speak. You just breathe, quiet and uneven, body limp but safe. The crying hasn’t stopped completely- it’s softer now, more like the aftershock than the storm. Your knees shake. Your mouth aches. Your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re holding onto gravity.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, voice low against your temple. “Shh. You did so good,” he whispers. “It’s over now.” You nod faintly. He asks if it hurt. You shake your head. “Good,” he says again, lips brushing your hair. “That’s all I care about.”

He doesn’t ask what upset you. Doesn’t press. Just holds you tighter, arms wrapped around your back like you’re something worth keeping still. You’ll tell him later- when your throat doesn’t burn and your heart isn’t stuck in your chest. Right now, he lets you stay soft.

You melt into him slowly. Floaty. Boneless. Barely blinking. Your hands relax in his shirt, breath slow against his neck, and when you nuzzle closer, he tilts his head, letting you burrow. Then the kisses start- quiet and light, scattered across his jaw, below his ear, the curve of his throat. Sleepy little thank yous. Not for effect. Just instinct. He smiles softly and curls his hand around your head. “You’re really sweet when you’re like this, baby.”

You hum in response, kissing his pulse once more. You don’t move. You don’t need to.

Then, quieter than anything: “Love you.”

It just slips out- muzzy and honest.

He stills. Just a beat.

Then sighs into your hair, arms holding you closer.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Love you too.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[angelellipsis-devilofdots]

since taylor swift's definition of "feminine rage" is normalizing cheating, romanticizing ableism and mental illness, and immaturely whining about exes, here's some recommendations of my favorite actual feminine rage songs

trigger warning for abuse, violence, alcoholism, and rape/sa

as good a reason by paris paloma: alternative, indie pop. themes include body image, learning self love, imbalance of power, and fuck the patriarchy vibes

bitter medicine by the crane wives: alternative/indie rock. themes include high responsibility, the consequences of expressing anger as a woman, and self-resentment

blood in the wine by aurora: pop rock. themes include religious trauma, overcoming guilt and shame, embracing human nature, and defying societal norms related to pleasure (sexual and otherwise)

burn your village by kiki rockwell: alternative/indie rock. themes include sexual assault and rape-related trauma, coming to terms with trauma, revenge, high expectations, and witch hunts

everybody supports women by sofia isella: alternative, electronic. themes include societal hypocrisy, unrealistic standards placed on women, and society scrutinizing individuality

labour by paris paloma: alternative, indie pop. themes include unrealistic expectations/standards for women, burnout, emotional stress, and imbalanced relationships

pray by the amazing devil: melodramatic, theatrical, alt-folk. themes include religious trauma, religious power imbalances, oppression of women in religion, overcoming trauma, and self-forgiveness

scars by the crane wives: alternative/indie rock. themes include childhood trauma, mental health/mental illness, self-doubt, and self-resentment

take me to war by the crane wives: alternative/indie rock. themes include fighting bigotry, activism, allowing oneself to express anger and rage, and power imbalances

that unwanted animal by the amazing devil: melodramatic, theatrical, alt-folk. themes include domestic violence and abuse, lack of communication, unhealthy/broken relationships, sexual expectations, and emotional instability

the calling by the amazing devil: melodramatic, theatrical, alt-folk. themes include lifelong trauma, mental health/mental illness, alcoholism, heartbreak and depression, coming to terms with trauma, and self-reflection

the fruits by paris paloma: alt-folk, indie pop. themes include religious trauma, manipulative and abusive relationships, and overcoming trauma

which witch by florence + the machine: alternative/indie pop. themes include witch hunts, revenge, defying societal norms, and unhealthy/unstable relationships

i'm sure there are more in my playlists but this is all i can remember off the top of my head at the moment. i'll edit if i think of more. enjoy xx

[cumironi]

MAY MY SOUL REST IN PEACE, AMENNN f. toji

☆ sum. ever since his wife divorce him for another man, toji never was with anyone, even in having intimacy, he never had any desire to kiss, touch, even fuck anyone, until he have you on his lap, riding him in one of the stall in the club.

warning. non-sorcerer reader, toji is a mess, p sooo good he almost cries, pu$$y-drunk toji, reader having a tats piercing. rough sex, public sex (bathroom stall), unprotected vaginal sex, size kink, praise kink, dirty talk, power imbalance (older man / younger woman), age gap relationship, orgasm denial / delayed climax, handjob, cumplay (internal ejaculation, cum leaking), pu$$y worship, overstimulation, leg folding position, possessive behavior, pussy drunk characterization, public exposure risk, aftercare / caretaking, mild consensual degradation oral fixation (nipple sucking, biting), references to breeding kink (implied), swearing / explicit language.

the club was called gristle, which already told you everything you needed to know: concrete walls painted matte black and lacquered in the sweat of too many strangers, music that sounded like a blender chewing up chrome, a bar lit up like a failed attempt at divine intervention. sticky floors. bodies everywhere. it was the kind of place that made your soul itch in your ribs and your bones hum. it was hell with a cover charge and you were thriving.

you were two tequila sodas deep, blinking rhinestones stuck to your collarbones like sweat-kissed stars, and dancing like your future career depended on it. maybe it did. shoko was three drinks ahead and exactly zero inhibitions behind. she was the kind of girl who never danced to the beat of the song—just the beat of spite. the kind of sway that said fuck you, yes you, i’m smarter than you, and i’ll outdrink you too. her cigarette was tucked behind one ear. a forgotten white flag.

“gojo’s in the dj booth trying to suck off the strobe light again,” she slurred into your shoulder.

you turned just in time to see gojo doing a very illegal-looking worm across the raised platform, flanked by a gaggle of girls who looked like they were filming a live breakdown for instagram. geto was sitting on the edge of the booth, draped in his coat like a tired mob wife, nodding along to whatever existential crisis the beat was currently having.

you laughed until your mascara creased. and then.

then.

a split-second crack in the atmosphere. a slither in your peripheral. someone watching you—not in the usual way, not the club way, the predatory frat-boy way—but something heavier. older. slower. the weight of it hit you somewhere between your stomach and your spine.

you turned.

and there he was.

he looked out of place in the same way a butcher knife looks out of place in a school lunchroom. not wrong, not technically, just... deeply inappropriate. green jacket, black tank, that wide-built way of holding himself like he didn’t trust the world not to jump him at a red light. a thick scar ran down the corner of his mouth like a cruel afterthought. he had a drink in one hand, pinky ring glinting under the lazy spin of a broken disco ball, and he was sucking a tooth with a mouth made for war crimes.

next to him sat another guy—sleek, fox-faced, gold chain and a tattoo that slithered up his neck like a wine stain—but he wasn’t looking at you.

toji fushiguro was.

not like he was checking you out. not like he was undressing you with his eyes. not like a man drunk on his own age gap perversions. he was looking at you like he recognized you. like you’d been a thorn in his side in another life. like you were the sound of the trigger just before it broke.

he didn’t smile.

he didn’t look away.

and you—because you were drunk and stupid and it was the last week of finals and your body was humming from the low voltage burn of too much bass and not enough shame—you didn’t look away either.

you reached up, swiped a smear of glitter from the hollow of your throat, and licked it off your finger.

toji’s jaw flexed.

“you seeing that?” shoko asked beside you, voice dry and amused like she was watching a nature documentary and you were the gazelle about to get railed.

you didn’t answer.

because his eyes—god, his fucking eyes—they were the kind that said i haven’t had sex in years, and i will wreck you like it's penance. he looked like he hadn’t touched anyone since the divorce. like he hated that he still wanted to. like the wanting itself was its own dirty little sin.

he leaned back in the booth, legs spread obscenely wide, the kind of man who made space by taking it. his hand moved, slow, up to his mouth, dragging a thumb along his lower lip.

you felt it like a bruise blooming.

shoko snorted. “bitch, he’s gonna eat you alive.”

“maybe i wanna be eaten.”

she shoved her drink into your hand. “then go get digested.”

you turned back to him.

he was still watching. still calm. like he had all the time in the world to decide whether or not to ruin yours.

and you?

you smiled.

because sometimes, finals week ends with a degree. and sometimes it ends with a man who hasn’t touched a single soul since his wife left him looking at you like you were the last bad decision he’d ever make. but, you don’t know that yet.

the bass dropped again.

so did your common sense.

toji didn’t blink.

not when the lights strobed red-blue-red like a police raid inside your chest. not when someone spilled a drink too close to his boots. not when the fox-faced man beside him leaned in and said something—low and fast and close to his ear.

toji just nodded. lazy. like the nod was a formality. like whatever was said didn’t need his actual attention. his eyes never left you. not even for a second. he exhaled through his nose. slow. and then, with a flick of his wrist, the friend stood and left, disappearing into the crush of the crowd like he’d never been real. no goodbye, no handshake, no dap, no nothing. the seat was empty. the booth swallowed the vacancy like it was always meant for someone else.

the song changed. again. it had probably changed five times. you didn’t know. didn’t care. toji leaned back just a little further. the way a lion does when it’s already decided to pounce but wants to stretch first. his ring tapped the glass once. then he licked his bottom lip.

and that—

that was your fucking cue.

“he’s alone now,” you said to shoko, eyes still locked on his like they were glued to the roof of your own dumb horny brain. “and i just made a terrible decision in my mind that i would like to make worse in person.”

shoko didn’t even look. she just grabbed your cup and said flatly, “you go, sluts.”

“thanks, sluts.”

“godspeed, sluts.”

toji watched your approach like you were a slow car crash. like he didn’t want to stop it.

and then you were gone, cutting through the crowd like a little dumb thirsty dagger, the kind that didn’t kill, just ruined. your path to him wasn’t straight. it wobbled.

hips out of time with your legs, heartbeat too loud in your ears, glitter smudged down one cheek like a finger had already been there. every single person in the club was suddenly nothing but smoke and background static. the music, a dull throb behind the real percussion of your blood.

and when you stopped at the edge of his booth, one hand on the lip of the velvet seat, mouth parted just enough to be accused of thinking nasty things—

he tilted his head.

he looked down, slow, dragging his gaze over your body like a confession, then back up again.

he still hadn’t smiled.

he didn’t need to.

you were already fucked.

the booth was one of those deep, curved ones, made for mafia deals or the kind of drunk makeouts that ended in pregnancy scares and spiritual awakenings. the leather was the kind of cracked that whispered rumors about what had gone down here over the years—piss, blood, cum, cheap perfume, shame, maybe in that order. red vinyl, sticky in a way that suggested the cleaning crew gave up back in 2019. it curved around the edge of the room like the mouth of something hungry, all teeth and shadow and bad ideas.

toji sat dead center. like a throne. like he knew you’d come.

you hovered at the edge a second too long—long enough to register the way his thighs spread under the table, long enough to see the glass in his hand was more ice than liquor, long enough to feel the bass tremble up your calves and settle right behind your teeth. he didn’t say anything. didn’t lean forward. didn’t offer you a seat. didn’t look away.

so you climbed in.

slow. dramatic. like you’d rehearsed it. thigh first, then the swing of your leg over the lip of the booth, one hand braced on the table, the other catching the hem of your skirt as it threatened to ride too high. you slid in beside him, but not next to him. no. you gave him space. gave yourself room to breathe. gave the night a chance to hesitate. you slid in just far enough that your knee could maybe touch his if you angled wrong, just far enough that your perfume would reach him, but your intentions would still look innocent if someone were watching.

he looked at you then.

not a turn of the head. not a shift of his shoulders. just the eyes—those fucking eyes—cutting sideways like a blade, like a car mirror catching you just before it hits. they dropped again. took in your legs. your stomach. your mouth.

slowly.

like he had time. like he wasn’t planning anything. like he absolutely was. he took a sip from his glass. ice clicked against his teeth. “you here with your little boyfriend?” he asked, voice rough, deep, the kind of voice that sounded like it had gravel for breakfast and a grudge for dessert.

you blinked.

“what?”

toji tilted his chin toward the dance floor. “glitter rat in the booth. blonde. yelling at the DJ.” you glanced back. gojo was on his fourth attempt at beatboxing into a mic that wasn’t even plugged in. “jesus christ,” you muttered, then looked back at toji. “no. he’s just allergic to dignity.”

toji hummed. then his thumb brushed the condensation off the side of his glass, slow, deliberate. you watched the motion, unblinking. he tapped the glass against the table. “what about the girl? the one with the dead fish stare and a vendetta against buttons.” you grinned. “shoko? also not fucking her. though she’d be the one doing the fucking.”

“mm,” he said, not quite smiling, not quite breathing.

your knee brushed his. just barely. enough to count.

“you’re really checking out my whole friend group before you even ask my name?”

toji’s gaze flicked to you, then back to his glass. “don’t need your name,” he said. “i just wanted to make sure no one was gonna cry when i take you into the bathroom.” the air went out of you like someone had lit a match in your lungs. not subtle. not flirty. not pretending.

you swallowed. slowly.

“bold of you to assume i cry after.”

toji smirked then. not wide. not pretty. crooked. mean. like it hurt to do it. like he hadn’t done it in a while and wasn’t sure it was still worth the trouble. but it was a smile. for you. and something about it made your stomach twist like your bones were folding inward.

he reached across the table and stole your drink—no asking, no gesture, just took it from your hand like it already belonged to him—and sipped it. eyes never leaving yours.

“tequila,” he muttered. “figures.”

“and what the fuck does that mean?”

he shrugged. “means you want to do something stupid. something you can’t admit you want. something you’re gonna lie about to your friends in the morning.”

you stared at him.

and hated how right he was.

you leaned in, breath catching just slightly. “okay. and what do you want?” toji leaned back again, arm stretched across the back of the booth. his fingers—long, veined, scarred, absolutely filthy—rested behind your shoulder, not touching, just close enough to feel the heat.

he gave a lazy, brutal smile.

“i want to remember what it feels like to ruin someone.”

instead, you leaned in closer.

your throat went dry. your pulse tried to climb out of your neck.

you swallowed hard. you should’ve left. should’ve said something clever. should’ve laughed and slipped away and found someone safer to flirt with. someone your age. someone with a nice apartment and a philosophy minor.

and whispered, “bathroom’s to the left.”

he didn’t move. not yet. just gave you another look. slow. bottom to top. the kind of look that peeled layers. stripped the glitter off your skin. that set a small, sharp flame behind your belly button and said, “we’re not gonna be gentle. we’re not gonna be kind.”

toji downed the rest of his drink in one go.

and stood.

“don’t fall in love,” he said over his shoulder as he moved toward the hallway.

you followed. because it was already too fucking late.

the hallway to the bathroom was narrow, humid, and alive in the way all bad decisions are—pulsing with leftover bass, lit by flickering red neon that made everything look like it was soaked in blood and bad taste. a warped “EXIT” sign hung above the far end like a lie, like hope, like something god had given up on. the walls were sticky, painted black, smeared with the fingerprints of too many hands that didn’t belong anywhere else. you could hear the music still, like it was coming from inside your chest. or his.

toji walked ahead of you with the kind of gait that didn’t need to check behind him to know you’d follow. wide shoulders, unhurried steps, a slight roll to his hips like he was dragging the entire fucking world behind him and had made peace with it. he didn’t look back. he didn’t say anything.

and you—fucking idiot, slut in progress, full of bad glitter and worse ideas—you followed him like the devil never lied, heels sticking to the floor, chest rising and falling too fast, heat crawling up the backs of your knees like it had teeth.

you passed a couple making out against the wall, faces crushed together like starved dogs. a guy throwing up in a bucket with a girl patting his back like she loved him for it. someone crying into a mirror, mascara smeared down their cheekbones like war paint. all of it faded. all of it backdrop.

your whole body was zeroed in on him.

toji pushed open the bathroom door without ceremony. it creaked. like it had a vendetta.

the club bathroom was exactly what you expected from a place called gristle: a flickering fluorescent above the mirror, one stall door missing entirely, cracked tiles that looked like someone had lost a fight with their reflection. the floor was wet. you didn’t ask with what. the whole place smelled like bleach, piss, and someone’s regretful aftershave.

but the last stall—the farthest one, the only one with a working lock—was open.

he walked straight in.

paused.

turned halfway in the doorway, one hand braced on the chipped frame, and finally looked at you again. like a challenge. like a dare. like he wasn’t gonna pull you in. not unless you stepped forward yourself. “last chance,” he said, voice low, rough, carrying that kind of warmth that only exists inside furnaces and buried trauma. “you got about three seconds to decide whether you’re gonna regret this.”

you laughed.

it came out a little wild. a little cracked.

“bitch, i already regret it.”

and then you stepped in.

he closed the door behind you. it clicked shut like the start of a ritual.

now it was just the two of you, breathing the same stifling, chemical-washed air, shadows cast sharp and ugly across your faces by the single busted light overhead. you could see the sweat beading at his temples, the shine of it along the thick cut of his throat. you could see the scar on his lip, and the deeper one under his jaw, like someone had tried to silence him with a blade and failed. his eyes were even worse up close—mean, ancient, alive in the way fire is alive when it’s out of control. they flicked over you with slow, deliberate weight.

he didn’t touch you.

he didn’t need to.

he just looked.

and it felt like a strip search. like a dissection. like you were standing naked already, ribs cracked open, heart fluttering like it knew what was coming and wanted to hide behind your lungs. “what’s your name?” he asked suddenly, voice pitched like he didn’t care but also like he needed it for something he didn’t want to name.

you hesitated.

then said it.

he rolled it around in his mouth. didn’t repeat it, just tasted it, the way a man might taste a curse or a memory or a prayer he wasn’t allowed to say. “huh,” he said. “too pretty for the kind of shit you’re about to let me do.” you were about to shoot back something equally stupid, something unhinged, something desperate and mean and wet with anticipation—

but he took a step closer.

just one.

and it was enough to send your breath hitching and your back pressing gently against the wall of the stall like you needed to hold the whole building up. you could smell him now—cigarettes, aftershave, sweat, and something else, something feral and tired and male, the kind of scent that made you feel like a house left unlocked.

he raised a hand.

not to grab you. not yet. he just rested it on the wall beside your head, knuckles ghosting the tile, his eyes boring down into yours like he was looking through you. like he was checking for rot.

“you don’t even know how good you look right now,” he murmured, and his voice sounded wrecked—torn at the edges, too old for this, too fucked up to know better, too close to the edge.

you whispered, “then tell me.”

he laughed.

short. breathy. not nice.

“nah,” he said. “gonna show you.”

still—still—he didn’t touch you.

he let the silence wrap around the both of you like plastic, like a vacuum seal, like the breath between the lightning and the thunder. he let you feel the heat crawling up your neck, let your hands twitch at your sides like they wanted something to hold onto before the world caved in.

his eyes didn’t leave yours. not once.

and when he finally, finally leaned in, mouth brushing close enough to yours that you could feel the shape of the words more than you heard them, he said—

“say please.”

you exhaled so sharply it stuttered.

and then—

“no.”

his grin was all teeth. no mirth. no kindness. just hunger dressed up like satisfaction.

“good,” he said. “don’t beg yet.”

and he leaned back.

waited.

waited for you to break first.

and fuck—

you wanted to.

you moved without thinking. or maybe you were thinking too much—just not with the part of your brain responsible for restraint. maybe it was the tequila, or the way his voice slithered under your skin like something hot and reckless, or the way he still hadn’t touched you first, like he was trying to prove a point. you pushed him.

both hands flat against his chest, sudden, hard, more force than you meant but less than he deserved, and he let you, let you shove him back until he stumbled into the closed janitor’s closet behind him. his legs hit the lip of the metal threshold, knees bending with a grunt, and he sank down onto the makeshift seat like he wanted to be there—like he’d planned it all along.

and then his hands—fuck, those hands—were on your thighs.

rough palms, calloused fingers, thick enough to bruise without meaning to. he didn’t trail them up. didn’t tease. he gripped, greedy, dragging you forward like you were already claimed. his touch lit a fuse somewhere behind your sternum. your breath stuttered, caught, and your hips moved before your mind caught up, knees hitting the outside of his legs as you let yourself be pulled between them like gravity was a kink.

your hands landed on his shoulders to steady yourself, fingertips pressing into solid muscle wrapped in cotton and heat. you could feel it—him—beneath the thin fabric of his shirt: the thick slope of his traps, the unforgiving hardness of a man who spent too much time in fights and not enough in therapy.

“jesus,” you breathed, unthinking.

“what?”

your palms slid over the lines of him, feeling the definition like it had something to tell you, like each inch of him was a secret your hands could decode.

“you’re so fucking hot,” you muttered, half to yourself.

toji chuckled. it was low and mean and full of dirt. like he’d heard it before, but it still pleased him in that deeply male, deeply awful way.

“you climbin’ on or just gonna compliment me to death?”

you didn’t answer.

you straddled him.

slow, deliberate, dragging your knees over his thighs until your hips settled down onto his lap, the heat of him pressed tight against the inside of your thighs like a confession he didn’t have to say out loud. you wrapped your arms around his neck, trying not to moan at how fucking big he was—everything about him. wide shoulders. thick neck. those awful, perfect hands still gripping your thighs like he owned them.

your nose brushed against his jaw, and for a second, you didn’t move. didn’t kiss. didn’t speak.

you just inhaled.

his scent hit you in the teeth—spice and sweat and something darker, older, something like woodsmoke and nights without sleep. it wasn’t cologne. it was him. it made your eyes flutter shut for a second longer than you meant to.

then your lips ghosted against the side of his neck, soft, barely there, just enough to taste the salt and heat of him. “what’s your name?” you asked into his skin, voice breathless. he didn’t answer right away. you kissed his neck again, slower this time, tongue just barely tasting him. he exhaled, rough. “toji.”

you hummed like it was a meal, a warm word you could chew on. “toji,” you repeated, testing it, letting it sit on your tongue like liquor.

you kissed just under his jaw. “are you married, toji?”

he huffed. not quite a laugh.

“nah. divorced. long time ago.”

you let your lips linger at his throat, barely touching, feeling his pulse jump just under the skin. “why’d she leave?” his voice was quiet this time. bitter. real. “ran off with some other guy. wanted something better, i guess.” you pulled back a little, just enough to look at him, brushing a stray piece of hair off his forehead with one finger. he was staring at you, eyes darker now, more guarded, but not pulling away.

you tilted your head and said, low and smug and filthy-sweet, “someone’s trash is someone’s treasure, y’know.”

toji snorted. actually snorted, head tilting back slightly, a rough sound in the back of his throat like amusement had caught him off guard. his hands flexed on your thighs, thumbs digging into the meat like he needed an anchor.

“you callin’ me trash, baby?”

you grinned, lips brushing against his cheekbone.

“only if you want me to recycle you.”

his laugh this time was full—short, sharp, almost surprised. you felt it through your whole body, the vibration rolling up his chest into yours. he looked at you like you were an accident he wasn’t sure he regretted yet.

“you’re mouthy,” he muttered.

“you’re old,” you shot back.

“and yet,” his hand slid up, resting heavy against your ass, “you’re in my lap.”

you leaned in again, lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“so what’re you gonna do about it?”

toji leaned back, just enough to look you in the eyes, a slow, deliberate smirk pulling at the scar on his lip.

“whatever the fuck i want.”

you smiled.

“good.”

your hands started moving before your mouth did—fingers trailing down the slope of his shoulder, slow and shameless, brushing over the tight fabric of his shirt, down across the sharp cut of his chest. you could feel the muscles shift beneath your palms, all dense and unforgiving, like stone that had decided to grow teeth. he wasn’t just strong. he was engineered. like god got horny once and never did it again.

you were still waiting for him to touch you properly.

but you were starting to think the waiting was the whole goddamn point.

you dragged your fingers lower, feeling every groove of him, every inch mapped like sin beneath your hands. his abs were taut, hard, ridiculous—less six-pack, more topographical map of a mountain range you wanted to get lost in. they flexed when you touched them, a subtle twitch under your fingertips like his body was reacting on its own, and it made your thighs clench around his lap.

“jesus christ,” you muttered, reverent and obscene at once. “what the fuck do you do? bench-press small cars? choke people for a living?”

toji smirked without answering. that same little twist of his mouth, one corner pulling up like it wanted to make fun of you, like it knew how dumb you sounded—like he made people talk like that just by existing. you didn’t let him speak. you pushed your palm flat against the cut of his abs, slow circles, down toward his navel, and grinned, breath hot against his jaw.

“i could literally squirt just from humping your stomach,” you said, blunt as a knife. “just grind on these things like a fucking degenerate and ruin your whole shirt.”

toji barked out a short, rough laugh—sharp enough to show teeth, mean enough to make your pulse stutter. “you’re disgusting.”

“and you’re enabling me.”

“you say that like it’s a problem.”

you let your hand drift lower still—not far enough to be a real threat yet, just enough to tease, then slid it back up again, slowly, nails dragging over the ridges of his stomach like you were mapping the way you’d ride him. your other hand stayed locked behind his neck, nails lightly scraping along the curve of his nape, anchoring you there in his lap, where you didn’t belong, where you wanted to live forever.

and then your hand found his chest again.

specifically; his nipple.

you didn’t hesitate. just caught it between your thumb and finger and gave it a little tug.

he flinched.

not big. not obvious. just a twitch—shoulders shifting under your palm, his hips tightening under yours, a low sound catching in his throat like something he hadn’t meant to make. and it lit you up. a flare of heat, sharp and fast, blooming behind your sternum like something you’d swallowed was fighting to get out.

“huh,” you said, grinning like a cat with something twitching between its teeth. “you’re sensitive.”

toji’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, slower than before. darker.

“keep talkin’ like that, baby,” he said, low and warning, “you’re gonna find out how long it’s been since someone made me come.”

your stomach flipped.

not from fear. from anticipation.

you pinched again, slower this time, more curious than cruel, watching the way his chest moved with the pressure, how his breath hitched before he swallowed it down. “i like you like this,” you murmured, leaning in again, lips brushing the underside of his jaw. “all rough and ready to break shit, but twitchy when i touch you just right.”

“nobody touches me like that.”

you kissed just below his ear.

“shame,” you said.

your voice dropped to a whisper, low and mean and sweet at once.

“i’ll fix that.”

he exhaled hard through his nose, chest rising beneath your hand. his fingers dug harder into your thighs, like he wanted to grip bone, like he wanted to see if your skin would remember him tomorrow.

“you’re not scared of me,” he muttered, almost like it was a question.

“should i be?”

his lip twitched. “probably.”

you smiled, letting your lips ghost over the sharp angle of his jaw, thumb brushing lazily across his nipple again, slower now, testing him. “then maybe i want to be a little scared.”

his hands slid higher on your thighs, thumbs pressing in slow circles, rough, patient, menacing, the kind of touch that wasn’t asking for permission—it was letting you pretend you still had a choice.

“you keep teasing like that,” he said, voice lower now, quieter, dead calm, “and i’m gonna stop being polite.” you rolled your hips forward just enough to feel him through his jeans—hot, hard, there. “you’ve been polite?” you said, eyes wide and false, mocking. “this is you being polite?”

he laughed again. slower this time. darker.

“baby,” he said, fingers curling into your skin, “you have no fucking idea.” and still—he hadn’t kissed you. not once. and it was driving you insane.

you were perched in his lap like temptation incarnate, like a sin wrapped in skin and glitter, thighs bracketing his like you were made to ride things that broke people, hands still playing soft and obscene over his chest like you didn’t know what restraint meant, like you were touching something sacred just to see if it bled.

toji hadn’t moved much. not in the obvious way. not in the way most men do when they’ve got someone straddling them, whispering filth into their jaw like a sacrament. no, he was too still, too composed, like a bomb wired too carefully to detonate early. like he wanted to wait. to build it. let it stretch. to hold onto the tension until it snapped in your mouth.

your fingers were still teasing across his chest—idling over the muscle, flicking once more over that sensitive spot just beneath his nipple, watching for the way his stomach flinched or the corners of his mouth twitched. you liked it. you loved it. how it made him twitch, how it made his hands twitch harder against your thighs like they wanted to move but were waiting for your next line, like he wanted to see just how much worse you could get.

you leaned in again, lips hovering by his throat, breath hot and unkind.

“you ever had a girl ride your abs?” you asked, voice like melted sugar poured down someone’s back—sweet, but meant to burn. “like, actually just sit on your stomach and get off like it was nothing? bet they haven’t. bet none of them could handle it.”

his breath stuttered.

“jesus,” he muttered.

“nah,” you grinned, dragging your teeth just lightly along his neck, not biting—yet—just there, a whisper of promise. “but you can call me that if it helps.” he growled. actually growled. a sound low in his chest like something cornered and annoyed it liked it.

and finally—finally—his hands left your thighs. not far, just sliding up, rough palms dragging over your skin, slow and heated and full of intent. he cupped your hips like he was trying to feel the bones underneath, thumbs pressing into the meat of you with a bruiser’s patience.

you moved against him—barely, just a roll of your hips, a shift that let your weight settle over the thick press of him under his jeans, and god, fuck, it felt obscene. it made your breath hitch and his jaw clench, and the stall felt too small for what was building, the air too thick, like you were breathing in each other’s heat, each other’s worse instincts.

you whispered, lips against the shell of his ear, “you like this?”

toji didn’t answer right away. just let his hands slide down again, gripping tighter, thumbs dipping under the hem of your skirt like they were testing your limits.

“you know how long it’s been since anyone touched me?” he said, voice low, almost flat, like he wasn’t sure why he was telling you. “since anyone looked at me without seeing a mess, a fuckin’ has-been?”

you pulled back, just a little, enough to look at him, eyes meeting his with something like interest wrapped in something darker. not pity. not sympathy. just hunger. focused and real.

“how long?” you asked softly, fingers still on his chest, dragging down again, slow and hungry. he looked past you for a second. somewhere to the side. not even seeing the busted stall wall anymore. something older, in his voice now. broken-glass honesty.

“eight years. almost nine.”

you stared.

and then, with a wicked little smile curling your lips, you whispered, “someone’s trash…”

toji’s mouth twitched.

“…is someone’s treasure,” you finished, breathless, grin wide and smug and so, so stupid.

he barked a laugh, surprised and feral.

“you really just called me trash again.”

you shrugged. “i mean. recycled goods. eco-conscious dick. saving the planet.”

“you’re fucking insane,” he said, voice pitched like he might start laughing again or snap your waistband with his teeth.

you leaned forward, pressed your forehead against his, your lips barely a breath from his. “and you’re letting me sit on your lap in a bathroom stall. so what does that make you?”

he grinned.

all teeth. all bad decisions.

“about to make the worst choice of my goddamn life.”

“good,” you breathed. “i was worried we were on different pages.”

your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, fingers curling into the hair at his nape. his hands slid back up, under your skirt now, warm palms against your ass, fingers flexing like he needed to touch you everywhere before his brain caught up.

and still.

he hadn’t kissed you.

and you were starting to go crazy with it.

your eyes met again. his were darker now. heavy. hungry.

but he waited.

he wanted you to crack first.

“fucking kiss me,” you hissed, voice wrecked.

he smirked.

“say please,” toji said again, like a fucking ritual, and this time—

this time you almost said it.

you held his stare like a dare, like you were trying to outlast a god, both of you locked in this awful, exquisite standoff of breath and blood and the terrible pressure of almost—his hands hot on your hips, your thighs burning around him, the tension between your bodies so taut it felt like it would hum if someone plucked it. and still, no kiss. not yet. like he needed one more act of worship before he let your mouths meet. like he wanted you naked before he let himself feel anything sweet.

fine. fuck it. you’d do it yourself.

you shifted in his lap, slow and deliberate, dragging your hands back from his shoulders to the hem of your top, fingers curling under the fabric like you were peeling off something sacred. you kept your eyes on his—watching the way his pupils swallowed up the green when he realized what you were doing—lifting your shirt up over your ribs, higher, higher, until the fabric slipped past your chin and you tossed it off to the side without ceremony.

no bra. piercings.

because of course not.

just bare skin and pierced nipples, glinting silver in the dirty fluorescent light like jewelry for the kind of girl who knew she wasn’t soft, who never pretended she was.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there, half-naked in his lap in a goddamn club bathroom, chest heaving, nipples hard in the cold air, the metal rings catching the light like something dangerous, something mean, something that needed to be touched wrong to be touched right. and you watched him, watched how he breathed—just once, just sharp—and how his hands flexed like they didn’t know whether to grab your waist or punch through the stall wall.

“well, fuck me,” toji muttered, voice thick now, ruined with it. “no wonder you’ve been talking like you wanna go to hell. you’re built like you already run the place.”

you smiled, smug and filthy and lit from within.

“told you,” you whispered. “eco-conscious. sustainable. slutty.”

his mouth twitched. not a full smile—he was too gone for that now, too inside-out with the need to play it cool—but it was there. something dangerous and animal moved across his face, and then he leaned in. you thought he was finally going to kiss you. you felt it. the moment before detonation. but instead— his head dropped.

and he latched onto your nipple.

“fuck—”

your back arched like a whip, hands flying to his shoulders again, nails digging in without thinking, mouth falling open with something more breath than sound. toji sucked, slow and heavy, his tongue sliding over the barbell and pressing into the sensitive flesh around it like he wanted to make you cry. his mouth was hot, his stubble scraped, and when his teeth grazed just a little too sharp you gasped, hips rolling down into his lap like it was reflex.

his hands gripped your ass again, anchoring you, holding you down while he switched sides, mouth closing over your other nipple like he was starving and you were something he’d earned by bleeding for it. his groan vibrated through you, low and primal and filthy, and when he pulled back there was spit on your skin, cooling fast, and his face was flushed in a way that made something deep in your belly twist and spark.

“jesus christ,” he said hoarsely. “you’re unreal.”

“you’re the one with your mouth on my tits,” you shot back, voice too high, too tight, shaking a little, “don’t go blaming me now.”

“not blaming,” he muttered, still staring at your chest like he might bite again. “just... christ. you’re like a fuckin’ problem someone dared me to solve with my mouth.”

and then—finally—he moved.

his hand came up, one big palm on the side of your face, warm and rough and steady, and his thumb brushed over your cheek like he was trying to decide if you were real. your breath caught. your whole body tightened.

and then he kissed you.

hard.

not sweet, not gentle, not even patient. just full, just everything, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn’t touched you, every year he hadn’t been touched himself. his mouth crashed into yours with the force of someone who’d been starving for too long and had finally been thrown a pulse, all teeth and tongue and hunger, one hand cradling your head and the other gripping your ass like he wanted to fuse you to him.

you moaned into his mouth, loud and broken, grinding down against his lap because your body didn’t know what else to do, because he tasted like heat and fury and something lost, and you never wanted to stop.

“toji,” you gasped against his lips, not even knowing what you were going to say next.

he pulled back just enough to growl, “yeah?”

and you didn’t say anything.

you just kissed him again, harder, because there was no language for this anymore. just mouths. and need. and heat. and the feeling that if you weren’t careful, this man was going to leave fingerprints on your soul.

the kiss was a full-body event, not just mouths but movement, grip, heat, the wild pressure of skin-on-skin with nowhere to go and too much to say. it didn’t matter that you were half-naked in a club bathroom stall where the floor smelled like a crime scene and the walls were so thin you could hear someone vomiting two doors down—none of that mattered, because toji’s mouth was on yours like he was carving something out of you, like he was writing his name behind your teeth, and you were letting him, eagerly, shamelessly, drunk on it, high on it, completely undone.

his tongue pushed past your lips like he belonged there, slow and deep, not searching—claiming, like he’d waited a decade for a mouth that tasted this wrong and this right all at once. you moaned into it, hands tangling in his hair now, that thick, unruly mess of black you wanted to pull until he begged, your body moving without your consent, grinding against his lap like a goddamn heat-seeking missile. every movement made you more desperate, more soaked, more stupid, and the worst part was he knew it—you could feel it in the way he kissed you, like he was humoring your urgency but didn’t need to rush, because he could have you whenever he wanted.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you—flushed, breathless, pupils blown wide like a blackout curtain had dropped behind his eyes. “look at you. look at you, fuckin’ shaking just from kissing.”

“you kiss like it’s a crime,” you gasped, but it came out half a whimper, too much pleasure in your voice to be convincing. “like—fuck—like you’re trying to make me come with your mouth alone.”

toji grinned, cocky and dangerous and filthy.

“maybe i am. you wet for me already, sweetheart?”

you didn’t answer, because your hips were doing it for you—rocking down against his jeans with so much friction you wanted to cry, the seam catching you just enough, the pressure building, and his cock so hard beneath you it felt like punishment. you were dripping, underwear soaked through, thighs shaking, and his hands weren’t helping—palms wide on your ass, rocking you down, grinding you into him like he wanted to wear you out before he even got your panties off.

“fuckin’ soaked, aren’t you?” he said, voice a rasp now, low and hot in your ear. “you’re gonna leave a mark on my fuckin’ jeans, baby. ruin me before i even get my dick out.”

“then do it,” you snapped, voice wrecked. “let me. let me ruin you.”

toji groaned, head dropping to your shoulder as he laughed, low and obscene.

“shit. listen to you. needy little brat.”

you tightened your grip on his shoulders, biting down on a gasp as he rocked you harder against him, the rhythm slow but filthy, your clit catching against the fabric with every pass, the wetness between your legs making your thighs slick where they touched his jeans.

“look at you,” he said again, voice softer now but still thick with want. “grinding like a fuckin’ bitch in heat. that what you need, baby? someone to tell you how good you are while you ride his lap in a public bathroom like a fuckin’ slut?”

“yes,” you breathed, and there was no dignity in it, no irony, just raw honesty. “yes, yes, fuck, say it again.”

he sat up straighter, one hand sliding up your back, warm and steady, the other gripping your hip tight enough to leave bruises. his lips were back on your throat now, trailing kisses—no, bites, little sharp things that made you twitch and gasp and roll your hips harder.

“you’re so good,” he growled. “so fuckin’ pretty like this. filthy little thing. bet no one’s ever let you get this messy before.”

“they haven’t,” you whispered, high and wild and broken.

“of course they haven’t,” he muttered, hand sliding between your bodies now, cupping your pussy through your soaked panties. “’cause they’re not me.”

you cried out when his fingers pressed down, through the fabric, right against your clit, and he just held them there, didn’t move yet, just the pressure of it, the presence of it, as if to say i can give you everything, but only if i want to.

“you’re shaking,” he said again, almost in awe. “look at you. fuck. look how bad you want it.”

you nodded, frantic, rolling your hips, chasing the friction.

“please,” you whispered. “please, please—”

toji leaned in, mouth on your jaw, lips dragging across your ear.

“there it is,” he said, dark and triumphant. “that’s what i wanted. beg for it, baby. you want me to make you come like this? just from grinding?”

“yes, yes—i can—i will—”

“fuckin’ right you will,” he growled. “’cause you’re perfect. you’re fuckin’ perfect, and this pussy—fuck, this pussy’s gonna soak me right through, isn’t it?”

you moaned—high and desperate and completely gone—because he was right, he was so right, and your body was already pulling taut, everything tingling, building, the whole world narrowing to the heat between your legs and the sound of his voice and the rock of your hips on his lap, friction blurring into pleasure so loud it drowned out thought.

and still—he hadn’t taken your panties off. still—he hadn’t even kissed your neck where you needed it. still—he wasn’t fucking you. not yet. because this was just the beginning. and he wanted to see how far you’d fall before he even let you come.

your cunt was throbbing. soaked through the sheer cotton of your underwear, the whole front of it stuck tight to your slit like second skin, every slow, cruel grind against the thick bulge in toji’s jeans shooting sparks up your spine, dragging friction across your clit so hot it felt like electricity, like punishment, like prayer—but no salvation was coming. not here. not yet.

toji wasn’t letting you have it easy.

no, he was watching you come apart, eyes hooded, lips parted, one hand on your ass, the other flat against the small of your back like he was holding you in place just to observe the mess you were making of yourself. and you were making a fucking mess—your hips rolling in slow, stuttering circles, breath hitching every time your clit caught just right, every time the angle hit that spot that made your vision spark at the edges. his jeans were dark with your slick now. it had soaked clean through, turned the rough denim into something humid and hot and obscene, and he hadn’t even moved.

he grinned, teeth bared, voice dragging out of his chest like it was dipped in smoke and sin.

“look at you,” he murmured, so low it didn’t sound real. “fuckin’ drooling on my lap. like you don’t even know how to behave.”

you whimpered, not even trying to deny it, not even trying to stop your hips anymore, just grinding down harder, faster, more desperate, using him like he was a thing, like a toy, and he loved it—you could tell, could feel how hard he was under you, thick and unyielding, the heat of him seeping through denim and cotton and skin like he was burning from the inside out.

“you hear that?” he whispered, mouth brushing your ear now, lips hot and damp and cruel. “you’re so wet, baby, i can hear you. hear this pretty pussy workin’ for it. tryin’ so hard to come on me like you need it.”

“i do,” you gasped, voice shaking. “i need it, toji, please—”

“i know you do,” he said, thumb dragging up your spine, slow and firm, like he was petting something wild and ready to snap. “you need it so bad you’d hump my fuckin’ abs if i let you. you’d sit on my chest like a good little toy and make yourself come.”

you whined, high-pitched and helpless, hips stuttering now, every pass over his cock sending your body into convulsions, little aftershocks building toward something brutal. your hands were shaking against his chest, nails digging in, trying to anchor yourself before your own body betrayed you.

“that’s it,” toji growled, voice thick, breath warm on your neck. “grind on me, baby. come for me. come just like this, messy little thing, fuckin’ beautiful.”

and that word—beautiful—punched through you like a nail through soft wood, splitting you open. it was too much. it broke something.

you gasped again, mouth falling open, eyes rolling back just a little, because your orgasm hit you like a freight train, fast and catastrophic and undeniable, hips jerking, thighs shaking around him as your whole body locked up, tight and twitching and slick. your clit pulsed against the rough drag of his jeans, and for a second all you could hear was static, breath and heartbeat and the hot wet sound of your soaked underwear sticking to your cunt like your body wanted to keep the memory.

“fuck,” toji groaned, voice dark and ragged, eyes glued to your face as you came. “that’s it. just like that. god damn, look at you—so good, baby. so fuckin’ good for me.”

you were barely breathing, shaking like a leaf in a storm, your whole body undone on top of him, and still, his hands held you steady, let you ride it out, let you grind through the aftershocks like he wanted to feel every single second of your ruin. his hand came up to your cheek, fingers curling around your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip as you gasped, stunned and half-feral.

“you ever come like that before?” he asked, low and smug and so, so filthy.

you shook your head, dazed.

“thought so,” he said. “’cause no one else knows what to do with a pussy like yours, baby. they don’t know how to look at you, let alone fuck you right.”

you whimpered, half-laughing, tears stinging your eyes now, overstimulated and shaking and so full of want it was making you stupid.

“you’re a fuckin’ dream,” he said, quieter now, voice warmer, almost reverent. “you know that? filthy little mouth, perfect tits, pussy that sings for me—you were made for this. for me.”

you nodded, breath catching. “say it again.”

toji smirked, eyes glinting, one hand sliding back down to your waist as he pulled you forward again.

“you were made for me.”

and god help you, you believed him.

your hands were trembling, still shaky from the wreck of that first orgasm, your thighs twitching around his lap, soaked panties clinging to your slit like a brand, like shame, like proof—and toji hadn’t even fucked you yet. he was still fully dressed, his shirt damp with sweat from where your chest had pressed against him, his jeans dark from your slick, and his cock—fuck, you could feel it, all of it—was still locked away like a weapon waiting for deployment.

and it was time. it was fucking time.

you leaned back just enough to give yourself space, your palms still braced on his chest, steadying you as your breath came hot and uneven through your nose, mouth parted, your lips still wet from kissing, from moaning, and you looked down between your bodies like it was something sacred. his belt was half-undone already, buckle hanging open from where your desperate grinding had loosened it—like even the metal couldn’t handle what was coming.

“fuck, baby,” you breathed, fingers fumbling at the leather, dragging it the rest of the way through the loops. “your cock’s been pressing into me like it’s got its own fuckin’ mind.”

toji let out a low chuckle, something dark and frayed around the edges.

“it does,” he said. “it’s been waitin’. patient. even though you’ve been bouncin’ on it like a fuckin’ toy.”

you popped the button, pulled down the zipper with a long, slow zzzzrrk that felt like it echoed in the stall, louder than the bass outside, louder than the sound of your own heart trying to punch through your ribs. your fingers dipped into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them low enough to see the top of it—veins, thick and pulsing, and just so much of him already visible before you’d even freed it. your eyes widened.

“holy shit,” you muttered.

he grinned, teeth flashing under the sick overhead light. “what?”

you didn’t answer right away. your hands moved again, both of them, pushing the waistband down further, and then—

you let him out.

his cock slapped against his lower stomach, heavy, dark and flushed, slick already at the tip, a thick drop of precum glistening like it belonged in your mouth. it was obscene—long, fat, veiny as hell, the kind of dick that looked like it needed its own leash, its own warning label, its own space. the veins ran thick up the shaft, winding under skin pulled tight like leather, like the blood barely fit inside him. his head was broad, a little darker than the rest, flushed near purple, and leaking like it was angry he hadn’t buried it yet.

you stared.

for a long second, you just stared.

then—quiet, reverent, slightly terrified—you said, “i fuckin’ knew it.”

toji raised an eyebrow, cocky, smug, delicious.

“knew what, sweetheart?”

you swallowed, one hand wrapping around the base—your fingers not meeting—and your other sliding up from the middle to the head, both hands now working together to hold him. “you’re built like a fuckin’ war crime,” you said, voice shaking somewhere between awe and horny delirium. “of course your cock’s this big. stupid big. like—jesus—i should call a priest. or a contractor. fuckin’ get structural support.”

toji moaned.

not soft. not gentle. not theatrical.

a real moan—gut-deep, choked out of him, like your words had done something, like the way your hands moved up and down his shaft, slow and reverent, was too much.

“fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, hips twitching once into your grip. “both hands and you still can’t hold all of me? fuckin’ look at that. look at how pretty you are, baby. jerkin’ me off like you wanna worship it.”

you grinned, dazed, breath catching as your thumbs swept over the head, spreading the precum, watching the way his abs flexed every time you touched him right. “i do wanna worship it,” you said. “fuckin’ temple-level. build a church around this dick and let me live in it.”

toji laughed again—short, loud, fucked.

“gonna make me come just from talkin’, baby,” he muttered, voice frayed and sharp. “keep goin’. keep fuckin’ sayin’ that shit.”

you stroked him harder now, slow and tight, twisting a little near the head just to hear the way he groaned, to feel the twitch in your hands.

“you know what this looks like?” you whispered, leaning close again, mouth brushing his jaw as your hand kept working. “like something that ruins girls. like something that splits ‘em open, wrecks ‘em, makes ‘em talk in tongues. you ever see a girl cry while sittin’ on your dick, toji?”

“more than once,” he said, hoarse, hips jerking again. “none of ‘em sounded as fuckin’ good as you, though. jesus—your voice, baby—gonna ruin me.”

“i wanna ruin you.”

your thumb brushed the tip again, slow and teasing.

“wanna fuckin’ sit on it till i can’t talk. ride you till my legs give out. wanna let you fuck the brat outta me.” he hissed through his teeth, hips bucking, precum now sliding slick over your hands, warm and messy.

“sayin’ all that while jerkin’ me off in a stall,” he panted, head falling back against the wall. “fuck, you’re filthy. filthy and so fuckin’ good, baby. look at you. makin’ me feel like this without even sittin’ on it yet.”

you leaned in, voice low, breath hot against his ear.

“you’re gonna fuck me with this, toji?”

“yeah,” he growled, breath hot and shaking. “gonna fuck you stupid. gonna split you open nice and slow, make you feel every inch. make you remember it for the rest of your life.”

your cunt clenched so hard your knees almost gave out.

and you were still holding his cock like it was the goddamn holy grail.

and you hadn’t even put it in yet.

your hands kept moving, steady now, smooth and slick and reverent like you’d done this a thousand times in a dream and were only now getting the holy chance to do it for real. both palms wrapped around the base of him, moving slow, tight, twisting slightly as you reached the top, thumbs spreading the precum over the flushed head, watching it glisten like something sacrilegious, like something stolen from a shrine. your fingers couldn’t meet even at the base—he was that thick, obscene, heavy in your hands like a weapon built for ruin, and fuck, you wanted to ruin yourself with it.

toji was watching you with a look that should’ve been illegal. half-lidded eyes dark as molasses, lips parted, panting through his teeth like your touch was pulling him apart vein by vein. his chest was heaving under his shirt, soaked with sweat at the collar, and his hips kept twitching just barely into your grip, like he wanted to fuck your fists but was too caught up in the sight of you doing it so willingly, so hungrily, like you loved it. like you were meant for it.

and you did. you fucking did.

you leaned down, let your mouth hover over his cock, eyes never leaving his, and spat.

a long string of it, wet and glistening, landing right on the swollen tip with a lewd little splat, mixing with the precum already smeared across the head, and your hands caught it, smeared it all over, rubbing it in with a filthy grin like you were lotioning up something that lived in hell.

toji hissed—low and feral and wrecked.

“fuck, baby—”

you giggled, soft and wicked, your voice a little hoarse now from all the moaning, but still steady enough to say the worst thing you’d been thinking since the second you saw his cock, “no offense, toji,” you said sweetly, rubbing both hands up and down his shaft, slow and tight, watching him twitch with every pass, “but your ex-wife’s a stupid cunt.”

his eyes widened a little, surprised, maybe delighted.

you kept going, dragging your fist up to just below the head and twisting it there, circling with your thumb while you talked.

“like—look at this fucking dick. are you serious?” you laughed, breathless, bouncing slightly in his lap as your strokes sped up, hot slick sounds echoing in the tiny, awful stall. “you were sittin’ on this at home, and she cheated? left you for some guy with a fuckin’ linkedin account? is she brain-dead?”

toji let out a choked laugh, a single short bark of disbelief before it collapsed into a groan, head tipping back as his hands flexed hard on your waist.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered, breathless, fucked-out already. “fuckin’ mouth on you—goddamn.”

you leaned in, kissed his throat, then licked a stripe up the side of it just to feel him shudder. “i’m serious,” you whispered, licking the shell of his ear now. “if i had a dick like this at home, i’d quit my job. stop seeing my friends. stop eating solid food. i’d be on it twenty-four seven. dick-drunk. knees sore. brain empty. happy.”

he was groaning now, full-bodied, desperate, the veins on his cock standing out like corded rope, the tip leaking freely, your spit and his precum slicking your hands, dripping down his shaft onto his jeans like a signature.

you pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, still stroking, still rubbing your thumb over the head, still letting him feel how good your hands were, how attentive, like you were worshipping something carved out of divine filth.

“i’m gonna put it in now.”

toji’s eyes snapped to yours, wild and almost scared—not of you, not of the act, but of what it was going to do to him.

“you sure?” he rasped. “you’re still fuckin’—you just came once, you’re already twitchin’, baby—i’m big, you know that. i’ll fuckin’ split you open.”

you smiled, slow and sweet and full of madness.

“i want you to.”

his breath caught. his hips twitched.

“fuck,” he groaned. “you’re gonna make me blow just from that. you’re gonna make me lose my fuckin’ mind.”

you rocked forward in his lap, pressing your soaked panties against the head of his cock, and gasped, because even that—even through cotton—felt like it shouldn’t fit. like your body wasn’t made for this kind of sin. but you were going to do it anyway. you were going to take it.

you reached down, dragged the tip against your slit, up and down through your panties, slow, teasing, not slipping him in yet, just letting him feel how soaked you were, how ready, how stupid you were for him.

“feel that?” you whispered, lips brushing his. “that’s all for you. no one else’s ever made me this wet. not even close.”

toji groaned—loud, desperate, unhinged—and his hands gripped your hips like he was holding back the apocalypse.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he muttered.

and you smiled.

because you hadn’t even started.

you were still straddling him, thighs shaking slightly from the aftershocks of your orgasm and from the slow, throbbing ache that had taken root deep between your legs—the kind of ache that didn’t want relief, just more. the kind of ache that whispered take it, take it all, it’s supposed to hurt a little. and now, with your hands trembling where they rested against his stomach, and his cock leaking against the soaked crotch of your panties, thick and flushed and too much, you knew it wasn’t going to be simple. this wasn’t gonna be easy. this wasn’t something you could laugh through.

and still—you pushed your panties aside.

fingers hooking under the soaked elastic, dragging the thin cotton to the side, just enough to expose the wet, swollen mess between your thighs, your lips slick and shining, your hole already fluttering like it knew, like your body was trying to brace for the sheer obscenity of what you were about to force inside it.

“fuck,” toji rasped, eyes dropping like a gravitational pull to your cunt, the way it glistened, twitching right there in front of him. “jesus fucking christ. you’re dripping down your thighs.”

you laughed, high and breathless, reaching down with one hand to angle his cock upright, the other gripping his shoulder so tight your nails left little white crescents in his skin.

“you’ve been talking like you’re a curse, toji,” you whispered, guiding the thick, throbbing head to your entrance. “but i didn’t know you were a goddamn plague.”

he grinned—hungry and crooked and wild—but then his breath caught when the head pressed right up against your pussy, just resting there, the blunt heat of it right there on your soaked little opening.

and even that was too much.

you tried to push down, slowly—just your weight alone, just letting gravity and desperation carry you—and your face immediately twisted, eyes fluttering shut, mouth falling open in a gasp so choked it was almost silent. the stretch was unbearable. hot. wrong. like you were trying to take something not built for human use. like your cunt was clenching out of protest instead of pleasure.

you managed maybe half an inch before your body stopped.

“oh—oh my god,” you whined, already breathless, head tipping forward onto his shoulder. “fuck, fuck, fuck, i didn’t—i didn’t know it would be this hard—”

toji’s hands were on your hips, steadying you, holding you like you were fragile, like you were made of wet glass and sin. he let out a low, strained chuckle, but it wasn’t cruel—it was soft, disbelieving, tender in the kind of filthy way only he could be.

“yeah,” he murmured against your temple, kissing the side of your head as you shuddered, “yeah, baby, i know. it’s a lot. ‘course it’s a lot. fuckin’ told you, didn’t i? said i’d split you open.”

“you are,” you moaned, and your voice cracked near the end, tight with frustration and arousal and the aching urge to take more. “you’re huge, toji, i can’t—fuck, i’m trying—”

his lips brushed your cheekbone, hot and steady.

“you’re doin’ perfect,” he murmured, voice barely a breath. “so good for me. such a good girl. fuckin’ takin’ it, even when it hurts. fuck, you feel how tight you are? grippin’ just the tip, baby—like you don’t wanna let go.”

you whimpered, nails dragging down his chest now, trying to breathe, trying to focus, trying to push through the burn, but your eyes stung and you blinked, and then—

tears spilled.

not sobbing, not dramatic—just the sting of it, the overwhelm, the deep wanting that had nowhere to go but out. “hey,” toji said softly, tilting your face toward him, his thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “what’s this? cryin’ on my cock already?”

he kissed the tear before it could slide down your cheek, then another, his mouth gentle, reverent, filthy in the way it held you. not mocking. not laughing.

just there. with you.

“fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispered, voice hot against your skin. “you’re so pretty when you cry. so perfect when you fall apart for me. you’re takin’ me so good, sweetheart, fuck—look at you. you’re stretchin’ so fuckin’ sweet around me.”

you nodded, teeth clenched, moaning as you lowered yourself another inch, the stretch burning now, unbearable and addictive, your body split wide around the sheer girth of him, your cunt fluttering, clenching, trying to make room where there wasn’t any.

your voice cracked again.

“hurts—fuck—it hurts so good, toji—”

“that’s it,” he breathed, hips shifting just slightly, just enough to make you feel it deeper, wider, more. “that’s what i like. feelin’ you break yourself open for it. god damn, you’re made for this.”

“you keep—keep saying that,” you whimpered, tears slipping down again, dripping onto his shoulder, “like i was built for your dick.”

his grin returned—soft and sharp and filthy.

“you were. this pussy was made to take me. look how tight you are, baby—like you never needed anyone else but me.”

and slowly—inch by agonizing, glorious inch—you sank down further.

and further.

and still—he wasn’t all the way in. not yet. but you were going to take every inch. even if it killed you. especially if it killed you.

your body gave in before your mind did—hips twitching, thighs trembling, breath shuddering out of your lungs as the last brutal stretch of him finally slid in, your cunt choking around the thick base of his cock with a helpless, involuntary clench, like it didn’t want to let him go, like it didn’t know how to survive him.

you gasped—mouth wide, head tipped back, neck exposed like something sacrificial, your whole body tensed and arching, and then relaxing, melting into it, as the blunt weight of him bottomed out inside you, seat to base, thick and pulsing, plugged so deep your belly felt full, your muscles trembling around the stretch like they didn’t believe it was over.

and toji—fucking toji—just exhaled through his teeth, mouth parted in some stunned version of a smile that looked like it might unhinge him, watching your face with something close to awe.

“shit,” he murmured, low and hoarse and broken. “you fuckin’ took it.”

you whined. actually whined, because that fullness, that delicious, unbearable pressure, that raw-cored feeling of being too full and still wanting more had you dizzy and aching and grinding down on him like your body was possessed by the shape of him.

“you’re all the way in,” you whispered, voice thin and stretched out over the edge of a sob, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “i feel you—i feel you so fucking deep, toji—”

his hands flexed hard around your waist, dragging your hips flush to his one last time, grinding your cunt against the root of his cock, the pressure unbearable, making you gasp and shudder in his lap.

“yeah, baby,” he said, voice pure filth now, that teasing rasp that lived somewhere between worship and cruelty. “you feel that? that’s my cock in your stomach. you’re so fuckin’ tight around me, it’s like your pussy was starving.”

you moaned again, incoherent, your fingers curling in his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to gravity.

he rocked his hips.

once.

slow.

and your whole body convulsed.

“fuck—toji—”

“easy, sweetheart,” he muttered, mouth brushing your neck, tongue flicking the sweat from your skin. “gonna take care of you. just breathe. you’re doin’ so fuckin’ good for me.”

and then he did it again.

slower this time. dragging out of you just an inch, then pushing back in, letting you feel every fucking vein, the throb of him inside your walls like a second heartbeat, like a warning.

your moans were high and shaking now, rhythmic, falling apart on each pass of his hips as he built the rhythm slow—careful, almost tender, not out of mercy but because he wanted you to feel every inch, every second, every millimeter of him splitting you open like a promise.

“you like that?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw, hands cradling your ass now, helping you roll with him, take it better. “like bein’ split slow? like knowin’ you can barely take it, but you’re takin’ it anyway, ‘cause you’re a good fuckin’ girl?”

you nodded so fast you almost lost your balance.

“i love it—fuck, i love it, i can’t—I didn’t know it could feel this good—”

and then his rhythm shifted.

the slow grind turned to a deeper snap, hips punching up into you with just a little more power, and you wailed, your voice bouncing off the cracked tile walls of the stall, your thighs trembling around him, your breath caught in your throat.

“that’s it,” toji growled. “that’s my girl.”

you barely had time to respond—barely had time to process—before he was grabbing you, shifting your weight suddenly, and your hands shot to his shoulders in a panic.

“toji—what—?”

he didn’t answer.

he moved you.

one hand sliding under your thigh, lifting it with the ease of someone used to manhandling, the other bracing your back as he pushed your knee up—higher, higher—until it was resting on his shoulder, bent awkwardly. and then the other leg followed, and before you could blink, both of your legs were slung over his shoulders, your hips tilted back, exposed, cunt stretched wide around him at a new angle, one that made your breath catch and your vision blur.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groaned, staring down at where your bodies met, his cock glistening, half-shiny with slick, with spit, your cunt so wet it sounded indecent.

“you’re flexible, baby,” he purred, eyes glittering with smug, filthy heat. “gonna keep you folded like this all night. good fuckin’ stretch, huh? how’s that feel?”

you cried out as he thrust—deep, sudden, rough, punching the air from your lungs and making your pussy clench so tight he growled.

“toji! oh my god—”

“nah,” he grunted, smirking now, sweat slick at his brow, “just toji, baby.”

and then he started to fuck you.

no more tenderness. no more slow burn.

just pace—hard and deep and ruthless, each stroke shoving you up the stall door, the slap of your slick against his thighs filthy and fast, the sound of his cock wrecking you echoing louder than your breathless little moans, louder than the club outside, louder than the entire goddamn city.

and through it all—through the rhythm, through the overstimulation, through the fucking stretch—

you held onto him like he was the end of the world.

and maybe he was.

you didn’t know where your body ended and his began anymore—your thighs thrown over his broad shoulders, calves hanging limp behind his back, cunt stretched impossibly wide around his cock, and your spine arched into the peeling tile wall like it was the only thing holding you together. everything below your waist was pulsing. drenched. trembling. you were stuffed so full your hips had gone numb and your nerves were lit up like flares, every thrust from toji dragging a sound from you that wasn’t even human anymore. choked sobs, half-screams, shattered moans—nothing made sense but the feeling of being split open and used like your pussy had a goddamn purpose.

and toji—toji was lost in it.

his grip was iron on your hips, pulling you down onto each thrust like he needed to be deeper, like it wasn’t enough to be inside you—he wanted to live there, drown there, die there. his head was dipped low now, dark hair slicked back from sweat, jaw clenched, lips parted like he was drunk off something heavy and pure. but it wasn’t the club. it wasn’t the drink. it was you. it was your pussy, clenching around him with every rough pump, spasming with every moan he dragged out of your throat, and it was making him lose it.

he thrust again—hard, brutal, the head of his cock punching your cervix—and you screamed, nails digging into his shoulders, tears slipping down your cheeks as your legs twitched around his neck.

“f-fuck, toji—”

“shhh, baby,” he muttered, slurring the word like his mouth was broken. “shhh, fuck—you hear that?”

you were crying, gasping, mouth open and useless.

“listen.”

he slammed into you again, and this time he slowed the drag back out, watching your cunt cling to him with a slick, obscene sound that made him moan, deep and raw. “jesus christ, listen to this fuckin’ pussy,” he breathed, almost in awe. “she doesn’t wanna let go. holdin’ on like she needs me.”

you couldn’t speak.

your mouth was open but all you could do was pant and sob and clench and take it.

“so fuckin’ wet,” he groaned, eyes locked to the place where you stretched around him, watching the mess he was making of you, the glossy ring of slick around the base of his cock, the sticky strings clinging to his thighs. “she’s so greedy, baby. you feel that? your cunt wants it. she’s suckin’ me in like she never got dick before.”

you whimpered, head falling back against the wall, voice high and thin and wrecked.

“i haven’t,” you said, and it wasn’t even a lie. not really. “not like this. not—fuck, not like you.”

toji’s face twitched.

something broke behind his eyes.

“yeah?” he rasped, voice dipping into something darker. “no one ever fucked you like this before? no one ever got you cryin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ on their cock?”

you shook your head, tears streaking down your cheeks, spit slicking your chin. “no, toji, i swear—n-no one’s ever—fuck—”

he growled, hips snapping into you again, rough and greedy, the sound of your skin slapping echoing in the filthy stall, drowning out the throb of music beyond the door.

“fuckin’ right they haven’t,” he spat. “’cause they couldn’t handle you. you needed a real man to wreck this pussy. needed someone who could fill you up proper.”

you sobbed, legs shaking, whole body shuddering under the weight of his cock, the sheer intensity of being used like that, worshipped and ruined at once. “say it,” he snarled, burying himself to the hilt again, hips grinding against you like he was branding you from the inside out. “say whose pussy this is.”

“y-yours,” you gasped, voice cracking into a high, desperate wail. “yours, toji, it’s—fuck—yours, it’s always been—”

he moaned—head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut, cock twitching inside you—and then leaned forward until his face was buried in your neck, licking at your skin like a starving man, teeth scraping over your pulse.

“god damn, baby,” he breathed, hips stuttering, pace breaking down as his body gave in. “you’re squeezin’ me so tight, you’re gonna milk me—you want that? want me to come inside this tight little hole?”

“yes—yes, please—want it—”

“i know you do,” he hissed, voice pure lust, drunk and filthy. “know you want me to fill you up, breed you stupid, fuck this pussy till she knows who she belongs to.”

you were sobbing now, clawing at his shirt, drooling down your chin, mind unraveling with every thick thrust. he didn’t stop. couldn’t. hips pumping faster now, sharper, more erratic, and his mouth was on your chest, your throat, kissing tears off your face like they were his, like your pain made him harder.

“you’re perfect,” he panted, kissing your lips—sloppy, deep, desperate. “my perfect little fucktoy. so pretty, so tight, so good for me. pussy was made for this.” and in the haze of sweat and moans and overstimulation, you felt him twitch inside you, a growl rising from deep in his chest as his thrusts turned jerky, his whole body tensing—

and you knew he was about to come.

and you wanted to feel it. wanted to break with him.

you felt him get close—too close—his rhythm stuttering for just a moment, not quite breaking, not quite giving in, but it was there, coiled tight and twitching in the way his hips bucked just a little harder, how his grip on your hips turned brutal, fingers digging deep into your flesh like he was anchoring himself to something, like if he didn’t hold on, he’d fall apart.

but he didn’t let go.

he didn’t come.

you felt it in the way his whole body tensed, trembling like a held breath, jaw clenched tight against the curve of your throat, a low, ragged growl rumbling up from his chest as he stopped, buried deep, cock throbbing inside your overstretched pussy—but he held it back, kept it leashed like an animal snapping at the edge of a cage.

and it made you insane.

you whimpered—high, desperate, aching—trying to roll your hips, to chase it, to drag him over the edge with you because your walls were clenching around him like a vice, slick and messy and soaked, milking him like your body knew what it needed.

“toji—fuck—please, why’d you stop—?” you gasped, voice breaking, face twisted with the frustration of being right there on the edge with him and feeling him deny it.

he didn’t answer at first.

just breathed through his teeth, his nose pressed to your neck, his body stiff and trembling, cock twitching inside you like it was fighting him, like it was begging to give in. “’cause if i come right now,” he finally gritted, low and dark and wrecked, “i’m not gonna stop.”

your breath hitched.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—his eyes glassy, almost glazed, jaw tight, sweat beading down his temples. his mouth was open like he’d forgotten how to breathe right. he looked completely undone. ruined. like he’d been drinking your pussy down like liquor and now he couldn’t see straight.

“i’ll break you if i let go now, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse, shaking. “i’ll fuckin’ ruin this little cunt. you feel how close i am? feel it? i’ve never had pussy like this—never—fuck, i can’t even think.”

you moaned, clenching around him again just to feel that twitch, to feel his restraint crack another inch.

“then do it,” you whispered, licking the sweat from his jaw. “ruin it. fuckin’ break me, toji, i want it—i can take it—”

his expression twisted, something feral rising behind his eyes like a wave.

“you sayin’ that now, sweetheart,” he growled, grinding slow and deep just once, making you cry out, “but you’re already twitchin’. already drippin’ down my fuckin’ balls. this tight little pussy can barely handle one load—what’re you gonna do when i keep goin’?”

“i’ll take it,” you gasped, legs tightening around his shoulders, back arching into him like an offering. “you can come when you want—just don’t stop. please. don’t fucking stop—”

he grinned then—barely, teeth bared like something dangerous—but the pride in his eyes was molten.

“fuckin’ perfect, baby,” he whispered. “you’re my perfect little toy, aren’t you? lettin’ me stretch you like this, fold you up like it’s normal—look at these legs, fuck, look at you—you were made for this.”

and then—

he moved again.

slow at first, just the roll of his hips pulling back a few inches and pushing in deep, grinding that thick cock against the spots inside you that made you cry out and grab his shoulders like a lifeline. his eyes stayed on your face, his jaw tight, his mouth parted, and the way he watched you—hungry, worshipful, starved—it made you feel more naked than his cock ever could.

“this pussy’s got me fuckin’ high,” he said, voice rough. “you hear me? fuckin’ drunk on you. i’ve never felt anything like this—like your body’s pullin’ me in, squeezin’ like she knows me.”

you moaned—pitiful and overwhelmed—as his rhythm picked up again, deeper now, harder, dragging slick, filthy sounds out of you both as your bodies collided.

“i could fuck you for hours,” he growled, one hand sliding down to your thigh, gripping tight as he adjusted your position, pulled your hips forward even more, tilting your pelvis just to angle his cock deeper. “i will. i’ll keep you like this all fuckin’ night, split open and twitchin’, until you’re beggin’ me to come just so i’ll stop.”

you tried to speak but nothing came—just another cry, another desperate whimper as your walls fluttered again, soaked and swollen and full of him.

“hold me tighter,” he said suddenly, grabbing behind your knees and pushing your legs up higher, folding you more, pressing your knees toward your chest as he braced his weight over you. “there we go. good girl. stretch just like that—fuckin’ hell, look how deep i am.”

you felt it.

felt the new angle bury him right against something devastating, something that made your entire vision white out for a second, a sob punched out of your lungs.

“toji—fuck—fuck—”

“that’s it,” he groaned, eyes blown wide, pupils shaking. “fuckin’ take it.”

and even then—

even then—

he still didn’t come.

your body was giving out—limbs numb, hands clumsy and damp where they gripped at his sweat-slick shoulders, your nails dragging useless lines down his skin every time his cock punched that devastating spot deep inside you. your thighs burned from the stretch, knees pressed nearly to your chest, ankles hooked around his broad, brutal shoulders as he fucked you like he had something to prove, something to claim, something to bury inside you so deep you'd taste it for days.

and you were taking it. every inch. every slam. every slick, loud, brutal thrust like it was your religion.

your whole body was slick—sweat and spit and tears and the sheer, filthy mess between your thighs, soaking down your ass and his jeans and the stall floor, an unholy tangle of skin and sound and sensation, and through it all, toji kept praising you, whispering filth in your ear, kissing the tears off your cheeks while he broke you in half on his cock.

but something was shifting in him now—his pace stuttered, his thrusts grew frantic, heavier, less rhythm, more desperation, his moans falling lower in his throat, broken and guttural, each one punched out of him like his body couldn’t keep it in anymore.

his head dropped, and your foreheads met—pressed together, sweat mixing, breath shared in the half-inch of air between your open mouths. his eyes were blown wide, glassy with it, lips twitching like he was trying to speak but couldn’t get past the wrecked sound of his own need.

“baby,” he rasped, voice almost too low to hear over the wet slap of his hips against yours. “baby, i’m gonna fuckin’ come.” you whined, mouth open, panting against his lips, your legs trembling where they strained around his shoulders, the muscles twitching every time he sank all the way in.

“toji—fuck—yes, please—”

his mouth was on yours for a second—messy, open, tongues tangling with no direction—before he pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead still pressed to yours. “you on anything?” he asked, breath ragged, voice wild. “you on the pill, baby—tell me now—”

you nodded, fast and desperate, choking on your own moan as his hips slammed forward again, grinding deep.

“y-yeah—fuck—yes—i’m on it, i’m on it—”

his whole body shuddered.

“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, baby—can i come inside you? gonna come so deep—fuckin’ fill you up—wanna feel it dripping outta you when i pull out, yeah? you gonna let me do that?”

you whimpered, incoherent, grinding against him now, desperate for it, for all of it, for everything.

“yes—yes, yes, toji—inside, please—i want it—wanna feel it—need it—”

he groaned, long and low and destroyed, his whole body tensing like he was fighting it, losing, fighting again—and then giving in completely. “fuck,” he hissed. “you’re so good, baby—so fuckin’ perfect—pussy’s fuckin’ milking me—gonna come—fuck—gonna come inside this pretty fuckin’ cunt—”

and with one final, brutal thrust—

he bottomed out, hips slammed flush to yours, cock buried to the hilt, twitching deep in your heat, and then he broke, coming with a moan so raw and wounded it sounded like worship.

you felt it.

hot and thick and endless, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt, your walls fluttering around him as your body accepted it, welcomed it, every drop, your mouth open in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back as the sheer intensity of it sent you into another trembling orgasm, clenching around him so tight he groaned, pressing his forehead harder to yours.

“fuck—fuck, take it—take it all, baby—look at you—so good—mine,” he growled, voice cracking, “this pussy’s mine now—”

and you believed him.

because you were still shaking. and he was still inside you. and you could feel his come dripping out already. and neither of you could breathe.

but you didn’t want to.

not if it meant letting him go.

he didn’t move—not at first.

toji stayed buried inside you, thick and twitching, still plugged so deep it felt like your cunt was wrapped around the center of him, not just his cock. his head rested against yours, sweat-slick and trembling, breath pouring from his mouth in heavy, broken bursts. the stall felt like it was spinning. the whole world had narrowed to the sound of your breath in sync with his, your pussy fluttering around his softening cock, the hot drip of his come already leaking from where your bodies were still connected.

but your body didn’t stop.

your body wouldn’t stop.

your cunt was clenching, aching, needing, so overstimulated it had gone full circle back into something dangerous—something desperate—your nerves sparking like shorted-out wires, slick leaking down your thighs, the insistent throb of a second orgasm so close it felt like drowning under the weight of not-quite-enough.

you whimpered—your voice soft and high and shaking—and your hips gave a helpless little grind, a roll forward, just enough to make his cock shift inside you.

that made you see stars.

“f-fuck, toji—” your voice cracked, head falling back, mouth open, thighs trembling. “i need—i didn’t—i didn’t come yet—”

that broke through his haze.

his head lifted, barely. just enough to look at you, eyes still dark and dazed but sharpening like a wolf catching the scent of blood. his jaw tightened. his mouth twisted into something that should have been a smirk but was too soft to be cocky. he brought one hand up—palm cupping your face like he needed to hold you there—and pressed his lips to your temple.

“oh, baby,” he rasped, voice torn raw from groaning your name. “you didn’t?” you shook your head, breath hitching, whining as your hips tried again, another roll, another desperate friction, his cock dragging slow inside you and making your whole body spasm.

“’s okay,” you whispered, blinking tears from your lashes. “i just—need a little more—i’m so close, toji, please—”

“shhhh, fuck,” he breathed, kissing your cheek now, your jaw, moving down to your neck, lips hot and open and reverent, “you’ve been so good for me—so perfect—’m gonna get you there, baby, don’t worry—gonna take care of you.”

his hand slid between your bodies, still slick with sweat and the mess between you, until his thumb found your clit—wet and swollen, throbbing with every faint shift of his cock inside you—and he rubbed it, slow and tight, small circles, just enough pressure to make your entire body lock up.

“oh—fuck—” you cried out, hands clawing at his shoulders, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to your body. “fuck, toji, right there—right there—”

“that’s it,” he murmured, eyes locked on your face, watching you unravel with a look of pure awe. “feel that? how sensitive you are? this pretty little cunt’s so needy, so greedy, just fuckin’ suckin’ me in, beggin’ for it. you’re gonna come for me, yeah? gonna let go?”

“yes, yes—please, don’t stop—don’t stop—”

he shifted his hips again, slow, so slow, pulling back just enough to let you feel the drag of him along your walls, then pushing back in deep, thumb never leaving your clit, just the perfect amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, your whole body wound so tight you thought your spine might snap.

“fuckin’ look at you,” he whispered, completely mesmerized. “look how beautiful you are when you’re right at the edge. tears in your eyes, pussy wrapped around me so fuckin’ tight—you were made for this, baby. made for me. you wanna come on this cock, don’t you?”

“yes—yes, toji, please, i need—”

“you wanna soak me?” he growled, hips twitching forward, thumb circling harder, your clit so sensitive now you could barely think. “wanna milk my fuckin’ cock while i’m still inside you, stuffed full’a my come? wanna squeeze every last drop out?”

“please—”

and then it hit.

your orgasm ripped through you like your whole body cracked open from the inside, a molten flood of pleasure spilling out, your legs jerking where they hung over his shoulders, your back arching so violently your vision blacked out for a second, mouth open in a silent scream. your pussy clenched hard, gripping his cock in spasms, walls fluttering around him like they were trying to hold him in forever, to wring every drop from him until your bodies fused together.

toji moaned, loud and fucked and wrecked, like your orgasm broke him—his thumb slowing just enough to let you ride the aftershocks, hips grinding forward to keep himself deep while your body milked him through it.

“that’s it,” he groaned, forehead against yours again, voice thick with pride and filth and something heavier. “fuck, you’re perfect. felt you come, baby—fuckin’ felt it—squeezin’ me so tight like your body knows who it belongs to.”

you were crying again—happy tears this time, oversensitive and overstimulated and shaking, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold onto him while your body spasmed around him, dripping, soaked, ruined.

“you did so good,” he whispered, kissing your lips now, slow and soft, sweet and filthy. “so fuckin’ good for me. made me feel like a goddamn god.”

you laughed, weak and trembling, smiling against his mouth.

and he was still hard. still inside. still not done.

and neither were you.

your legs were still draped over his shoulders, limp now, twitching occasionally, every muscle in your body melted and buzzing with aftershock, like you’d been electrocuted and reborn inside the same wet, filthy breath. your arms were around his neck, weak and slow and unsure whether they were clinging or collapsing, and your forehead was pressed to his again—both of you panting, sweat-slick, your noses brushing with every unsteady inhale.

your eyes were shut.

your mouth was open.

and everything felt too full—too much—and yet, not nearly enough.

his cock was still inside you, thick and insistent, twitching softly, lazily, nestled as deep as it could go like it had roots, like it had decided to live there, and the slow, endless drip of his cum was already leaking out around him, sliding in warm, lazy trails down the crack of your ass, onto the fucked-sticky seat beneath you, pooling into a ruin only the two of you would remember.

and toji—toji was gone.

his hands were on your hips, not moving, just holding, and his eyes were half-lidded, glassy, dazed, wrecked. mouth slack. chest heaving. his tongue wet his bottom lip once, slow and aimless, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, and he just stared at you like he’d been hit by a truck and liked the way it felt. no smugness now. no smirk. no edge.

he looked like a man who had just gotten possessed by pussy.

and he was struggling to recover.

“…fuck,” he finally whispered, so hoarse it was almost soundless.

you didn’t move. couldn’t.

your lashes fluttered a little but didn’t open, your mouth hanging open like you were still moaning in your head, like your brain hadn’t caught up to the fact that the orgasm was over.

but his voice pulled something from you.

“you alive?” you whispered, barely, lips brushing his.

he laughed—barely—just a quiet, hot breath through his nose.

“barely.”

you smiled, slow and heavy, head tilting to lean into the side of his face, nuzzling your nose against the damp edge of his jaw. his stubble scraped lightly across your skin, grounding you in the afterglow haze, and it made you whimper—small, involuntary—because you were still too sensitive, and his cock was still so fucking deep, and it felt like it was just there now. permanent.

“toji,” you whispered, and you felt his fingers flex on your hips at the sound of his name.

“mm?”

you finally opened your eyes, half-lidded and glossy, barely able to focus, and looked at him—really looked—and your cunt clenched again because his face was wrecked.

his hair was soaked and sticking to his forehead. sweat dripping down his temples. mouth swollen. pupils blown. cheeks flushed. and the look in his eyes—dazed, unfocused, stunned—wasn’t cocky or in control or smug like before.

he looked fucked. like he’d just gotten his soul pulled out through his dick.

you grinned.

“you okay, old man?” you whispered.

toji let out a low groan and dropped his head to your shoulder, body shaking faintly with exhausted laughter. “fuck off,” he muttered, voice thick and raspy. “you don’t get to clown me right now. not when your pussy’s got me seein’ colors.”

“you look like you just saw god,” you said, teasing, brushing your fingers through the damp hair at his nape.

he grunted against your neck. “that was god.”

he pulled back just slightly, eyes fluttering open again, still dazed but soft now, heavy-lidded and so fucking gone on the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“you don’t even get it, do you?” he muttered, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t stop looking. “pussy this good should be illegal. should come with a fuckin’ warning label. i’m not even sure i’ll pull out if you ask me to.”

you giggled, warm and slow, breath fogging up his skin.

“good thing i’m on the pill.”

“’cause i’d knock you up just to keep this forever,” he said, and it was so low, so dead serious that it made your breath catch.

you blinked, lips parting, not quite able to speak, and he smirked again—but it was soft. less predator, more man being humbled by what he just lived through.

“look at you,” he murmured. “legs still up. pussy still suckin’ me in like she misses me even though i never left. you were made for this cock, weren’t you?”

you nodded, slow and lazy, lips brushing his again.

“mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling. “knew it the second i saw you.”

toji groaned again, a fucked-out, helpless sound, and leaned into your forehead again.

“i’m not done,” he whispered, almost like a confession.

“good,” you whispered back, pulling him down by the shirt. “don’t stop.”

and neither of you moved yet.

just stayed there.

cock still buried.

hearts hammering.

pussy still clenching.

breath shared.

and toji—still absolutely, totally, unapologetically pussy drunk.

he was the one who moved first—finally—because your legs were still draped over his shoulders, bent and trembling and sore, your knees threatening mutiny with every second they stayed folded in that brutal, gorgeous stretch. you weren’t sure if the muscles were cramping or still orgasming. both, maybe. but toji moved slow, reverent almost, hands sliding down your thighs like he wasn’t ready to let them go, like he wanted to memorize them before he let them fall.

“’m puttin’ your legs down,” he murmured, voice thick and gravel-dragged from groaning, still drunk with it, still halfway buried in that distant fucked-out haze that lived behind his eyes now. “you did so good for me. fuckin’ took it like a champ.”

you whimpered when your legs were finally lowered, a dull ache blooming in your hips, your thighs still twitching, your calves sticky and limp against his sides. you were panting again. dizzy. your cunt throbbed around him when the angle changed, his cock shifting just slightly inside you and hitting something new, some bruised-up spot that sent a fresh wave of aftershock through your spine.

toji groaned softly, and his hand immediately came to your waist, like his body was instinctively trying to soothe you. “easy, baby,” he whispered, palm sliding up and down your side. “fuck—I’ll make it up to you. swear it.”

you blinked, dazed. “…make what up?”

he snorted, pulling back just enough to brush his forehead against yours again, still so close you could feel every word against your mouth.

“comin’ first,” he said. “you deserved another round before I fucking lost it. that pussy’s too good—I got greedy. ‘m not usually like that.” you smiled, breathless, your fingers brushing the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt. “what are you gonna do, hmm? kiss it better?”

toji’s mouth curled at the edge, that cocky little smirk returning but softened now—sweetened, in the worst, most unfair way. “yeah,” he said. “kiss it. lick it. spread you open and make you come with my fuckin’ tongue till you forget what year it is.”

you made a choked little sound, halfway between a laugh and a sob, your brain too fogged up to handle that promise.

but he kept talking—of course he did. because he was still in it, still gone, still wrecked and clinging to the only thing in the world that made sense to him now: you. “nine years,” he murmured, voice lower now, less teasing. Real. “nine years with no pussy. not even a drunk one-night stand. not even fuckin’ myself half the time.”

you blinked, still catching your breath.

“jesus,” you whispered.

he nodded once, breathing hard. “but the first one I get… after all that time… is you.” he paused. looked at you. really looked. “and if I could do it all over again—go nine years with nothin’—just to feel this pussy for the first time again?”

he kissed you.

not deep. not greedy.

just a soft press of spit-slick, swollen lips to your mouth.

“i’d fucking do it.”

you stared at him, wide-eyed.

and then snorted.

because your brain couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or feral.

“you are so pussy drunk right now,” you said, laughing into his mouth. “like… you’ve got the symptoms. glazed-over stare, can’t finish a sentence without saying ‘this pussy’ like it’s a holy relic—”

“shut up,” he grinned, nose brushing yours.

“you’re gonna start writing poetry,” you said. “i can see it. ‘ode to my girl’s pussy, it cured my chronic pain and made me believe in god again—’”

he growled low in his throat, a filthy little sound that vibrated through your chest as he shifted inside you, cock still thick and hard and present, buried to the base and making you feel every twitch of his frustration.

“keep talkin’ like that and I’m gonna fuckin’ prove it,” he said. “gonna eat you out till you apologize to your pussy for disrespecting her in front of me.” you gasped, breath catching, clenching around him in instinctive anticipation.

he felt it. and smirked.

“there she is,” he murmured, rolling his hips slowly, pressing his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut like he was worshipping the moment. “sweet, tight little thing. even after I filled her up, she’s still clingin’ to me like she wants more.”

you moaned, body arching weakly, still so oversensitive, and yet—

“maybe she does.”

toji’s eyes opened again, and they were darker now, brighter, something burning deep inside them that hadn’t gone out yet.

“you better not be teasing me,” he said softly.

you bit your lip. hard.

and whispered, “then make me sorry.”

and he smiled. slow. wide. unhinged.

“you’re about to be.”

the air inside the stall was dense, humid, too heavy with sex and sweat and that lazy, humming afterglow that only came when both your bodies had been used—worshipped and wrecked in equal measure. your pulse was still erratic, your breath catching on every inhale like your lungs hadn’t figured out how to restart. toji hadn’t moved much since the last thrust, still deep inside you, cock thick and heavy and leaking, his weight pressing you gently into the wall like he didn’t want to let you go just yet. the scent of him was everywhere—on your neck, in your mouth, between your legs—and you could still taste the sound of his voice in your ears, rasping mine like it was something he meant to tattoo into your bones.

eventually, though, he shifted—reluctantly—lifting his forehead from yours, eyes flicking down your body with a reverence that was almost comical given the mess between your legs. he sighed, deep and low, like a man about to walk away from his favorite crime scene.

“alright,” he muttered, finally easing his hands to your hips and taking a single step back, gently slipping out of you with a lewd, wet sound that made both of you twitch. “moment of truth. you still got legs?”

you blinked at him, dazed, and then wobbled as your feet touched the floor, knees buckling under you like a baby deer just born into a post-orgasm world.

you stumbled directly into his chest with a soft little squeak, your palms catching the damp heat of his skin through his shirt, breathless and already flushed again. toji laughed—really laughed this time, head tipping back, teeth showing, full and rich and dangerous in the way only a man freshly pussy-drunk could be.

“fuckin’ hell,” he chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright, “you nearly took us both out, sweetheart.” you buried your face in his shirt for a second, too embarrassed and too exhausted to do anything but exist. “it’s your fault,” you muttered into the fabric. “you fucked the sense outta me.”

he kissed the side of your head, then leaned you back just slightly and pressed your back to the grimy stall door, holding you there with a hand on your waist while he reached for himself, guiding his cock back into his boxers with a practiced roll of his wrist and a satisfied grunt.

“can’t lie,” he said while zipping up, “she didn’t wanna let me go. took a fuckin’ minute just to get out.”

you gave him a look, somewhere between exhausted and scolding, but the twitch in your lip betrayed the way your thighs clenched again at his voice. he just smirked and hooked his belt back into place, slow and casual like he hadn’t just been balls-deep in you a minute ago.

then he crouched down to grab your shirt from the floor—rumpled, half-dried with sweat, glitter, and maybe a little bit of toji’s spit—and shook it out once before straightening up again, holding it like a gentleman with a gift.

“c’mon, arms up,” he murmured, voice suddenly softer again.

you obeyed without thinking, letting him help you dress like your brain had short-circuited, like you’d handed him the keys to your limbs and were trusting him not to drive you off a cliff. he slid the shirt over your head with practiced ease, tugged it gently down your arms, and just when you thought he was done—when his hands slid past your ribs and down your sides like he was adjusting it—

he bent down and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

you gasped, stumbling back against the door, breath catching in your throat as the sudden wet heat of his tongue flicked over the piercing again, lips wrapping around the cool metal and tugging just slightly.

“toji—”

he groaned low in his chest, then released it with a wet pop, lips brushing over the sensitive skin of your breast before finally tugging your shirt down into place with both hands.

“couldn’t help it,” he said, eyes wicked but half-lidded, dragging over you like a man who already wanted to go back in. “they’re too pretty not to taste again.” you didn’t respond—couldn’t. your brain had short-circuited again, reduced to white noise and heartbeat.

he fixed your hair next. carefully, absurdly gently, fingers brushing back stray strands from your face, pushing it behind your ears like he hadn’t just had you folded in half thirty seconds ago. then he loomed over you, big and warm and grinning like the devil who knew you’d come if he asked again.

“you wanna come back to my place?” he asked, voice low and smooth now. “give your legs a real break. i’ll apologize to your pussy proper for comin’ first. i got a mouth and a lot of guilt.” you let out a weak laugh—giddy and limp and already leaning forward like you might melt if he kissed you again.

“what, you’re feeling guilty now?”

“i’m tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he said, mock-serious. “not every day i meet someone who makes me forget my name and the year.” you raised an eyebrow. “that’s the bar?” he leaned in close again, mouth hovering just beside your ear, breath warm and so fucking good. “no, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice like a knife made of velvet. “you’re the bar now.”

you shivered.

he pulled back just enough to smile again, then glanced toward the door.

“you wanna text your friends? let ‘em know you’re leavin’ with a total stranger?”

“they’ve got my bag,” you said, still dazed, still trying to remember what reality felt like. “they’ll figure it out.”

he stared at you for a second.

then grinned.

“god damn,” he muttered. “you’re perfect.”

and then—toji fushiguro, pussy-drunk, sweat-drenched, still twitching in his jeans with the memory of your cunt—opened the stall door, it creaked open like it, too, had been through something shameful and held it for you, like a man escorting a queen out of her ruined cathedral. the hallway air hit you—cooler, thinner, laced with basslines and spilled drinks and someone screaming off-key to early 2000s pop—and you stepped into it like a newborn deer in heels, thighs slick, hair a little fucked, your shirt tugged low over your hips to hide the fact that your panties were somewhere between ruined and irrelevant.

toji stood beside you, towering and casual, like he hadn’t just rearranged your insides and kissed your nipple before helping you get dressed. his belt was buckled, his shirt clinging damply to his chest, collar pulled slightly off-center from your earlier tugging. his neck was flushed, jaw stubbled, and there were still fresh bite marks trailing along the line of his throat—yours. ownership drawn in tooth and heat.

your heart jumped sideways in your chest. your knees tried to wobble again.

and he felt it.

“there she goes,” he teased, his mouth brushing your temple now, his voice still dipped in that slow-dripping, pussy-drunk molasses tone that made your stomach twist in the most incredible way. “thought I fucked the wobble outta your legs already. guess I gotta go harder next time.”

“if you go harder, I’ll die,” you replied, still grinning, voice raw but teasing, biting down the ridiculous urge to giggle like a schoolgirl on prom night.

toji pulled you closer. you barely reached the height of his shoulder like this, his arm heavy and protective and possessive across your back, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on your side as you walked with him—slow, casual, like he wasn’t still inside you in spirit.

“what a way to go,” he murmured. “split open, stuffed full’a cum, legs over my shoulders while you cry on my cock. shit, if there’s a better death I don’t know it.”

you snorted. “you’re awful.”

“and you’re gorgeous,” he shot back, leaning down to kiss just behind your ear, sending another aftershock rolling through your already wrecked nerves. “tightest pussy I ever felt, baby. no contest. softest moans, sweetest little body—like you were built to break.”

your cheeks burned. your cunt clenched. again.

“you’re obsessed,” you whispered, playful and shaky, tipping your head back to look up at him. “pussy-drunk old man.”

he grinned at that—wide and unrepentant, all teeth and mischief and post-fuck swagger. “damn right. I’ve been starving for nine fuckin’ years and someone just fed me filet mignon soaked in honey. you think I’m gonna be normal after this?”

you laughed, biting your lip, feeling the slow drag of slick between your thighs every time you moved.

he was still talking.

still praising you.

like your pussy had rewired his brain.

“you don’t get it,” he murmured, pressing his mouth to your temple again. “you ruined me. no way I’m goin’ back to jerkin’ off like some lonely divorced fuck with ESPN in the background. I’m gonna be thinkin’ about you next time I close my eyes. about the way you opened up for me. about how you looked when you cried on my cock.”

you whimpered.

out loud.

right there in the hallway.

and toji just chuckled, kissed the corner of your mouth, then pulled you tighter under his arm like he wanted to wear you. “c’mon,” he whispered against your cheek, “let’s get the fuck outta here before I get hard again and we wind up in the janitor’s closet.”

you glanced sideways at him, lips curled up in that smug, fucked-out smirk you couldn’t seem to wipe off your face, and said softly, under your breath—

“may your soul rest in peace.”

he didn’t miss a beat.

“amen,” he muttered with a low snort, before slipping his thick, warm arm around your back, hand resting just above the curve of your ass like he belonged there, like he wanted everyone in this hallway to know that he’d just had you up against a stall door with your legs on his shoulders, crying out his name.

then, like the audacious bastard he was, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. not quick. not pecked. pressed—lingering, hot, lips slightly open, the kind of kiss that said this isn’t over, that said you’re mine now, that said you’re not getting out of my bed without a limp and at least two orgasms on your record.

you didn’t argue after.

you followed.

and you never looked back.

[jacksabbotts]

✧ cold cut — ❪ part five ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . dr. jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . in which one compliment, one coat, and one very stupid scalpel cut send you spiraling back into jack abbot’s orbit—bleeding, babbling, and absolutely not prepared for what he says next

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! graphic injury ( scalpel cut, blood ), medical imagery ( stitches, not graphic, er setting ), mild medical anxiety, emotional spiral / anxious overthinking, self-deprecating inner monologue, implied crush / unrequited feelings ( perceived ), power imbalance ( attending physician x hospital staff ), flirting in a professional setting, profanity

. ᵒ . ➛ AUTHOR NOTES . dont look at me! the jacket is my way of edging them before we get to the actual edging 😏😅 the jacket has earned its way to the castlist. it is a main character now

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the coat was back where it didn’t belong—on your desk, draped like a memory you couldn’t fold shut.

you didn’t put it back on ( even though he told you to wear it ). you’d thought about it, thought maybe the extra warmth would keep your brain from spiraling—but the weight of it on your shoulders made it worse. you couldn’t breathe with it on. so you'd placed it carefully in the corner of your desk, hoping it would stop staring.

it didn’t.

you had a body on the table. male, late fifties, post-op complications. nothing traumatic. nothing you hadn’t seen a hundred times before. you went through the motions : pulled the cart into place, adjusted the overhead light, unzipped the bag. the hum of the cooler, the click of your pen, the rustle of latex gloves—routine, familiar, grounding.

still, you kept glancing back.

'don’t look at me like that,' you muttered, tugging the sheet down to expose the man's torso. 'not you. him.' your eyes flicked to the desk. 'the coat. it’s staring again.'

you sighed and looked back at the body. 'you ever have a doctor who ruined your entire emotional equilibrium with one compliment and a jacket? no? lucky you.”

the corpse didn’t answer.

'not that i think it was a real compliment,' you added, setting up your scale and camera. 'i’m not delusional. he was just being polite. a guilt offering. like a sorry for making you feel like a walking pathology specimen last week kind of thing.'

you adjusted the camera. 'still. he didn’t have to say it. it suits you.' you rolled your eyes and shook your head. 'that’s the kind of thing that short-circuits a girl’s brain, you know?'

click. photo taken.

'i’ve been thinking about it for two days,' you continued. 'you know what that means? i haven’t watched any tv. i haven’t listened to my podcasts. i—' you hesitated. '—i forgot to label the scalpels last night. me. the scalpel-labeling queen. not my idea, im not that self-absorbed.'

you peeled back the id band on the corpse’s wrist, checked it against the log.

'i’m pathetic,' you mumbled.

the body, to his credit, said nothing.

'anyway, let’s get your sample. then i’ll stop rambling and let you enjoy your eternal rest in peace and silence and climate-controlled perfection.'

you reached for the scalpel.

and you weren’t looking. not at your hand. not at the angle.

you were thinking about his hands. the way they’d stitched your palm last week. the way he’d said your name—well, okay, nickname. still. his voice had dipped when he said it.

and that was when it happened.

a sharp slip. a hiss of pain. the blade biting in—clean, fast, too deep.

you dropped it with a gasp.

blood bloomed through the glove almost instantly.

'oh, come on,' you groaned, grabbing a wad of gauze with your good hand. you applied pressure, but it wasn’t enough. the blood was already dripping onto the floor, your shoe, the tray of sterile tools.

you turned to the body again, holding up your bleeding hand. 'well, congratulations. you’re the first dead guy to see me have a full-on medical spiral in real time.'

still no reply. obviously.

'don't look so smug. this is your fault, you know.' you pressed the gauze tighter. 'if you’d just let me stay distracted without bleeding about it, we wouldn’t be in this mess.'

the corpse was unmoved.

you looked down at your hand. it was a mess.

you were going to need stitches.

which meant only one thing.

you were going to have to go upstairs.

the elevator ride to the er felt like ascending to your own personal hell.

you kept your hand cradled close to your chest, gauze pressed tight, blood still seeping through the layers. the pain was manageable. the shame? not so much.

you should’ve waited. should’ve radioed someone. should’ve done literally anything else but walk yourself, in your oversized morgue scrubs and haunted raccoon eyes, up to the one place you’d been aggressively avoiding since the beginning of your shift. since he told you it suited you. since your entire brain short-circuited and your hand decided to follow.

the er doors slid open with their usual groan, and you stepped into the chaos like a deer crossing a freeway at rush hour.

don’t panic, you told yourself. just get someone other than jack abbot. anyone. a resident. a nurse. a vending machine with first-aid supplies.

you made it five steps before you heard your name.

'hey—morgue girl?'

she, dana, appeared at your elbow like a horror movie jump scare, coffee in one hand, chart in the other. her eyes scanned you—then dropped to the soaked gauze in your hand.

her whole expression shifted.

'what the hell did you do?' she asked, half-concerned, half-amused.

'i—uh—i had a moment,' you mumbled. 'it’s fine. i’m fine. just need some stitches.'

dana’s brows lifted. 'sure looks like more than ‘just’—wait, you walked up here like that?'

you nodded. she blinked. 'jesus,' she muttered, then turned and called over her shoulder. 'hey, jack!'

'dana!'

but it was too late.

jack appeared from bay two, chart in hand, brow furrowed—until he saw you. everything in his expression changed. his shoulders straightened. his steps quickened.

you wanted to sink into the linoleum.

'what happened?' he asked, voice low, serious, and somehow ten times louder than anything else in the room.

'i—' you lifted the gauze. 'it’s not that bad.'

he didn’t answer. just reached out and gently took your wrist in his hand, tilting it so he could see. the pressure was feather-light. his fingers were warm.

he pulled the gauze back.

blood bloomed. fast. too fast. you felt light headed. his jaw flexed. 'bay three,' he said, already steering you toward it. 'i really don’t need—'

'bay. three.'

you opened your mouth to protest—too late. he’d already turned, barking over his shoulder to dana, 'get one of the kids to cover four and five. i’m taking care of this one.'

dana blinked. 'uh, i could grab shen? he’s—'

'no.' jack’s voice sliced clean through the noise. final. '’ll do it.'

you flinched.

dana raised an eyebrow but backed off with a knowing smirk, already halfway down the hall.

you didn’t move.

jack turned to you, hands already gloved. 'go.'

you followed because your legs didn’t have the spine to disobey. the curtain swished closed behind you, and you found yourself once again in the crash room. the scene of the crime. the battlefield of coats and compliments and feelings.

he gestured to the bed.

you hesitated.

'up.'

you climbed onto the gurney like you were being sent to the gallows.

you watched him gather the suture kit. watched the ease in his movements, the confidence in his hands. prepped a tray of supplies with practiced ease. you stared at the ceiling, avoiding eye contact like your life depended on it.

'you—you don’t have to,' you said, voice shaking as you stared at your shoes. 'i mean, you could ask one of your residents. i’m sure they’re—'

'i trained them,' jack said flatly. 'doesn’t mean i trust them.'

you blinked. 'but—'

he stepped closer. took your injured hand with such deliberate gentleness you nearly forgot to breathe. 'they’re still learning,' he said. 'you’re not a practice body.'

your heart stuttered at that.

his fingers were careful. gentle, even—but his eyes? still sharp. still on you.

the sterile silence stretched while he prepped the stitches. you watched his hands work, the burn in your palm nothing compared to the burn in your face.

he didn’t speak again until the needle was in his grip.

'so, how’d it happen?'

you tensed. 'it’s—uh, it’s nothing, really. just a—uh—a stupid slip. happens all the time, you know, just one of those days and the scalpel was, um, sharp—obviously—and it just—'

'try again,' he said, without looking up.

you swallowed.

'tell me the truth,' he added, quieter this time. 'you’ve done this job for how long? three years?' your heart stuttered because that? there was no reason he'd know that. and that meant that he'd asked about you. he'd purposely tried to find out information about you.

'four.'

'exactly. so i doubt you just forgot how to handle a scalpel overnight.' he glanced up, brow raised. 'what really happened?'

you shriveled under his stare. your mouth opened. closed. opened again. and then it all came out at once.

'i—okay—i was distracted, alright? i was cleaning the table and i just—i wasn’t thinking straight because someone told me to keep their stupid coat and then they told me it—it suits me—and i couldn’t stop thinking about it which is ridiculous because i know you were just being polite and trying to be nice and maybe like, not feel guilty for yelling at me which is fine by the way, i wasn’t mad or anything but it just got in my head and—and—then i knocked the tray over and i grabbed the blade without looking and now we’re here—so.'

silence.

utter silence.

you didn’t breathe.

your eyes were huge.

because, oh god, what had you just said? why had you said that?

and jack abbot was fucking grinning. not smirking. not smoldering. grinning. like a goddamn kid. like someone just handed him the sun.

'jesus christ,' he muttered, shaking his head. 'you’re unbelievable.'

you buried your face in your uninjured hand. 'i know, i know, i didn’t mean to say all of that, just—forget it—'

'no way.' he was beaming now. 'you think I gave you my coat because I felt guilty?'

you looked at him like he’d just accused you of grand larceny. 'well—yeah?' you squeaked. he huffed out a laugh—soft, warm, real. 'morgue girl…'

'what?'

he bent forward slightly, still holding your hand with one of his own, the needle paused in the other. you blinked up at him, still reeling, still red, still trying to play catch-up while he tugged the last stitch tight.

he cut the thread with a flick of surgical scissors.

then he looked at you. really looked.

and he said, voice low, not flirty, not teasing—earnest. 'yeah, okay. the first time i gave you the coat… that was guilt. i’ll admit it.”

you froze. 'but the second time?'

he leaned back on his stool, hands braced loosely on his knees, head tilted like he was debating how honest to be.'that wasn’t about guilt,' he said.

he glanced away for half a second—then back. 'that was because i didn’t like the thought of you freezing half to death down there. not when i could do something about it.'

your lips parted. no words came.

'i’ve worked in this hospital for years,' he went on, almost to himself. 'plenty of people down in the morgue. most of ‘em i barely remember. but you?' his eyes caught yours again.

'you’re the first one i’ve ever gone downstairs for.'

you felt your breath stick in your throat. your fingers twitched. your skin felt too warm under the er lights.

'i didn’t mean to mess with your head,' he added, softer now. 'but i’m not sorry for noticing you. not sorry for the coat. and i’m definitely not sorry for wanting to make sure you’re warm.'

you whispered, 'why?'

his smile curved slow and dangerous.

'because i like you cold,' he said, standing. 'but i like you warm a hell of a lot more.'

then he brushed his knuckles—very gently—down your cheek. just once. he chuckled again, shaking his head as he went back to stitching you up—like he hadn’t just said the most unhinged thing in the world.

and then he walked out like he hadn’t just wrecked your soul and left your brain in seventeen different emotional pieces on a hospital gurney.

your brain fizzled out.

your brain short-fucking-circuited. completely. full system shutdown. he left the room like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just said those words, hadn’t just looked at you like that, hadn’t just touched your face like you were something gentle.

and you were still sitting on the damn gurney with your hand bandaged and your heart trying to claw its way out of your chest like it was auditioning for a medical emergency of its own.

what.

the actual fuck.

was that.

you replayed it. again. and again. and again.

because I like you cold. but I like you warm a hell of a lot more.

who says that?? who says that and then leaves?? who says that to you, the awkward morgue tech who talks to corpses and can’t look a resident in the eye without breaking into hives?

your ears were ringing. your skin felt like it had been dipped in lava. you could still feel the ghost of his knuckles on your cheek. like it had been branded into your nervous system.

you kicked your feet a little off the side of the gurney.

you wanted to scream into your hands. or crawl into the nearest biohazard bin and never return. or maybe pass away quietly in the trauma bay because that would be less humiliating than what just happened.

you glanced down at your bandaged hand. still there. still throbbing. still very much stitched up by the man who just emotionally detonated you like a code blue in your chest cavity.

you whispered to no one :

'…what the fuck.'

and then immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, because oh my god, that had come out aloud.

you peeked toward the hallway. no one. thank god. except—was that dana? you scrambled off the gurney like it had caught fire.

you needed to get out. away. back to the cold, back to the dead, back to your lane.

because this?

this was too warm. too dangerous. too much. and the worst part?

the worst part was how badly—how embarrassingly badly—you wanted him to say something like that again.

🔖  .   @princesssunderworld  @mayabbot  @imherefordeanandbones  @arigoldsblog  @oldmanbunnylover  @i-mushi  @autumnleaves1991-blog  @lovelexi717  @peggyofoz @qtmoonies  @nfwmb-gvf   @babybatreads  @cheekym8s  @bitteroceanlove  @spooky-librarian-ghost  @dr-yapper  @yutasgem  @keseqna  @gardeniarose13  @witchbitchlovesdilfs  @sotragedynut  @robbyrosierobinavitch  @anglophileforlife @flyinglama  @sillymuffintrashflap @letstryagaintomorrow @caterpillarskimono @maiamore @madzleigh01 @qardasngan @imightbeinsanebutwtv  @foolishseven @anxiousfuckupon  @coldmuffinbanditshoe  @blueliketheseaa  @justfaefaeee  @sweetdayme4427  @404creep  @yourdaydreamerfan  @ddrawers96  @m14mags   @twiddledeedumsworld  @jetless  @thedamnqueenofhell  @topnerd03  @abllor @loud-mouph @cannonindeez @nubecita040   @beebeechaos  @cwzham  @homebytheharbor  @painment  @namgification   @catmomstyles3 @livingavilaloca  @hello-lisa1026  @emma8895eb  @shadowfoxy @thesnugglingduck @britt217 @reignbooks8506 @kmc1989 @chuiisi  @Lumpypoll @generalstarlightobjest @dlljdhsh @misshoneypaper @Sabi127 @Coleground @sevenberry @Cherry_cosmos @idontcarenoughtonamethis @Sammiib444 

if your user is white instead of gray it means i was not able to tag you, i copy and pasted straight from the forms so that means there must be typo, feel free to resubmit a form ( linked below ) and i will update the taglist. this not all the people who have requested to be tagged ( i am one person and i will get everyone on the list at some point. thank you !!!! * ✷ ⊹ * ˚  want to join the morgue tech!reader taglist??? click here!!!!

[diamondcitydarlin]

Just fair warning- I said on my personal post about this that I wasn't going to talk about Neil Gaiman anymore, but as it's becoming clear that him and his publishers and anyone else who makes money off of him is circling the wagons and trying to bury these allegations, as well as some fans still defending and trying to 'rationalize' this information, I feel like, actually, we need to keep talking about him (as much as I cannot stand him and feel physically disgusted now when I so much as see his face somewhere). Specifically, the fact that he's a liar, master manipulator and should not, under any circumstances, be given access to his fans like he has in the past. At the very least. (And if you need to blacklist his name or even unfollow me so as to not be triggered, I completely understand, but I will always try to tag these posts accordingly and I think it's crucial right now that the truth be put where people can see)

This post specifically is in response to those 'rationalizations' I've seen, some that have gone as far as to blame the young fans/groupies that hooked up with him for being 'golddiggers' or just making a mountain out of a molehill for something they now regret. It's not that simple, yall. (And, again, this requires some amount of completely ignoring the story about him extorting his tenant for sex under threat of eviction of her and her three young children, I'm not sure how you 'rationalize' that under the best of circumstances)

So let's be clear here. What we know is that NG has routinely, for possibly an upwards of 30 years, pulled sexual 'partners' from his fan groups, most of whom are 18-22 year old young women (though possibly younger, accounts are coming forward of 16 year olds having allegedly been inappropriately touched/flirted/propositioned by him, which ig is the age of consent in the UK but still?? 16 year olds!!). This wasn't one or two times in the course of three decades, this was a constant pattern of behavior for him and for a very insidious reason.

This isn't to try to infantilize those fans or young women/young people in general or try to suggest that they couldn't have consented to sex with an older person or famous person. In fact, the onus isn't on them at all. This is about an older guy with a lot of fame, power and wealth choosing to sleep with people that he had already conditioned to idolize him and using that power imbalance to coerce them into doing things they didn't want to.

Regardless of one's age or gender identity, it can be difficult to impossible to say 'no' to someone like that. After all, you've been 'chosen' by the chosen one, you're special and not like everyone else, and if you don't do what the popular person everyone trusts is telling you to do you could end up ostracized. Alienated. Or worse. And you know what? Gaiman knew that! He knew it when he was crafting his 'approachable dad' persona on tumblr. He knew it when he was cultivating a fandom of personality. He knew it when he was having huge meetups to try to ensnare more victims. I hate to even think it, but I'm starting to believe he knew it when he was writing children's books too.

It's been talked about again and again in separate issues, but needless to say something not being strictly illegal does not make it inherently, morally okay. It does not erase the fact that this man has been essentially grooming his fandom to feel safe meeting/speaking with him so he can coerce those he can snare into sexual acts they're not comfortable with. That is predator behavior, whether strictly 'illegal' in the eyes of a court or not (but ofc I think he should be criminally punished even if I'm not naive enough to think he actually will be, because this IS rape and rape should be criminally punished)

I'm not personally advocating for anyone to give up being in his related fandoms, but what I am personally advocating for is that people don't forget who he is and what he's capable of, especially when he tries to crawl back to where he was (I'm almost certain he will eventually, as I've said).

Again, at the very least, we need to use what little influence we do have to keep him from infiltrating fan spaces again. He should not be on tumblr yukking it up with young people, he should not be at public appearances hitting on teenagers, he should not be given the unrestricted access to fans that he's 'enjoyed' for the past 30+ years because he is not a safe person. While I wish there was more in the way of restorative justice that could be done, I think at very, very least we should do what we can to limit his proximity to people he could hurt in the future. Make sure no one forgets, because sweeping this under the rug means Gaiman gets to hurt more people.

Lastly, no one is the wrong for having been manipulated by him. Let's make that very clear. What we're NOT gonna do is blame ourselves, each other, the victims, etc, for evil acts that Gaiman chose to do himself, time and time and time again. It doesn't help the situation and it certainly doesn't protect future potential victims. We were all duped because we're human and we attach and a lot of us want to believe there are good people out there, particularly those who make art that means so much to us.

And there are. But let's also use this a teaching/learning tool about how much faith we place in famous people in the future, regardless of how 'approachable' and 'safe' they might seem. Let's remember to have a healthy suspicion of creators/famous people that are oddly immersed in fandom spaces- yes, even the ones you still currently like that seem fine, as difficult as that may seem.

At the end of the day, we don't know them or what they're capable of doing or what they might be plotting to do to us. Support victims. Amplify their voices. Don't forget.

[strawbeerossi]

The Ballad Of Dr. Reid

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid

Description: When you zone out in the middle of one of your lectures, your professor asks you to stay after class to check in on you.

Content/Warnings: Power imbalance, Professor/Student, age gap (Spencer is in his 40s, reader is in her 20s), minor hand kink, porn with little plot, heated kissing, fingering, spit, unprotected sex, exhibitionism (kinda, right?), reader gets a facial

Word Count: 1.9K

Kinktober Day Two: Power Imbalance

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You’d always had a liking for criminal justice, so taking the courses in college seemed like a no brainer. You really liked Criminology 1424. It was an interesting class, one that piqued your interest far more than the other classes you were in the process of taking. 

In addition to being genuinely interested in the subject, you were more interested in the professor of the class; Dr. Spencer Reid.

He was soft spoken for the most part, a little on the awkward side but that was okay. He was experienced from his fifteen years in the Behavioral Analysis Unit and would use cases he’d faced for examples in his lessons. His lectures were long and albeit pretty boring at times but you had no problem watching the man at the front of class talk, his hands emphasizing just how prepared he was for the topic at hand. You’d realized that there were topics he definitely enjoyed getting into, his body language and his overexaggerated gestures being proof of it.

You’d always thought the FBI and the darkness he faced on a near daily basis would exhaust him, make him harder and more stoic, the seriousness of the world on his shoulders. No, instead he offered smiles, helped any student who came to him, and was painfully oblivious to the amount of young men and women auditing the class just to admire the attractive professor.

It was like any other lecture, delving into the intricacies of triggers and what could bring them on. It was a lesson he liked, judging by his animation this evening. You’d done your best to keep up, to get plenty of notes jotted down due to this being on the impending final. However, you were too busy drooling over the curly haired beauty, his veined hands flailing with each word that fell from his lips. 

What you wouldn’t give to have those hands on your body, to feel the gentle touch of your professor as he was letting his fingertips memorize all the dips and curves of your body, to familiarize himself with how to pleasure you.

His hands on-

“Y/N? Are you alright?”

You were snapped from your thoughts. The sound of your name falling from his mouth was like sweet honey, drizzling over your eardrums as you could feel your face heat up from embarrassment. Great. Now the whole class is looking at you. 

“Y-Yes, I’m okay. I’m sorry, just, uh, not all the way here today.” You explained, slowly looking back down at the notebook covered in scribbles. So much for getting any work done today. 

The class passed by painfully slowly after that. Even the attractive man in front of you didn’t seem to speed up the clock. You’d sat quietly, giving up with the notes aspect as you’d switched to doodling on the edges of your notebook. You’d done your best to try and be one of the first ones out whenever your professor dismissed the class full of students. However your shoulders slumped with defeat when the sea of bodies filed out first.

There was no clean getaway.

“Y/N, do you mind staying back and having a chat?”

Fuck.

Mustering up enough courage to face the man you’d gotten distracted fantasizing about, you were approaching his desk. Even up close, he was a beautiful man. Even in his early to mid forties, he still looked delicious. “I apologize for getting distracted earlier. I was just-”

“Looking at me? Y/N,” There was a deep breath that left his lips. “You can tell me if this tie is ugly. My coworker Penelope insisted I wear it. I love her but some of her ties aren’t really my style.” 

He was joking, easing the awkwardness and the unknown tension filling the lecture hall. Maybe he’d been feeling the same way about you. He looked at you a lot as is, however you may have just been in a delusional state of mind right now. There was a hope that Spencer would reciprocate those feelings. “It’s not.. It’s a little ugly but that, uh, wasn’t what I was, uh, staring at.” You decided to just be honest. Worst you can do is transfer out of the class. 

Or run away to a new city, start over again at a new university. 

“Really?” 

“Really. Sir, with the risk of coming across as inappropriate, it’s hard to pay attention to you at the front of the class. It’s not a bad thing. You just always look…” You paused and gave him a once over. “Really nice.” You spoke. 

There was a blush that spread across the older man’s cheeks, an eyebrow raising. “You think so? At risk of sounding even more inappropriate and unprofessional,” He paused as he leaned forward a bit, arms crossed over his chest. “It’s hard to teach when you come in looking as beautiful as you do. Makes me just wanna stare at you the whole class.” 

The words were lower than usual, a rush of warmth going straight to your core from the mere compliment. 

“Plus when you come in with a new lipstick shade..” His lanky body was pushing off the desk before he approached, his fingers resting gently under your chin before tilting it upwards. “It drives me insane. You may think I don’t notice but…” This was crossing the boundary of teacher and student, his thumb swiping over your lower lip. “I do. Makes me think of these pretty lips wrapped around me, those eyes glossed over with pleasure.” He hummed, chuckling at the way your breath hitched, eyes locking with his. 

You didn’t know what came over you at this point, however you could help yourself as you were launching yourself forward, mouth smashing against his in a quick kiss that he seemed enthusiastic to reciprocate. His hands were gripping your waist, pulling your frame closer to his chest as the kiss filled with desire and hunger was escalating.

The next thing you knew, you were being sat against the desk at the front of the lecture hall, your eyes widening. “H-Hold on, don't you have another class??” She asked immediately as she let her hands squeeze the broad shoulders. “Yeah, in twenty minutes.” Spencer responded, hands trailing to the waistband of the pants you were wearing. The thought of having sex in a hall where anyone could walk in at any point was enough to send a shiver down your spine. You weren’t one for exhibitionism normally, however you weren’t gonna turn this down. 

“Fuck it.” Your words made a grin spread across Spencer’s face, his lips pressing a chaste kiss against your lips while working on getting your pants pulled off, panties following in one swift motion. Licking his hand, the older male didn’t waste any time before moving the wet hand between your legs, his spit working as lube as he wanted to make sure you were wet enough for the deed. Lord knows that he didn’t want you tearing at any point. 

The feeling of his fingers brushing against your clit had already sent electricity through your body, a light gasp escaping your lips. 

“Such a pretty girl, bet you haven’t ever had any man pay attention to you, huh? I can only imagine you’ve been with selfish little boys who haven’t even attempted to bring you to orgasm..” He sighed playfully, leaning down to press a kiss to your lips once more. He was addicted, drinking in your moans as his thumb was massaging your clit, one finger pushed deep in your weeping hole while he was working you open.

This was definitely something new, you didn’t really sleep around so the few times you’d engaged in casual sex were quick, rushed. You sure as hell knew that the past couple of dudes couldn’t even find your clit. You were intoxicated on his touch the small movements he made eliciting moans and gasps into his mouth. With your hips rolling against the touch, you let your eyes flutter shut. 

“As much as I hate to stop, we’ve got fifteen minutes and I’m dying to be inside of you.” He murmured against your lips, his hands moving to undo his belt before tugging his pants down his legs, boxers being pulled down soon after. The sight of his hard cock had your full attention. “Ready? You’re sure you want to keep going?”

“Yes!” You rasped, making him chuckle while his large hands were spreading your thighs apart, letting a trail of his spit fall onto your pussy before he was giving himself a few tugs. The thick tip of his shaft was spreading the spit onto your cunt, a hum falling from his lips. So pretty. God, I hate having to crunch time like this.” He groaned while letting the thick head push into your hole, your mouth falling open at the delicious burn that came with the stretch of your inner walls. If only you knew about your professor’s cock sooner.. All the stress of studying for quizzes would’ve been a million times easier.

His hips snapped without warning, a loud moan falling from your mouth while the male couldn’t help but chuckle as he quickly clasped a hand over your mouth. “Shh. Can’t have anyone hearing you.” His hand barely did justice to hide your moans and cries as his hips continued to roughly thrust, the desk rocking steadily with each movement.

“Fuck. It’s like this pussy was made for me, look at the way she takes my cock and is desperate for more. So greedy.” The vulgar words from your otherwise sweet and seemingly innocent man’s mouth was strangely attractive, attractive to a level that your inner walls were spasming around the hard cock nestled deep inside of you, so far you felt like he was hitting your cervix. Then again, you could’ve just been exaggerating. 

With your fingernails digging into his clothed shoulders, you could feel a knot in your stomach, tightening so tight that you felt like the floodgates were going to burst open. 

“I-I’m gonn-” You stuttered, words muffled against his hand while Spencer nodded. 

“I’m almost there. Cum for me.” His words were husky, tone dripping with ecstasy as he let out a low groan. 

As your pussy clenched tightly around his cock, the both of you were letting out a mixture of groans, mons and even a few whimpers slipping from the older man’s lips. It was all too much, finally letting the dam break as you were letting your head fall back, mouth agape as your thighs were shaking, your creamy arousal making a ring around his cock.

There was a little whine at the emptiness you felt when his cock wasn’t inside of you, the male opting to gently move you from the desk before putting you on your knees. “Look at you. Fuck. Stick your tongue out for me. Make sure you close your eyes too. I don’t wanna give you any infections.” Even in a huffing and panting mess, he looked out for you.

Doing as you were told, you let your mouth fall open while your eyes fluttered shut, the male groaning at the sight as he roughly fisted at his cock. There was only a few pumps before his cock was twitching, it being his turn for his head to fall back as he was painting your face with his spent. The load was a lot more than you expected.

Maybe he needed this just as bad as you did. 

As the act was coming to an end, Spencer was trying to catch his breath while tugging up his pants and boxers. He’d retrieved a few tissues from his desk before leaning down to wipe your face, a light hum leaving his lips. “Maybe you can talk to me about some extra notes you could add to your doodle book. Say over coffee tomorrow morning?”

“Deal.”