#undefeated boxers

[jccheapalier]

Watch "The Mexican PERFECTION Of Ricardo Lopez" on YouTube

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART I

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

PART II ➡︎

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.4k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ and happy birthday to my channie! here's to another year of unhinged love letters. 🐺🖤

❥ okay so i'm moving this fully to tumblr as well as it being available on ao3 HOWEVER the entire fic is over the character limit for tumblr post so this one-shot has been divided into two parts. both parts are uploaded.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Dusk is a medley of tangerine and indigo. Peachy rays of the sun shine between drifting clouds. A quartered shadow of the moon makes a premature appearance. You breathe in the early October air, eyes fluttering shut with the exhale. Clutching onto the balcony’s rickety railing, the rusted metal so cold on your bare hands, you fill your lungs again, taking deep, slow breaths.

The world stops spinning. The muffled music, once pounding against your temples, fades away. Body steady, you sip on the fresh air and swallow away your nausea.

I can do this, you tell yourself. Just one last drop off. I hand it over and leave.

They probably won’t even recognise you. You let your hair grow past your shoulders and dyed it strawberry blonde. You changed your style, trading your baby pink and blue matching sets for muted mixtures of red and black. Fishnets, little gym shorts, a graphic KISS babydoll tee and an oversized, knock-off fur coat you nicked from a local bodega weeks ago, you transformed yourself into someone new.

You turn back to the glass doors now. Catching your reflection, you cringe at the smudged eyeliner and runny nose. You wipe your hands under your eyes and above your lip, sniffling your worries away. You fix your jacket, reapply your dark red lipstick, and frame your hair around your face.

“I can do this,” you mutter as you slide open the door and step back into the party.

You spot Vince by the DJ, Danni and Andrea lingering nearby. Your heart drops to your stomach. They once told you they hated Day-1 parties, yet here they are, taking shots of gin and robbing the entertainment of their equipment. They once told you they loved you too, that they would never leave you behind. All at once, the three of them turned their backs on you, forever haunting your every waking moment.

You push between bodies. Tonight is not about ghosts. You have a debt to settle.

“Name?”

“Don’t be an asshole, Vik.”

Viktor crosses his arms over his chest. “Think this a joke?”

You fight off a smirk. “Nah, that’s not what I think a joke looks like.”

He grits his teeth, tossing you a vulgar gesture before moving aside. “Bitch,” he hisses in your ear as you walk into the master bedroom.

Red lights, smoke, needles. Two topless women dance to the muffled music, bottles in hand. Three Day-1s watch, one with his hand on his crotch. The bed shakes by them, two junkies bouncing on it like children as another Day-1 makes out with their friend.

By the window, two more members stare out to the street.

Exit compromised.

Gagging erupts from the en-suite, coaxing your curiosity. Another topless woman hunches over the toilet. Horny Day-1 members crowd around the entrance, trousers around their ankles as they watch.

You redirect your attention to the table on the far right. Reggie, point-man of tonight’s drop off, sits facing the door. He flashes a toothy grin, racking his gaze over your curves.

Hands remaining by your side, you fight against the instinct to wrap your coat tighter around yourself.

Reggie calls you over with the curl of two fingers, puffing his cigarette smoke out through his nostrils. 

“Name?”

“Vinny sent me.”

The three men sitting around him exchange glances.

Taking a drag of his cigarette, Reggie, dressed in a blood speckled undershirt and baggy cargos, sits up in his seat. “Is that what I asked?” He looks around his fellow members, drily chuckling with them before repeating, “Name!”

The rules for runners are very simple; there’s only one— Never state your name. It creates a trail and binds you to an affliction. Rival gangs won’t work with a spy, and your name will be the first they spill if caught. You’re simply a messenger, no different than the guy that delivers the same-day Amazon order, distributing grams of coke and meth instead of a Roomba.

Honour gangs, like Day-1, are tricky, however. They have a second rule:

“Never lie,” Vinny warned.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“Figure it out.”

You shift your weight. His insistence on your name, knowing you will risk your safety, is simply a test of will and grit. You purse your lips, flirting your eyes over his all too arrogant, lanky frame, and reply, “Bitch.”

Reggie raises a brow. He stands, reaching a hand behind him.

“That’s what everyone calls me,” you quickly add, then you shoot him a wink. “Fat bitch, if you’re nasty.”

The room stiffens. Even the gags from the bathroom cease. You keep your attention tunnelled on Reggie. You watch as he fixes his shirt over his gun, holding your breath when he rounds the table.

Nearly an arms length away, a smile finally settles on his old face. “Where the hell did Vinny find you?”

You force yourself to return that same easy grin and peel back the lining of your coat. “Be sure to ask him that the next time you see him. I’m on a tight schedule.”

Reggie gestures for his members. You pull out the wrapped bags of crystal and pass them out, ignoring the way his eyes devour your frame.

“Are you handling the cash too, princess?”

You try not to cringe at the pet name. Licking your lips, you keep your features soft and peer at him from your lashes. “Not tonight. Vinny said you know where the drop point is.”

He hums. 

You pull your coat back around your body, resisting the urge to recoil under his glutinous gaze. He looks no younger than forty-five, the wrinkles around his mouth and eyes not doing him any favours. Vinny warned you Reggie might get handsy. Under any other circumstance, you would have kicked him in the balls and spat on his face by now. But you’re in Day-1 territory and don’t have a gang of your own for support.

Reggie reaches his hand out. You take a step back.

Before the thrill of your resistance can poison his stare, you flash him a coy smile and playfully whine, “I’m working tonight.”

He nods towards the door, laughing to himself. “Go on then, princess.”

You turn your back to him, unable to force down a gag. Though you’re eager to escape, you keep your steps steady and even. You stride towards the door, knock thrice and shift your weight to make a show of your boredom while waiting for Viktor to respond.

A relieved breath topples out of you once the door shuts. You lean on your knees, shakily trying to catch your breath.

Viktor carefully scans your hunched frame. “You good?” He whispers, voice is strained, carefully void of emotion.

You nod, standing back to your full height.

Hazel eyes lock on you from the bottom of the stairs. Vince furrows his brows. Danni follows his gaze, Andrea already staring, lips moving.

Shit.

They can’t know it’s you, right? From the way Vince merely narrows his eyes, he must simply suspect something.

You turn to face Viktor.

He tosses you a cautious look, muttering, “I can’t help you.”

You know this, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. “Just tell me if they’re still looking.”

“Yes.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Viktor keeps his features neutral, posture stiff with his hands clasped before him. “They still got a hit on you, yeah?”

You nod.

“You packing?”

“You know I’m not,” you snap.

Non-members are not permitted entrance if carrying a firearm. You left yours with Vinny before running. Shoving your hands in your pockets, all you feel is your phone, lipstick, and switchblade.

“On the move,” he warns.

“Give me your gun.”

Viktor casts you a sidelong glare. “I can’t.”

You sneak a peek over your shoulder to find Vince halfway up the stairs. You see Danni reaching into her pocket, catching the glare of the lights against a blade. They’re in no rush, but if they make it to the landing before you can secure a proper weapon, you’ll be out of options.

“Do you have a knife?” you ask, taking a step back.

Viktor stiffens.

Shit, are they close?

“Last room down the hall,” Viktor mumbles.

You know you shouldn’t have, but fear triggers adrenaline and soon overwhelms your nerves. Panic binds to your bones, snapping tense muscles into action. You bolt— alone, alarmed. Pushing between drunks, jumping over junkies, you hurry to the farthest room and slam the door. It doesn’t have a lock so you tuck a chair under the handle. Rummaging through drawers, digging through the closet, lifting the mattress, you look for a knife, a gun, anything other than a three-inch switchblade to defend yourself.

The door trembles from the pounding of their fists.

“Come on out!” Vince shouts.

“It must be her! She’s always fucking hiding!” Andrea adds. “Get the fuck out here! Have the balls to face what you did, bitch!”

You find yourself warped in a memory—

“No one wants your boyfriend, Danni,” you shouted. “He came onto me.”

Her open palm landed on your cheek.

Tears gathered in your eyes, face stinging. You stumbled back.

“You’re a lying bitch,” she spat. “At least have the decency to face what you did.”

You blink out of your thoughts, dropping the mattress.

Dresser, closet , bed— Where else could a weapon be? You scan the room, heart hammering with every forceful knock of the door.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Reggie asks, voice muffled.

Your attention settles on the window in front of you. You hurry towards it to find the fire escape.

“Viktor, you sneaky fuck,” you whisper through a relieved chuckle. He wasn’t directing you to a weapon but rather an exit.

You quickly push it up, catching rumblings of orders to blow the door open. Up and out, you jump, sparing a second to shut the window behind you. It might be counter-productive to waste precious time on a window but you know that concealing your exits always gives you a head start.

Rushing down the stairs, you don’t look back upon hearing the loud blast of metal on wood. You just catch their commotion over the heavy bass of the music.

Jumping the final steps, you run.

The Underground sits on the corner of Bank and Third Avenue, tucked under a row of red-bricked townhouses. You lean against the wall, stowing yourself away in the alley to catch your breath. Sirens whirl down the street, casting red and blue lights over your sweaty face. A man of very little wealth stumbles by, clothes torn and stained, waving a sign that reads, JESUS LOVES YOU.

You roll your eyes, wondering where the fuck Jesus was when your parents failed you, when the bank repossessed all you had and when the system passed you from house to house.

The thick stench of sewage and rotten trash suddenly sets in, blighting your next inhale. Leaning over, you succumb to a gagging fit. Thankfully, only bile and saliva gather. You cough and spit it out, then wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. An annoyed sigh escapes you at the realisation that you fucked up your lipstick yet again.

“Just some drunken slut.”

You carefully redirect your attention to the far end of the alley. Two men stand a couple of inches apart. One of them wears a grey tracksuit, glaring at you under the light of the backdoor. He has a towel resting around his neck, just over a thin gold chain. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, his relatively handsome twists with contempt. The other one wears an oversized jersey and low-riding jeans. Though dressed like a boxing fan, you can tell by his rigid posture he’s anything but. No one who gambles their mortgage away on Underground matches stands that straight.

And then you catch it, in the glimpse of the light, the flash of his badge nearly slipping out of his pocket. You wish you were surprised, but you know all too well that it’s dirty cops like this legitimising gang activity.

He pulls his pants up, and continues to pace. “Is he gonna throw it or not?”

“He won’t,” Tracksuit replies, looking over his shoulder.

The dirty cop curses.

“You know how Bahng is,” Tracksuit explains. “He’s too prideful. He won’t ruin an undefeated streak for a few thousand.”

“It’s five hundred thousand, Mickey. Did you tell him that? Does he know?”

Mickey nods, readjusting the towel behind his neck. “And I’m telling you he doesn’t think it’s worth it.”

A shiver dances along your spine at the way the cop’s face hardens. Sinister desperation gleams in his gaze and he pulls out a long knife. In a single motion, he shoves Mickey against the wall and presses the blade against his throat.

Mickey chokes back a scream, throwing his hands up in surrender. “W-whoa, Andy! C-Come on, man.”

Andy bears his teeth, quietly laughing to himself. “Do you think this is a fucking joke? Do you know how fucked I am if he wins this match? Day-1s, Ravens, Siphons— they’re all after me, Mick. I have a family— a fucking career.”

“That’s not my pr—”

“Problem?” Andy finishes, his laughter becoming more manic. “You think it’s not your problem? What do you think I told them when I promised that Bahng would lose?”

Mickey’s face drains of colour.

“I told’em Mick with the little dick can fix it for us.”

Tears gather in Mickey’s eyes. He swallows thickly before shakily asking, “Wh-Why would you s-s-say th-at?”

“Come on, everyone knows you have a small—”

“You know what I mean!” He shouts.

Andy applies pressure with his knife. You catch a trail of blood running down Mickey’s throat.

“L-Look,” Mickey starts, screwing his eyes shut, lips quivering. “He’s hard-headed. The only way he’s not w-winning this ma-tch is if s-someone gets to h-him bef-ore he makes it to the r-ring.”

Andy smiles.

“He takes the long way ‘round. He likes the attention, c-can’t resist it, you know?” Mickey continues. “He goes thr-ough the back h-hall to circle the a-arena and enters the c-crowd from the fr-ont.” He takes a second to swallow before continuing, “It-It would be a real sh-shame if someone g-g-got to him before he can m-make it.”

You watch Andy nod.

“What did you do?”

You jump, hand already grappling for your switchblade as you turn to face your assailant.

Vinny glares back at you.

Giving him a shove, you clench your jaw and hiss, “Don’t do that!”

He corrects his stance, hands in his pockets, then spares a look over his shoulder. “Day-1s are blowing my phone up about some blonde bitch. Did you lock yourself in Tatiana’s room?”

You look back to the other end of the alley. Only flies circle under the backdoor’s light.

“Hey!” Vinny hisses, forcing your attention back to him. “Are you listening?”

“It wasn’t me,” you lie.

He deadpans. “You’re the only bitch I know who has a score to settle with Vince.”

You avert your gaze.

“What happened?” He repeats. This time his voice is less accusatory.

You’ve known Alvin “Vinny” Tucker since you were sixteen. He lived in the apartment above yours and later became your foster brother. You dropped out of high school together a couple months later to sell bootleg Marvel movies on Sixth Street. He really wanted to see Madonna in concert and promised you a front row seat with him if you helped. He was recruited by the Sixers around the time your foster mom came to collect you off the street and force you back to school. He told her where you were, you later found out, to spare you the violence the Sixers had in store for you. He never said it was a debt, though you did feel like you owed him something.

Things changed when Vince set a hit on you. Your description and name were on the radar of every gang, the reward being the acquisition of new territory. The left port is the most sought after piece of land, currently managed by Vince’s father, Vincent Jones Senior. Anyone able to deliver you back to your ex-friends alive suddenly has access to the docks and a monopoly on shipments.

With nowhere else to go, you turned to Vinny. He called Viktor, cashing in a favour, and got to work. The dyed hair, new wardrobe, change of address, it was all done in a matter of hours. And all you had to do was run, hand over the rocks and not attract attention— the goal was simple.

“So how the fuck did you manage to screw that up too?”

“I told you that it wasn’t me!”

“Say that again and I will lose my shit.”

“They can’t prove it was me, okay? Tell Day-1 Vince is paranoid. Run them my old description. Tell them he’s desperate. Let him clean that mess up himself,” you reply, rubbing your temples. “It’s not that fucking hard, Vin.”

You could use a hot bath right now. All you want to do is scrub off the stench of the alley and chaos of the night. For someone who swears he doesn’t want you, Vince took one look in your eyes and knew it was you. He always acted strange but you just thought he was being friendly. It wasn’t until he was rubbing your thigh between shots and rounds of cards that you realised he wanted more than friendship.

You cringe at the memory, pulling your coat tighter around your body, and push past Vinny.

He grabs your arm, yanking you back to face him. “Not that hard? Jesus, you’d think there isn’t a bounty on your head,” he hisses. “You need to be more careful, alright? This is my life too!”

Guilt gathers bile at the base of your throat. You let out a shaky breath, redirecting your gaze to the floor. “I-I know,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, okay? I just—”

Vinny grasps onto your biceps, lowering himself to meet your remorseful gaze. “You can’t panic like that,” he reminds, cutting you off. “The guilty don’t run. You know this.”

“I’m sorry.”

You hate the shakiness of your voice, the admittance of guilt. It’s fucking Vince and Danni and Andrea, the same fucking people that swore they were there for you. It’s their fault everything is falling apart. You’ve known Danni for five years, Andrea for three and both of them just believed Vince when he told them that you were hitting on him, even going as far as kissing him. Had they always suspected you to be a conniving whore, the type of malicious bitch that would risk five years of friendship, of real connection over some guy?

And you were too nice to him— a mistake that now could cost your life.

Vinny releases you with a defeated sigh, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“Let me walk you home,” he offers, shoving his hands back into his pockets.

You nod and hug your coat tighter against your body.

He nods towards the entrance of The Underground. “After the match,” he promises. “Sixers have a bet to place.”

Bracing yourself, you follow him down the steps. “Against Bahng?”

“Boxing fan?” he half-jokingly asks, tossing you a confused look over his shoulder.

You shrug your reply.

The main hall smells of sweat and beer. One side holds five queues for refreshments and ticketing, while the other fosters chaos. Men clutching cash and shouting names crowd around the betting stands. Security struggles to keep them in line. Loud rap music plays over the looped announcement of tonight’s opponents — AIDEN MATTHEWS VERSUS CHRISTOPHER BAHNG. You watch their names flash over the screens, pictures of both boxers on either side of the doors. While Aiden is actively fit, muscles and abs on display, Christopher is the embodiment of perfect physique. Muscles defined, shoulders broad, chest puffed out, abs tight and chiselled, he stands with the grace of Adonis himself. Tall, confident, he leers over spectators through the screen with a cold-cutting glare.

Your knees almost buckle.

“It is the clash of titans! Reigning champion, Aiden Matthews, against the undefeated, the unstoppable, the undeniable, Christopher Bahng,” the announcer enthuses over the intercom before urging the audience to lock in their bets.

The only titan you see is Christopher, trailing your gaze up and down his televised body.

“You’re drooling,” Vinny teases.

You turn to cast him a sidelong glare to find he’s no longer by your side. His red beanie bobs in the crowd, through the doors and further into the arena.

“Vinny!” you call, trying to push your way through.

The crowd pushes back, almost throwing you against the wall. You curse under your breath, realising you might have to wait until the match starts to navigate through the arena.

Isn’t there a back hall that circles around, though? You recall Mickey’s words, scanning the crowd for that red beanie again. It still sits atop Vinny’s head by the ring on the other side of the arena. You look for a nearby door or access-point, finding a guarded door to his far left. If you can find the entrance on your end, you can skip through the large crowd and get to him easily.

You survey your surroundings. Another security guard stands before a door to your right. Pushing through the gamblers again and again, you force your way towards him.

“Authorised personnel only,” he gruffly informs.

“I-um—”

“You need to move, miss.” he cuts you off with a pointed look.

“I’m here to see Bahng,” you lie, letting your jacket drop off one of your shoulders.

He raises a brow. “Who commissioned you?”

“Mickey,” you reply before you can stop yourself.

There is much honour among gangs, this Vinny always makes sure you know. He always warns you against dishonesty, especially to certain gang members, since you have no affiliation of your own. But it’s just so easy when you have the right information and you like the way lies just happen to roll off your tongue, effortless and oh-so convincing.

The guard nods, much to your concealed surprise. “Just his type,” you swear you hear him grumble as he opens the door for you.

Hiding a smile, you make your way in without another word.

The back hall is dimly lit. The click of the door echos. Medleys of muffled bass and roaring fans only just seep through and bounce off the brick walls. You adjust your jacket on your shoulders and follow the turns of the hall.

DING!

You jolt, cinching a yelp at the base of your throat. Hastily, you dig into your pocket for your phone.

Vinny: where r u?

You: be there soon

“Lost?”

You look up at the sound of an Australian accent. To your left is an open door of a dressing room, casting a bright spotlight on you amidst the dark hallway. You put your phone away and take quick note of the bodies around the room. Mickey stands by some weights in the corner, eyes narrowing. A handful of medical professionals assess their equipment, rummaging through their kits and looking over clipboards just across from him. By the punching bag, right in front of a wall of mirrors, a couple of men, one with long, icy blonde hair and the other a short midnight black, evaluate your presence.

And there, in the centre of it all, stands Christopher Bahng. Jawline sharp, nose large and lips plush, those big brown eyes soften. You recall the way they were once glaring at his opponent on the screen, wondering what the hell it is about you that makes him opt for a gentler approach. Wrapping boxing tape around his hand, he approaches you.

“Can I help you find something, darling?”

The pet name sounds so casual, so natural, you wouldn’t have guessed that you just met. Your posture relaxes, coat falling off your frame, held up only by your arms. There is a softness in his deep voice that nurtures something forgotten deep within your soul. You feel it- whatever it is- sprout roots in your gut.

Searching his eyes, the cursed word escapes within a breath— “You.”

He smirks.

Does this happen often? Does everyone simply fawn over him?

He smells of leather and vanilla, towering over you. His minty breath fans your face. He rubs his thumb under your lip, cleaning up the smudged lipstick from your chin.

You lean into his touch.

“You’re early!” Mickey shouts from his place in the back. “Sister Maria knows you’re needed after the match.”

Sister Maria can fuck herself, you think. She has tried and failed to recruit you one too many times. Though, if you had known that her clientele was anything like Bahng, you might have reconsidered.

Looking at him now, you can confirm that those screens barely did him any justice. He’s big. It’s no wonder he’s undefeated, the sheer size of him dominating enough. He barely even has a scratch on him, just a couple of cuts on his perfect cheekbones and a bruise that is well on its way to being fully healed, along his jaw. You resist the urge to trace the length of his shoulders, or the ridges of his abs all while leaning in to kiss his wounds away.

Instead, you swallow thickly and nod, “Yes, I-I just got confused.”

Bahng curls a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay, darling,” he smiles.

You bite back a moan. God, when did you get this pathetic? So what if he’s hot, and sweet, and beautiful, and huge, and—

“You can wait in here for me,” he nods back into his dressing room. “I won’t be too long.”

Blood rushes to your cheeks. He flashes a cocky grin, knowingly gazing down at you. He really is prideful, a bit arrogant too, but you’re not quite sure it’s misplaced. Undefeated in the ring, the only chance anyone has at beating him is by planning an ambush before a match .

Shit.

Your eyes flicker to Mickey. He’s going to kill him. In a matter of minutes, Bahng and his team will circle the arena to enter the ring and get intercepted. And for what? A fucking paycheque?

You shift your weight.

“No!” you shout, starling the room.

All eyes snap to you.

What? You mentally scold. I can’t just shout ‘No’ and expect the entire fucking shit-show to be called off.

Bahng raises his brows. A smile plays on his lips and he lets a chuckle slip. “That needy?” he teases.

Fuck, he’s insufferable… You need to ride him.

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you force yourself to concede, “Mhm.” You grasp the waistband of his crimson silk shorts and tug him closer. He lets you, pressing himself against your stomach.

A trembling breath slips.

He holds back a chuckle.

Say something, your mind shouts.

“Fuck me.”

Not that!

He cups your face. The way you instantly melt into his hands is truly pitiful, your chest raging with humiliation. But then his lips meet yours and those roots that grew deep in your gut begin to blossom up through your rib cage and around your lungs. Absolute serenity blinds whatever contempt took purchase in your chest. You try to grapple onto that anger, that disdain, finding this sudden light feeling much too foreign.

But just as his lips cradle yours, this incomparable feeling of pure contentment soothes your panicked instincts. And it’s as though those roots, those branches that sprouted around your lungs, bloom petals of… Acceptance? Approval?

The feeling of his hands trailing down your spine ground you back to him. You wrap your arms around his neck. Cheek by cheek, he cups your rear and squeezes, pushing your hips up into his.

You moan, the muffled sound so frail. His tongue slips through and, for a boxer, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. He lets you take the lead, following your tongue round and round until you release another fraught groan.

And then he’s torn away.

Mickey stands between the two of you. He shoots you a nasty look before pushing Bahng back into the room. You can tell Bahng allows the meek force of his coach to overtake him, lazily stepping back.

The ease of his movements is not what arrests your thoughts, however. It’s the mess of red lipstick around his mouth, of which he makes no effort to remove.

“… and I’ll say it again!” Mickey shouts, his voice finally registering. “No sex before a match!”

You blink your attention off Bahng as Mickey moves to shut the door in your face.

“Let her in,” Bahng orders.

Mickey turns to give him a look. “She’s a distraction.”

You catch Bahng walking towards the weights along the back brick-exposed wall, effectively ignoring Mickey’s protests. “Don’t make me come over there, Mick,” he playfully warns, taking a seat on an inclined workout bench, “Let my girl in.”

You’re in the midst of wondering whether he’s merely his coach, a friend, or both when his final words set in. You hold onto the door frame to keep from falling over. His girl? You’d turn yourself in, confronting Vince, just to hear those words in that Australian accent again.

“You commissioned her for me, didn’t you?”

Right, you think to yourself as you will strength back to your legs. You’re his sex worker. This is nothing personal.

You roll your shoulders back and adjust your stance, channelling bored seduction, as Mickey begrudgingly opens the door.

Bahng calls you over with a nod. He has heavy weights in each hand, curling slow reps.

You lick your lips and force one foot before the other. But his biceps are flushed, flexing with every lift. You can’t help gawking, bouncing your attention from arm to arm, and almost run into one of his men.

“Jacket,” Midnight-hair says, positioning himself between you and Bahng with an outstretched hand.

While there isn’t anything of value left in your jacket, you know that if they find the lining is removable, your cover will be blown. You cannot deny them it either, especially if you want to get close enough to warn Bahng.

So you slowly peel the jacket off, sticking out your chest in hopes of distracting Midnight-hair. He keeps his eyes trained on you, gaze hardening as if he is struggling to commit to his choice. From the corner of your eye, you see Icy-hair push himself off the wall to carefully watch. If they refuse to get lost in your show, you’ll have to switch gears. In one swift motion, you whip the jacket off and roll it to a ball.

Midnight-hair glares. He unfolds the jacket as soon as he takes it– a detail you should have anticipated. Rummaging through your pockets, he announces, “Switchblade, lipstick, phon—”

You freeze.

Though it is quick, occurring in a blink of an eye, you know he sees it, cutting himself off at the realisation.

The lining flaps open.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shi—

“Hang it by the door, Seungmin,” Bahng orders.

You meet his gaze. That easy playfulness that once danced within it, now dims into calculated intrigue. You spare a quick glance at Mickey. A relieved breath escapes at the sight of him muttering into his phone, alone in the corner.

Looking back at Bahng, you finally see it. There, sprayed on the back wall in black and silver paint, is a three pointed crown. In the middle, drawn with jagged, lazy lines, are three letters— SKZ.

Of all the fucking gangs.

Stray Kids, speculated to have immigrated from Australia or Korea, have slashed their way to the top of the city’s food chain. The chambering of a round— chk chk boom — shoot first and ask questions later. It’s how they’re known. Notorious for money laundering, drug trafficking, vandalism, extortion, arson, street racing, they’ve swept the city up from the coast to the police department. You’ve witnessed gangs fall silent at their mention, caught the way they would take hold of their weapon.

While there have been whispers about the members, the leader remains faceless. Vinny once informed you that no organisation can become this connected without someone calling the shots. At the time, you wondered if that was the most terrifying thing about them— how unknown they really are.

Staring at Bahng now, white canines on display behind a wicked grin, you realise that his leader’s anonymity is futile compared to the intimidation of their members. It’s their silent power, the ease in which they can rattle bones with a single look, perhaps even crack them with a single blow. You are not sure who Christopher Bahng is to Stray Kids— the muscle, the brains, some money pawn as they infiltrate the underground boxing scene, but you know he is dangerous.

Arousal dampens your shorts.

“Take a seat, darling,” he purrs.

He’s lethal, and your lies are unravelling. If you are going to make it out of here alive, you must reassess your information. You inhale deeply, filling your lungs with wavering courage, and move towards Bahng.

Step.

Mickey is a rat.

Step.

This is Stray Kids territory.

Step.

Bahng knows you are not a sex worker.

Step.

Exits are compromised, Icy-hair now standing at the door.

Step.

Your life is now in the hands of an unrivalled boxer.

Bahng nods down to his lap. You carefully straddle it when it dawns on you— His life is in your hands too.

Half-hard, his cock pokes at the clothed apex of your thighs. Your lips quiver as you try to fight back a pathetic whine.

“My pecs tend to ache after working out,” Bahng sighs, continuing his reps. “Won’t you be a doll and massage them for me?”

You don’t need to be told twice, shifting yourself closer.

His jaw sets at the gesture.

Pecs of pure muscle, big and tight, you take a moment to gawk. They extend beyond the span of your palms, pale skin flushed under your touch. He’s sweaty but cold, nipples hard. You hold his gaze and kneed the heel of your hands into his chest. Again and again, you apply gentle pressure, watching as his brows furrow, large nose scrunches and full lips curl into a pleased sneer.

He hisses between breathless gasps. You resist the urge to catch another kiss at the sound.

“How does that feel?” you ask in a whisper.

Bahng sets his weights down. You notice Seungmin straightening his stance in the corner of your eye. Though your hands start to tremble, you continue massaging, knowing sudden movements might trigger a bullet.

Hands on your waist, he pulls you closer into him. “Have you done this before?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do much massaging in your… line of work?”

You mentally curse. He knows you’re a runner.

“This is not the body part most people want massaged.” You try but cannot keep your lip from slightly curving, the thought of servicing him on your knees all too captivating.

He presses his fingers into your skin and parts his lips. You can tell from the force of his grip and shape of his mouth what he’s about to ask.

Sparing a quick glance at Mickey, you find he is still tied to his phone, muttering quietly into the receiver.

But then he catches your eye.

“Who—”

You throw your body over Bahng’s, exaggerating the force with a whip of your hair and a loud, erotic yelp to cut him off. You wrap your arms around his neck, press your lips to his ears and whisper, “Mickey is a traitor.”

While he originally hugged your waist to keep you from falling, Bahng now stiffens.

“Alright, whore,” Mickey shouts. “Get the fuck out!”

You spot him stomping towards you through the mirror. The collided image of your body intertwined with Bahng’s then overwhelms your attention. You have never felt small a single moment in your life, yet in his arms, you are minuscule. Your body relaxes into his, despite the chaos that ensues around you.

“…a fucking distraction, Chris,” Mickey argues. “You can fuck her after the fight.”

Chris. You like the sound of that, can see yourself moaning it as you bounce on his cock. You clench at the thought.

“Go back to your little corner, Mick,” Chris nods. “Don’t interrupt us again.”

“You want to win, don’t you?”

You can’t hold back your scoff. You can see the room stiffen at the sound through the mirrors. Peeling yourself from Chris’s strong frame, you fake a string staggered cough. The physicians ignore you, Mickey dismisses you, but Chris and his other friends remain observing, analysing.

“I’ve fucked plenty o’bitches before a match,” Chris confesses, flashing a smile so dazzling you almost abandon the jealousy that plagues your chest. “I always win.”

Mickey looks between your tangled bodies. His jaw sets, throat bobs. He wipes his face with the towel around his neck and forces a smile. It doesn’t meet his eyes, but it’s the thin scab on his neck that leaves you queasy.

Chris’s legs bounce beneath you, beckoning your attention. You grip onto his shoulder to maintain your balance as you meet his gaze. Wetness pools at the sight of his mischievous eyes. He peers at you under his brows, quirking one at your enamoured silence.

“Did I tell you to stop?”

What if you just kissed him again? How would he let it go? Knowing you lied and now leveraging information, would he be outraged if you closed the distance between you and played with his tongue? You know he enjoyed himself from the grip he had on your ass alone, not to mention the bulge pressing against your stomach.

You lean forward, leaving one of your hands rested on his shoulder, and brush your nose against his. He remains still, letting his gaze fall to watch your lips. While oh-so tempting, you don’t press them to his. Instead, you knead into his pectoral muscles deeper with your other hand, pushing into his skin with the heel of your palm. You’ve made sure to angle your head towards the mirror to gauge the distance of the other bodies in the room— particularly Mickey’s. Back in his “little corner,” he resumes his phone call.

Chris’s soft groan redirects your gaze to his features, contorted in relieved pleasure. Is he really tense or is it simply your touch?

Seungmin clears his throat from his place in front of the mirrors.

Chris shoots him a warning stare before offering you a softer version of one too. “Tell me what you know, runner,” he orders, voice quiet but full of command.

“I know he came to you with an offer to fix the fight,” you reply, keeping an eye on Mickey’s pacing frame. “I know you declined.”

His hands find a comfortable place on your thighs, and begin to glide up and down, soft and slow. Calloused, bandaged in boxer’s tape, they somehow provide tender care. You relax into him once again, resting your forehead against his.

“I know Mickey sold you out. I know he cut a deal to save himself and they’re coming for you.”

“Who?”

You nudge his nose with a shake of your head.

A ghost of a smile hovers over his plump lips at the gesture. He breathes half a chuckle and presses his fingers into the fat of your thighs, between the diamonds of your fishnets.

“You don’t know?” he practically coos. “Did you happen to catch a name, little one?”

Your attempts at pressing your legs together are pathetic. Instead of subtly easing your clenching desire, you squeeze his sides with your knees. Blood rushes to your face, heating your cheeks.

Chris lets that smug smile settle on his lips, tonguing his cheek. “Yeah,” he chuckles, “You like it when I call you that?”

“I like it when you talk to me like that,” you stupidly confess. You switch sides before he can reply, turning away from the mirrors to face Mickey’s corner, and kneed his other pec with just as much pressure, perhaps adding a bit more to combat your embarrassment.

He allows you, leaning back and watching.

He’s so patient, you fondly think, avoiding his gaze. Won’t he let you suck him before his fight? Even allowing you a little taste would suffice. Swallowing, you cannot stop thinking how empty your throat is, how wonderfully agonising it would be to try to accommodate him.

You spare a sidelong glance at Mickey, snapping yourself out your lustful yearning long enough to ensure you aren’t being overheard. When you find he is tapping away on his phone, you press your lips to Chris’s ear and whisper, “Andy.”

Chris continues rubbing your legs, asking, “What do you know about him?”

“I think he’s a cop.”

“You think?”

“He never said it.”

“So how do you know?”

You force your hips to remain still even as goosebumps rise in the wake of his risky touch, inching closer and closer to the apex of your thighs.

“His posture, he said something about his career being on the line, and I think I saw a badge. I just–” you pause to swallow the excess saliva gathering in your mouth. He’s barely even touched you and you’re already drooling. “I just connected the dots.”

Chris hums.

You lean back to get a better look at his face. His features are compressed in thought, brows knitted and eyes uncertain. Your hand has a mind of its own, abandoning its task on his chest to comb your fingers through his dark hair. Leisurely, he meets your gaze, even leans into your touch. You graze his scalp with your long nails, soft and slow.

You have had sexual partners. You have allowed your lust to cloud your judgement, tossed back drinks and spread your legs quite a few times between parties and side-jobs. But you have never been able to hold someone down, however. You have never been able to consistently see the same person over and over or even call them yours.

Here is Christopher Bahng— undefeated boxing champion, the best The Underground has seen. Sitting beneath you, erection pushing against your clothed crotch, he contently sighs. His hands move up to your hips, rubbing, soothing, adoring the shape of your curves and rolls. And his gaze gleams with admiration, bouncing around your features as if looking for a flaw.

You allow yourself to forget the world, the distant chants of fans and gamblers alike eager for the show to start. You forget the bounty on your head, your ex-friends, Vinny, Viktor, Seungmin lingering around the door with Icy-hair, Mickey texting in his sad little corner. You forget who’s territory this is and the title of the man sitting under you. You allow yourself to isolate this tender moment and pretend that Christopher Bahng is yours.

Your man, your protector, your love. He’d crush skulls between his fist and snap spines over his knee. He’d make sure you’d never have to run again. He’d make sure you’d never have to fear for your life. He’d hold you when you’re tired, and carry you to bed when you’re too lazy to make the trip yourself.

You wonder what that’s like— Love. You remember your mother once said something about it when you asked about your father.

“Love is a lie men created to seduce women,” she said while heating the bottom of her spoon. “Any man telling you otherwise is just desperate to fuck you.”

You mentally roll your eyes. You also remember instantly regretting your mention of it. You were about eight years old when she shared that nugget of knowledge. She then wrapped the conversation up by telling you the heroin she was preparing was her “special medicine” and you shouldn’t, under any circumstance, touch it when she passes out.

If that’s not motherly instincts, you’re not sure what is.

“How can I trust you?” Chris asks, lulling you out of your thoughts.

You make sure Mickey is still preoccupied with his phone before joking, “The word of a whore isn’t worth much anymore, is it?”

He cracks half a smile before leaning his head away from your touch. You take the hint, retracting your hand from his hair.

“You’re not a whore,” he states, voice gruff but quiet.

You swallow thickly. “I could be.”

“Yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Tell me what you’d do right now if you could.”

You wonder how honest you should be. Vinny always said that lying would get you killed, but you have an audience. Looking over your shoulder, you find Seungmin alone by the door. Icy-hair must have left when you let your delusions engulf you earlier. The physicians are desperately trying to look busy, sneaking glances at your proximity with their client. Everyone, save for Mickey who seems the most peeved by your presence, is already uncomfortable by your position on his lap.

How dangerous could the truth really be?

Meeting Chris’s playful stare again, you rest your hands on his tight abs and let a shy smile tug on your lips. “I would ride your thigh,” you confess. When he raises his brows, a surprised smirk gracing his lips, you explain, “They’re just so big and strong. I’m just curious to know what it would feel like on my clit.”

The transparent vulgarity of your confession dries your throat. Your chest heats, humiliation trembling your fingers. You part your lips, wishing you can take it back. But your voice fails you, as if standing firm with your statements.

“Interesting,” he muses. “Do it.”

You clear your throat, furrowing your brows. “What?”

“You want me to trust your word?” he asks.

He lets his hands fall to his sides. Your legs suddenly feel so cold.

“In—” you cut yourself off, taking another quick look around the room. “In front of everyone?”

He shrugs. “You told me you would do it.”

You projected two outcomes the moment they discovered you’re a runner and you decided to exchange information for your life.

One — You get laughed at and kicked out of the establishment.

Two — Chk chk boom.

You might have hoped that Chris considered fucking you before discarding you to the streets, wishful for a good orgasm or two. But you did not expect him to order you to grind on his leg in front of his team.

“Match starts in five,” Mickey announces.

While you turn to acknowledge the warning, Chris keeps his attention on you.

“It starts when I say so,” he replies.

Mickey grumbles profanities under his breath before turning back to his phone. You start to wonder what the fuck has held his focus all night when Chris cups your chin, forcing your gaze back on him.

“I’m beginning to lose my patience, darling,” he warns. “You’re either telling the truth or you’re not.”

You lick your lips. Of all the things you thought your life would depend on, you did not think it would be an orgasm.

Inhaling deeply, you adjust your stance and straddle his thigh. Your lips tremble at the sheer strength of his leg, so tense and taut under your wet shorts. You couldn’t have been more thankful for laundry day and the lack of clean panties available. With nothing but your tiny gym shorts between your crotch and his leg, you can feel every mighty muscle.

You notice movement in the mirror from the corner of your eye. One glance and you find Seungmin has turned to face the door. How often has Chris played with a whore in front of his friends? You clench your jaw as envy pesters your heart. What the fuck did those other girls have that you don’t? Why did he pick them? Why—

“Look at me.”

You obey, meeting his pacifying gaze. He curls your hair behind your ears, the gesture gentle and genuine.

You suck in your bottom lip, eyes wide as jealousy transforms into wonder. He may have picked others before you, but he chose to let you in now. He had a chance to turn you away and he fought to have you in this specific position, all to himself. And maybe he wants others to know that. Or maybe he really does have a fucked up way of verifying his sources. What matters is this time, it is you. And you’ll be damned if you don’t take advantage of that.

Hands on his stomach, fingers sliding between the ridges of his abs, you thrust. The first jut of friction is tentative. Hiccups of pleasure spark from your bundle of nerves and you wobble over his leg. Chris grabs your waist simply to steady you, and retracts once you regain your balance.

You continue, jaw dropping at the constant surge of satisfaction. Wetness gathers and stains your shorts, making the glide of your hips all the more effortless. One look in his eyes, and you know Chris feels it too. However, that wicked smile of his does not overwhelm his features until you moan.

Strained, frail, the sound cuts over the ruckus of the physicians. The room falls silent as you ground yourself hard against his thigh and release another fraught moan of pure enjoyment. Your hands travel higher on his chest, and you lean forward into him, keen to gain more leverage to arch your back.

Chris catches onto your intentions, his attention all too consumed by the curves of your rear. He grabs your waistband and pulls on it, tightening the fabric to sharpen the friction of the thrusts.

“Fuck!” Your voice breaks from bliss, orgasm already festering in the base of your gut.

It’s all too hot. Face, arms, legs, your skin burns, blood racing, nerves jittering. You need everything off. You need his skin on yours, his body engulfing you with more pleasure, more attention.

Lips quivering, breaths shaky, you sit back. You continue to chase your high while grabbing the hem of your shirt and pulling it off. Your hips don’t miss a beat as you reach back to unclasp your lace bra in a few simple manoeuvres and toss it aside as well.

Chris lowly groans. His eyes flicker between each bouncing breast, hands finally finding their rightful place on your backside. He digs his fingers into the fat of your cheeks and helps you with your final few thrusts.

“Can you go a little faster for me?”

You enthusiastically oblige.

A powerful smack, landing on your left cheek, triggers your most erotic moan, voice laden with submission. He issues another on your right and you whine this time, squeaky and breathless.

Chris leans forward so your breasts bounce against his face. He doesn’t bury his face between them however, eager to watch your face eventually contort in ecstasy.

“Good girl,” he praises. “That’s right, keep looking at me.”

Twisting and turning, your arousal gathers.

“You’re doing so well, riding my thigh just like you promised, yeah?”

His voice is condescending, almost making a mockery of your whimpering. He even momentarily mirrors your rounded eyes and slightly pouty lips, looking up at you tauntingly. So why does it fuel your desire, motivate your hips?

You nod, despite your humiliation, voice whiny as you confess, “I’d do it again too.”

A growl of approval resonates from his chest and into yours. He kneads your cheeks, letting a deep groan of his own escape and collide with yours.

“That’s my good girl,” he affirms. “Don’t stop, darling. You’re almost there.”

Your toes curl, tight in your platform boots. Your eyes roll back, twitching when you throw your head back. Your jaw drops, a loud, shattered moan escaping. You cum between sporadically clenching, pathetically gyrating on his firm thigh.

Chris holds you still, mumbling quiet affirmations between your breasts. He presses wet kisses on each one, pulling you back into him. Draping your arms around his shoulders, you fall limp against him. He moans from his smothered place in the valley of your breasts and rubs soothing circles around your backside.

Head foggy, chest heaving, you let your eyes flutter shut. You know you won’t be staying here for long, either meeting the barrel of his gun or the side of the street. There’s no harm in soaking in this moment then, is there? You pretend he is your boyfriend, issuing tender aftercare as you attempt to collect your sanity. You don’t have to try so hard to keep up the delusion with the way he delicately wraps you in a warm hug and comforts your hammering heart with his lips. He peppers kisses up your collarbone, neck, then jaw before meeting the shell of your ear.

“You know you’re really pretty when you’re cumming,” he teases. “Does your right eye always twitch like that? Or was that just for me?”

You open your eyes, squinting against the brightness of the room. Nuzzling the bridge of your nose under his jawline, you whisper, “Do you really need more convincing, Chris?”

You like the way his name rolls off your tongue.

The widening grin on his face tells you he likes it too. “I might,” he replies.

You tell yourself that it just slips, but you’re only lying again. You just want him to know. You want him to imagine you when he jerks off later, when he pounds that traitor to a bloody pulp, when he’s standing in the ring and winning his fight. You want him to be thankful for your presence tonight. You want him to repeat it over and over, to tell his friends about you.

So, shifting back enough to whisper in his ear, you offer your name.

Chris moves back to meet your gaze. He scans your features, his own a blanket of neutrality.

The weight of your action does not settle upon your shoulders until his eyes meet yours again, and you realise you cannot decipher them. Swallowing thickly, you blink back tears. How could you say that? Vinny just warned you against being this reckless. Your new image is tied to him too. You’ve been running around town, disturbing drugs on his behalf or Viktor’s. And you just offer your name, for what? A second of appreciation from a pretty face?

It’s my life too, Vinny’s voice quietly returns. He reminded you of that not even half an hour ago. Why the fuck would you tell some Stray Kids member your darkest secret? Why would you gamble the lives of your only remaining friends?

“I’m—”

Chris cuts you off with a shake of his head. So, you swallow your words.

He reaches for your shirt and helps you put it on. You don’t have the courage to tell him he forgot your bra. He then gestures for you to stand, and fixes your ruined shorts so they’re not riding up anymore. You watch as he studies the damp spot and clenches his jaw to force back a smile.

“Seungmin,” he calls, standing up and towering over you again.

You wonder how tall he is but know better than to ask now.

Seungmin reports to Chris’s side. Chris nods to your fur coat, “Grab it and escort her to the stands.”

“You’r—”

“Now,” he reaffirms, cutting you off again.

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you accept your coat and follow Seungmin out. You shouldn’t have, but you sneak a glance at the mirror eager to catch his reflection one last time.

Chris’s features harden as he faces Mickey. His fists clench.

Mickey stiffens, all previous irritation dissolving into fear.

The door shuts.

Waves of painted faces and torsos, endless banners, and flashing lights— the arena succumbs to insanity. Roars of chants echo upon the ring announcer’s behest. The thick stench of sweat and spilled beer is what overwhelms you, however. Scrunching your nose in disgust, you try to swallow your nausea.

You wonder how anyone here can stand it, turning back to take a final look at Seungmin. He stands at the doorway, arms crossed, gaze lingering around your rear. His ears flame a hot pink at the realisation he’d been caught.

A lazy smirk plays on your lips. He didn’t get a good enough look before?

Seungmin mutters something to the security guard stationed at the door then hurries back into the hall. You wonder if the guard is a Stray Kids member too. Is the ring announcer? What about the employees behind the stands? Or do they simply work for the gang?

“Runner!” Vinny’s voice cuts through the crowd. You turn at the call of your position, finding him standing on his seat and waving you over.

A relieved smile spreads across your lips. He meets you halfway as you push between rowdy spectators. He takes your hand firmly in his and leads you back to your seats.

“Where the hell were you?” He asks over the commotion.

“It’s complicated.”

Vinny’s face darkens with scepticism. “What the fuck did—”

“Who did you bet on?”

He clenches his jaw. “Matthews,” he practically screams.

So the Sixers are in on it too. You wonder if the gangs are onto Chris, knowing he might be affiliated with Stray Kids, and are working together to bring them down.

“Change it.”

“The bell rings in less than a minute,” Vinny shouts before looking over his shoulder to the front doors. He meets your gaze, uncertainty flooding those cerulean eyes, and mouths, It’s fixed.

You shake your head.

Vinny rolls his eyes shut, teeth grinding. He swallows his anger, knowing he cannot hurl insults right now with such an audience. Unlike you, he knows better than to call attention to himself. Exhaling sharply, he harshly holds your gaze and parts his lips.

Profanities? Threats? You expect both, bracing yourself with a clench of your fists.

But Vinny merely shakes his head in disappointment. He pulls out his phone and begins dialling. While waiting for someone to pick up, he yells, “If I die, I’m going to kill you!”

You suppress a smile and stifle the urge to respond with a joke. You fear you might have reached his limit. You’ve dragged him into your dark vortex of despair, endangering his life again and again. You should reach out to him now, pull him into a tight hug and offer endless apologies. You should have taken the chance he gave you when he called your foster mom, and stayed off the streets. You should have finished high school, applied for colleges outside of the wretched city of Crimson Heights, and never looked back. Instead, you continue to test his patience. 

Side-jobs were simply more lucrative. You have a talent for blending in too, a permanent look of indifference plastered on your face. No one ever suspects some girl, twirling a joint between her fingers, to be running or organising hits on corner stores and local diners.

The first time you held a gun, power ignited through your veins. You carried the weight of life within a bullet, finger teasing the trigger. The first time you pointed it at some store clerk, black ski mask over your face and tongue swirling around a pink lollipop, you felt that stone cold power of metal and powder snake along your spine and caress the nape of your neck.

You rolled your shoulders back, angled your head and smirked.

The clerk soiled himself, hands up in surrender.

You pressed the barrel to his head anyway, boring your wild eyes into his fearful ones.

“Well, this is awkward for you, isn’t it?” you giggled before cocking your gun.

The memory lures a smile. While you didn’t shoot him, provided he was very cooperative, it was fun toying with him.

The lights begin to whirl around the arena, snapping you out of your thoughts. Vinny hangs up the phone, and though the crowd is deafening, you can still hear his heavy, nervous breaths beside you.

All lights converge in the centre of the boxing ring. The cheers increase, crowd buzzing with anticipation. A tall, slender man dressed in a clean, glittering suit enters and takes his place in the middle of the ring. He holds a hand up and waves, encouraging excitement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to The Underground!” He shouts into the microphone. Cameras capture his perfect white smile, projecting the image on the large screens hanging over the ring.

“My name is Jackson Wylder and I will be your ring master this evening. Now, I have an important question for you tonight.” He scans the audience, displays a look of curiosity and asks, “Are you ready to rumble?”

The cheers surge.

“I said,” he starts before darting around the ring, “ARE YOU READY TO RUMBLE?”

You clap your hands over your ears at the thundering roars of the fans. A group of manic men jump behind you, almost pushing you off your seat and onto the spectators in front of you.

Vinny links his arm with yours and pulls you into his side. You turn to give him a thankful look, but he avoids your gaze.

“Tonight, we have a clash of titans!” Jackson continues, turning to point to his left. “In this corner, weighing in at 210 pounds and hailing from our very own, Crimson Heights, give it up for the man who’s always up for a fight— the skilled and tenacious, Aiden Matthews!”

Aiden emerges from a dark hall closest to his corner. He wears a blue silk robe and white gloves, bouncing on his toes as he makes his way through the unruly crowd. They holler at him, either tossing praises or insults, and bump their hands against his fists. He waves his arms up to encourage their hectic energy then finally enters the ring. His coach unfolds a chair and then helps him out of his robe.

Jackson shakes Aiden’s hand. He mutters a few words before returning to the centre of the ring.

“And in the opposite corner, we have a fighter who needs no introduction—” Jackson starts again. A childish smile plays on his lips, like he’s a fan, himself. “A crowd favourite, a sensation, and the undefeated champion who makes every match feel like a blockbuster!” He’s giddy, practically giggling his words. “Standing tall at a staggering 6 feet 9 inches and weighing in at an impressive 215 pounds, please put your hands together for the man who’s taken the boxing world by storm, Christopher ‘The Phantom’ Bahng!”

The roars bellow deep from the crowd as they cheer and chant, “Bahng! Bahng! Bahng!”

Everyone, even Jackson, turns to the front door, waiting for Chris to emerge.

You swallow thickly.

The lights then shift to the other end of the arena.

Your heart already falters at his height. He’s still almost a foot taller than you in your thick platforms. You stand to see him, legs almost giving out when you spot his large figure appear through the back door. But it’s the mess of red lipstick still smeared on his lips, the blood speckled like freckles on his cheeks, and the dark patch on the leg of his shorts that wrings your soul. He didn’t even give you a chance to be grateful that he trusted you, slaughtering your sanity with such a dishevelled look.

Decorated in you, he enters the ring and shakes the hand of a bashful Jackson. No one seems fazed by his appearance. Jealousy pangs your chest at the thought of him being drenched in his past whores, the admittance of his pre-match rituals returning to you.

One look from Vinny might indicate otherwise. He glares at your smudged lipstick.

You roll your eyes and lean into him, too breathless and trembling to fight off his wrath.

“Tonight,” Jackson smiles, raising his hand to redirect the crowd’s attention. “Tonight, we’re in for a spectacular display of skill, heart, and,” he shoots the fans a little wink, “perhaps a bit of humour—because let’s face it, if you can’t have fun while throwing punches, what’s the point?!”

He takes a moment to laugh at his own joke.

You keep your eyes on Chris. Mickey does not unfold his chair and take his robe. Instead a shorter, just as muscled, man does. He gives Chris a weary look, of which Chris ignores, and squirts some water in his mouth.

You force yourself not to focus on the droplets that drip from his pouted, stained lips.

“This is not just a fight, folks,” Jackson informs with a raise of his brows. “No, no! This is a showdown!”

He lets the crowd go crazy before continuing, “Aiden Matthews is ready to prove that he’s a force to be reckoned with, but Christopher Bahng,” he turns to his favourite star and grins, “has captured the hearts of fans everywhere. Can Aiden dethrone the giant, or will Bahng continue his reign of dominance?”

You suck in a shaky breath and blow it out. You fill your lungs of tainted sweat-slick air, fighting the urge to gag, and release it once more. Looking around the arena, you swallow the growing lump in your throat. All these fans have come to watch Chris win, and have no idea that he almost died.

“So, buckle up, ladies and gents! Keep your drinks close, your snacks handy, and your eyes glued to the ring! It’s time to witness boxing history unfold right before our eyes!” Jackson’s eyes twinkle with astonishment and wonder. He holds his arms out and turns in a slow circle. “Are you ready for this showdown?” He asks as if truly probing for a personal answer.

“Let’s get ready to rumble!”

Mouth guards in, both fighters stand.

Aiden, while built and tall in his own right, looks like an ant compared to Chris. He pounds his fists together and grunts to assert his dominance. He bounces on his toes and shoots Chris his most menacing glare.

Chris flashes a lazy smile. He rolls his shoulders back and holds his fists up. He peers over his gloves at Aiden like a predator stalking its prey.

The bell rings.

“And here we go, folks! Round 1 is officially underway! Aiden Matthews is looking to prove himself against the undefeated giant, Christopher Bahng!” Jackson comments ringside.

Aiden cautiously circles the ring with Chris. He maintains a safe distance, the heat of his gaze wavering under Chris’s relaxed stance. Testing the waters, he tries his luck with a quick jab.

Chris has the height advantage, however, effortlessly leaning back to dodge. The punch barely grazes the air before him.

Aiden narrows his eyes.

“Ooo,” Jackson hisses. “So close!”

The crowd laughs, almost as one, before splitting between chants for each boxer.

Aiden, eager to recover, steps in quickly, unleashing a flurry of body shots aimed at Chris’s midsection.

You hold your breath and tighten your grip on Vinny’s arm.

But, Chris doesn't flinch. His arms, long and strong, keep Aiden at bay with precise blocks. The controlled ease of Chris’s movements highlight Aiden’s childish, tantrum-like fighting style. You can’t help wondering how the fuck Aiden made it this far. Perhaps other boxers can’t track the chaotic jabs as well as Chris does. Maybe they didn’t even try.

“Matthews is coming in hot, throwing quick combos, but Bahng is as cool as ice—deflecting every shot with ease!”

Chris, ever patient, waits for an opening. He keeps his elbows tucked in, movements minimal, letting Aiden expend energy. He evades each punch with swift swerves of his head, taking small steps back. Even hunched, crouched inwards, his frame still looms large over Aiden.

The majority of the crowd now chants Chris’s name, flooding the arena with jittery admiration.

Like a trigger, fast and smooth, Chris snaps forward with a sharp jab. The blow lands against Aiden’s guard, but the sheer strength of it forces him back.

“Bahng with the first real strike of the night!” Jackson shouts.

Aiden’s eyes widen. He finally feels the power, you realise, and his gaze floods with fear.

Jackson tosses the crowd a giddy look and gushes,“That jab was like a freight train!”

The crowd clamours with laughter in agreement.

You catch a ghost of a smile hovering over Chris’s lips. Is it insane that you find him even more attractive when he’s menacingly playful? An image of his face inches from yours, that same impression of a smile unable to settle on his lips, surfaces. Those feline eyes, teasing, daring, coaxing you to ride him.

You bite your lip and refocus your attention on the match.

Aiden resets and presses on. He bobs and weaves to avoid Chris’s long reach. Ducking low, he slips inside Chris’s defence to unleash a rapid combination of punches to the torso and a hook aimed at the chin.

Chris blocks the body blows then, all too calmly for someone being beat up, rolls with the hook, avoiding the brunt of it. That sinister smirk settles, oh so cunningly, curving the corners of his lips. Without delay, Chris counters with an uppercut from the right, the snap of his arms swift and steady.

Aiden only just manages to block it in time, but the impact leaves him rattled. He stumbles back with a loud grunt. Wheezing and regaining his footing, his eyes betray him, glowing with newfound respect for his towering opponent.

In awe, Jackson remarks, “Bahng is a mountain of patience—waiting for just the right moment to strike! Matthews is going to have to dig deep if he’s going to find a way in!”

You glance at the final seconds of the first round, glowing red above the ring. Less than thirty seconds remain.

Aiden, perhaps knowing he has to make a statement, launches a last-ditch effort. He levels a heavy left hook aimed at Chris’s side, almost mirroring the speed Chris recently displayed.

But Chris, as if seeing it in slow motion, smoothly side steps.

You gasp with the crowd.

He counters with a punishing fist aimed at Aiden’s temple. The punch connects cleanly, the crowd choking on their cheers. The thick sound echoes between the staggered shouts, twisting your stomach with unease.

Aiden stumbles towards the ropes, using their stability to keep himself standing.

The bell rings before Chris can issue another attack.

Jackson steps back into the ring. He eyes Aiden with wide eyes before sharing a look with the audience. “What a way to end the first round!” He laughs. “Bahng’s precision is something to behold, and Aiden Matthews has already felt the sting of that power! Can I get…”

The rest of his words fade as you fixate your attention on the boxers. Aiden returns to his corner with a shuffle of his feet. He’s drenched in sweat, face red and eyes tired. His coach wipes his face then squeezes some water into his mouth.

Chris leisurely walks to his seat. He wipes nose with his arm as he sits. Composed, unbothered, he stares his opponent down.

Aiden shifts in place.

You can’t help but do the same.

You’ve been wanting to leave since the fourth round.

You thought it was over when Chris landed an uppercut so sharp, you swear you heard Aiden’s jaw shatter. You watched as his eyes rolled back and he met the floor with a loud, echoing thump. Aiden’s team flinched, leering over the ropes only to be scolded by the referee.

Chris’s eyes gleamed with something ominous, standing over Aiden’s limp body. He tilted his head and tongued his cheek, lips heavy with the impression of a smirk. He doesn’t merely look proud, but gratified. You wondered at the time if he loves the splitting sound of a bone breaking just as much as you love the chambering click of a loaded gun.

But the crowd remained in the arena. Vinny gave you a reassuring look as if silently telling you it won’t be much longer, and the fifth round commenced.

Jackson returns ringside now, two more rounds later, announcing after the signal of the bell, “Round seven, folks, and this has been an all-out war! Aiden Matthews has been relentless, but Christopher Bahng’s defence is like a fortress!”

The crowd roars as Aiden and Chris step toward the centre of the ring again. Aiden, slick with sweat, jabs at the air, his face tense and determined. Chris, towering over him with his eyes ever so calm and calculating, bounces lightly on his feet.

As the audience resumes their chants for Chris, Aiden charges forward. He jabs with considerable speed and aggression. His punches are fast but painstakingly desperate. It’s almost embarrassing to witness, and you’re not even a fighter.

One glance at Chris and you catch his mask of cool flicker with hushed notions of pity, as if feeling sorry for his opponent. You scan his fighting stance, devouring his toned body with your eyes. His skin gleams with sweat and blotches of forming bruises. His left cheek holds a patch of purple; right brow split.

You swallow thickly, watching his muscles twist as he effortlessly weaves. He slips left, right, then ducks under an all too wide hook.

“Stay still, you fucker!” Aiden orders through gritted teeth, the microphones hovering over the ring catching every spit-splattered syllable.

Chris faintly smiles, eyes locking on Aiden's. He moves just enough to miss another jab by mere inches, dancing around the ring like he has all the time in the world. He then jumps high, resembling a kangaroo, once, twice, only to circle the ring again.

The buzzing energy of the crowd grows, their cheers building as if Chris’s little gesture is any indication of a shift in the round.

The screens cut to Jackson. He swallows thickly as his eyes track Chris’s movements then comments,“Matthews is giving it everything he’s got, but Bahng…” he takes a moment to let out a whistle, “Bahng is like a ghost out there! Just out of reach!”

Aiden presses harder, frustration creeping in as he tries to close the distance. He throws heavy hooks and uppercuts.

You almost scoff, wondering why he hasn’t learned yet. His efforts are useless against someone as skilled as Chris. Truly a phantom in the ring, Chris’s footwork is flawless, always just a step ahead, and he barely reacts.

He then ever so slightly adjusts his stance, leaving an opening wide for Aiden to pounce.

You furrow your brows.

Jackson voices his concern too, narrowing his eyes. “Is Bahng showing weakness?” He asks as if he cannot believe it himself. Then his eyes widen. “Matthews sees it—he’s going for it!”

Aiden lunges forward, hurling all his power into a swift right hook toward the exposed side.

However, as steady as his opponent commits to the punch, Chris sidesteps with speed that rivals lightning, and counters with a sharp left jab that snaps Aiden’s head back.

You stand again with Vinny, both gasping with the crowd. A hand flies to your mouth as you watch Aiden stagger back.

“OH!” Jackson beams, “Bahng saw that coming from a mile away!”

Chris is relentless. He moves in smoothly, landing a quick, precise combination—jab, cross, uppercut—that sends Aiden stumbling backward.

Aiden’s guard falters.

Chris steps forward. He drives a thunderous right hook straight into Aiden’s gut.

Aiden gasps for air, the force buckling.

Chris, collected and focused, steps back, allowing Aiden a moment to gather himself.

Your eyes widen at the pacifying gesture, wondering what he has to gain by giving his opponent a chance to strike again.

All thoughts cease within seconds as Chris feints an attack. It draws Aiden’s guard up high only for Chris to slip low and deliver a devastating body blow, placed perfectly under the ribs.

Aiden groans, dropping to a knee. The air is completely knocked out of him.

The referee stands over his kneeling frame, counting, “One!”

The crowd erupts with excitement, some jumping as they cheer for Chris, while others remain shackled in disbelief as Aiden tries to regain his strength.

“Two.”

Jackson is rocking in place, jittery with joy as he enthuses,“Bahng is not just beating Matthews—he’s outthinking him! Every move is a step ahead, like he’s reading Aiden’s mind!”

“Three.”

Aiden is wobbly, but pulls himself back to his feet. He shakes his head, attempting to refocus. You suppose that Jackson’s comment must have struck a cord because Aiden looks as though he is done thinking. He lunges again, impulsive and messy.

Chris is undeterred by the chaos Aiden becomes, this time feinting a right cross.

Aiden’s guard flies to the right. Then, Chris pivots and delivers a clean left hook to his temple.

“What a move!”Jackson praises. “Bahng’s precision is surgical!”

Aiden collapses against the ropes.

Chris steps back, watching, waiting.

The stillness of Aiden’s muscular frame worries the referee. He steps in, leaning by Aiden’s side to get a better look.

The camera pans over his swollen, bloody face. You cringe.

The referee stands back to his full height to wave his arms, calling, “It’s over! It’s over!”

The crowd explodes into catastrophic cheers upon the referee’s decree.

Chris raises his gloves in triumph and pride. While he is well within his right to gloat, and perhaps has done so before based on the fact that you know he likes to show off, he remains composed. The only emotion hinting towards elation is in the lightness of his gaze as he looks around the arena at his fans. He nods to them, lips finally curving into a smile.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was shy.

Jackson returns to the centre of the ring. He gestures his hands towards Chris, encouraging the howls of the crowd. “Christopher Bahng has done it again!” He says, smiling fondly at Chris. “Not just with power, not just with speed, but with pure brilliance in this ring. He’s shown everyone why he’s the undefeated champion!”

You don’t get a chance to revel at the sight of Chris stiffening as Jackson holds his arms out wide for a hug. Vinny tugs on your arm instead, nodding his head towards the exit. You keep your arms linked and stay close as he pushes between the manic crowd for you.

“Explain yourself,” Vinny orders the moment you’re back on the street.

You look over your shoulder at the entrance of the arena, then whisper, “Not here.”

Vinny rolls his eyes but starts walking towards your apartment. After three blocks of silence, he says, “Talk.”

“I was looking for yo—”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he seethes, cutting you off. “How the fuck did you know Matthews would lose? It’s been fixed for the last week.”

“Just listen to me,” you plead, raising your voice. “When I was waiting for you in the alley, I heard some things.”

Vinny shoots you a nervous look.

You continue, “One of those things was that there were back halls that go around the entire arena. I really was looking for you in there, Vinny. You left me to fend for myself and those people were hard to squeeze through. So, I found one of the doors. And— listen, I know you’re gonna be mad at me, but I really thought it would be easier this way.”

His face falls into disappointment. “You lied.”

“I lied,” you confess, avoiding his gaze as you continue down the street. “I told the guy at the door that Chris—”

“You call him Chris?” Vinny interrupts, voice heavy with astonishment.

“Well—”

Vinny cuts you off with your name and a shake of his head. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he humorlessly chuckles. “No one but his inner circle calls him Chris. What the fuck did you do?”

“I told the guy at the door that I was his prostitute. It was only supposed to get me in so I could find you.”

“You didn’t,” Vinny says. Upon the guilty look in your eyes, he closes his own and sighs, “You fucked him?”

“Not exactly,” you hesitantly correct. “He’s really hot, okay? And he was really nice to me, and I don’t know if you know this,” you sarcastically start. “But not many people have been lately.”

Vinny offers you a vulgar gesture.

You roll your eyes. “I just told him what I heard and he needed convincing.”

“You fucked him,” Vinny concludes.

“Do you think I would be able to walk right now if I did?”

You try not to laugh as Vinny’s features coil in disgust. Parting your lips, you’re about to tell him that it doesn’t matter now. Chris is fine, the Sixers didn’t lose a dime and you can finally get that bath you have been craving earlier this evening.

However, the shriek of tires pierce through the silent night instead.

Vinny reaches for his gun, pushing you behind him. You go to grab your own only to remember you don’t have one. The switchblade will have to do if running is not an option.

A black van speeds down the street, darting past you to swerve onto the sidewalk and block your path. Seungmin jumps out of the passenger seat. Icy-hair and another tall, dark haired man, whose features remarkably resemble that of a fox, emerge from the back.

Vinny cocks his gun.

“Wait,” you shout, stepping between them. You hold your hands up, giving Vinny your most reassuring look. “I know them,” you explain.

Looking amongst the intruders, Vinny furrows his brows and asks, “How?”

“They’re Chris’s friends,” you reply, quietly adding, “I think.”

Vinny glares. “You think?”

“Walk away,” a deep voice orders.

Icy-hair steps forward with a gun of his own. However, he is not aiming it at Vinny.

You deadpan. “Did he tell you to do this? God, is he always this dramatic?”

“Tell me about it,” Seungmin mutters, then nods towards the van. “Get in.”

Turning to Vinny, you offer him a small, assuring smile. “I’m fine, Vin. Just go.”

Vinny scoffs, narrowing his eyes in disbelief at you. “He has a gun to your head.”

“Chris is an egoistic, attention-seeker,” you dismiss. “If they wanted to shoot me, they would have done so already.”

“How can you be sure?” Vinny shouts.

Chk chk boom, you think. Your brains would have already been splattered on the sidewalk.

Nodding behind him, you repeat, “Go. I’ll call you later.”

Vinny shakes his head, clenching his jaw and directing his frustrated gaze to the ground. As if wrestling his intuition, he resentfully lowers and uncocks his gun. He takes another look around at the men, swallowing thickly.

You wonder if they know he’s trying to memorise their faces. You wonder if they care.

“If you die,” Vinny says, voice wavering. “I will kill you.”

You suppress a laugh, tightening your lips. “Good.”

He breaths a baffled chuckle, gives you one final look, then forces himself to walk away

You turn to face the others, or at least you’re in the process of turning.

A black bag slips over your head. Arms pulled back, hands bound, you attempt to struggle against their grip. Too slow, your squirming does not distract them. Someone hooks their arms under your shoulders, another scoops up your legs. Heart pounding, you release a searing scream, attempting to wrangle your way out of their grasp. You kick and try to flail your arms, grunting as you fight against their hold. The three men look strong, but they are nothing compared to Chris. You doubt only two of them can maintain their grip this well when you feel another set of hands, then another.

Vinny shouts your name.

Your body is tossed into the back. You land with a loud groan, cursing at the impact of the pain.

He shouts your name again, the hard stomp of his feet echoing in the street.

A bullet sounds.

No, no, no—

“No!” You desperately scream. “Vinny!”

Tears gather in your eyes. This is all your fault. It goes beyond sticking your nose in business you had no right knowing. Since that day he found you back on the streets, hustling scammers out of their well-stolen money, you have dragged Vinny into your hole of reckless misfortune. You asked him to bail you out of one too many fuck-ups, forcing him to further implicate himself in your thoughtless schemes, often against the advice and support of his gang. He has risked his reputation, relationships, money, his good fucking sense, all in the name of childhood friendship.

And how do you repay him?

With a bullet.

Lip quivering, you ask between sobs, “Did you shoot him?”

You never deserved kindness. You never deserved freedom. You never even deserved compassion.

You are a tornado of vile anguish, a chaotic force of impulse and betrayal. You are a waste of space, your very existence is a curse set upon your parents. You should have known as much when the universe tore them away. You are not worthy of connections— all your friends withering in the wake of your misfortune.

What compelled you to believe that Chris would be any different? He might have been devastatingly beautiful and the look in his eyes might have continuously hinted at something tragically scarred. His kisses might have breathed new life into your soul, hands might have cradled every nightmare to rest. But he is still a victim of your calamity. You should have known a good feeling never lasts.

The back door slides shut. The engine revs, jolting the van into motion.

“Did you fucking shoot him?” You cry, voice breaking as a sob overwhelms you. “Vinny!”

Please forgive me, you want to scream.

“Shut up!” Someone shouts over you. You move to kick the speaker only for someone to grab hold of your ankles and bind them together too.

“He shot at us.” The same speaker clarifies. “And he has terrible aim for a self-appointed hero.”

Relief washes over you, ice-cold upon your trembling bones. You lean back, embracing the pain of the awkward position of your hands under you.

“He told us to knock her out,” Seungmin says, voice slightly distant. He must have returned to his place in the front seat.

“He did?” Icy-hair’s deep voice replies.

“I don’t think so,” someone else adds.

You lay limp amongst the shuffling of movements, ignoring their argument, too lost in thought to care. Though Vinny is alive, it does not alter the epiphany that has just dawned upon you— You inevitably ruin anyone foolish enough to come too close.

The edge of the bag lifts and a damp cloth presses against your mouth.

You embrace the darkness.

PART II ➡︎

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[overall-imagopedia]

Marciano or Ali?

[kbwrites]

Collision Course

synopsis: Ryomen Sukuna, heavyweight champion and your ex-boyfriend gets a wake up call when he is injured for the first time during a fight.

⚝content: boxer!Sukuna x f!reader, reader is a physiotherapist, slight angst, nsfw, choking, Toji beating Sukuna's ass bc I said so

⚝wc: 2.4k

⚝a/n: working on the requests I've gotten in the past month. This one was fun!

Ryomen Sukuna, the heavyweight champion of the world, stood in the center of the ring, his piercing gaze locked onto his opponent his focus was razor-sharp, body coiled like a spring. The crowd’s roar surged around him, but his eyes were fixed on one man—Toji Fushiguro, his gaze dark and unreadable. This wasn’t just a match—it was a reckoning, a confrontation years in the making.

The bell rang, and the arena erupted. Ryomen moved like a predator, his punches fast and lethal. But Toji met every strike with equal force, counters precise, his movements a dance of calculated power. Each round was a brutal display of skill, neither willing to back down, the anticipation in the crowd building with every punch.

Then, in the eighth round, it happened. Sukuna, sensing victory within reach, unleashed a devastating hook aimed at Toji’s jaw. His muscles coiled with the familiar rush of adrenaline, a primal drive to end the fight. But Toji, with an unsettling calm, sidestepped the attack with almost supernatural precision. In that split second of realization, Sukuna's heart pounded, the moment feeling like slow motion. With a swift sidestep, he avoided the blow and delivered a crushing punch directly to Sukuna’s shoulder. The sound of the impact was sickening—a sharp crack that seemed to echo through the arena. Pain flared instantly, his arm falling limp as he staggered back, the once unbreakable champion now vulnerable.

The crowd’s roar turned into a collective gasp. He gritted his teeth, the realization dawning that he was injured—seriously so.

The world spun, a dizzying blur of lights and colors. The roar of the crowd was a distant murmur. His mind struggled to make sense of the situation, the sharp sting of defeat sinking in as he replayed the moment Toji’s punch landed.  That scar-faced grin, a haunting image in the corner of his mind, lingered as he was wheeled through the narrow corridor.

This wasn’t happening. It had to be some nightmare. But it wasn’t… Ryomen, the undefeated champion–had been defeated.

The doors to the medical suite swing open, and your eyes see something they'd never dreamed of. Ryomen Sukuna on a stretcher, holding his shoulder as his face contorted in pain. You walked over to him, helping the medic team move him to a table.

As Sukuna settled onto the table, his gaze met yours you glanced at him with a wry smile and said, “I thought you said you don’t lose.”

He grins through the pain, his normal confidence shining through. 

“You know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ

It was never going to work. That’s what you told yourself. He was in a different world from you completely, one full of glitz and glory, a realm of raw power and relentless ambition. You had tried to convince yourself that the divide was too vast, that his world and yours were irreconcilable. But every night, as you laid next to him, it all seemed to blur, if only for a moment.

The clock ticked past midnight, you sat on the counter of your apartment’s kitchen. Eating the cup noodles as you swung your feet lazily. He had sworn he would be home early, that tonight would be different, that he’d finally make time for you amidst his whirlwind schedule.

And yet here you were. Waiting for him. Again.

The sudden clatter of keys and the turn of the doorknob sliced through the silence of your apartment. You rolled your eyes, finishing the last of your ramen with a resigned sigh.

The door swung open, and Sukuna walked in, his presence as commanding as ever. Without missing a beat, he headed straight for the kitchen where you sat. His gaze softened slightly as he approached, a smirk playing on his lips. Without hesitation, he reached for you, his lips descending toward yours in a kiss that was supposed to bridge the gap his absence had created. But as his lips neared, you caught the sharp tang of alcohol on his breath.

You pulled back just slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing your face. “You’re late,” you said, your tone a mixture of frustration and fatigue.

Ryomen, still maintaining his confident demeanor, shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Had a long night,” he said bluntly, his voice laced with a casual charm that only made your blood boil.

Without a word, you slipped off the counter and turned away, heading towards the living room. The anger you had tried to suppress now surged to the surface, and you could feel your pulse quickening with every step.

The pink-haired boxer followed, his irritation rising as he caught up to you. “What’s the problem now?” he demanded, his voice sharp.

You keep walking, refusing to face him “There’s no problem.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “Don’t play games with me.” He warns.

You met his gaze, the space between you crackling with tension. “I’m not playing games.” you shot back, your voice tight.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing with anger. “What do you want from me, woman? You think I can just drop everything and cater to your every whim?”

His crimson eyes bore into yours, you felt the beat of your heart in your chest. He closed the gap, your chest pressing against his broad one.

“I’m tired.” You grit your teeth, glaring up at your boyfriend.

“If you’re so tired of this, then why the hell are you still here waiting for me?”

His proximity and the rawness of his gaze made your heart pound even harder. The tension between you was palpable, the argument morphing. Without thinking, you closed the gap between you, your lips crashing into his with a fervor born of frustration and longing.

Sukuna responded with equal passion, his grip on you tightening as he deepened the kiss. The fight in his touch gave way to an urgent need, the argument transforming into a fierce, all-consuming embrace. The anger, the pain, and the desire all melded together, creating a storm of emotion that swept over both of you.

You walk backward to your bed, the back of your knees hitting the bed frame. Ryomen’s larger frame pushed you onto the bed, trapping you between his arms. He was rough in the ring—even rougher in bed.

His lips left your now bruised ones, moving immediately to your neck. His teeth leaving small bites along your pulse point—tongue darting out to soothe the pain. Your soft moans and whimpers echo in his ears. He rolls his hips into yours, his erection grinding against the growing wet spot in your panties.

“F-fuck… Ryo” You breathe as he unclasped your bra. His mouth latches to your nipple, expert tongue swirling around the swollen bud. His eyes flutter shut as he loses himself in your chest.

Rough hands roam your body, touch setting your skin ablaze.

Ryomen tugs your panties to the side, thick finger gathering your slick before plunging into your sopping wet cunt. He pumps in and out, mouth switching to your other nipple as his digits explore your gummy walls.

“S-shitshitshit Ryomennn~” You whine as your back arches into him. He picks up the pace, fingers scissoring inside of you as your hole clenched around him. He releases your nipple, burying his head into the crook of your neck.

“Heh… thought you were tired.” His voice rumbles against your skin. If you weren’t so close to cumming you would’ve cussed his ass out but–

With an expert curl of his finger your vision goes hazy as you cum on his fingers. Not even giving you a minute to recover, he replaces his thick digits with the fat head of his cock.

He slides his throbbing length up and down your folds, tip kissing your clit before pushing into your tight entrance.

“Oh fuucckkk.” You whine as the stretch causes tears to prick your eyes. Ryomen hooks your legs over his broad shoulders. He reaches between your bodies to rub your clit, slow deliberate circles as his thick member is swallowed by your walls. He lets out a low groan as he bottoms out.

“Think you can… keep this fuckin’ pussy from me?” He mumbles slamming into your cunt, heavy balls slapping against your ass as he moves your legs from his shoulders to your ears. He loved folding you in half. You loved it too.

His pace was relentless, you felt every vein of his cock brush against your gummy walls. He always made you feel deliciously full. His large hand wraps around your neck, pressing gently on the sides.

“C-close Ryo–” You choke out.

“Oh yeah?” He smirks, feeling you flutter around him. He fucks you through your orgasm, reveling in the way your body writhed and shook underneath him. He felt the tightening in his balls as he pulled out. He removed his hand from your neck, wrapping it tightly around his cock.

He pumped a few times, thick ropes of hot cum decorated your stomach. His now sensitive tip smearing it around your tummy. Your chest heaves as your try to catch your breath, his crimson eyes raking over you. How delicious you looked out of breath–covered in his seed.

After wiping you down he lays next to you, resting his back against the headboard.  You turned onto your side, gaze tracing the lines of your boyfriend's face. His gaze fixed on you with tired eyes. Even now, in the quiet aftermath, that world tugged at him, pulling him away from you, bit by bit. You could feel it in the way he looked at you, a mix of weariness and resignation as if he knew this moment was fleeting, a brief respite before he had to dive back into the chaos that always seemed to follow him.

You reached out, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. For a brief moment, his gaze softened. His hand covered yours, warm and reassuring.

“You checkin’ my vitals doc?” he teased, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. But even that couldn’t mask the exhaustion in his voice.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” You question softly, he would never tell you the truth–you knew this. But all the late nights, the endless grind—it would catch up to him eventually. He didn’t answer, just closed his eyes, his larger hand tightening over yours.

And as if on cue, the buzz of his phone shattered the fragile peace, pulling him away from you once more. He let out a sigh, grabbing the phone from the nightstand.

“I’ve got to go,” he muttered, voice flat as he moved to the edge of the bed.

You blinked, the sudden shift jarring. “What? Why? It’s the middle of the night.”

He sighed, grabbing his jacket. “Uraume needs me to make an appearance. Some sponsor event they couldn’t reschedule.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him to stay, but the words caught in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion. You were so tired—tired of fighting, tired of being second to everything else in his life. Instead, you just watched him get dressed, the silence between you stretching thin.

“Go, do what you have to do.” you finally said, your voice barely above a whisper. ”

Sukuna paused, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual, as if he wanted to say something. But he didn’t. Instead, he nodded and turned away, leaving you alone with the cold emptiness that settled in his absence.

It was never going to work. That’s what you kept telling yourself.

𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ𖥔 ִ ་  ، ˖ ࣪  ་  ˖  ʿ

The memory faded, leaving behind a dull ache in your chest. You blinked, pulling yourself back to the present. Ryomen looked up at you from the examination table, his crimson eyes still holding that same piercing intensity.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you focused on his injury, your hands moving with practiced precision. Despite your efforts to detach, to keep things strictly professional, you couldn’t ignore the way his gaze followed your every move or the subtle tension in his jaw.

“You must be loving this, huh? Seeing me like this.” His tone was harsh, almost daring you to pity him, his arrogance a brittle shield against the humiliation gnawing at him.

“I know you better than those people out there–you’re gonna be fine.” You say calmly.

He chuckles dryly. “You might be the only one that thinks that right now.”

A moment of quiet settled over the medical suite as you continued your examination. The soft hum of the lights overhead and the occasional shuffle of your movements were the only sounds breaking the tense silence. You carefully touched his shoulder, feeling for the extent of the damage.

Sukuna winced, his face momentarily contorting with the sharp flare of pain. His breathing grew shallow, and he looked away, clearly trying to mask his discomfort behind a mask of indifference.

“You've torn your rotator cuff,” you said, your voice steady despite the weight of the news. You could see the frustration in his eyes, the pride that struggled to keep his embarrassment at bay.

“Rotator cuff?” he repeated, his tone a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“Yes,” you confirmed, examining the area with a practiced touch. “It’s a significant injury, but with proper treatment and rehabilitation, you’ll recover. It’ll take some time and effort, but it’s manageable.”

Sukuna’s jaw tightened, and he clenched his teeth, trying to hide the strain. “Great,” he muttered, his voice taut with frustration. “Just what I needed.”

He looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and reluctant admiration.

“I was… an ass to you.” He mumbles.

“You were.” your tone matter-of-fact.

“Alright...” He warned, taking a deep breath.

“If I’m going to be stuck with this damn injury, I might as well have someone who knows what they’re doing handling it.”

He gave you a sideways glance, a mix of challenge and an unspoken request in his eyes. Despite his bravado, there was a trace of acknowledgment in his words, an unspoken plea for your help.

As you nodded, accepting his challenge with a wry smile, a familiar ache settled in your chest. You knew, deep down, that no matter how many times you tried to distance yourself, you could never really be done with him. The stubborn part of you that cared too much, that felt the pull of his presence like gravity, couldn’t quite let go.

“Let’s get you back in the ring.”

[heich0e]

just saw talk of boxer au!gojo on twitter and i fear now i'm thinking about satoru—undefeated in his weight class, a sensation in the sport—gearing up for a fight against a fighter from the underground scene, ryomen sukuna, who's known to have seedy connections and to not fight fair. his opponents often end up hospitalized, or mysteriously retiring after his matches—and there are rumours that some meet even more sinister fates.

and you show up at gojo's training gym one night, long after the rest of his team has gone home and find him in the practice ring just laying on his back, his mitts tucked under his head like a pillow, asleep and totally at peace. you hesitate, not sure if you should disturb him, but eventually climb up onto the elevated platform of the ring. you slip through the ropes like you have a hundred—maybe a thousand—times before, and approach him quietly as not to wake him.

he strikes when you're within arm's reach, moving faster than you could ever hope to dodge even if you did anticipate it, and before you know it you're toppling down on top of him as he uses his body to break your fall—two strong arms cradling you to his bare chest.

"you weren't sleeping," you grumble into his neck sullenly, and you feel his chest lift with a laugh. "you tricked me."

"had to, otherwise you might've tried to run away." his hands pat down along your spine, then up over your shoulder blades, holding you tight. "couldn't risk that when you haven't been answering any of my calls."

he lets you pull away but only barely—just enough room to use his chest to push yourself up and look at him, but his hands on your hips keep you pinned in place where you straddle him. when you look down at him, at his pretty face and his bright eyes and the soft smile he always shows you, you feel like you might start crying again—just like the last time you were in this very gym a week prior. the gym whose route you could walk in your sleep, whose walls you have memorized with his name and trophies displayed proudly everywhere you look. Gojo. Gojo. Gojo. the same way the crowds at his fights chant for him and his triumph.

gojo—a name as familiar to you as it is foreign. it's his, but it's not. because the boy below you, staring up at you with that same lovesick expression you've never seen waver, will never be anything to you but satoru. means everything to you as satoru.

"it's not too late," you whisper, reaching up with a shaking hand and running your fingertips along the blush that sits high on his cheeks. "you can still call off the fight, there's still time."

satoru's expression shifts for a moment, so brief you may have missed it if you didn't know him so well. there's a flash of something behind his eyes that reads unmistakably like guilt. he dons a facade of petulance to mask it, his lip pursing in an exaggerated pout.

"i can't believe my own good luck charm doesn't think i can win against some loser," he whines, turning his face and nosing against the palm that was cupping his cheek.

it's not true. you believe in satoru unwaveringly, you know his skill and his abilities. your faith in him is, and always has been, implicit. it's his opponent you don't trust.

it's what the fight might cost him, regardless of the outcome, that terrifies you.

"hey."

your eyes focus again, and you meet satoru's gaze below you. he lifts his hand, cupping yours��so much smaller in comparison—underneath as he holds your touch against his face, pressing a kiss to your palm.

it's so impossibly still in the gym with everyone else gone, but everything about it is known to you. is wholly familiar. the dim fluorescents, the smell that lingers in the air, the hum of the fans, the sound of satoru's breath.

"stop worrying, okay?" he whispers against your skin, kissing your palm again to punctuate the request. "there's no way i'm gonna lose. i'm the strongest, after all."

and there's familiarity in those words too, since he's said them to you more times than you could ever hope to keep track of.

but this time they just don't seem to reassure you the same way.

[bleuside97]

Licking Your Wounds

paring: boxer!jk x fem!reader

genre: jealous boyfriend

summary: Jungkook wins his boxing match so y/n gives him his special prize.

warnings: smut, jungkook eats y/n out in his dressing room, cussing, he dominant ash, he smirks like 71682 times, JK is such a flirt, jungkook is a simp for y/n

The huge arena fills with a roar as the crowd goes wild for the one and only Jeon Jungkook. Worldview Champion with a legacy of being 19 times undefeated. Everyone loves him. The crowd cheers for Jungkook, another win, leaving his opponent on the floor of the ring. The referee blows his whistle and gestures with this hands the fight was over. He raises Jungkook's right arm above his head clearing victory. Triumph he looks to the crowd all giddy and coy. The winner smiles at the crowd giving a respectful bow to the crowd, referee, then to his opponent. Thanking him and sure to shake his hand in all respects.

He makes sure he was fine before walking out of the ring. Walking down the steps to his manager massaging his shoulders. Praising him for another win. He doesn't seem to care too much for the praise. But he was looking for you backstage. And there you were within the sidle lines waiting for him to praise him along with his team. Cheering him on he walks towards you. He smirked and turned your way, winking.

He wiped his bloody nose and the sweat dripped down his forehead. “That win was for you, y/n.” He panted out of breath. His team rushed to cool him off with a mini fan and towels wiping off the sweat of his body. He sits in a chair to rest himself after the match as the members tend to him. His mind unable to think straight. So much happening at once. His thoughts can't help but remain on the incident that happened earlier that day. Jungkook caught you speaking to another guy backstage. In his mind he thinks that guy was making a move on you. In reality, you guys were only talking about the success of your boyfriend. Unfocused eyes he scolds, "I'm still not happy because of that guy flirting with you." He cocks an eyebrow at you waiting for your answer.

"You're way too jealous for your own good." You chuckled, grabbing his cheeks and pressing a long kiss to his lips. Pulling away you take one of your hands to scrunch his sweaty shirtless pecs.

"And you're way too stunning to be on your own." He smirked out playfully, he bites his lip looking down at you. while you admiring my six-pack abs that he's been working hard on. He pushes his tongue to his inner cheek, cockily. Pulling you up, he wrapped my free arm around your body. "Come with me."

You take his free hand without hesitation. "Where are we going, Jk?" Y/n uses one of the many nicknames given to him, her favorite was Jk commonly used but sweet and meaningful to her lover.

"We are going to my dressing room, babe." He smirked back. Dragging y/n to his dressing room. Finally arriving in the room he makes sure she gets in first before he does, slamming the door behind him. His back aggressively hits the door then his hand. He closes his eyes shaking his head. Y/n only stands in front of him. Goggling at his bare chest, heave up and down. Her eyes make their way down to his big arms. Right arm filled with beautiful tattoos. While the other one is bare. Then his hands, his big vainy hands. She loves his fingers especially. She needs his fingers.

He notices your staring and pulls you closer towards him, caressing your sides while pulling you along, your faces only a few inches apart. "And I got ... reward for you." You mumbled out, smirking. "I suppose we got some celebrating to do, congrats on winning, I knew you could do it!" His wanting hands caressing you in all the right places. His sweat beading down the ends of his hair and forehead down to his abs. You watched the sweat drip all the way down to his chest. You happily smirked thinking of all the things you want him to do to her.

He couldn't control himself. The rush of the fight along with your looks made it hard to keep his hands to himself."How about some more .. celebration?" He mumbled out, smirking. Jungkook pushed your back against the wall, his lips on yours as he pressed up against you. Your back only ached for a few seconds consumed by the pleasure Jungkook was giving you.

Jungkook began to slip off your shirt. By the hem of it pulling it over your head. Discarding it somewhere on the couch. You bite your bottom lip as Jungkook takes off your clothes. Taking a moment to admire, his eyes locked with yours. He smirked and slowly began to kiss your neck. The feeling of him leaving mouth kisses all on your neck makes you feral. The room was filled with your giggles. The giggles were a sign for him to step it up. His pink lips, soft, but full, was kissing and sucking at your neck. "Don't leave a hickey this time." You demanded him, the last time Jungkook gave you a hickey was when Jungkook was meeting your parents for the first time.

Lucky enough your parents didn't see. Even though, you're a grown woman. It's still embarrassing when your parents know you're having sex.

"No promises." He grumbled out, smirking. Not caring if there's one or 6 hickeys on your neck. Continuing to kiss and suck the other side of your neck and shoulder. Taking a moment to glance at your neck, there was a hickey from last time. He chuckled. "That thing is still there?"

"You're joking." You pushed him off to touch the spot of where the long term hickey was. You went to the mirror that was in the dressing room, to find that the hickey. She sees the fresh marks Jungkook has just left on her. She rolls her eyes annoyed. He was only being a jerk off. The hickey he pointed out had faded.

Coming behind you in the mirror he rests his head on your shoulder pouting his lips, putting both hands on your sides squeezing them ever so slightly. "C'mon baby, you know I like them." His hands make their way to your thighs. Lightly brisking them. One hand slowly makes its way to your vagina. "Are you wearing underwear?" His cheek, slightly brushing against yours. A slight blush forming on your face while his eyes remain locked on yours through the mirror.

"What if I told you I'm not." You answer in all honesty.

"Just how I like it." He smirked back, his hand smacked your bottom before spinning you to face him. His head cocks towards the couch. He pushes your back to the seat of the couch. You watch him as you spread your legs just enough. His eyes stare at your full body with lust. Thinking of all the things he will do to you. His left hand grips your hip and his spare hand strokes down the inside of your thigh before it reaches your hot core. Waiting for Jungkook to make a move.

Your body shudders when he brushes your clit, the direct contact is not enough for you. He spreads your lips open playing with them. Eyes looking up to you then to your pussy he's studying you and your reaction. "You're so pretty." He kisses your clit. Your body is responding well and you seem to be aching for his mouth. Aching for him. That's all he ever wanted. The top of his warm tongue licks the top of your clit. He slowly begins to lick up and down across your clit, rolling the bud with his tongue a few times. He carefully bites down the bud. You react with you thrusting your hips to his face. He enjoys seeing you squirm under him. You moan out. Circling is tounge in you he begins to suck your clit earning another moan from you.

"Fuck, Jungkook." You let a shaky moan. Guiding his head with your hand in his long hair to where you want him. His ears and head filling with pride he can't help but smile. You feel Jungkook chuckle against you. "So good!" Like a vibration in your coochie, it sends you closer and closer to your climax. He continues to fuck you with his tounge in your hole and within seconds he has you squirting. You let out a relief breathe. "Shit." Your back arches. His lips return to yours in a hungry kiss. You can taste your juices on his tongue mixed with his saliva. Your body writhes beneath his, toes curling, teeth digging down on his shoulder in a failed attempt at keeping quiet.

"You taste so good baby..." He whispers out, still nibbling on your bottom lips. Both of your bodies are pressed tighter almost as if they fit perfectly together. He kept tasting your lips with his tongue before moving my lips over to your neck once again.

Eyes, still locked with yours, were filled with passion, love and lust. Knowing you wanted him just as much as you wanted you. Which made the moment much more intense. His bulge throbbed in desire. His fingertips continued to run across your hips.

"You know you're lucky I spoil you." He smirked out, looking into your eyes. Moving hair out of your face to behind your ear. His fingers running through your hair, his lips planted on your forehead, hands sliding down your back, teasing you with the clips of your bra. "He eventually unclips it. Seeing you sit so pretty for him has him hard. He massages your lower back, your legs wrap around his waist. "This good?" He mumbled out in question, still planting small kisses on your shoulder.

"What if someone catches us?" Y/n asks in a soft tone, almost as if you were unsure to speak up.

Eyes look at you. A stoic smirk creeps on his face. "They won't catch us. And if they do, let them watch. They'll just be jealous of this moment, that's all." While his hands slipped lower to the top of your hips. His fingers gently slide underneath. "You don't want me to stop, do you?" You shake your head no.

His eyebrows raise. "Then I won't stop. Not until you beg me to stop. But you have to use your words to stop me, princess."

authors note: hope you like this im honestly kind of proud of this one idek but it could have been better ig. Also, errors if you find any errors like 'my' don't mind it. So, as I said in my last post i'm going to start being more consistent. I'm thinking of posting at least 5 times a week just to start off. If you guys wanna request and talk to me go right ahead. I'm a nice person so feel free to hmu.. ☺️ And you can request me to write anything I won't judge trust me. Also, I'm down to collab with any writers so hmu.

[idcbabyialreadylostmymind]

Motion!!

Sukuna x f!reader

Synopsis- Sukuna has his way with women, feigning them on before ultimately flipping on them with another woman. He thought he would do the same to you. Nah.

cw: Sukuna is a warning in himself, No sorcerer au, toxic y/n (we love) minimal dialogue, boxer!Sukuna mentioned, cheating (multiple), alcohol, quick paced, hookups, multiple positions, tit slapping, licking, oral sex, nudes, spanking, hair pulling, toxic relationship, ooc Sukuna

“I-I got my hands on my toes lookin’ for the hoes….if I get in this tequila anything goes”

Sukuna had just gotten out the boxing ring securing another undefeated win before his latest fling came up and bitch slapped him, throwing all the expensive gifts he gave her at him scratching up his pretty face. Can’t say he didn’t deserve it. He did sleep with her sister…..and best friend. But that or some other ending was inevitable. He was like this with all his women, they were a means to an end to him, something to fuck and play with. So it didn’t matter if that one left him he would just get a new one.

So he found himself at a party, a quite packed party. He should have known Gojo and Geto were in the most popular band on this side of the world; and god did they know how to throw a party. He nursed a glass of bourbon watching over the crowd to find the one. Then the girl who sucked his dick before walking inside passed him smiling at him, he grimaced he wished that people wouldn’t be so obvious about sexual encounters he didn’t even remember her name. Then he found it, found her.

A little minx in a tight black dress that did little to hide anything, your dark skin illuminated under the strobing party lights as bottle girls poured shot after shot of tequila down your throat, everyone was watching you, devouring you with their eyes.

You commanded attention in any room you walked in he could tell, you were just like him.

And his predatory gaze locked onto you, getting closer throughout the night, stealing glances from you here and there.

You were louder than the rest of your friend group giggling about leaving your ex or something he didn’t really care about, all he cared about was catching his prey.

You attracted people, men and women alike, surrounded you, giving you every bit of their attention and energy. It wasn’t a while till the spectators dissipated to their own carnal desires, that the hunt was one but who was hunting who?

The pink haired man with tattoos that covered his body, from what you could see of his body, and his body was amazing. He was well toned, muscles threatening the hem of the black shirt he adored and he filled out his black pants nicely. He had been watching you all night, he had a familiar look in his eyes, he was on the hunt; for you? He was perfect.

It was as if everything went in slow motion, you locked eyes on him beckoning him closer as you began to walk through the crowd. He followed pushing through. The flashing strobe lights made it hard to keep track but he never lost you. He followed you to a small room expecting to find you but he just found a small bed in a dark red room. The door slammed behind him and he turned to see you. Before he could say anything you grabbed him by the collar of his shirt locking your lips with him.

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

Sukuna had no idea how he ended up on his back you and him didn’t even exchange names before you were exchanging spit. Ripping each others clothes off, he had you on your back tearing a condom open with his teeth. Sinking into you he let out a guttural groan, you felt so good. His strokes were mild to begin with but you became bored. You raised your hips bucking faster and harder, digging your nails into the males tattooed chest needing more.

Sukuna got impossibly hard looking at you fucking yourself on his cock. You were intoxicating, his strokes turned wild and hard. The room filled with sinful music of your skin slapping and the mixture moans and groans. Your arms wrapped around his neck yanking him closer to you licking his face tattoo, making his thrust falter wrapping your legs around him; you flip the muscular male onto his back.

In the dark lighting of the small room you couldn’t see the small flush of pink that was brought to the man’s cheeks at your sudden show of dominance. You rode the man like there was no tomorrow, Sukuna could swear he could see stars the way your hips wined up and down at a reckless pace.

You had worked up a sweat for the both of you. A sheer coat of it covers both of your body’s. You were so close, grabbing his hand you guided it to your clit helping his circle the little bud before he took over rushing over it with his rough calloused fingers bringing you to the edge, his other hand held your breast playing with the hardened nipple before slapping it; you let out a dangerous moan as pleasure surges through you. Sharp nails dig into his shoulders to be sure you would leave marks in the morning.

Your hips bucked wildly as you came, your pussy spasming around his girth and he couldn’t hold it as you became impossibly tight around him he burst inside of you. Long spurts of milky white cum flowing into the condom. Settling down you catch your breath before slipping off of him, a hiss coming from both you and him. Licking his lips Sukuna watched as you got up your beautiful naked body on full display for him as you slipped your dress back on, no panties. Before leaving you turned back and handed him a small note, “In case you ever wanna do that again.” You wink before closing the door leaving him on the bed naked, discombobulated, and hard as fuck.

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

Sukuna had never experienced a woman like you. You were so alive, wild, and god the sex. Your mouth was sent from heaven sucking him nice and filthy. Spit dripping down your chin as you suck his heavy balls till he cums all over your face. When he wasn’t stuffing your mouth full though you had a mouth on you.

Handing you a 14k gold bracelet embedded with natural diamonds after you just finished him off he closed his eyes waiting for the giggling praise, but was met with a mere scoff before he felt a thump to his tatted chest. You threw the bracelet back at him, “If you think that’s worth this,” you tighten your bathrobe around your body, “you got another thing coming.” You say genuinely offended before storming off to the bathroom leaving him alone, irritated and a little horny. You both knew that you could afford all the things he gets you but like you would say, it’s the principle. What was he gonna do with you.

Not even two months in he had you moved in, fucking you any and every where, you were never not seen together. At his boxing matches, at clubs, v.i..p parties. And when he would take you to the club he didn’t expect you to be so raunchy, it did something to him to see a woman so open, so sexy. God he wanted to fuck you stupid. He didn’t even notice since he met you he never looked at another woman. It was as if you had him hypnotized.

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

“What the fuck is this?” Sukuna was angry, pissed even. Pictures of you being lewd with others and so many messages. You stood in front of a mirror wearing the very dress you met the man in, putting your lip gloss on before even looking and smiling. “Well what’s it look like?” You say walking over to the couch grabbing your purse, Sukuna was practically speechless, any other woman he messed with he wouldn’t have cared, he didn’t know what made his gut flip seeing these photos. “You just gonna act like there ain’t pictures of you fucking on other people expect me not to react.” You sigh, turning back to the male. “If you didn’t want your feelings hurt, you shouldn’t have went through it.” You say simply before giving him a kiss and walking out the door.

You knew men like Sukuna he would use you up and toss you aside if you let him. You just got to get on the same low, down dirty level he’s on and show him who’s boss. He’ll stay with you because he sees himself in you, he’s so obsessed with himself. It’s kinda hot.

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

Sukuna tried to go to other women, flip on you like he did every other women; but none of them could compete with you, your looks, your taste, your smell. He couldn’t get enough of you, but the same could be said for everyone else. He felt sick watching you post yourself on your story but he remembered who you came home to. But his blood boiled at the thought of someone else touching you, tasting you having you. He hated it.

Muffled moans are barely audible above focused thrust, his balls smacking your arousal soaked thighs creating vulgar noises. Your face smushed into $1000 sheets; sheets soaked in liquids that would be impossible to explain to the cleaning lady. But he would think about that later right now all he could think about was your sweet pussy sucking him in ever so tight.

With every harsh concentrated thrust your warm velvet walls tightened around him. He tried to hold his incoming climax, his hips going at an untamed speed. Every vein on his thick cock pulsating inside you wanting, needing to fill you up to the brim. His hands grabbed the globes of your ass massaging the fat before slapping it watching the recoile. He grabbed the roots of your hair pulling as he fucked you mercilessly.It was what you deserved, what you needed.

But the world went quiet when he felt you cum your whole body shaking as if a volcano ruptured. Your tight cunt held him with such disdain knowing that your pussy was the closest thing to heaven on earth and to lose you would send him into a psychotic break and knowing he can’t be the only one to satisfy you. Rutting into you before emptying his load inside your used cunny. Cum ran down your thighs as he pulled out of you. He thumped down onto the bed finally lifting your head, mascara ran down your face and lipstick was smeared all over your used puffy lips.

Sukuna had grabbed something from his side of the bed handing it to you, it was a blue sapphire butterfly necklace. Smiling up at the man you sit up still naked, “How much?” You gleam.

He smiles at your quip, he takes it from you unclasping it, you instinctively turn around. “$15,000…” He puts it on kissing your neck, casting goosebumps down your back. Your eyes had an unusual spark in them when he told you the price. He had your phone, his hand groping your marked up tits kissing your neck showing your new necklace off. “What are you doing?” You ask, making him smile against your skin. “What’s it look like?” He mumbles into your ear. “Say cheese.” He quickly snapped a picture before getting up, dropping the phone in your lap. You smile biting your lip seeing he deleted all your other photos leaving it to be only him.

But it was just a matter of time before you went out again, didn’t answer his calls,leaving him for days on end. But at the end of the day you always came back to him.

Never in his life did Sukuna think he would be sitting at home going crazy over a woman but here he was.

He finally got a taste of his own medicine.

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ ••

A/N- this could have been wayyyy better but I haven’t written anything in a hooot minute so that probs the reason and this is my first time writing for jjk so yay!!!! I’ve been cooking this up for a while now and a few others and as always I hope you enjoyed

[dilfl0v3rss]

boxer!todo who trains almost every damn day. always wanting to be at his top physique at all times.

boxer!todo who lets you come with him to every training session or workout at the gym so you don’t get lonely.

boxer!todo who is undefeated due to his raw strength and ability to adjust to anyone’s fighting style. he’s beaten men bigger and faster than him because he’s just that good.

boxer!todo who doesn’t allow you to come to some of his fights. not wanting you to see how gruesome it could get in the ring.

“papa why notttt” you whined, feet stomping on the ground as you followed your boyfriend around the house. “cause i can tell how it’s gonna go. ion want you seeing all the blood and bruises ma.” he said calmly as he bent down to grab a water from the fridge. “but he was talkin so much shit at the press conference. talkin bout how he’s the best and how you never gon amount to him. wish i could fuck that nigga up myself.” you mumbled your last sentence, making todo chuckle as he watched how upset you were getting. you took the insults worse than him, and he was the one getting them. “don’t worry mama ima whoop his ass. jus need you t’stay here when the day comes while i go handle my business, aight?”

boxer!todo who spends his day offs taking you out or chilling with you at home.

boxer!todo who spoils you rotten with most of his money. if there’s was something you liked, expect it to be at your doorstep within the next week.

boxer!todo who makes sure you always have a good view of him at the fights he lets you attend. loving how you scream for him when he does a move he’s been working on or how you’re quick to lift him up when he takes a particularly hard hit.

“cmon pa we eat those”

“you got it baby hit him in the body”

“focus todo! you not done yet!”

“uhh huhhh he can’t fuck wit you baby”

he loved hearing your pretty voice.

boxer!todo who made sure to give you a reward for keeping him in check during ever match.

“you my good little motivator ain’t you mama?” his thrusts were quick, large hand pressed down lightly on your stomach so he could feel himself moving inside of you. “mhmm. you d-did so good daddy” you moaned. todo smiled as he began fucking you deeper, making your back arch off the bed as he caressed your cheek with his other hand. “did good ‘cause i had you there to cheer me on. love makin my pretty girl proud. you proud of me ma? lemme hear you say it.” todo didn’t care about how anyone else felt about him, but you. always seeking your validation after a good fight. “m’so proud of you. there’s n-nobody better papa.” “uhh huh. nobody.”

boxer!todo who also fucks you so good when he’s not happy with his performance after barely winning a fight that should’ve been “light work” for him. feeling that since he couldn’t give his all in the ring he’ll make up for it in the bedroom.

boxer!todo who never went out partying after his fights. always choosing to relax at home with you rather than be in a room with a bunch of drunk guys and bitches with their asses out.

boxer!todo who has you wear his chain during every match. you bought him the chain as a gift when he won his first fight as a pro boxer. it wasn’t the most expensive, but it was still worth a lot. you saved up for months to get it for him and he almost cried when you showed it to him.

“you didn’t have to-” “yes i did. you been working so hard and you deserve it. gon be the best there ever was baby” todo’s eyes began to water as he let you put the chain around his neck. it fit nice, sitting right over his strong pecs. “cant wear it while i fight so ima need you t’keep it safe f’me. that okay ma?” you nodded your head before giving him a passionate kiss on the lips. “i don’t mind wearin it as long as you continue to think of me” todo smiled, wrapping an arm around your waist as he pulled your head into his broad chest. “always.”

boxer!todo who keeps a level head for most of his fights, never really letting the trash talk at the conferences get to him. he saw no point in trying to get a rise out of his opponent and felt that they should feel the same way, but they never did. there was only one time he let his anger take over and it nearly got him disqualified.

“a.t how do you feel about your ability to win this fight” the reporter said. todo kept his face serious as he thought about his answer. “well i been training real hard, learning some new skills. i feel like if i keep my head straight and fall through with my plans i should be able to win this thing.” he toyed with his chain as he spoke, not really thinking anything of this little event and just wanting to get home to his pretty girlfriend. the reporter asked his opponent the same question, and while he answered he noticed todo wasn’t paying attention to him at all. still playing with the gold around his neck. he noticed that it was the same chain he’d see you wearing when he would come to scout todo’s matches. a smirk planted on his face before he uttered something he’d come to regret. “yea i know ima win. and after i do, ima bring me a honey home. might even give his little girlfriend a taste since i heard she got a thing for winners.” loud gasps immediately filled the room as well as your living room while you watched the whole thing live on the edge of your couch.

everyone waited for todo to retaliate, but he didn’t. he kept calm as a small chuckle flew from his lips. holding his head down as he began to crack his knuckles. “we’ll see.” was all he said before the press moved on with their next question. everyone thought he was fine. his opponent even slumped down in his chair a little more as he thought his insult did absolutely nothing, but you knew the truth. todo only cracked his knuckles when he was angry. really angry. usually only doing so to keep himself from punching or breaking something. when he got home that night he acted as if everything was fine, but you could tell he thought about it all the time. by the way he’d hit the punching bag with a little more force than usual or how he nearly sent his trainer flying out the ring before walking towards his locker room. todo was pissed.

when the day came he made you promise not to come to or watch the fight. the seriousness in his tone made you worry, but you fell through with your promise because it meant so much to him. when todo came home it was a lot earlier than you’d imagine. his fights usually took thirty minutes to an hour, but at this rate his opponent couldn’t have lasted longer than the first round. “you win?” voice small as you watched your boyfriend quietly walk straight towards the bedroom. “mhm…” he walked into the room, closing the door behind him. you scrambled to your phone to see what could have him acting like this. a quiet gasp left your lips as you watched clips of the very short fight. like you thought, the poor guy didn’t last the first round. receiving blow after deadly blow from your boyfriend before eventually getting punched so hard in the face that he flew to the other side of the ring. “mama get in here! need you right now.” you smiled before taking a deep breath and skipping your way to your bedroom.

boxer!todo who fucked you the best when he was hot and jealous after a fight.

[justinssportscorner]

Anna Merlan at Mother Jones:

By the time J.K. Rowling, Elon Musk, and Donald Trump were falsely referring to her as a man, the lies about Imane Khelif had already traveled halfway around the world. Last week, two Olympic boxers—Khelif, from Algeria, and Lin Yu-ting of Taiwan—were subjected to brutal international scrutiny about their sex and gender, and whether they were entitled to compete in women’s events; the attention on Khelif became particularly acrid after her opponent, Italian Angela Carini, quit 46 seconds into their bout, declaring that she had “never been hit so hard in my life.” A photo of the two women exiting the ring, Carini in tears, Khelif casting a glance, was widely shared, with people like Rowling—who’s promoted transphobic views for years, but has denied being transphobic—offering heated and derogatory commentary about Khelif.   “Could any picture sum up our new men’s rights movement better?” Rowling tweeted. “The smirk of a male who’s [sic] knows he’s protected by a misogynist sporting establishment enjoying the distress of a woman he’s just punched in the head, and whose life’s ambition he’s just shattered.” 

While the attacks on Khelif are of a piece with familiar recent Western controversies over who is allowed to participate in girls’ and women’s sports, many of the articles and individuals magnifying the debate relied on or relayed the claims of a discredited group with strong ties to the Russian government, a deep grudge against the International Olympic Committee, and a seemingly vested interest in proving that the IOC-run games are, as the group’s leader has claimed, a venue for “sodomy.”

In trying to unravel what led up to this moment, many individuals and news outlets cited a statement released by the official-sounding International Boxing Association, which stated that both Khelif and Yu-Ting had previously been disqualified from competing in the IBA-administered Women’s World Boxing Championships in March 2023. The women were barred from that competition, which took place in New Delhi, following tests the organization has not publicly clarified, citing privacy rules. At the time, IBA president Umar Kremlev told a Russian state news agency that the women had been found to have “XY chromosomes” and claimed the two had “pretended to be women” and “tried to deceive their colleagues.” Even if the IBA’s findings were true, having XY chromosomes does not automatically make someone male—women with Swyer syndrome, a rare genetic condition, have XY for instance. Nor are XY chromosomes proven to constitute an “unfair advantage,” although that is exactly what an IBA official claimed in a press conference on Monday. One pediatrics expert told NBC in 2009—one of the innumerable times this issue has been raised in women’s sports—that such a claim was “malarkey.”

[...] When Khelif and Yu-Ting were disqualified by the IBA back in New Delhi, skeptics questioned how it benefited Azalia Amineva, a Russian fighter. The women were not ruled ineligible until after they’d already competed and Khelif had won a bout against the previously undefeated Amineva. While IBA officials said the sequence of events was due to a week’s delay in being provided testing results, as the Associated Press has pointed out, the decision meant the Russian fighter’s perfect record was retroactively restored. Kremlev isn’t shy about expressing a broad fixation on gender and sexuality, with him, as the sports website Defector has pointed out, decrying the IOC on YouTube for promoting “outright sodomy and the destruction of traditional values.” In the wake of the Paris games’ opening ceremony, he blasted the spectacle, which featured queer performers, as “pure sodomy,” while saying the IOC “burns from pure devilry” and that its president is a “chief sodomite.” He also claimed that “men with changed gender are allowed to fight with women in boxing at the Olympics.” (Videos with such remarks have been helpfully subtitled in English to draw a wider, Western audience.) Last week, Kremlev announced the IBA would give $50,000 in prize money to the defeated opponents of Khelif and Yu-Ting.

[...] The Khelif affair captures English-speaking transphobes with rigid ideas about the nature of womanhood picking up on a politically motivated campaign from a discredited organization at open war with the IOC. Indeed, right-wing organizations in the United States, including the Independent Women’s Forum and CPAC, via its chair Matt Schlapp, have paid for sponsored posts on Musk’s X platform, calling her “a man“—posts that appear when users search for information on the controversy.

The International Boxing Association, which is a Kremlin-led body led by Umar Kremlev that is permanently banned from being the sanctioning body for Olympic boxers, has instigated a transphobic war against cis women boxers Lin Yu-ting and Imane Khelif.

The IBA issued politically-motivated disqualifications of the pair in 2023 that don’t stand up to scrutiny.

[jccheapalier]

Rocky Marciano: A Life Story (2004) | Full Movie | Marino Amoruso

[latenightdaydreams]

I'm so desperate for Boxer Konig and reader. I imagine it would be like König fights every night for living in the ring and reader is bartender in that place, like it has a bar counter for drinks. Reader is his favorite bartender. ❤️❤️

Imagine being able to go to work and see him sweaty and shirtless everyday🤭💖

Boxer!König x Bartender (fem)

MDNI🔞

Master List ✍🏽

>cw: fem/afab, p in v, oral, public sex

2.2k

🥊

.

.

König watches you set up the bar out of the corner of his eye as he talks to his trainer, Horangi, before the fight. His eyes drift over how your black shirt hugs the curve of your breasts. The jeans you wore today shows off your stunning shape. Everything his trainer was saying fell on deaf ears. He already knows everything. He’s undefeated. Right now, he just wants to focus on you. How can you look so tantalizing when simply pouring buckets of ice?

“König.” Horangi snaps his fingers in his face. “Are you listening to me?”

“Ja, ja. I know it all already.”

Horangi shakes his head at König’s cocky attitude. His eyes follow König’s gaze landing on you, giving you a quick up down before turning back. “Focus.” His hand on König’s shoulder, he leads him away to the back to get ready.

As you turn your head, you watch König’s eyes drift from your form to the ground as he gets guided away. A small smirk crosses your lips. You always catch him checking you out, but he makes no moves.

The day goes on and people flood the arena and fill seats. A line begins to form as you and your fellow bartender work in sync to make sure all patrons' orders get filled. As you bend down to grab a bottle of grenadine, you hear König being announced in the ring. Quickly, you perk up and watch as König walks out in his boxer shorts with the Austrian flag on them. His opponent being a 6 '4 Russian man, while he’s massive, he’s no match for König.

König’s eyes land on you as you smile brightly at a man accepting a drink from your delicate hands. He shifts his gaze to his opponent as people in the crowd cheer for both men. König gazes down at him with his icy blue stare and a stoic face.

From behind the bar, your eyes drift down König’s muscular body, which is sporadically littered with scars. You watch the fight begin as you continue to pass out drinks and chat with patrons. When König takes a hard hit, you watch with a worried look, glancing away and focusing on the man before you asking for another beer.

At the end of the fight, König’s arm rises to celebrate another win. The crowd cheers loudly, the losers coming to the bar to close tabs or get stronger drinks. König stands on stage posing for the crowd with two ring girls on their side of him. He respectfully keeps his hands to himself, his eyes finding you at the bar. For a split second in time, you meet his gaze and he smiles at you. The smile you give back sets a fire within him. When he hears his name being called, he looks forward, stepping into another pose with the women before exiting the ring.

As the night winds down, you begin to clean the bar and restock for tomorrow. The girl you work with heading out early since she has a family to tend to. As your back is turned from the bar you can hear someone lean against the counter. You turn, expecting to see one of the lingering patrons, but instead it’s König. He’s wearing a black shirt with his boxer shorts still, a fresh bruise on his left cheek bone.

“Hey König.”

“Hallo.” He shamelessly drops his gaze down to your breasts before looking back into your eyes. He combs his fingers through his messy blonde hair.

“Congratulations on the fight.”

“Danke.” König leans into the counter more, eyeing you. “How was your night? It looked pretty busy over here.”  He has no idea how to flirt with you, he’s used to being cocky and the women tossing themselves at him. For some reason, you always make him nervous.

“Yeah, it was a good night for tips.” You smile and rest your palms on the counter top. “So, what can I get for you?”

“How about a celebratory shot?” He smirks.

“Coming right up.” You turn and grab the whisky you know he likes, pouring a shot for him before sliding it across to him.

You watch his Adam's apple bob as he takes the shot. His large hands wrap around the tiny glass making it appear much smaller. Once he places the glass back down, he turns his attention back to you.

“I saw you watching me.” He says in a semi flirty tone, testing the waters. “Did you enjoy the fight?”

“I did. It’s always exciting to watch you win.” You stroke his ego.

König smiles hearing your words. He watches as your turn to continue shutting down the bar. He knows every night you get hot water to melt the remaining ice so he stands, preparing to help you with the heavy bucket of water. Without asking, he grabs the bucket from your hand gently; his rough skin caressing yours slightly.

“I’ve got the water.” He says simply before walking off to fill it in the kitchen area.

“Oh, thank you.” As you watch him walk away you stand there suppressing a giddy smile. You turn and continue to clean the area.

König walks back with the bucket full of steaming hot water and carefully walks past you with it. He lifts it so effortlessly, pouring it over the remaining ice. Your eyes focus on the way his burly arms flex ever so slightly. He can definitely feel your stare, turning his head to see you looking at him.

You quickly look away feeling ashamed for getting caught looking. Trying to distract from the tension you walk away to the storage room to grab things needed to restock the bar for tomorrow’s fight. König’s eyes follow you as you walk away. He puts down the bucket and follows behind you.

The door closes behind you when you step into the room. You grab the step stool and walk to where the little toothpicks are stored. As you step up, you hear the door open and close. Before you can even turn around you feel his hands wrap around your waist.

“Now you’re closer to my height.” König whispers. On the step stool you come up to his chin now versus before you only reached his chest. Without getting you off balance, he leans you back so your back is pressed against his chest.

“König.” You giggle saying his name, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush as his arms embrace you.

“What?” König chuckles, enjoying the sound of your giggle. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time.” He presses his face into the crook of your neck and smells your sweat from a long day of working the bar.

A shiver runs down your spine and goosebumps rise on your skin as he presses his lips against your neck; his lips moist and tender against your flesh. Slowly, he moves his under your shirt, caressing your stomach and moving up until his hand cups your breasts through your bra. His kisses turn steamier as he gropes you.

“Do you know how distracting you are? You make it impossible to focus on my fights when all I can think of is touching your body like this.” His voice is dripping with a primal desire for your body.

König turns you around to face him, his hand slipping out from your shirt and holding your waist. His other hand caresses the side of your face, cupping it in his hand. “Beautiful.” He leans in and kisses your lips. A spark ignites throughout his whole body as he finally tastes your sweet lips.

Your hands rest on his muscular chest, eyes closed as you allow yourself to melt into the romantic embrace with König. His hand on your waist dropping down to your hip, pressing you closer to him so you can feel his erection.

“You drive me crazy, Schatzi. Do you want me?” His voice deeper as he leans back in to claim your lips in a sensual kiss.

“Mhm, yes.” You manage to mumble out.

König’s fingers reach down and begin to undo your pants. A wave of excitement rushes through your body but also a bit of nervousness. Public sex isn’t something you’ve ever done nor considered, especially not at your place of work. Yet, you don’t protest, letting him pull your pants down. Once they are around your thighs, his fingers instantly find your clit through the fabric of your underwear, making small circles to pull moans from you.

As he breaks the kiss he looks down at your face as you writhe in pleasure before him. His sleepy blue eyes glance down at your face, taking in how he is turning you into a puddle before him. The fabric of your panties damp, stirring a deep desire within him.

König wraps his arms around you, lifting you and walking you to press you up against a wall. He drops to his knees before you and pulls your pants down completely. Lifting one of your legs, he rests it over his shoulder. His lips press kisses over your clothed cunt, licking the wet spot and getting a taste of you. A quiet moan flees your lips, your eyes gazing down at him.

“You smell so… suß.” König says looking up at you.

A light heat spreads across your face, you’ve been busy on your feet so you know that the scent of your body wash has worn off. He just likes the way your naturally sweaty cunt smells, and for some reason that really turns you on.

The adrenaline for the fight mixes with the aroma wafting from your body, König becomes greedy and he just needs you. He pulls the wet fabric aside and swipes his tongue across your glistening folds, savoring the taste.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hold back anymore.” König quickly stands, his hands dropping his shorts quickly. His eyes dart around the room trying to figure out the best way to do this. His eyes look over your body for a moment. “Take them off.” He points to your underwear and you comply.

In a hurry, König grabs your wrist and pulls you to him. Your shirt is pulled off your body, tossed to the side as König looks at your full breasts in your black bra. He effortlessly lifts you, your legs resting in the crook of his arms. As he holds you, pressing your back against the wall, he takes his time to kiss your cleavage and admire just how gorgeous you truly are.

You can feel his cock lingering at the entrance of your vagina, slightly pressing in as he kisses and bites all over your breasts. He slowly inches forward with his hips until he can feel your welcoming warmth wrap around the tip of his cock. His low groan is met with your light moan. Your walls hug him tightly, fluttering as they adjust to his size.

“Fuck, y/n. You’re fucking…tight.” The word ‘tight’ comes out in a growl.

With your legs on his arms, he rests his hands on your back, hips slowly thrusting forward into you. His lips explore your tender flesh up to your mouth. He places soft kisses on your lips while mumbling sweet words to you in German that you don’t understand.

“Pull your bra down.” He demands as he watches your hands pull your breasts out of your bra. The fabric squeezes them together as they bounce lightly with each thrust.

He steps away from the wall and moves his hands down to your ass. His muscles flex as he bounces you on his cock. The feeling of your gummy cunt sending him into a trance like state, his eyes following the way your supple flesh ripples with every harsh thrust.

“König!” You moan out, almost yelling. His thick cock slams into you without mercy, fucking you senseless. Your nails dig into his arms as your eyes flutter back. “Please…”

König watches your face now, taking in every detail and savoring every sound. “That’s it, you’re taking me so well. Diese Muschi ist perfekt.”

“Yes.” You gasp out. “Please fuck me, König.”

“Das ist es, Baby.”

His blue eyes are now black from dilation. Hearing you beg for him triggered a primal instinct in him. You’re his. This is his pussy. He slams you down on his cock, making sure to stuff you with every single inch.

Horangi walks throughout the gym looking for König, he’s nowhere to be found. He walks out to the ring to see if maybe he went back out to just sit, still not there. As he glances around, he can hear a slapping sound in the distance, curious, he follows it.

The sound begins to mix with moans and loud dirty talk in German. König is fucking that bartender. Horangi runs his hand over his face and lets out a deep annoyed sigh. Now isn’t the time for König to become infatuated with this woman even further, which he knows he will be. Horangi stands there and listens to König’s whimpers and your borderline screaming. He decides to just walk away and let König finish, he will talk to him about this later.

[nytb]

Punch after punch

Click here first <3

A born and raised Zaragozan, surrounded by boxing for her whole life, Y/N. A cocky persona, an undefeated record - everyone wanted to take her down, but Alexia only desired to be taken out by the Spaniard.

Both stars met at Mapi's new apartment festivities - that woman always had an excuse to throw a dinner party. After many attempts to turn the invite down, Y/N caved - Mapi was one of her childhood friends, that meant a lot to Y/N.

Little did the boxing star know, it was a setup.

Mapi had been led down the "it could turn out to be the romantic story everyone dreams of" road. Alexia had her way with words, sweetening a manipulation scheme into a cute little invite to the dinner party a certain Y/N would happen to attend.

To be completely honest, Alexia had been pining over the boxer for a while now. In Spain, any female athlete that rises to the top that fast is going to show up on people's radars.

In Alexia's case, Y/N's first appearance in the midfielder's life was through an iPhone screen - a pool party at a rooftop in Zaragoza, both Y/N and Mapi's home-town. The boxer was the center of the party, women practically threw themselves at her at any possibility - but Y/N remained respectful, putting space between anyone who so much as dared to approach her body.

That detail was engraved in Alexia's mind - well that and her body. Boxers are known to have the body everyone dreams of, especially during fighting season.

Alexia had made it her mission to be one of the first people to show up, something that alerted Mapi - the midfielder loved to be fashionably late, to be the center of attention when she arrived anywhere.

As people showed up, Alexia's demeanor changed. Person after person walked through the door, Y/N was nowhere in sight. Was she a no show? Was her word worth nothing?

That was until high pitch squeaks came from the door. Y/N had arrived and the dinner guests knew it. The boxer, now tangled with two beautiful women on her neck as they welcomed her, didn't even fight against the invasion of her private space.

Odd - that's all that Alexia allowed herself to think of the situation, jealousy wasn't yet an option.

As Y/N made her way to the terrace, where Mapi was entertaining her Norwegian girlfriend's friends, Alexia made it her mission to stay on the sidelines. She wasn't about to be caught gravelling for someone's attention.

"I see you still love throwing parties" Y/N hugged Mapi, everyone around them eyeing the boxer up and down.

Tight T-Shirt, ripped Jeans, simple sneakers. A simple fit but paired with a godlike physique could be the downfall of anyone.

"And I see that you're still a workaholic" the defender replies "Didn't even have time to dry your hair or is this a quick visit?" she questions.

The boxer was quick to reply "Do you really think that I would do that to you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time"

Mapi had grown accustomed to the little time Y/N had for friends or family.

"In my defense" Y/N started "That time I didn't know that it was a stay over party" she joked.

"Let me introduce you" Mapi grabbed Y/N and threw her to the wolves. "Seeing as how this might be my only chance, it's your time to meet everyone" she laughed mischievously.

As the party went on, Alexia - still holding on to the not catching me groveling tactic - decided that enough was enough.

Making her way to the terrace, hoping to come up with a good excuse to leave the party early, Alexia was snatched by a tall Norwegian.

"Everything ok?" Ingrid questioned, full worry on display.

"Oh yeah yeah..." the midfielder replied, clearly her excuse was still being workshopped in her head "I - I don't.. "

The Norwegian cut her off "I think that the excuse you're looking for is over there" pointing to a corner of the terrace.

Y/N, sat on the floor, leaning back on her arms behind her back. All alone.

"Go" Ingrid surely knew something. "Don't think that you insisting on joining a random dinner party went unnoticed by me" she smiled.

Fuck.

"How- " the midfielder began to question only to be cut off again "Go quickly, I'm pretty sure that someone else is eyeing her, so don't waste your chance" and with a smirk and a quick turn of her hips Ingrid was off, back to her girlfriend's arms.

"Not like the noise?" Alexia asked as she joined Y/N's side.

"More like I would rather be sleeping and not have hawks eyeing me down like I'm their next prey" the boxer replied.

"Wha-"

"Oh, you're doing it too" Apparently everyone is cutting Alexia off tonight.

"I see that you didn't need me to introduce you girls" Mapi jokes, clearly not knowing how sour the introduction had gotten.

"Actually, I wanted to go say bye to you" Alexia hugged Mapi "I have to go, you know- stuff" the midfielder didn't even try to come up with an excuse.

"That was odd" the defender turned to see how Alexia was actually leaving. "I feel like I missed something" she scratched the back of her head, clearly puzzled by the interaction.

"Yup, my fault" Y/N stood up. "I'll go fix it, see you later" the boxer excused herself, picking up her pace to not be stopped by any guests as she made her way to the door.

Apartments having an underground parking was never this useful, even if Alexia wanted to leave, she wouldn't be able to do so before being seen by Y/N.

"Hey" the boxer exclaimed, hoping to catch Alexia's attention. "Sorry about that" she excused herself, clearly acknowledging that she was an utter dick to the midfielder previously "Tough day at work" she approached quickly.

"We all have those" Alexia replied, cold voice, standoffish. "Not really a good excuse though"

"Yeah because your having stuff to do was a good excuse" Y/N joked, it falling flat as Alexia didn't seem the slightest bit amused by the comment.

"Maybe we don't all eye you like hawks" the midfielder attacked back.

"Maybe I want you to"

"Hello, I'm Alexia and I have stuff to do" the midfielder mocked the boxer's previous failed introduction as she turned her back to the boxer, reaching for her car's door, wanting to flee whatever was happening.

"No" Y/N kept the midfielder's car closed, now positioned at an arm's reach between the boxer and her own car "Not going anywhere until I at least get your phone number"

The midfielder turned around "Has this move actually ever worked?" she scoffed.

"Maybe its the first time that I try it"

"You should try harder, this isn't going to work on me"

"So there is something that would work on you?" The boxer smirked, slowly entering Alexia's personal space. Slowly forcing the midfielder's back against her own car, the midfielder allowed whatever was happening.

"I thought that you liked keeping your personal space - private"

"Scared of what happens when I don't?" the boxer questioned, whispering mere inches away from Alexia's lips.

"No" a whisper that came off like a soft moan slipped her mouth.

"So if I kiss you, right here" the boxer graced Alexia's bottom lip with her thumb, pulling her closer "You wouldn't fight it?"

The midfielder's hands slid to the boxer's abdomen "You missed your chance", she whispered against Y/N's lips.

"Are you sure about that?" Y/N looked at the midfielder up and down, hunger in her eyes "Because your body says differently"

"And what are you going to do about it?"

"Maybe I would start by kissing you" the boxer pinned Alexia's hips with her own "I would start here" she whispers against the midfielder's neck, Alexia throws her head back from sheer pleasure. "Maybe I would lift you up into my arms, place you on the bonnet of your car" Y/N kept Alexia fantasizing "I would devour you right here - " her hands hover against the midfielder's body and before she could finish her sentence Alexia pounces.

Bringing the boxer's lips against her own, digging her nails into Y/N's lower back.

That's when Y/N took back control of the situation, pinning the midfielder against the car, holding the midfielder's head firmly in place as she worked her mouth.

The kiss quickly turned rough as Y/N picked up the pace, slipping her tongue into the midfielder's mouth as Alexia's quiet moans turned louder.

Y/N's mouth went straight to the midfielder's neck, gently nibbling at it as she picked the midfielder up off the ground. Alexia's ankles locking behind the boxer's back, bringing her even closer to her body.

"More" she begs and Y/N obliges, laying her on Alexia's bonnet, just like she promised. Tugging at the midfielder's dress, slowly lifting it while she deepened the kiss.

"More" Alexia moaned.

"Command me" Y/N nibbled at the midfielder's ear "Tell me what you want"

"You" she begged "Here, right now"

That was all it took. Y/N grabs Alexia's body and places her lower, letting her legs dangle from the bonnet. Settling herself on her knees Y/N devoured the midfielder, at first slowly, gently licking her from entrance to clit, reaching up to play with her nipples but as Alexia begged for more Y/N obliged.

Rough licks, putting pressure on her clit before introducing a finger into the midfielder and as she moaned, rolling her hips as she looked for a release of pleasure.

"Still." Y/N ordered "Stay. Still." She punctuated every word.

For a minute she followed the instructions given to her but as Y/N introduced a second finger into the midfielder she broke. Grabbing the boxer's hand that was previously stimulating her hard nipple, playing with it between thumb and forefinger.

Y/N stopped, lifting herself off the ground and hovering over Alexia. Keeping the midfielder's hands pinned against the bonnet, grabbing her wrists.

"I told you to stay still" Y/N groaned, pure lust displayed in Alexia's beautiful hazel eyes, mirroring her own. As the midfielder reached up, trying to pounce, taking advantage of how close the midfielder was, Y/N pinned her harder.

"No" Y/N muttered "That's not how this works"

The boxer grabbed Alexia's hips, leading the midfielder onto her feet. "You get what I give you" Y/N commanded "Now turn around"

Alexia didn't fight it, quickly turning on her feet and as Y/N pulled her flush against her body she moaned.

The boxer's hands travel down Alexia's body as she sucks on her neck, nibbles her ear, releases the midfielder's hair from the loose bun.

A quick attack as from one second to the next Y/N bit Alexia's neck, this time roughly, as she inserted a finger into the midfielder making her moan in the process. Her head flew back giving Y/N even more access to her neck and as she grabbed the boxer's hair, Y/N attacked her mouth.

Her tongue slips into Alexia's mouth, in total sync with her finger as she adds another. The midfielder's hips rolled again but this time Y/N pinned her hard against her body, not allowing the midfielder to move a single inch.

"Still" Y/N repeated.

Alexia moaned, each time louder as Y/N brought her close to release.

"Let go" the boxer ordered and seconds later Alexia crumbled, coming on Y/N's fingers, her hips shuddering. A loud moan threatens to leave her lips as Y/N muffles the sound with a deep kiss, this time softer. "Beautiful"

[inkedtae]

the underground ⇾ bgc. [M] | PART II

⎡ In a city fuelled by greed and ambition, secrets are a currency. Yet here you are, gambling yours away on a captivating smile.⎤

⬅︎ PART I

⌁ pairing; boxer!chan x curvy!reader (f.)

⌁ genre; boxing au, s2l, angst, smut, 18+

⌁ word count; 14.6k

⌁ summary; You’re just a runner. So why the hell are you straddling the lap of an undefeated boxer, massaging his chest and whispering secrets you have no right knowing? Oh, yeah— ‘cause he’s hot.

⌁ warnings; dark themes: mentions and depictions of graphic gang activity, abduction, possession and distribution of drugs, addictions, use of deadly weapons, violence, blood, gore, and death threats, explicit sex: dom!chan, sub!reader, daddy kink, size kink, multiple orgasms, ruined orgasm, oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, voyeurism, exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation, dirty talk, handjob, thigh riding, spanking, face slapping (m. receiving), rimming, fingering, edging, manhandling, gun play, anal play, cum play, spit play

⌁ 🎧 now playing... ✩

❥ prefer ao3? keep reading here

❥ i want to give special thanks to jen ( @anobodyslove ) for being so patient with me and reading this monster of a fic over! 💕 and @awrkives for the most amazing banner! 💗

❥ this is a continuation of the original post as the overall word count exceeds the character limit on tumblr posts. this is not an official part 2, but rather the second half of the one shot.

!! the following story contains mature themes, including mentions and graphic depictions of racketeering, gang activity, weapons, drugs, violence, blood, gore, and death threats. please do not read nor interact if these themes cause you discomfort !!

Your vision blurs, head spins. Movements slow, you sit yourself up. The zip-ties, previously binding your wrists and ankles, have been removed. So have your platform ankle boots, fish-netted feet brushing against the fur of your coat. Willing your sight back, you screw your eyes tight, blinking until your vision finally clears to take in the room.

A masterpiece of modern elegance, the room is a blend of minimalist design that indulges comfort. It is expansive, framed by floor-to-ceiling windows to offer a panoramic view of the Crimson Heights skyline below. You shuffle yourself off the comfortable bed, eager to get a closer look. The red lights of the city twinkle back at you and cast a soft, ambient glow throughout the space. You’ve never seen the city from such a height, swallowing thickly.

In the reflection of the glass, beyond your haphazard image of dried tears and ruined lipstick, the bed you have only just climbed out of summons your attention.

Draped in the finest linens with a dark charcoal-grey duvet and plush pillows arranged neatly, it must be king-sized in order to fit  the extensive space of the room. The headboard is a stunning work of art in itself—made of dark walnut wood, with soft leather inlays that give the room a sleek, masculine impression. The bed sits on a low, streamlined platform, reinforcing the room's minimal yet luxurious aesthetic. And, on either side of the bed, are matching nightstands, both topped with geometric lamps that are made of brushed steel and frosted glass.

Your eyes fall to the polished, dark hardwood floors. A rich, handwoven wool rug in deep, muted tones lays over it, warming the room and offering texture underfoot. You catch the gleam of the recessed lighting overhead, installed in the high, coffered ceilings. You lift your gaze and take in each panel. An awed sigh leaves you at the sight of the meticulously crafted slots, indirect LED lighting embedded into the coves to cast a sophisticated, layered illumination.

Against one wall stands a sprawling built-in wardrobe. The seamless doors are made from smoked glass and brushed steel accents. And, to the left of the bed, a small seating area invites relaxation, consisting of a sleek leather armchair and a low-profile marble coffee table. A few books rest upon it, alongside a single crystal whiskey tumbler, hinting at quiet, contemplative moments probably spent here.

You wander further around the room, spotting a door that leads to the master ensuite bathroom in the corner. It’s visible through frosted glass sliding doors. You debate on going in, curious to see what breathtaking architecture it will offer.

But then the walls captivate your attention, or rather the art that hangs from them. Large intricate pieces, each one probably chosen for its muted palette and contemporary feel, enhance the understated luxury that defines the room. The only splash of colour comes from a vase of white orchids resting on a sleek dresser, their delicate petals standing out against the otherwise neutral tones.

You resist reaching a hand out and tracing rigid lines of dried paint.

“I don’t give a shit,” you hear Chris growl on the other side of the black door.

You stiffen.

This is his room, you realise. The heart-wrenching events of the night return to you in a fast wave, flooding you with the same shame and anger that plagued you in the van.

As quietly as you can, you rush back to the bed for your coat and dig through the pockets for your switchblade. However, both are empty of your belongings, not even your lipstick remains. If you really are left without a weapon, you know what you must do.

Scooping up your coat and boots, you make your way to the door. It was one thing to be caught tangled in a bright dressing room with witnesses. It’s another to be cornered alone in his room. If he has a view of the city this marvellous, he must be tightly connected to within Stray Kids. You cannot, will not, subject yet another gang to your reckless behaviour. It will be best for everyone if you just leave. Besides, Vinny is probably worried sick about you, having witnessed you kidnapped.

“Call him,” Chris orders, his loud voice a bit clearer as you open the door. “Tell him she’s safe.”

You look up and down the long corridor. It is just as exquisite as the bedroom. Grey walls, remarkable artwork that looks to be of Korean origins. The hardwood floors extend beyond the room too, covered by a narrow carpet of lavish Persian design.

The left side leads to a number of rooms, one of which has the door wide open. Warm light seeps into the hallway with the natural grace of the sun, momentarily disrupted by shifting shadows. You don’t need to hear his voice again to know Chris is in there, the oversized silhouette of his frame confirmation enough.

You feel a grin involuntarily spreading on your lips.

“Good, you’re up,” a familiar voice says behind you.

Turning, you meet an unfamiliar face. Features nearly feline, the indigo haired man stands on the other end of the hall, compromising your path to the exit. He crosses his arms over his chest, dragging his gaze over your frame, attention lingering on the coat and boots clutched to your chest.

“And we were worried you’d try to run,” he jokes, though his face is void of friendly notions.

That stern dryness of his tone, sharpness of his voice triggers a memory.

“Shut up,” he had hissed before informing you that Vinny was alive.

“That’s what you do, right?” he asks. “You’re a runner.”

You narrow your gaze. “You say that like it’s some secret.”

He flashes a knowing smirk, as if well aware of your secrets. What is more astonishing, however, is the way that suggestive grin resembles Chris’s. It lacks his charisma and cynicism, and that flicker of darkness, dimming whatever light might have snuck through with indications of loss and trauma. So while the one before you is a good copy, it is not perfect. Those onyx eyes gleam of playful interest, twinkling with subtle notions of hostility instead.

You wonder if he learned it from—

Chris says your name.

The speed in which you turn to answer his call is downright disgraceful. Shame heats your chest, spreading up to your cheeks. Your instincts scream at you to avoid his gaze, to focus on anything other than that teasing smile he’s trying to bite back, but you find yourself helpless, unable to tear yourself away.

He must have showered, the smears of lipstick and splattered blood gone. His hair is pushed back, displaying his forehead. And his handsome face is on the way to recovery. Though his bruises still look tender, the cut on his brow is all clean and bandaged. Leaning against the doorframe, he wears a black shirt, that still emphasises the large muscles of his biceps, and a pair of matching sweats. You didn’t think it was possible for someone to look just as good clothed as they do half-naked.

“Come’ere,” he beckons before tonguing his cheek. The twinkle in his gaze is enough indication that he knows you’ve been checking him out.

I need to go, you know you should say.

Your body has a mind of its own though, diminishing your voice, shackling your sanity and nudging you towards him. Completely compelled by the pull of his charm, you obey, only stopping once you’re pressed against his buff chest again and cranking your neck back to maintain his enamoured gaze.

“Let me get these out of your way,” he smiles, voice a mere notch above a whisper.

No, thank you. I have to go.

His fingers brush yours, prickling goosebumps along your arms.

You release your tight grip. He hands your things to the man you met in the hallway. Barrier of your belongings removed, you fully lean into him.

Grin widening, Chris cups your cheek and rubs his thumb against your chin. “You know, I resent the fact that you think I’m dramatic,” he mumbles, inches away from your lips. “I just like making statements.”

“And what statement were you planning on making by abducting me?”

His eyes darken, swirling with sinister intent. As if remembering he had an agenda beyond seducing you, Chris’s soft caress on your chin becomes a tight grip. He forces your lips onto a pucker, using his new hold to guide you into the room and shove you into the nearest chair.

You softly grunt upon the impact. Chris clenches his jaw to suppress a smirk. You know that you’re fighting your desire based on the fact that you do not deserve to have it fulfilled, being the treacherous person you are. But why is Chris suddenly shoving down his sexual urges? He didn’t have any qualms about using them to lure the truth out of you before.

The magnificent state of the office disrupts your thoughts. It maintains that same elegant, minimalistic aesthetic of his bedroom. Tall windows that offer views of the pier, gleaming hardwood floors decorated with luxurious, handwoven carpets of varying muted shades, all working together to become the backbone of comfort and professionalism within the room.

In front of you, Chris leans on the large, polished walnut desk. You notice a sleek laptop, and a few notepads and pens, all of which are neatly arranged. An ergonomic leather chair looms over the desk and you find that you are thankful he is not sitting on it, knowing you’d be incapable of enduring his scrutiny from such a position of power without wrestling the overwhelming urge to touch yourself.

In one corner, a small lounge area features a plush velvet sofa in a deep navy hue, flanked by a glass-top coffee table. A handful of his friends, including Seungmin and the icy-haired man from the dressing room, occupy the space. The other side, by the wall of windows, linger the remaining few, including the man who took the position of his coach in the recent match and the one you met in the hall.

The artwork in the office does not resemble that of his room, or even the corridor. It is more abstract, sometimes broken up by black and white photos of himself in the ring. He barely breaks a sweat in each photo, clenching hard around his mouth guard as he glares at his opponent. A championship belt is framed and pinned behind his desk too, under a collection of trophies and gold medals.

You wonder how many people have been invited here, blessed to witness the wonders held within these walls.

“I need to know everything,” Chris says, pulling your attention away from the layout of the room.

You furrow your brows. “I told you everything.”

Chris crosses his arms over his chest. “Word for word,” he clarifies, voice void of the softness it once cradled.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Disappointment lances around your heart, ensnaring your high-hopes like barbed wire. You thought he was making a statement of affectation or, at the very least, interest. You thought that his body was reacting to yours as well, that he felt your pain within a shared kiss, understood your damage within an exchanged breath. You thought that maybe he just wanted to see you again and didn’t know how, his efforts extreme but he is a Stray Kid after all.

You now understand the forced meeting for what it really is— an interrogation.

Told you so, a little voice in your head gloats. If you put up a fight and ran when I told you to, you wouldn't feel this way.

Sucking on the insides of your cheeks, brows knitted and eyes reverting to the floor, you shake your head and humorlessly laugh at your desperate short-sightedness. You’re no better than Aiden in the ring, flailing yourself around for a chance to be accepted somewhere, anywhere.

Perhaps this is for the best. You were going to ruin his life at some point anyway, possessing the damned knack of cursing him with your existence as you had done with the others that have come before him, friends and lovers alike.

So, with an exasperated sigh, you begin your tale, thinking back to everything you overhear in the alleyway. You give him a detailed description of Mickey, his features and breaking voice as Andy threatened his life. In greater detail, you describe what Andy looks like, from his messy crew cut to the nasty scar on his forearm. You describe his voice and his manner of speaking, the jittery bounce in his step as he lets his impulsive thoughts win and presses a knife to Mickey’s throat.

Chris nods along. Every so often, one of his friends shifts their weight or adjusts their position in their seats. You notice a few of them captivated by the floor whenever you mention Mickey and you can’t stop yourself from wondering who he was to them before he was outed as a traitor. Was he merely Chris’s coach, or really part of his inner circle?

“And you?” Chris asks when you finish.

You shrug. “What about me?”

“What makes you a traitor?”

You didn’t think such a question would summon tears, not after how much time has lapsed since you last called Vince, Danni and Andrea your friends. Yet, your eyes water. Jaw clenched, you narrow your gaze at him. Insults perch on the tip of your tongue, prepared to fire upon your frustrated command, but your despair holds your vicious voice hostage.

Blinking, you look down at the expensive hardwood floors. Breathing deep, you muster enough courage to quietly answer, “Delusions.”

“I need details,” Chris clarifies. You can hear the annoyance drenched in each grunted word.

You look over your shoulder at his friends. Tense, they stare with carefully neutral features.

“It’s a long story.”

“I got time.”

“The answer is no.”

Chris reaches behind him. He pulls out a black handgun, the letters SKZ scratched on the side of the barrel and aims it at you. “I think you should reconsider,” he says, chambering a bullet.

You cannot help smiling at the sound of the cocked gun, like a toy in his huge hand. You relax back in your seat, and tilt your head. Gesturing his hand upward, you advise, “Higher if you’re aiming for my head. You’ll only shatter my collarbone from this angle.”

Features flinching with confusion, Chris looks between you and his gun. He quirks his head to the side as he schools his expression once more, poking his tongue against his cheek.

“Are you stupid or suicidal?”

“A lot of people would argue both.”

The slightest impression of a smirk flickers on the corner of his lips. It's quite endearing, really—the way he tries so hard to stay focused, yet can't help but be distracted by your charms. You smirk for him instead, once miserable eyes now filled with playful defiance.

He takes a step closer, then another and another, until the cool barrel presses against the centre of your forehead. You try not to moan from the kiss of cold steel upon your skin, the proximity of his lips hovering over yours.

“Reconsider,” he orders in a whisper.

Sultry eyes, half-lidded and drowning in lust, you shake your head. Originally, shame shackled your truth. You didn’t want him nor his friends to lose respect for you, unsure if they even possess any for you at all. But now, all you want is to see how far he will go with his trigger, with you.

Chris moves the gun to your right temple, dragging the cold tip of the gun against your warm skin.

You bite your lip and shake your head.

He peers down at you with a lust-ridden gaze that mirrors yours and leans on the arms of your chair. He slides the gun down your cheek, along your jawline then finally pushes it firmly under your chin.

Your eyes roll, head tilting back.

“How about now?” he whispers. His voice is deep, heavy with lust as he breaths over your face.

Voice as breathless and even weaker than his, you practically whine, “No.”

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Seungmin mumble, “This is what I was telling you.”

“Shut up,” someone else replies in a quiet hiss. “I’m watching something.”

“It’s fine. Minho’s recording,” the one with the deepest voice reassures.

Chris pushes himself off the arm of the chair, uncocking his gun and removing it from your head.

You can’t help the dissatisfied sigh that escapes you at the loss of contact.

Turning to his friends, Chris demands, “Get out.”

“You’re ruining my footage,” Minho, the one you met in the hall, scolds, looking at Chris through his camera phone.

Chris merely points to the door. They sigh, grumbling protests as they shuffle out of the room. He shuts the door behind them and makes his way back to you.

“Listen,” he starts, wiping his nose with his wrist. He leans back against his desk again, meeting your gaze.

You press your thighs together at the sight of him all spread out along the edge of the grand desk.

He continues, snapping you out of your horny thoughts, “I want to fuck you senseless. I want you to take that little top off again and shove your tits in my face.”

Swallowing thickly, you sink into your chair, flushing at the confession.

“But before I ravish you,” he says, unable to fight off a smile, “I need to know what you did that made one of the most powerful families in Crimson Heights, levy such a steep price on your head.”

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s stupid, Chris,” you try to argue. “And childish.”

Gaze supplying tender understanding, Chris ever so sweetly encourages you to share with a gentle nod of his head. “Tell me everything,” he repeats, this time as a plea rather than demand.

Licking your lips, you confess, “And I don’t regret it. Before I tell you what happened, I need you to understand that I would do it again.”

At this, the compassion in his gaze wavers. Nonetheless, he sets the gun down and waits for you to begin.

You draw in a shaky breath, and upon the exhale, you explain, “Vince was flirting with me. I didn’t know it at the time, but at a certain point, it became obvious. He started to touch me more, and would find reasons to get me alone. We both lost someone ‘cause of overdoses and I guess it was a topic of bonding? I thought it was just as friends. He clearly had a different idea.”

Chris furrows his brows. “Does he have a girlfriend?”

A tight lipped smile momentarily tugs on the corners of your mouth. “Yeah, Danni,” you confirm. “That’s how I met him. She was like my best friend. We accidentally met while knocking over the same liquor store. She wanted the booze and I wanted the cash. It worked out perfectly.”

You chuckle quietly to yourself at the memory. Chris allows a small smile to break through his assertive expression in response.

“Anyway, one night we were supposed to meet up by the pier. But, Danni wanted to stay in for the night, which she of course told us after we already got there, and she was Andrea’s ride so neither showed up. Vince and I got to talking about the people we lost— his was more recent than mine. I thought he just needed some more support. He looked devastated at the time.

But then he reached for my thigh. I didn’t push it off right away because I couldn’t believe he was touching me like that. And I guess he took that as a sign that I liked it. He moved his hand further up my leg and leaned in.” You pause to swallow your disgust, the memory panging your heart with anxiety.

Chris sharply exhales. “Please tell me you pushed him into the sea,” he says, tone laced with anger.

“I wish,” you dryly chuckle. “No, I went to shove his hand away, but Danni showed up after all, after Andrea begged her for the ride. She saw my hand over Vince’s and how close both were to my crotch and just lost her shit. I tried to explain but she hit me and I figured running home would be easier. And they followed me. They banged on my door all night, flip flopping between wanting to just talk to kill me. I waited until they were gone to run to Vinny’s.”

“So, she thought you were trying to fuck her boyfriend?” Chris asks, laughing at the obscurity. “Half the port is being gambled away because of some horny piece of shit and his stupid girlfriend?”

You can’t help smirking, yourself, the stupidity not at all lost on you. “No, that is just some context for why I…” You trail off, crossing one leg over another and taking another deep breath.

Chris raises a brow, only to hiss in pain.

“Careful,” you warn, earning a slight smile, before resuming your story.

“They went around the city slandering me. It got bad enough that certain gangs wouldn’t let me in their territory, worried I’d be more trouble than I was worth. At one point, I was confined to my apartment— Vinny suggested that laying low might help minimise the accusations. Everyday I spent alone, I would think about that night at the pier. I would wonder what Vince told them on their way to my apartment to make them so vile and murderous towards me. I knew both girls for nearly five years, and it killed me to know that in all that time, they really thought I was capable of such disgusting behaviour.

I was seething alone for almost three months, replaying that day over and over. I thought about what I would have said if I stayed and fought back. I thought about kicking Vince right in his tiny balls and punching Danni in the face until all her teeth fell out. I came up with a new way to torment them every single day I was locked away.”

“What was your favourite?” Chris asks, the allure of a fond smile settling on his lips.

You carefully meet his gaze and answer, “Bullets. I thought about lining them up and shooting their brains out. I wanted to see them with half their face still intact, the rest splattered all across the pier.”

Chris shares your tranquil smile, falling silent to let you continue.

“At a certain point, I wasn’t thinking straight. Or maybe I finally found clarity— I don’t know,” you shake your head, sitting up in your seat. “I knew that Vince’s father owned a fleet of boats on the pier. ”

Realisation instantly sparkles in his big, brown eyes.

“I snuck out and studied the crew’s shift rotation for two weeks. I found out that by Christmas Eve, there would be a skeleton crew and no one would be on the boats. They were only planning on securing the perimeter. So I set my plan in motion. I syphoned some gas, stole a pack of matches and set them all on fire. I shouted my name as the crew rushed to put it all out. I wanted them to know it was me, the person they exiled, who burned them to the ground. I needed them to know it.

The weight of what I had just done didn’t hit me until I got home and realised I couldn’t stay there. So I packed up some essentials, and ran to Vinny’s instead. Turns out there was an astronomical amount of coke on those boats. The bounty was placed within the hour.”

Chris sucks in a breath as you finish. “I see,” he hums, reaching for his gun again. “Stand up.”

You eye the firearm. “Are you going to use that?”

“Are you going to make me repeat myself?”

Jaw tight, you uncross your legs and stand. You look up at his towering 6’9 frame from your 5’8 position. Hands moving on their own accord, you grip onto his shirt, right by his hips, and press yourself firmly against him.

His clothed erection pokes at your stomach. You wonder how long he has been throbbing for you. Which part of your story made him this hard? The shared rage against Vince’s sliminess? The festering resentment? The violence? The retribution? You noticed his posture remained still, expression plain, but his eyes gleamed with something like pride.

“You’re so pretty when you’re following orders,” he murmurs, luring your attention. Before you can answer, he fiercely jams the barrel of the gun against your cheek .

You cannot stop a loud, whiny moan from tearing through your throat. The moment that cool tip digs into your skin, your arousal pools, eyes roll back. Your grip on his hips tightens and toes curl into the soft carpet beneath you.

“No, no,” he tuts, applying more pressure. “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

Chris peers down at you over the bridge of his nose, desires casting shadows in those brown eyes at your compliance. He grinds the barrel further into your skin, tilting slightly to watch your face contort under its cold pressure.

You lean into it, maintaining his lust-lost gaze.

“Take off your shorts.”

Looping your thumbs into the waistband, you make a show of wiggling your hips to push off the tiny short-shorts. You kick them aside once they fall to the floor.

Chris first smirks at the swish of your hips, but then tongues his cheek in sexual frustration at the sight of your panty-less crotch.

“Laundry day,” you shrug, feigning innocence as you peer at him under your lashes.

“My new favourite day,” he smiles before cupping you.

Your hips grind into his hand, legs slightly spreading for his wide fingers. Knowing he wants you to maintain eye contact, you do your best not to roll them back at the light, slow friction. 

Voice already trembling, you moan, “Fuck.”

He puts some force into his languid ministrations as he opens his mouth and arches his brows, hinting at you to mirror his actions. The condescension of his expression makes your hips buckle, clit throbbing for more stimulation.

God, he’s so perfect.

If you continue, if you let him bed you, ravish you as he previously put it, you’ll eventually regret it. You’ll wish you left when you had the chance, or at least thought you did. You know you can’t stay here. Your heart already bursts with infatuation, wetness collecting at his meticulous attention. If you stay, you will end up hurt and disappointed, all alone again with nothing but a knock-off fur coat and switchblade to console you once everything is said and done. Or worse— he will be the one hurt, dying or dead, plagued by the curse of your reckless existence.

Right now, Chirs exudes success, reputation built on the brute force of his powerful fists and swift footwork. He has friends who respect him enough that he doesn’t need to repeat himself when he speaks. He has the support of the most nefarious gang in Crimson Heights, prepared to defend him, stand for him.

You can’t ruin that. In fact, you refuse to do so.

So why are you standing on your toes, leaning into his broad chest for stability and rolling your hips into his calloused hand? Why can’t you tell him to stop, instead echoing his movements as he silently requested?

The moment you part your lips, Chris slides the barrel into your mouth. Swirling your tongue around the cool metal, the taste of gun powder bitter on your tongue, you loudly moan and eyes rolling back.

He tsks, pulling your head back down using his grip on the gun. “Eyes on me,” he reminds through gritted teeth.

Oh? Is it a performance he’s after?

You recall his words— I like to make a statement— and wonder if he is waiting for you to do the same thing.

Hollowing your cheeks, you pretend to suck on the barrel, careful not to swallow more fumes of explosive powder than humanly capable. You bob your head back and forward, enchanting him with your most innocently lustful eyes.

A certain darkness diminishes the sweet tenderness that often glimmers in his gaze, even when he is sinfully intrigued by your shameless desire. Once a chocolate brown, swirling with smug delight, now a deep umber, whirling with lethal ecstasy. He feels it— the power of a mighty gun, the weight of life and death confined within sleek, curved edges of a silver bullet.

Fear and pleasure collide in your gut, becoming a force of thrilling anxiety.

What if the safety isn’t on? What if he fires?

Your mind laps around the questions, hips desperately jutting into his palm, as you trebly whine around the gun.

Chris removes his arousal-glistening hand from your crotch to wrap it around your neck. You shiver at the slimy sensation of your excitement against your skin. He pulls out the gun with more force than necessary at the squeaky whine you sound upon the lost contact. Your hips, still desperate to chase a release, fidget against him, much to his sinister amusement.

Pointing the gun to your temple, he shuffles and shifts your position so your back faces the desk instead. Then he shoves you against it by the grip on your neck.

You stumble back with a breathless yelp, the tail of your spine ramming against the expensive wood. Upon the impact, body buzzing with signals of pain and pleasure alike, you choke out a gratified giggle.

The clatter of objects on the desk falling from the force of his shove, the sound of your stricken surprise, flashes fear in his gaze. But then the melody of your laughter tumbles and tunnels his vision with carnal hunger. A vicious smile stretches on his supple lips, tongue flicking out to lick the corner of his mouth, like a famished predator upon trapping its prey.

You lift yourself up onto his desk as he approaches, immediately spreading your legs as a way of welcome. He appreciates the gesture, sliding the barrel of the gun along your breasts and stomach, then down between your drenched folds. Chest to chest, lips on lips, you exchange hissing breaths and curses. You grip onto your shoulders as he wraps his free arm around your waist, hugging you firmly against him. He’s caged you in, his body too large to move around now, even if you wanted to (or so you tell yourself, while feverently rolling your hip in tandem with his wrist.)

Terror knots in your gut, right where your climax builds. You wonder if his finger is still on the trigger. If he gets too excited, if he loses his concentration, if he ever so slightly shifts his finge—

“Kinky, little whore,” he croaks, picking up the pace. He then mimics the pitches of your waver voice and mocks your pouty expression, cooing, “You like that, yeah? You like my gun rubbing against your wet cunt, baby girl? Hmm?”

The patronising tone is reason enough to tremble, nails piercing skin as your scratch along his strong shoulders. His filthy words and ravenous gaze, however, have you releasing your scarring grasp to pull off your shirt and arch your back.

An approving growl resonates from his chest, attention now trailing down to your bouncing breasts.

“Lean back.”

Heat floods your face, your neck, your chest. You place your hands behind you and do as you’re told while his arms slither from around your waist to grip onto your hip, firmly sinking his fingers into your supple curves. Heart rapturing from the amorous attention, you fight off a smile. And the darkness that once brewed in your lungs, twisting around your ribcage as you rue your existence, dwindles with every salacious stare.

Other men have been passionate, but hasty. Eager to chase their own highs, they merely used you as a means to a satisfying end. Their hands would only roam if they required a better grip on your hips and eyes mostly screwed shut while they thrusted to an unsteady pace. It was mediocre at best, often having to think of your own turn ons to not fake an orgasm.

Chris deliberately studies your features, instead. He sips on your bare body like he might die if he does not memorise every roll, curve and fold. More than that, he revels at the sight. He croaks throaty moans and hisses when your hips stutter against the gun, the stimulation momentarily confounding your senses.

Your insecurities wane, allowing confidence to flourish in their stead. Even your self-loathing cowers under the judgement of his wanton gaze. You suddenly cannot remember why you needed to leave before. You can’t understand how a thought like that could enter your mind. Never do you want to leave him.

“I feel you clenching,” he notes, voice raw with authority. “Do you want me to fill it up for you?”

Your breath hitches, body quivers. Gaze flitting down to his erection, brutally evident in his black sweats, you moan, “Fuck, yes!”

He smirks and you already know he won’t give himself up that easily.

“Beg.”

Voice tangled in deplorable desperation, you keenly plead, “Please, please, please fuck me! Pl-ease,” you take a moment to swallow thickly, hoping to compose yourself enough to continue. “I don’t th-think I can cum without you.”

His smirk widens at that.

You pick your next words carefully, voice wavering. “Only you could r-really make me fe-feel it in the m-mo-morning.”

Jaw flexed, he softly growls.

“P-pretty ple-ase?” you add with a pout.

He tongues his cheek, hiding a smile, but does not reach for his waistband.

You part your lips to beg more, prepared to offer your soul if that’s what it would take to feel him inside you. Instead, an ear-piercing shriek escapes.

“Oh, god!”

Your voice breaks, peaking at a near whistle from the abrupt sensation of the barrel pushing against your tight, needy walls. Jaw slack, you look down and watch as your core engulfs the gun, clenching tightly around the arousal slick metal. Even after being shoved against your clit for so long, it still feels cold.

Chris chuckles darkly as you breathlessly mewl, the sight of the gun disappearing in you all too erotic. “Is this what you wanted?” he taunts, raising a cocky brow. He hums in mocking agreement with your hurried nods.

Between the thrusting gun and his belittling behaviour, you’re not sure you possess the capabilities to endure him for much longer.

“Ch-chris,” you attempt to warn, risking a glance back down at that barrel ramming into you.

His finger is on the trigger, force powerful enough that even the slightest pressure could set the firearm off.

Your toes curl, nails claw against the rich wood of the desk. The continuous friction, steady, speedy and strong, encourages the coiling of electrified excitement deep in your gut.

So, so cl—

A devastated cry tears through your throat as the sudden loss of contact. Your eyes snap open (you don’t even remember screwing them shut), and you glare at him.

“You fucking asshole!” You seethe, pushing yourself up from your leaned back position. You obeyed every order, leaned into every touch and embraced every vicious word only to have your orgasm ruined.

Chris dismisses your icy eyes, slowly dragging his tongue over the barrel of the handgun. His eyes radiate sexual satisfaction as he savours your taste.

“Oh, sorry,” he chuckles, offering you the tip of the gun, “Did you want to clean it up for me?”

You are not a violent person— not unintentionally anyway. So why do you wind your hand back and whip it against his cheek?

Chris moans upon impact, twisting his head with the slap, as if embracing it.

You gasp, hopping off the desk and clamping a hand over your mouth only to remove it seconds later to apologise.

“Chris, I’m—”

He advances towards you with a fierce groan. Seizing you by the waist, he forces you against him and latches onto your lips. His hands slide down to grip onto your rear, kneading fistfuls of your plump cheeks. Both hands suddenly release your ass to smack back down against it and squeeze.

You moan into his mouth, wrapping your arms around his neck as your guilt disappears.

His tongue puts up more of a fight this time, but is nowhere as aggressive as the rest of his actions, half-heartedly wrestling yours simply to delight in the wet and warm sensation. He yields to your rhythm eventually, muttering against your lips, “Do it again.”

You rip yourself away in pure confusion, brows knotted. “What?” you heave, as he presses his forehead against yours.

“Hit me again,” he demands, voice rough and raspy.

Your gaze bounces around his healing wounds, remorse resurfacing.

Chris must have read the guilt on your face, endearingly tilting his head at your hesitation. “I’m a big boy,” he smirks. “I can take it.”

That breathy, throat voice and haughty tone seems to be enough of a trigger because you smack him again before you have a chance to second-guess yourself.

He moves with the hit again, groaning as he grinds his erection against your stomach. Sucking in a breath with a sharp hiss, Chris tosses the gun to the floor. You brace yourself for the firing round, shoulders shooting to your ears. However, the gun does not go off. You narrow your gaze to find the clip missing, wondering when the fuck he slipped it out and how he managed to do it so silently.

The shuffle of fabric redirects your attention back to Chris. You’ve been so absorbed by the fear of triggering the gun, you hadn’t realised he untangled himself from you to take his clothes off.

His torso is as glorious as you remember, buff, broad and boasting with robust strength. Then he pushes off his sweats and your jaw slackens. Your gaze first lingers around the three-lettered tattoo of his gang on his left hip. SKZ – the ‘K’ coloured red. Then, as he shoves the pants down, his cock monopolises your attention. You knew he would be wide, the impression of him alone previously leaving you shaken. But you did not expect him to be as long, easily measuring at around eight and a half inches.

Your bottom lip whimpers and a hand comes up to steady it as you gawk. Saliva dampens your fingers. You lick your lips, wipe your chin and tentatively sneak a glance at his face, hoping he didn’t catch you shamelessly drooling.

That smirk widens as your eyes meet. “I need to be inside you,” he pants before closing the distance between you with a tug of your body into his.

You can’t agree more, biting back your own smile as you cup his face. “I need to ride you,” you reply just as affectionately.

Dripping with dominance, you thought he would ignore your request and bend you over the desk. Instead, he back pedals towards the chair you originally sat on, and commandeers it.

The sight of his muscular thighs has you biting your lip. You seat yourself upon him, just like you did in the dressing room. You know you can just lift your hips, align his length and begin bouncing. However, as you gaze down at his staggering size, pre-cum oozing from the tip, the urge to spit on it overrides your thoughts. You gather saliva and splatter it over him, earning a croaky groan.

You moan through a bitten lip in reply.

Wrapping a hand around him, you gasp at the fact that your fingers are unable to meet. Your core dampens.

Chris spits down on his length too, rubbing your thighs as you jerk and twist your wrist.

“You’re really big,” you shyly comment, maintaining a sluggish pace.

Just as sincere a smile hovers over his lips before he presses them against yours again.

Emotion bursts through your chest, desire unable to remain restrained. In hurried movements, you release your hold on his cock and lift your hips to finally accept the fullness he offers.

Chris helps you, aligning himself for you to easily sink down. He wraps both beefy arms around your waist as you gasp into his mouth. The kiss momentarily breaks, noses smushing together amidst blissful hissing.

You rest your arms on his shoulders to hug his head close, fingers tangled in his hair. You tug on the ends as he pushes between your tight walls. You move slowly, thankful for his steady grasp on you, inching further downward only to rise back up a bit and do it again. Inch by inch, you find a way to accommodate his girth, all the while whining his name.

“Just let go,” he whispers. His hold on your waist tightens, referring to the concentrated control you’ve adopted. “I’ve got you, baby.”

His delicate tone unravels your composure. You relax into his touch and find that he really does have a good grasp on you. He maintains your slow movements, acknowledging that you still need time to adjust. You wonder if it was the lack of speed itself, the crumpling pleasure etching your features, or how you’re tensing oh-so tightly around him that tips him off. And as he lifts and lowers you upon him, groaning between shared breaths, you realise that it really doesn’t matter what the reason was.

Clarity settles— Chris tunnels his vision when it comes to you. Within a night, he has noted your sexual boldness, recklessness, and affinity for guns. He knows you like to be harshly handled, tightening his grip only to roughly release it. He lets you strike him back, knowing you like to act out and does not only encourage it, but embraces it. He observes your features, searching for particular indications of pleasure to focus on or circle back to when he thinks you can take it again. Beyond that, he provides a space for vulnerability that does not centre around pity but rather a shared rage.

As you look at him now, hissing moans through gritted teeth and quivering lips, you cannot help but allow his words to splinter your previous philosophy. Perhaps it is not your existence that is cursed, but rather the world. Perhaps Crimson Heights is the beckon for misfortune— a city of survivors and casualties. You do not cause death; you simply outrun it. And when catastrophe rumbles the foundation of your life, claiming your family or friends, you do not need to feel guilty. Life ebbs and flows, grips and lets go— just as Chris does when he unwraps his arms around your waist, to grip onto your hips.

“That’s my slutty little girl,” he praises before grazing your chin with his teeth. “Arch your— Yes! Lean into me.”

A frail whine is all you can muster as he becomes more daring with the pace, speeding up.

Breasts glued to his chest, your back arches the way he instructs and you feel the hammering of his heart against yours. You cup his face. Your thumb brushes over the bruises on his cheek.

“Y-you know ex-actly what I n-need,” you whimper, internally cringing at your lust laced stutter.

A prideful smile plays on his lips. His grip tightens with newfound confidence as he uses your encouragement to experiment with the possible indication of fully submerging himself into you.

The moment your cheeks smack against the muscles of his thighs, an ear-piercing scream rips from your throat, heavy with delirious delight. So deep, so fucking full, he reaches far to stretch you wide. You doubt that you’d be able to tighten around anything other than his length again, hole now completely adjusted for his cock only.

“Like that?” he questions, voice still swirling with mockery. “Is that what you needed?”

You quickly nod, unable to find your voice.

Chris lifts and drops your hips with renewed force, ordering, “Speak.”

“I like that!” You confirm. “I love that!”

Grunting and growling in satisfaction, Chris decides that your hips do not give him the best leverage as he grasps on your rear instead. His fingers sink into your voluptuous cheeks, surely marking your skin, as he guides the rolls and rises of your thrusts.

You squeal, throwing your head back at the waves of excitement lapping over you. “Yes, yes, yes,” you pant before looking back at him. “Is this how you like it?” you ask, gaining confidence with every shudder sigh he expels. “Does this drive you c-crazy?”

Chris breathes a chuckle, mumbling, “You most definitely do,” before pressing his lips to yours.

Euphoria envelopes you, coursing through your veins and rattling your bones. You immediately submit to his rhythm, already content with the warmth of his lips on yours and taste of his tongue. Satisfaction swells, throbbing your clit upon the build of your climax. As emotion shines through the cracks of your armour, delirious delight flourishes.

You break the kiss with a breathless giggle, allowing the pleasure to travel from your core though your limbs. The base of your spine, centre of your chest, tips of your fingers, toes and ears, your nerves dash and dance with a degree of joy you did not believe you were capable of ever feeling. You cannot help your laughter between breathless moans.

Chris, voice croaky and deep with lust, joins you. He playfully nips at the skin under your jaw then peppers the light sting with kisses, laughing all the while.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he revels in whisper.

Your giggles waver upon the sincere emotion flooding his eyes.

You clench. “Chri—”

“You feel so perfect around me,” he groans, cutting you off. “It’s like your body was made for me.”

Whimpering, all playful humour darkening within your bones into desperate ecstasy, you can’ help but squeeze tighter, the knots of your high becoming more and more undeniable.

Your voice rises in pitch as you moan,“Use me however you want.”

His hips snap up to meet yours with a dark, loud groan.

You jolt from the force, body shaking. Panting whines tumble from your lips as your grasp on his hair tightens. Over and over, he sinks you down on him as he rams himself into you, meeting you halfway. Your breasts bounce against him, only encouraging his aggressive speed as he shoves his face between the valley.

The brutality of the force, the pace is unbearable. Toes curling, core gripping, you stutter through your next intake of air. All at once, a wave of satisfaction crashes over you. Muscles tense, you stiffen with a shrill cry of his name and gush, gush, gush your release. Your eyes roll back, jaw slack as he wraps his arms around you to keep you upright.

As he did in the dressing room, Chris peers up at you from between your full breasts. He offers a pleased smile before leaning back against the chair. Now, with you laying on top of him as your orgasm ripples through you all— dazed and drooling, Chris grinds your hips down into his. His own muscles flex, skin flushing. Through gritted teeth, a deep moan emits from the base of his throat.

His cock twitches. His release shoots, warm and erratic, filling you so well, you already feel it smearing around your folds.

Face buried in the crook of his neck, you whine his name quietly at the sensation. “Fuck, yes,” you moan, circling your hips around his. “Fill me up just l-like that!”

You swear you feel another shot of his cum, the wet sloshes of arousal slick with every grind of hip on hip.

After watching Chris endure seven rounds of boxing, with his composure still intact and sweat barely breaking, you should have known better than to think that he was done with you. He doesn’t even take a moment to catch his breath. Still heaving, he stands.

You wrap yourself around him, holding on tight. Has he forgotten that he is still deep inside you or does he not care, simply eager to continue using you? You moan from the new angle all the same as he walks you back into his room.

“You don’t need a break, do you?” he asks after kicking the door shut behind him. He grips onto your waist and rips you off his torso with a forceful shove. “Hmm? No break?” he teases.

A cross between a grunt and whine fills the room as you land on his bed with a little bounce. Before you can reply, he yanks you to the edge of the bed by your ankles. You yelp your pleased surprise, unable to fight back a giggle as he turns you over on your stomach. He pulls your hips up to roughly guide you into a downward dog position. Knees on the bed’s edge, face smushed into the soft duvet, your backside is now perfectly exposed for him.

His tongue slips between your folds, lapping the mess of your mixed climaxes with a deep-chested growl. The vibrations resonate upon every overwhelmed nerve ending around your core. You cannot deny the wiggle of your hips and strained mewls of distress from the overstimulation.

“Stay still,” Chris orders, voice muffled. His hot breath, the tenor of his voice all directed towards your overused hole, only further your squirms.

You want more of him, need more, but the unrelenting stimulation of his lapping tongue, slurping and groaning, makes you tremble. You find yourself attempting to crawl away from his mouth only to be harshly pulled back.

Chris wraps his arms under and around your thighs, locking you in place.

“Just where do you think you’re going, darling?”

You whine incoherently.

He mocks you, pitching his voice and mimicking your unstable syllables.

Your desire pools at your core all over again, eyes water. “Too much,” you whimper into your fist, overwhelmed by the all too desperate yearning to stop yet still continue. “Its—”

Chris groans, cutting you off. “We taste so good, baby,” he murmurs against your heat. “This might be the closest I get to heaven.” He then pulls himself away long enough to look at you over the full curve of your cheeks. “Wanna try?” he asks with a smug smirk, face glistening from the smear of your combined orgasms.

You flush, nodding.

He dives back in to slurp on your sex. Then he grabs a fistful of your hair and gently, despite the rough grasp, pulls your back towards his chest. You tilt your head back for him, parting your lips. He smiles at how quickly you’ve caught onto his intentions and spits the cum into your mouth.

Your pussy quivers upon the bittersweet taste, eyes fluttering shut. You moan your delight upon swallowing.

Chris takes the advantage of your proximity, stealing another quick kiss before using the grip on your hair to shove you back onto the mattress. He adjusts the position of your hips again but does not dive down between your folds this time. Instead, he grabs fistfuls of your cheeks and spreads them apart.

You hear the throaty gathering of salvia and then the splatter of spit before feeling the warmth of it upon your tightest hole. Heat scorches your skin with humiliation from his laughter when you clench.

You part your lips to say his name, ask what he’s doing when his tongue reappears, circling your hole. A breathless gasp sounds instead.

Chris transfers more of your wetness to your tensing hole, scooping the cum with his finger and rubbing it against you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes as you whimper and wiggle in his grasp. “Relax, babygirl. I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

You lean back into him upon his soothing tone. You’ve never touched yourself there, never let anyone else do the same, certain they would only hurt you. From the way Chris takes his time however, you can tell he knows what he’s doing.

“You have the cutest fucking asshole,” he chuckles before spitting over it again.

Gratification tickles the darkness looming in your chest, allowing you to giggle in response and push yourself back against his finger.

“I mean it,” he says, misunderstanding your acceptance for teasing protest. His fingers then glide between your folds, down to your clit. He twirls the pad of his middle finger around the bundle of nerves, then spreads the folds as if to take a better look at your cum-leaking hole.“You have the prettiest pussy too,” he groans before his tongue dives, reaching farther inside than you expected.

Pride blossoms, boastfully overpowering all your emotions and triggering a loud, moan of approval. “Please don’t stop,” you beg while attempting to writhe out of his grasp.

Chris pulls himself away long enough to laugh at your conflicting movements. He quietly hums, content with himself, as he smacks each cheek halfheartedly, like you made a joke and he’s nudging you because of the wit and humour. You can’t help joining him, wiggling your hips in his hands with every slap.

There have been times where you felt at ease, perhaps even happy under setting suns and sneaky nights on the roof with your foster siblings. Watching a fusion of magenta and maroon cascade in the sky, as the sun disappears behind the Crimson Heights horizon, has been the image you conjure on cold, lonely nights between nightmares and distant gunshots. But being here with Chris, bent over and exposed from angles no one else has ever witnessed, absolute contentment engulfs you. Like a warm, tender hug, his patient presence nurtures your soul and caresses your darkness. And it feels natural as if the universe conspired to ensure that you do have at least one moment of true happiness amongst the death and betrayal.

He brushes your hair from your face, pulling you from your thoughts. You shyly meet his gaze to which he smirks. His hand then trails from the naps of your neck to the base of your spine, drawing you away from the memory of your trauma.

“Stay with me, yeah,” he coos.

You nod.

Is it your sudden silence? Is that what indicated that you’ve let your mind wander off? Though, you do remember moaning between giggles. Maybe you had a distant look in your eyes. Maybe you stopped responding to his touch. Does it even matter? Because whatever it was, whatever you did, he saw it.

He sees you.

Chris kisses each cheek before spreading them again. You feel his tongue on your heat, swirling once, twice then dragging up. You moan loudly, pushing yourself further into him. But his tongue does not return to your needy pussy. Instead, he circles the edge of your tightest hole.

You clench, whimpering.

He licks, chuckling.

His hands rub your cheeks, silently soothing your tense muscles. You try to lean into his calm, but the feeling of his warm tongue twirling around the rim of your hole is much too stimulating to ignore.

“More please,” you find yourself whining, fisting the sheets beneath you. “I-I need more.”

Chris presses a wet kiss upon your puckering hole before replying, “Take a deep breath for me.”

You draw in a long breath and release it.

He gives it another kiss, spit on it then orders, “Again. Take your time with it, baby.”

The pet name prickles your skin with goosebumps, face flushed as you inhale deeply and exhale slowly.

You can’t see him with his face between your cheeks, but you swear he’s smirking as he praises, “Good girl.”

A giggle was meant to be your only reply. Instead, his tongue pushes through your hole and you moan in a voice so unlike yourself, so innocent and weak.

“Daddy!”

Chris growls, tightening his grip on your rear with one hand, while the other harshly rubs your dripping core. Slobbering, slurping, he bobs his head, in and out, up and down, shoving his tongue between your tense walls. His fingers are relentless, playing with your clit in quick, forceful waves only to abandon the bundle of nerves all together. He pushes them into your pussy instead. Three long fingers draw in and out of you to the rhythm of his tongue.

Moans meek and breathy, you writhe under his onslaught of pleasure. That pet name is on the tip of your tongue again, but you refrain from using it, clenching your teeth instead. You’ve never called anyone that and have even judged the people you know who have said shit like that during sex.

It feels so right when thinking about Chris, when feeling his tongue attempt to breach through your tight hole. If anyone was to embody that mindset of a Daddy, it would be Christopher Bahng. Chris with his tall, towering frame. Chris with his commanding voice. Chris with his charismatic confidence.

“Daddy,” you whine again despite your futile attempts.

He hums in question, tone oh-so condescending. Your nerves burn from the wetness of his tongue, the pace of his harsh fingers. You thrash into the sheets, further smothering your face in the soft duvet and screaming out your pleasure.

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop! Don’t stop!” Your voice is muffled, hips ramming back against him with every plea.

Chris merely moans in reply, as if delighted by the sinful taste of you. He continues his dual stimulation, insatiable tongue bouncing in and out of your untested hole. His fingers curl, over and over and over right where you need him most.

Turning your head to the side, cheek pressed against the mattress again, you gasp for air and cry out your new favourite name, “Daddy! Fuck, yes, yes, yes!”

His breath staggers as you hear him chuckle, but you don’t care. He can laugh himself hoarse if he wants. You just need him to continue, your orgasm building all over again. Toes curling, eyes rolling, you quake and claw at the sheets, desperate to get a hold of yourself.

However, Chris, upon feeling you clench particularly tightly around his fingers, pulls himself away.

A sexually frustrated sob tumbles out of you at the all too sudden loss of contact. Your orgasm falters at the lack of stimulation. Once again, he has dangled you over the edge. Fury surges through you, propping yourself up on your elbows and glaring over your shoulder at him.

“Why do— Ah!”

Chris grips onto your hips, pushes himself back into your core. He rams his hips into yours, holding enough force to knock you off your elbows, cutting you off.

“Mmm, I can’t get enough of you,” he groans, voice husky and deep.

You whimper in response, all words actively being fucked out of you. No one can even stand you, yet he ploughs into you, eager and deliberate, and still craves more of you. That realisation alone could coax another bone-bending orgasm out of you.

Apart from the first, initial thrust, you do not feel his hips smack against yours again. Instead, Chris restraints himself, offering moderate, yet fast thrusts. He still reaches deep, still stretches you out oh so deliciously, but you can tell he’s holding back.

And it ignites your veins with anger. You refuse to have him spoil yet another orgasm rattle you into calling him ‘daddy,’ only to then half-heartedly fuck you.

“Please fuck me,” you beg before echoing a version of his previous words. “I’m a big girl, Daddy. I can take it.”

Chris growls lowly under his breath. “You’ll get hurt,” he warns.

You cannot fight back your smile. “Good.”

The impact of his thrust upon your reassurance is so powerful, the bed shifts forward. You hiccup his name and hiss at the sting of skin on skin. Vigorous momentum grows with every mighty thrust of his hips. You feel your entire body jiggle, shaking with the squeaking bed.

“You have no idea,” he begins, breathlessly growling, “how fucking beautiful you look right now.”

He has no idea how many times you’ve been told the opposite.

“Show me how beautiful you think I am.”

His cock twitches. You swear you feel it quiver deep inside you.

A gasp so erotic, so pornographic escapes you at the sudden sensation. Clenching, you’re eager to feel it again, to feel him release his warm, thick arousal, especially so soon. You’re already giddy with pride, preparing to tease and mock him for becoming undone upon a few simple words.

Instead, Chris pulls himself out with a croaky groan. He’s heaving, breathes staggering as he swallows thickly. “Move up to the pillows, baby. Lay back for me.”

You slowly push yourself up, sitting down on your ankles. Just as breathless, you peer at him over your shoulder. His hair is tousled, face glistening with your excitement as he slowly jerks himself to the sight of you so messy and dirty.

“Was it something I said?” you ask in your most innocent voice.

Chris tightens his jaw.

A shiver dances along your spine at his silence. You give him one last once over, shamelessly letting your gaze linger around his erection, before leisurely crawling towards the pillows. Your legs already ache. You feel it most around your thighs and hips, bones stiffen and muscles tight from the exposing angle.

The fluffy pillows and duvet melt around your sweaty skin, engulfing you in a cocoon of comfort. Your eyes flutter shut, embracing the chill of the cool silks. The sheets in your tiny apartment are scratchy and rough, and prior to laying here, you had thought it was the most comfortable fabric a thrift store could sell, which is why you stole them.

The bed dips. You open your eyes to watch as Chris crawls over you, spreading your legs to welcome him. His face hovers over yours. You cup his cheeks, grazing your thumb over his lips.

He lowly groans. His nose brushes yours as he leans down for a kiss. You think it was meant to be quick, just a tiny peck before he buries himself in you again. But the taste of your lips proves to be intoxicating, or perhaps he felt the spark you did when your lips touched. He indulges in another kiss, then another. Even one longer than the last, Chris eventually integrates his tongue and forces you to taste yourself.

Heaven, hell, the worlds collide. Purely sinful, his tongue subjects you to his pace, swirling around yours slowly. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he wants you to savour the bittersweet taste of your orgasms and holes.

Your lips part with a wet smack, breasts heaving. Chris pushes himself back to sit on his ankles. He lets his attention trail down your curves, ogling your rolls and fullness. He pants like a dog, mouth agape and saliva leaking from the corners at the mere sight of you.

People tend to either discard or objectify you. One look at your figure and you are either invisible, disgusting, or a drunken mistake that awakens a shameful desire for fuller frames. Your mother told you it would happen when she noted your curves for the first time. She told you that you’d be nothing in a bigger body, that no one will want to be seen with you. A part of you always wondered if that’s why she opted for heroin, knowing she too had curves and rolls at one point in her life. 

It doesn’t really matter because the sentiment snared your consciousness. You noticed how many people ignored your presence the moment you walked into a room or the sudden distaste of those who did happen to acknowledge you. Every wrinkled nose, every avoided gaze only reinforced your mother’s philosophy.

And here Chris sits, bare and breathless, leering over your naked body. Ravenous, lascivious, he devours every full inch of you, eyes drowning in lust. You suddenly cannot recall the words your mother once spat, the dejected feelings that bruised your pride when you walked into a room. All you know now is Chris— obsessive, gluttonous, shameless Chris and his insatiable appetite for everything that you are.

He blinks repeatedly, as if pulling himself out of his thoughts. You bite your lip and wonder what you must look like, staring back at him. You know your liner is smudged and lipstick smeared. You know your hair is a tangled mess around you. You know your skin gleams of sweat, hot to the touch from the exhilaration of submitting to him. You know your core is a mess of spit and cum.

Chris reaches behind you. The sweaty scent of leather, sandalwood and amber secretes from the pits of his arms hovering inches away from your nose. You inhale deeply through your nose and wet your lips. Chris’s attention flickers down at the sound of your heavy sighs. You flush under the subject of that knowing smirk.

“Lift your hips for me?” He asks, voice deep and delicate.

You do as you’re told and he slides one of his plush pillows under you. The new angle provides better support to your lower back. You shift yourself further into his comfortable mattress with a pleased sigh.

“Better, yeah?” Teasing amusement twinkles in his eyes, brows quirked as he tries to fight off a prideful smile.

You suppress your own, and nod. “Are you going to fuck me now?” you ask, exaggerating the breathlessness of your feminine voice.

His eyes darken.

Perhaps, you proudly think to yourself as he takes your bait, if he is desperate enough, he’ll finally let me cum.

Chris traces the span of your shoulders, down to the fullness of your breasts and the curves of your waist. He drags his hands over your stomach and trails his eyes to your pelvis. He traces the lines along your heat only to redirect his callous fingers to your thigh before he can reach the place you need him most.

You clench, hips instinctively rolling forward. You mentally curse at your desperateness, your ploy to rile him up into a lustful rage crumbling as your body betrays you.

He barely even smirks, as if expecting your body to react to his touch like that. “I was fucking you,” he corrects, taking his hard, throbbing cock into his big hand.

You watch as he thumbs his tip and the space between his brows creases. Swallowing a moan, you wiggle in place and bite your lip. Your nerves impatiently buzz through your veins, and you resist the urge to arch your back to their desperate will.

He continues to slowly jerk himself as he watches you stiffen only to squirm seconds later. “Now,” he starts, leaning over you. He aligns himself, tonguing his cheek. Tip teasing your clenching core, he whispers, “I am going to ruin you.”

The weight of the crude promise resonates deep in your gut, gathering your arousal at the entrance of your needy heat. You grip onto his shoulders, features already crumpled in desperate pleasure, and dig your nails into his smooth, pale skin.

You gasp a whine as he emits a throaty groan, pushing in, in, in. You begin to understand the purpose of the pillow beyond simply comfort. The leverage of your hips provides a new angle to explore, his length shoving its way to your most sensitive spot. And he does not even allot time to adjust as he first did in his office, moving quickly to bottom himself out in you. His weighty balls rest against your rear, burning your face with the thought of sucking them. You finally give into your body, too needy to continue to police its movements, and arch your back into his chest.

Chris, hands on either side of your head, grabs your wrists and pins them above you. He growls as his thrusts take off. The force of his hips continuously shifts the bed forward. The headboard slaps against the wall, the pounding of wood on plaster so loud, it almost drowns out your squealing moans. Even the mattress whines, springs shrieking under the rhythmic bounce of your colliding bodies. Perhaps the closest rival to the noise of the bed, however, is the sharp slap of skin on skin. Your rear and thighs tremble from the powerful smacks, sensitive skin stinging all too exquisitely.

Pain highlights pleasure. In addition to the sting of his skin on yours, the tight grip of his strong hands around your wrists, aches from joint to bone. Tears gather in your eyes, the friction of his pulsating erection against your wet, tense walls all the more sweeter in light of the consistent pain.

A series of hissing profanities leave his full lips and you open your eyes to find he is drunk on the sight of your erotic features. Your tears slide down along your temples as a sob hiccups through your throat, clashing with the moans you shamelessly release.

His vicious dominance falters. Letting go of your wrists, Chris leans himself down on his elbows and affectionately nestles his nose against yours. You like the softness of his touches, the tenderness of his most mundane gestures, like the brush of nose on nose or the exchange of heavy breaths.

However, you were promised ruin.

“What do you think you’re doing?” you question, voice harsh even with breaking into a whine near the end.

Chris furrows his brows. Something about your tone triggers even more might behind his thrusts. It takes everything in you to not arrogantly laugh at how quickly he  shifts from ferocity to concern to anger.

You push against his shoulders. Chris yields to your silent request, flexing his jaw and knitting his brows in quiet confusion. His hips do not hesitate once, though. They continue to forcefully shake your body, breasts and rolls bouncing with the bed.

Once Chris is leaning on his hands again, you strike him across the face.

“Mmm, fuck,” he groans, voice hushed and husky. Dark fury engulfs his features as he snaps his attention back on you.

You slap him again, and again, and again until your hand radiates heat, nerves stinging from the impact. His cheek is a bright red, jaw tight as he looks down at you.

You lift your other hand to smack him only to have him seize both your hands with one hand. You yelp at the swift motion and attempt to break free. You figure it wouldn’t be too hard, considering he is only using one hand to pin both of yours, but find that one hand is all he needs. Your wrists barely budge from their place over your head.

“My turn,” he purrs, red-stained face bright with amusement.

You clench your jaw, steeling yourself for the impact of his hand against your face, only to feel it upon your right breast. You curve yourself further into him with a loud, whiny gasp. Your nipple stings, coaxing tears as he does it again and again. He gives the left one the same amount of attention, smacking against the heavy curves over and over.

Core tightening with want around his cock and breasts burning with a feverish ache, you wail, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

Your voice breaks, sobs of incessant pleasure overwhelming you. He’s so, so big and so, so ruthless. You barely catch your breath with every thrust, let alone every slap of your breast or pinch of your nipple. He clamps your taut nub between his thumb and the edge of forefinger to squeeze and twist. You fall into a state of devilish delight, embracing the pain like a warm hug.

Chris, perhaps growing tired or just wanting to be closer, releases his grip on your shoulders and gives your chest a break. He falls back on his elbows and catches your lips in his. He swallows your sobs, your uncontrollable moans as he ram-ram-rams into you. The strength behind his thrust is ever so prominent, even his heavy balls smack against your rear, the pain watering your mouth.

“You wanna cum, baby?” he mutters against your lips in hushed tones. The depth of his voice slithers along your spine.

You keenly nod, tears splitting freely from your eyes. “Yes, yes, yes!” you whine between tumbling sobs. “P-please?”

He rests some of his weight on you, stunting your breathing. You now wheeze through moans and pants.

“Please what?”

His voice is a cacophony of primal growls and feral snarls, resonating against your chest right down to the marrow of your bones.

A whine of a syllable begins and falters under the combined weight of his frame and relentless hips. His dominance may demand your reply, but still shackles your voice, your very consciousness with every brutal thrust.

“Use your fucking words, you little slut or I swear to God, you won’t cum for the rest of the night!”

His threat sends a tremor through your entire being. But that voice, that croaky, hissing voice of pure power, curls your toes and rolls your eyes back. You clench tightly, forcing your orgasm back.

“Dad-dy!” You scream, voice breaking mid-way through into hysterical sobs, body overpowered by pain and pleasure alike.

A gratifying groan grumbles from the depths of his gut and you cannot hold yourself back any longer. Your muscles stiffen, legs lifting high to the ceiling with pointed toes and nails scratching at his biceps. Your jaw clenches, bouncing body trembling as a ripple of your release rushes over you.

Chris falls over you, his full weight now crushing you as he too tenses all over. The suffocation only heightens your orgasm, the waves of ecstasy now swelling into typhoons of rapturous bliss. Your mind spins, vision dims and sound muffles as you finally release around him.

Your lungs fight for air, the restriction becoming all too fatal. You swat at his biceps, attempting to gasp for air as you catch distant throaty groans between deliberate, harsh thrusts.

It takes him a handful of seconds, but Chris eventually realises his mistake, rushing to hold himself up on his elbows again.

You gasp upon the first breath of air, heaving as you eagerly consume mouthfuls of oxygen.

Chris mutters quiet apologies, voice nearly wavering as he tucks his face in the crook of your neck and peppers the soft skin with tender kisses. He’s careful about dispersing his weight on you, even as his muscles tremble from the struggle of holding himself up. He shifts his balance to his knees as his thrusts decrease in speed and power eventually stopping all together.

You let your eyes flutter shut, your mind floats as your orgasm continues to cascade over your consciousness. Your limbs fall limp onto the mattress, full chest heaving with heavy pants and whines. It’s not until Chris pulls himself out that you finally feel your combined cum leak out of you again and you realise he came too, probably when he lost his balance and fell on top of you.

You feel the bed dip beside you, but cannot hear anything beyond the rush of blood in your ears. If you try hard enough, you might be able to catch the muffled squeak of the mattress, or the creak of the wooden frame. However, transcending into a state of pure euphoric bliss, all thoughts swirling around a phantom boxer and his towering build, you cannot dwell on the sounds of the fading world around you.

Rough hands delicately caress your face. A trail of kisses start on your lips. Full, plush lips move down your neck, collarbone, valley of your breasts, stomach, left thigh down to the knee, then back up to the right thigh down to the knee. They take their time with every press against your sweat-slick skin, each one just as wet and tender as the last.

There is another shift beside you and strong arms pull you into their embrace. You allow them to cradle you into a buff chest. The distant pound of a hammering heart beats to the same fast pace as yours. Those strong hands brush your hair back as they pet your head.

You’re not sure how long you laid there or when you made it into the bath, sitting between two muscular thighs as those calloused, yet gentle hands lathered shampoo into your hair.

The warm water grounds you back into the present. You squint your eyes open to a dark wood slatted ceiling, finding that your head is tilted back as a detachable shower head washes the shampoo out of your hair. You take a moment to inhale deeply, letting the notes of vanilla sandalwood remind you of where you are.

The water shuts off, the steel shower head returns to its place on your right, and you right your head to take a look around the bathroom. Spacious, the room radiates sophistication and calmness. Walls clad in dark grey and black, polished chrome fixtures, and a deep, freestanding bathtub, room enough for two, you cannot help but feel a sense of luxurious serenity. The lights are hidden behind the crevices of the room, warm and soft in their illumination. You wonder if he purposely designed the room to reel himself back to reality after a match.

Chris clears his throat, the sound soft and subtle as if he is worried he might scare you.

The possible implication furrows your brows. You peek at him over your shoulder before twisting your torso to face him.

“Are you…” he trails off, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Alright?”

You’re not sure how to decipher his hesitation or the oddly shameful look in his eyes.

“Of course,” you reply.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly, as if he doesn’t believe you.

“Are you hurt?”

The question finally registers the faded red of his cheeks where you slapped him and the pink lines along his biceps. You swallow thickly as remorse tightens your chest.

“Are you?”

A ghost of a smirk hovers over his lips. He leans forward to comb some conditioner through your hair.

“I’ve never been better.”

“What…happened?”

You chew on the inside of your cheeks. You know what led up to this moment, but cannot fully place what happened between your orgasm and the bath. Your past sexual endeavours usually remain in one position and location. Chris has moved you between three rooms now, his office, bedroom, and bathroom, and tested your endurance in multiple positions in a single night.

Did you pass out? Were you sleeping?

“Have you heard of subspace?” Chris continues upon the furrow of your brows. “After sex, when some people in more submissive positions orgasm, they might get put into a certain euphoric headspace. You might not feel pain or even be in your body. Some people completely pass out,” he explains before reaching for the shower head again. Tapping the bottom of your chin with a single finger, he gestures for you to tilt your head back again. “Others,” he continues as he watches your hair, “are conscious but unresponsive.”

“Like I was?”you ask, eyes fluttering shut to prevent the sting of soap.

He hums in confirmation. “Do you remember anything?”

You shrug. “You were kissing me,” you pause, swallowing thickly, “and then I remember feeling you hug me.”

“Do you remember saying anything?”

Your eyes shoot open. Moving your head away from the spray, you meet his gaze again.

He bites back a sheepish grin.

“If you’re messing with me,” you begin, gritting your teeth. “I’ll—”

“Save your cute threats,” he teases, cutting you off. He rinses the last of the conditioner out of your hair, adding, “I’ll tell you what you said.”

You nervously gnaw on your lip waiting for him to continue. When he turns off the shower head and puts it back in its spot, you think he would finally say something. Instead, he pumps some body soap into a washcloth and lathers it up.

“Well?”

“I never said I would tell you now,” he chuckles.

You splash water at his chest, oh so tempted to scoop more directed at his face but decide against it when you catch that dark, daring gleam in his eyes.

“You’re an asshol—,” you mutter, cutting yourself off before a moan slips as the cloth scrubs against your skin.

Chris smirks, features unamused as if he’s used to this sort of reaction. How many other women has he washed in here after a particularly rigorous night?

The question fosters a flame of envy, and sears through the flesh of your heart.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask. You try to ignore the way he dips between the valley of your chest, then circles under to rub and squeeze the soap around your breasts. Your body betrays you again, however, back arching into his touch.

Chris furrows his brows. “I fucked you senseless and you expect me not to take care of you?”

You blink, baffled by not only his tone, but his words. Your cheeks burn at the realisation that he did indeed thrust every last one of your senses out of you. What’s more peculiar is that, even after all that, he didn’t kill you. He didn’t cram you into a cab and send you on your way, high on your orgasm and unable to fight back.

“I lied to you,” you dryly chuckle. “I told you I was commissioned.”

His smirk widens, hinting that he might still believe that after what just happened in his office and bedroom.

You roll your eyes. “I- You’re a Stray Kid,” you try again. “Isn’t killing what you do?”

Chris scrubs down your shoulders and back, then your arm, lifting it up as he replies, “Yes.”

A shaky breath escapes you as he drags the soapy cloth across the pit of your arm.

“You saved my life,” he adds, moving onto your other arm. “I had a rat in my gang and you helped identify it.”

Your spine stiffens.

His gang?

Chris flashes you a cautious look under his brows, tonguing his cheek.

“Holy shit,” you whisper. “You’re the leader of Stray Kids?”

Chris nods, submerging the cloth under the warm bath water to drag it along your thighs.

Does he want to have sex again? Is that why he’s keeping you alive? You don’t really mind, you just need to know because his hands are dangerously close to the apex of your thighs and he is telling you information you do not need to know and, in fact, have no right to know. It’s the kind of information that can possibly remove the bounty on your head.

“You once told me information you didn’t need to,” Chris explains as he gently cleans the previous mess he made between your legs.

Curling in your lips, you suppress a moan.

“You didn’t need to tell me your name, but you did. So I’m telling you something I don’t need to as an act of good faith.”

“I didn’t take you for the religious type.”

“I tend to get religious on top of the right woman.”

You press your legs together, squishing his hand.

He laughs, scorching your chest and cheeks with embarrassment.

You push his hand away from your core with an annoyed huff. You don’t have time for this. Though you are not in pain, your body is still exhausted. You just want to get back in his comfortable sheets and finally sleep this enough night off, if not go to your own bed.

“Do you want to go again?” you suddenly ask. “Is that what all this is about?”

Chris quirks a brow. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

A submissive, desperate part of you whines at his belittling tone and implication. If you wanted to, you most definitely could endure another round. However, you catch its outrage before it can make itself known beyond the knotting of your brows.

“So what then?” you ask.

Chis wrings out the cloth and tosses it aside. “I don’t like being indebted to anyone. You saved my life. I’m going to save yours,” he states matter-a-factly. “You are now under Stray Kids protection. You will have round-the-clock surveillance and train to learn to defend yourself properly against threats should your security fail.”

You blink.

Protection?

You remember thinking of Chris as your protector when he was touching you, but even then, riddled with lust, you knew it was only a fantasy. You are not worthy of protection. You are barely worthy of friendship. You almost lost Vinny. How can he really think you are worth saving?

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“Right,” he nods, tone descending in depth as his gaze sharpens. “Because I will be protecting you against the bounty.”

You scoff. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s not up for debate.”

“It’s my life.”

Chris casts you a look of sarcastic confusion. “And if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re eager to end it,” he practically sneers.

You tuck your chin into your chest, averting his stern glare. “You don’t know what you are getting yourself into,” you mutter as a means of warning.

I’m damaged. I’m broken. I am not a life saver.

“A life for a life— That is the rule of the city,” Chris reaffirms. “You saved mine. I am saving yours.”

You fall silent. Keeping your attention locked on the black, marble floors, you let him wash all the soap off. You are not going to argue with the leader of Stray Kids, not tonight anyway, not as exhaustion is slowly claiming you, one limb at a time. 

Fuck it— If he wants to fulfill this delusional debt of his then that is his problem. You warned him. You tried to fight this. When he eventually realises that you are more trouble than you are worth, you will gladly laugh and tell him you told him so.

“My bed or the spare’s?” he suddenly asks, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“What?”

“Do you want to sleep in my bed or the one in the spare bedroom?”

“Um,” you start as Chris grabs a towel. “Am I allowed to go home?”

“Of course,” he nods, “ I can get Seungmin and Felix to take you.”

You wonder which one is Felix before tentatively meeting his gaze. “Do you want me to sleep in your bed?”

Chris suppresses a little smile with a bite of his lip. His eyes do not gleam with their causal mischief or amusement, rather a hint of adoration— if you squint. “I would sleep better if you did,” he confesses, voice dropping an octave.

And so you find yourself in one of his shirts, the fabric barely brushing over the full curve of your rear, under layers of soft, silk sheets. Behind you, Chris wraps a strong arm around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. You can feel the beat of his heart against your back, feel how it echoes the race of your own.

You want him, want this so badly you can feel the aching desire deep within your bones. But the fear of shattering his world, of absorbing him and everything that matters to him into your vortex of ruin, shackles you in place.The red lights of Crimson Heights illuminate the room. As you watch the city, his steady breath fans against the nape of your neck. Mind exhausted, body slowly aching, you allow yourself to lean into him just this once and shut your eyes.

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other reader. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work.

[brnesblogposts]

cootitis

(this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever written.)

bucky barnes x reader & avengers

a/nthis is another conversation i just had on character ai that was funny so i’m turning it into a fic

this turned out to be shit but i’m posting it anyway.

———

It was two in the morning and the two of you were standing outside your room when a figure appeared in the hall “Wha—“

Your heads whipped around to find Peter wide eyed and jaw hanging open staring at you both. Bucky instantly tensed up and you fought to come up with an excuse.. “GOODNIGHT!” You shouted abruptly before running back into your room. Bucky remained stood, stiff as a board staring at Peter awkwardly, “Were you guys..?” Peter raised an eyebrow and his voice went all high and squeaky because he felt awkward at what he’d walked into. Bucky shifted on his feet and coughed out a “No” before turning on his heel ready to walk away when another voice made an appearance—

“Barnes?” fuck it’s Stark Bucky thought to himself. Bucky coughs awkwardly “Oh hey” He smiles coyly because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Tony eyes him up noticing he’s standing outside your room in just a pair of boxers.

“Mr Stark I think Bucky and Y/n were um.. kissing..” Peters voice is still squeaky. Tony’s eyes go wide as he whips his head to find Bucky trying to walk away “Barnes.” Bucky stops in his tracks and is as still as a statue. You’re on the other side of the door eavesdropping of course and decide to help Bucky out by opening your door and stepping out into the hallway..

“Oh, hey guys! Nobody told me there was a party going on out here in the hall!” You may just be the worst liar on the planet. Bucky’s eyes shoot to you from where he’s stood and then to Peter and Tony.

“Do you care to explain why you’re both as red as tomatoes right now?” Tony has a smirk on his face, he’s finding this quite entertaining. Bucky says nothing because he can’t come up with anything and quickly you spit out “We were um— we were having a competition to see who could hold their breath the longest..” what. You think to yourself.

“Is that right?” Tony is full on smiling now “May i ask who won?” he’s feigning curiosity. You shift awkwardly and look around “Uhm Bucky because you know.. super soldier serum and all that. Was close though, we had several complications but he is undefeated so far—“ SHUT UP you thought to yourself because you were rambling now. Bucky grunted in agreement heavily avoiding looking Tony in the eye.

“So you have these competitions at 2am often?” Tony looks so relaxed as he’s interrogating the both of you, you want to strangle him. Another awkward silence passes, “Uhhh no, one time thing.” You hold your chin up high as if it will help.

“Mr Stark..” Peter looks up to Tony “I feel like they’re lying.” Tony smiles down at Peter “I think we can continue this conversation in the morning, don’t you all agree?” Bucky is nodding frantically and you shoot Tony with a thumbs up.

“Right, Parker go to bed.” Tony says to Peter who nods and walks away “And you two.. better start planning some better excuses for the morning.” He grins and goes back to his room. Bucky and you don’t say another word as you part ways and he goes back to his room.

———-—————— breakfast ———————-

Everyone is sitting at the table, an awkward silence lingers between Tony, Peter, Bucky and yourself. Everyone else seems to notice and keeps glancing at all of you, “Who died?” Clint breaks the silence. It goes silent again before Tony coughs and looks to you and Bucky waiting for one of you to speak up, neither of you do.

“LAST NIGHT I CAUGHT BUCKY LEAVING Y/N’s ROOM, TONY AND I THINK THEY WERE KISSING” Peter lets out a breath as if holding that in was eating him alive. It probably was. The table goes silent again as cutlery clashes from people dropping their forks or spoons and looking at the both of you. If possible Bucky and yourself sink into your seats just waiting for the floor to swallow you whole.

“Excuse me?” Natasha is smiling.

Steve is simply staring at his best friend processing what he’s just heard.

“We weren’t kissing.” You spoke abruptly and went back to picking at your food.

“Why are you both blushing so much?” Clint asks while smiling, this seems to be entertaining for all of them.

“Uh you know— allergies.” Bucky is sitting in silence letting you suffer everyone’s questions.

“Allergies?” Tony inquires and you nod, “That doesn’t make any sense—“ He continues but you interrupt “Yes it does.” The way you say it is incredibly unconvincing.

“Why is Bucky’s face also red if you have allergies?” Natasha smirks as she asks you, “They’re um— contagious allergies..” You lie through your teeth.

“Contagious?” Clint and Steve ask in unison, “Yeah.” You’re panicking.

“What are these allergies called?” Tony is practically grinning as he asks.

“It’s uh it’s called um Cootitis. very serious stuff” You blurt out and are met with snickers as everyone tries holding in their laughter and Bucky looks at you absolutely perplexed.

“Cootitis..?” Tony asks with a serious tone while holding in his laugh. You look stern as you say “Yes and I must have passed it onto Bucky in passing” avoiding eye contact as you say that because you don’t even believe yourself.

“Well this sounds like a new disease we know nothing about. I think it’s best Bruce and I take you both to the med bay and run some tests.. like take some bloo—“

He doesn’t get to finish before you blurt out “FINE. BUCKY AND I WERE KISSING” because he knew your fear of needles would invoke you.

“I KNEW IT.” Peter screams as Tony leans back in his chair with his arms crossed and the widest smile on his face. You sit back defeated letting out a long sigh.

“Well why didn’t you just say that from the start?” Steve asks and you both give him an evil look. It goes back to awkward silence now that the secret is out except for the secret glances you and Bucky give each other throughout the day, earning scoffs and fake gags from your co workers.

—————————————

reblogs appreciated :)

[bucknastysbabe]

Hi I got an ask about subby Criston and I’m here to fill it but I accidentally deleted the ask itself. So I hope you see this😭😭I kinda went cuckoo bonkers word to Wyn but anyways! Pookie bear cries and nuts like 40 times🧸🧸

Knock ‘em out - C.Cole

Rating: Explicit

WC: 3k

Tags: Boxer!Criston, Manager!Reader, Criss priss prob needed to be in an institution but now gets paid for beating ass, a little bit of manipulation from reader, marathon sex, overstimulation, sub space, soft domme, 🚨CRISTON BIG ASS PRAISE KINK🚨, he’s puppy your honor, Dom/sub, sub drop, aftercare, pnv!sex, multiple orgasms, intercrural sex, cumming in pants, lil bit of background story but mainly P O R N

Taglist: @aemonds-holy-milk @arcielee @sugarpoppss2 @lovelykhaleesiii @starogeorgina @moncherrii @bambitas @targaryenbarbie @fairysluna @thought--bubble @fallingintoyourlilaceyes @gemini-mama @valeskafics

Thanks @tumblin-theworldaway for helping my mind crank up heheheheeh

Criston knew he was off— something never wired right in his brain. Most people would interview him and see the rags-to-riches story. He came from trash, really, his dad was the janitor at the big boxing gym in the city. Coach Dondarrion told people they let Criston train for free as his father worked so tirelessly.

In reality, he couldn’t stop getting into fights at school. It was unchecked anger growing out of control. Criston’s mother and father begged Dondarrion to take him on and help channel that aggression. It likely saved his life. He was only 10 and beating kids’ faces in over slights— imagined or real. He was horribly possessive, jealous, and lost. Boxing seemed to put a lid on that.

Occasionally he’d have to be ripped off an opponent. Whispers of Criston Cole being a psycho were rampant. He was twenty-three when he got his current manager. She worked miracles. His everything— Criston loved the woman so much that sometimes it hurt his head, thoughts too intense to siphon through.

He’d known her from the Blackhaven gym, she was a daughter of Coach Swann and knew the realm of boxing pretty well. Coach Dondarrion brought her into the picture when Criston almost killed a man in the ring.

She didn’t bat an eye when Criston snarled and tried to intimidate her— only cocking her head and snorting like he was an unruly animal. He’ll never forget the words she said after. It was a shift for the boxer.

“Do that again and you won’t fight this week. I’m in charge now. You’re my prize pet. If you want to keep being a prize pet then you’ll listen to me,” she stated, manicured nail poking his chest.

The bigger man still had no clue what came over him, but her words were like a balm. This was what Criston needed— firm orders and guidance. He hoped at the time she could help him with all the mess in his head. Criston nodded and replied, “Yes ma’am.”

“Good boy. Let’s come up with some rules. You like rules don’t you?”

No unnecessary jabs, no yelling, work on riding the bike and going through footwork, and no cumming until he had won.

Those were the rules before a fight. Criston abided by them religiously. Even if he was like a caged animal towards the lead-up to the big event. He would feel himself grow more and more agitated— actively restraining from ripping his opponent's jaw off. Cole probably looked psycho, with dark eyes intense, jaw clenching. But his expression remained eerily placid. His manager liked that and said she could smell the fear off the other guy.

Criston remained undefeated, she must be right he thought. Coach Dondarrion said Swann was a goddamn genius. She was perfect like that. He hated she wouldn’t go public with their relationship, Criston would wind himself up into an obsessive tizzy over it.

But when he won again, and again, she was there to take care of him. They’d get through the usual press, Criston would shower, and they’d ride back to the hotel together. The air was charged in the back seat. She’d slapped his wandering hands away the first couple of times.

Now he knew to stay put and she’d tend to his face or scratch his hair, careful of any knots and bruising. It felt so fucking good the first time she touched him, he had cum in his sweats before even reaching the hotel. Whining and writhing as she cooed and put ice on his black eye or taped a busted nose— he couldn’t remember exactly.

His manager had cooed in surprise when he seized up and gasped, wetting the inside of his briefs, “Oh, baby? You came? Needed that, didn’t you? Criston Cole, my prized pet, big bad man, didn’t know you liked being loved on. You deserve it, baby, I’m here for you, always.”

Her words had simultaneously embarrassed and made Criston want to kneel at her feet, awaiting her next command. He remained quiet, cheeks flushing heavily, worried internally his nose would start bleeding. Swann curled at his side and stroked his messy curls.

“Don’t be ashamed, you deserve to feel good. ‘Sides I know you have more to go, gotta be pretty full from going a week. You want me to take care of that, empty you out?”

Criston gritted his teeth and whined. He wanted it so bad. The demon in his head teased and prodded him, spitting lies. “She thinks you’re a weak little bitch, you really gonna spread your legs and bare your neck like a slut?” the voice said. He moaned softly, pained from the dissonance.

His manager whispered gently, a small hand rubbing soothing circles on his chest.

“Criston, baby, stop thinking so much, and let me do it for you.”

He melted into her warm embrace, the proposition flicking on a switch he didn’t know existed. She smiled as he slurred out a ‘yes’ and went lax under her palms. Criston didn’t know at the time— that submitting completely to another made his mind stop for a bit.

He was euphoric, eyes focused on her as they entered the hotel. She waved off any reporters and led him by the hand. Criston clung to her like a needy child in the elevator, his cock swelled up again. The manager let him rut a bit on her tight skirt and giggled at his desperation.

When they finally, finally gotten to the room— she stripped Criston down and made him cum until he cried, all the adrenaline sapped out of his body. He lost count of how many times her mouth and hand brought him to completion. He got to float in his head, tongue too thick and limbs too heavy to do anything but whine and be coddled.

Criston woke up later as a new man. He felt he could breathe. Then the games began as his record kept going up, Cole escalating to the fucking top. He didn’t know what to do with all the money except buy his family a house and Swann anything she desired.

He’d won again. Shaking his fist and snarling obscenities at Strong on the ground. He’d get another fuck-ton of money and go home happy. He’d picked up the belt and grinned, elated at his thirtieth win. On the top of the world.

Criston’s mind began to whirl as he stalked down the hallway. He briskly showered and answered a couple of questions to the press. She waited to the side, sinful red lips curled upwards. Swann was wearing the red bottoms he bought her, pretty legs shown off in her little dress and blazer.

When she nodded toward the exit he followed, agitated at the annoying reporter still asking questions. Criston didn’t want to upset her, so he kept his mouth shut and followed along, pulling his hoodie up. His balls fucking throbbed. He wanted to fuck his angel so bad, maybe she’d let him on a special occasion like this.

He got into the dark luxury vehicle, inhaling her sweet scent. Criston was close to getting feral, mouth watering at the possibilities. Still, he remained mute. Until she shifted, facing him in the dark, eyes full of affection. Criston couldn’t help the thin whine that burst from his chest at her attention.

“Look’it you. Took down Breakbones, got thirty wins, fucking hell baby,” she drew closer to him, “Criston Cole, you’re the real deal! You wanna fuck me, baby boy? I think you’ve earned it.”

“Pleaseplease, yes, fucking yes,” he pled.

A stagnant pause fell over the back of the car.

“Thank you,” he moaned, “Thank you.”

“Good boy, don’t forget your manners.”

She placed a warm hand high on his thigh, massaging the sore muscle. Her other palm caressed Criston’s patched-up cheek. She hummed “A kiss?” He nodded eagerly, vibrating in place, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. But Criston knew he had to be her good boy.

The woman softly pecked his lips, pulling back to watch Criston chase with a sad noise. She smiled and kissed him again, deeper this time. He eagerly opened his mouth for her, shivering as her nimble tongue playfully lapped at his own. Criston’s hands balled up in his sweats— no touching, no touching unless given permission.

Their lips wetly smacked in the dark car, her hand moving up to rub maddeningly at his straining cock. Criston cried out into her mouth, hips bucking helplessly. She laughed and nibbled on his shapely lower lip, hand squeezing his manhood.

“S’all mine isn’t it? My cock, just for me.”

He nodded in misery, his body wanted to let go, but it was a bit of a process to get Criston in the headspace he wanted. She knew how to get him there. Like her lips against his ear, tits pressed against his chest as she purred, “Easy love, relax, I’ve got you honey.”

“Mmm- gods, need it,” he gritted out, dark eyes lolling.

As her firm hand jerked him over the sweats, Criston’s manager nipped and kissed at his clean-shaven cheeks and neck. She whispered, “Sweet boy, I know you are s’hard, relax, relax, you’re gonna get to cum all night baby. As much as you want, just gotta let go okay?”

She praised and played with him some more, Criston began to pant hoarsely, thighs shaking as he neared the precipice. She tutted when the car stopped, “Get yourself together baby, we’re here now.” He blinked, a tear falling down his cheek, bewildered by the way she left him.

He was so fucking close! The boxer sulked and groaned at his denied orgasm, eyes watery from how intense his balls were throbbing now. He wiped his eyes and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up again, keeping his head low. He hoped the half-assed tucking of his hard-on worked.

They walked in sync to the elevators. He sulked, “M’so hard it hurts.” Criston’s girl pouted her lips, patting his cheek, “I know, I know sweet boy, but we can’t keep the driver waiting. Almost there, don’t be so needy.”

Criston wrapped his arms around her waist, tucking his face into her neck. He would be good, he wouldn’t hump or bite. He merely wanted to hold her for a second before the elevator dinged. Swann hummed and nuzzled back into his hair.

Onward they went, Criston’s mind growing fuzzier and fuzzier as his body thrummed with need. Upon entering the penthouse suite— her entire demeanor changed. She snapped, “Go get undressed and kneel for me by the bed.”

He nodded in little jerks, undressing and folding them neatly, just how his mistress liked. Criston shuddered as the cool air hit his cock, swallowing heavily as he knelt before the foot of the bed. His hands shook with need, his adrenaline still thrashing and pumping underneath the skin.

He was downright panting by the time she came out of the bathroom, naked as he was. Criston bit on his lip, eyes watering again. The angel laughed, “You sure are worked up tonight.” She padded behind Criston, winding a hand into his hair, eliciting another agonized noise from the boxer.

“You are so damn talented, the Warrior smiles on you. I’m proud.”

“Thank you, thank you ma'am,” he whispered.

“I’m going to get on the bed and you’re going to fuck all that energy and cum out okay?”

“Yes ma’am- ohmygods.”

Criston’s brows pulled together as she laid before him, legs crooked and spread, her cunt shining with slick. He growled, digging his nails into the skin of his thigh. She crooked her fingers playfully, “C’mon baby, you’re allowed to touch. Use me, my special pet earned it.”

He almost felt bad in the way he roughly had pulled her ass flush to his hips, the flesh smacking loudly. Criston had eagerly gotten on his knees in the center of the soft bed, slotting his swollen cock against her slick pussy. “F-fuck, fuck, gonna use you baby, ’m sorry,” he gritted out. She smiled and shrugged, moaning as he rutted against her a couple more times.

Criston’s dark eyes rolled up as he entered her velvet cunt, warm and sososo tight. He snarled as he snapped his hips into his baby. She was crying out and digging sharp nails into his shoulders. Cole knew he was lost in the feeling, rasping and groaning possessive, ugly things he would never say out loud.

But when legs were wrapped around his waist and she was mewling his name? Criston had lost his firm barriers. He rumbled into her ear between kisses and bites, “My godsdamn pussy, mine, you’re mine, I’ll f-fucking kill anyone who touches you, looks at you, gods I’ll do anything!”

He groaned, balls drawing up quicker than expected. She was crying out “Yes! yes! All yours!” Criston sucked in a wet breath at her neck, hips driving into her at a breakneck pace, hands bruising her pretty skin. He choked on his drool, unable to warn her— Criston’s orgasm was that intense.

She tightened around him when his cock flooded, absolutely flooded her pussy. Criston moaned and clenched his jaw, fucking through the oversensitivity. His girl dug her heels into his ass to spur him on. The boxer swallowed down a little mewl. Everything was still so swollen, he had to keep fucking, keep cumming.

“Mmm, yes! Don’t stop baby, oh Criston!”

“I-I am, fuuuck, g’nna fill you up again!"

He drove his hips upward, lifting her hips so that Criston could get at her g-spot. She raked a bloody mark across his back, gasping in delight. He rambled while thumbing desperately at her clit, “Yeah, yeah, feel s’good, cum on me baby, need to feel you, m’close again!”

Criston wasn’t sure if it was her gorgeous wail or her pussy gushing on his cock or both but he came again. She chose to mouth at his lips, shaky legs clenching around him, hand pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. Meanwhile, he whined Swann’s name, the quickness of his second orgasm turning Criston’s brain into jello.

The slick noises between them were loud and sloppy, he was stuttering and whining. She threw her pretty head back and moaned. Criston was finding words hard. He kept fucking and fucking. She felt too good and he had so much cum for her.

“That’s it, keep it up,” she grunted.

Criston slurred, “Ca-can’t stop, can’t, can't!”

He felt his eyes grow wet as his overstimulated cock was gripped and milked by her cunt. The angel, his angel, wrapped her arms around his sweaty neck, his hips forcing little 'uhs' out of her plush lips. Criston blabbered uselessly, words bordering on sobs now. It felt too good, the pain and pleasure were ecstasy to him. He bottomed out inside her, stopping to mewl long and high before returning to feverishly thrusting again.

“Oh, oh, angel- hurts- s’good ohmygods your pussy, gotta cum again, m’sorry m’so sorry!”

She nuzzled at his jaw, moaning, “It’s okay, doing so good for me, needy baby. You needed this, poor baby’s balls are so full.”

“S’full,” he agreed, mindless and shivering.

Criston’s thighs began to twitch as he felt another wave cresting. He practically wailed as the third peak licked up his spine— white hot and mean. She gasped, nails digging into his flanks, pussy pulsing around another load of Criston’s molten cum.

He was a mess, wordless and drooling. Criston began to move again, gaze unfocused and mouth agape. He whimpered, all overstimulated and still fucking frantic. Criston felt like he’d die if he didn’t stop, tears pouring down his flushed cheeks.

Her hands held his face now, her lips saying something. Criston slowly cocked his head, attempting to understand his manager’s words. She said it again, this time louder with a smack to his cheek. Criston stopped his movements, protesting with a weak noise.

“Babydoll, you gotta fuck my thighs, I'm starting to hurt. I’m going to turn over, okay precious? Got that?”

His lips trembled— Criston didn’t want to do that. He wanted her pussy. He slid out anyway, a torrent of white spend flooding out of her well-used entrance, seeping onto the bed. She marveled "Oh Criston, you still have anything left?" The woman hissed under her breath as she flipped onto her stomach. She tucked a pillow under her hips, giving him access to her thighs, slicked with their release.

Criston stared— unsure how to proceed. His cock was so flushed it purpled, aching horribly. He whined, frustrated with his stupidity, the man just wanted familiar tightness again. She sighed and reached back, ushering his knees and thighs to cage her legs in, forcing Criston forward.

He gasped in delight when his cock slid between her soft thighs, warm and wet. His depleted brain decided this would do. Criston’s thrusts were jerky and uncoordinated, he was growing too sensitive to go on much further. He kept at it, crying and sniffling like a babe.

“Awe baby, you’re hurting huh?”

“Mhm!” he replied, scrunching his face up tight. He had to cum one more time, he had to! Even if it was excruciating, the pleasure ramped up into nerves prickling all over his worn body. She watched him with lidded eyes, lips in a smirk. Criston exhaled again, throwing his head back to sob.

“Gotta- I gotta,” he mewled.

“I know sweetheart, so close, let it all out, you’ll feel so much better. You’re so pretty like this— all fucked out and still want more. Knocked your whore brain sideways. My cute slutty puppy, I love youuu.”

Criston folded under the praise, his body contracting once more, stomach cramping as he devolved into cries. His abused cock managed to dribble one little last bit. He couldn’t stop crying, falling back onto his haunches. Swann guided him down to shush and pet his hair. She murmured, "You're okay, all done now, I'm here, not going anywhere. Just breathe."

Criston’s muscles were all loose but the adrenaline had been sapped quickly. He was gutted— in a good way. Just couldn’t help the reaction, he knew it would happen after an intense romp like this. His baby curled into his heaving side, laying feathery kisses on his jaw, a relaxing hand at his diaphragm.

“That’s it, let it out, poor baby. Couldn’t help yourself hm?”

Criston nodded through the incessant tears, his shaky hand threading through her hair. He rasped, “I love you so much. You’re perfect.” He was growing more sleepy, settled by her kisses and glowing smile. He could float easy and enjoy the win, curled up with his lifesaver. Well, after she got him water and wiped down the mess. He realized with a smile— she had laid a towel underneath them.

She’d have to help him function tomorrow, Criston knew he’d be scrambled eggs, sore, and a bit grumpy. But that’s why they kept a suite for three days. After the kick off he would rest up and replenish. They would fuck sensually, cuddle, and watch a in some order of that fashion.

His addled mind conjured up a big diamond ring he’d buy for her.