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615378rb · 5 months ago

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“𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐁𝐲 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫” - REDACTED X G.N Reader nsfw

14 DAYS WITH YOU is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!-

Words: long

Genre: Smut

If you find mistakes I'm sorry I did not proof read

(Reader is G.N)-(This one-shot is nsfw!)

Summary : To distract REDACTED, you suggested looking at his damn sports motorcycle, Who knew- this would end up in..fuck

Trigger Warnings (TWs) and Content Warnings (CWs):

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Graphic Sexual Content (NSFW, explicit descriptions of sex)

Breeding Kink & Possessiveness (mentions of ownership, possessive language)

Past Childhood Trauma (emotional distress, implied separation trauma)

Body Horror Elements (scarring, burns, detailed injury descriptions)

Overstimulation & Aftercare (exhaustion, body weakness post-sex)

Content Warnings (CWs):

Heavy Dom/Sub Dynamics (praise, possessive language, submission)

Affection & Intimacy Themes (nose kisses, hand-holding, childhood romance)

Food Play/Feeding Kink Lite (feeding partner cake, describing sweetness)

Emotional Vulnerability (crying, reassurance, romantic declarations)

It happened too fast, too slow, exactly as it should’ve. That day—you saw past the lie, past the face, past the teeth bared in something not quite a smile.

And today, they’re yours. Almost. A heartbeat away from fiancé, a lifetime away from certainty. It took time. God, it took time.

You wore the ring that day, but not for love, not for promises, not even for the pleasure of peeling back the layers of REDACTED like rotting wallpaper. That’s a story for another day, sweetheart. For now—

You love REDACTED more than Ren, more than the mask they made to hold the world at arm’s length. You love the rot beneath.

Realistically? A few years. Maybe forever. Maybe never. Ren’s been rewriting himself since before he even knew how to spell his own name, shaving down the edges of REDACTED into something soft, something pliable, something digestible. Someone lovable.

Because Ren, as he is, isn’t enough. Can’t be. He learned that young, learned it deep, learned it so well it’s a reflex now, a gut reaction. A knee-jerk flinch into being whatever you want, whatever keeps you looking at him. But REDACTED—ah. They don’t care. They don’t need to. They know the truth, and the truth is cruel:

You like a lot of things. You like a lot of people. But you’ll never like him enough. Not really. Not the way he wants. And he’s made peace with that.

Ren is Haruko, and Haruko is sweet. Haruko stumbles over words and tries too hard. Haruko is a puppet carved from borrowed smiles and practiced stutters. But REDACTED—RED is sharp, cruel, jagged in a way no one wants to hold. Cold, empty, tired in the bones. If he ever learned love, it was an imitation, an echo—flat, distant, never quite right.

The blushing? Real. The sweating? Also real. The stammering, the nerves, the pathetic little slip-ups? All him, honest and raw, because fuck, he never expected to have this. Angel wasn’t supposed to see him. Ren was supposed to be background noise, an afterthought, a whisper of a person that never solidified. But fate had different plans, and now he’s in too deep.

And this? This is life now. A life built on strings and careful calculations, on the soft lie of Haruko and the hard truth of REDACTED bleeding through the cracks. And you—you don’t know if it’s guilt that keeps you here. If it’s sympathy, or pity, or something worse. You don’t know if he even wants saving.

He’s shit in the saddest way possible. But he doesn’t care. Never has. Never will.

It’s all just—ah.

You’ve accepted REDACTED now, right? Last time, they held you through it—your own personal shield against every jump scare, every flicker of something too fast, too wrong in the dark. You screamed, clung to them like a lifeline, like a fucking lifeblood, fingers digging in, breath caught, and they—cool as ever—just patted your head. Like you were some trembling stray curled up in their lap.

Now? You’re a pro. A veteran. An unshakable force of—no, fuck that, you’re still scared. Still clutching them like a goddamn koala, half-buried in their chest, gripping the fabric of their hoodie like it might save your soul. And they let you. One hand still in your hair, absentminded, rhythmically soothing, the other loose on your thigh like they aren’t watching people get gutted on screen.

Both of your rings—the rings, the childhood ones—sit snug around your fingers. Like wedding bands. Like something binding. Like something permanent. Ah. Cute.

"Scary f’ ya?" REDACTED barely glances at the screen, more interested in the way you’ve tensed up, knuckles white against the blanket. "Want me t’change it?"

"Shut the fuck up." You don’t even look at them, eyes locked on the too-dark hallway stretching across the screen, waiting for something—anything—to lunge. Your fingers tighten in their sleeve like you’re bracing for impact.

They huff a quiet laugh, all amusement, all smug, before shifting. Heavy. Comfortable. Head dropping onto your lap like they belong there. "Suit yourself."

Their warmth sinks into you, grounding. Distracting. You don’t relax, not completely, but you loosen just enough to card your fingers through their hair. They hum, pleased, tapping lazy fingers against your thigh.

You flinch at a sudden jump scare.

They don’t even pretend not to notice.

They hum again, but this time, it’s different—deeper, slower, something deliberate curling at the edges of their voice. The kind of sound that sends a shiver through you, pooling low in your stomach. Their fingers, lazy against your thigh, trace an absentminded pattern, dipping beneath the hem of your shirt, just barely grazing skin.

"Y’really that scared?" they murmur, turning their head just enough to glance up at you, half-lidded, half-smirking. "Ain’t even watchin’ the movie no more."

"Maybe ‘cause someone won’t shut up," you fire back, but your voice is softer than you meant it to be, breath catching when they press their face into your stomach—right there—like they know exactly what they’re doing.

"Mm." They exhale slow, warm, lips brushing fabric. "Or maybe y’jus’ need a better distraction."

Their fingers ghost higher. Their grip tightens, just a little. Your heart skips.

Yeah. Fuck the movie.

Their lips are warm—almost searing—the weight of them pressed against yours stealing the air right from your lungs. It’s slow at first, teasing, like they’re testing the waters, but the second you start to lean in, the second your fingers curl in their shirt, they take it as permission to devour.

"Mm—" You barely get a sound out before they tilt their head, deepening it, a slow, deliberate slide of lips and tongue that has heat creeping up your spine. Their hand finds the back of your neck, fingers pressing just firm enough to make you shudder.

"Y’kiss back real pretty," they murmur, breaking away just enough to speak, their voice dipped in amusement, something smug curling at the edges. "S’good f’me, yeah?"

You barely get the chance to respond before their teeth catch your lower lip—a sharp little nip that sends a jolt right down to your gut. Your grip on them tightens.

Then your heel catches on the floor, and suddenly, you’re tilting back, balance slipping—

But they’re already moving, already got an arm wrapped around you, holding you steady before you can even process the fall.

They click their tongue, half-laughing, half-scolding, pulling you flush against them like you belong there.

"Clumsy," they chide, and you can hear the grin in their voice, the way it stretches, smug and sharp. Their fingers trace slow circles against your lower back, dipping just under the hem of your shirt. "Y’like bein’ held this close, huh? Don’t even gotta ask—jus’ throw y’self at me next time, sweetheart."

Your face feels like it’s on fire. The warmth creeps down your neck, settling deep in your chest, and you hate—hate—how easy it is for them to get you like this.

"I—shut up," you grumble, voice barely above a whisper, but it comes out embarrassingly shaky. You’re still pressed against them, still close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of their breathing, and god, their hand hasn’t moved from your back.

They hum, tilting their head, eyes scanning your face like they’re drinking in every little reaction. "Angel, y’okay?" The nickname comes soft, almost reverent, but there’s something else in their tone, something knowing. They’re enjoying this—your flustered little stammers, the way you can’t meet their gaze for too long without feeling like you’ll combust.

"I—I’m fine." You try to sound steady, but it’s hard when their fingers drag slow, featherlight up your spine. A barely-there touch, but enough to send another shiver rolling through you.

"Mm." They don’t sound convinced. If anything, they sound amused. "S’that so?" A pause, and then—"Y’look real cute like this, y’know."

You whimper. Actually whimper.

And they hear it.

Their grin stretches, slow and lazy, all dimples and sharp teeth. "That a little sound y’jus’ made? Cute."

"Shut up," you try again, swatting at their chest, but they just catch your wrist, bring it up between the two of you. Their fingers curl around it, thumb smoothing along your pulse.

"Y’really nervous, huh?" Their voice drops, honey-smooth, coaxing. Their grip is loose, easy to pull away from, but you don’t. You can’t. Not when they’re looking at you like that.

"...No," you mumble, and it’s a horrible lie.

They chuckle, and before you can think, before you can even breathe, they bring your wrist to their lips, pressing the softest kiss against the inside of it.

"You’re adorable," they murmur against your skin, and it’s unfair, unfair how easily those words send your heart into a frenzy. "Y’don’t gotta be shy with me, angel."

You’re going to combust.

You barely have a second to catch your breath before REDACTED tilts your chin up, their lips grazing yours again—slow, deliberate, teasing. They’re watching you, gauging every little twitch, every sharp inhale, every way your body reacts to them like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

“D’you want more?” Their voice is low, a lazy drawl against your mouth. “Y’gotta tell me, angel.”

Your fingers clutch at their sleeves, grounding yourself. The way they speak—it’s like they already know the answer, but they want to hear it. Want to pull it from you.

You swallow, heat curling in your stomach. “Yeah.”

A quiet hum vibrates against your lips before they press another kiss there, just as slow, just as consuming. Their fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over your waist in a touch that barely lingers but leaves fire in its wake.

“That feel good?” They murmur between kisses, voice dropping an octave. “Tell me where.”

You almost forget how to breathe, arching just slightly into their touch. Their hands are so big, so warm, and when they drag their teeth along your lower lip, you can’t stop the way your fingers tighten in their clothes.

They chuckle, the sound deep and pleased. “Y’can’t even think straight, huh? S’cute.”

Your face burns hotter, and you bury it against their shoulder for a second, trying to compose yourself. But they’re not having that. Their hand slides up your back, pulling you closer, their lips brushing your ear.

“I don’t think y’can take all of me, angel.” Their voice is velvety, teasing, full of that patient kind of amusement that only makes it worse. “You’re practically stuffed full already.”

A whimper catches in your throat, and their hand tilts your head back, forcing you to look at them.

“Mm. Look at you.” Their thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and their eyes flicker down to where your lips are definitely a little wet from their kisses. Their smirk turns downright sinful. “You’re droolin’. Feels that good, huh?”

You can barely get a word out before their lips are back on yours, deeper this time, and—god—they’re not letting you go anytime soon.

REDACTED's mouth is still warm on yours, their breath mixing with yours in a way that makes your head feel light, like you’re toeing the edge of something sharp. Their hands don’t leave you—not yet, anyway. A thumb tracing lazy circles at your hip, a palm firm against your lower back. Secure. Unmovable. Like if they let go, you’d slip away. Like they don’t want that.

But your brain is drowning, so you do what you do best: open your mouth and let words spill out like you aren’t just trying to distract yourself from the way they have you pinned.

“…You have a motorcycle.”

A beat. Then, a slow blink.

“…Yeah.” Their voice is still low, still rough, like they haven’t quite left the moment behind. But their brow lifts, bemused, like they’re trying to understand how this is what you’re thinking about right now. “What about it?”

“I wanna see it.”

They stare at you. Like you just asked them to pull the moon out of the sky and hand it to you on a silver platter. You don’t think you’ve ever seen them look so…confused.

“It’s just a bike.”

“It’s your bike.”

Another pause. You watch the way their mouth twitches, some unreadable thought flickering behind their eyes. “You’re not thinkin’ of ridin’ it, are ya?”

You scoff, dramatic. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

You gasp. They smirk. The moment is broken—mostly. Their hands are still on you, after all. Their voice still has that drawl, like they’re tasting every word before they let it leave their mouth.

“Fine,” you huff, shoving at their chest (not that it moves them).

“…Alright,” they say finally, giving you one last kiss—slow, lingering—before pulling back. “Let’s go.”

REDACTED takes your hand like it’s second nature, like they don’t even think about it—just interlaces their fingers with yours and leads you through the mess of their garage.

It’s a wasteland. A graveyard for things they once cared about and then didn’t.

You see the car first, buried under dust, the tires slightly deflated. You remember when they bought it—thought they drove one, figured they might need it for you. But you should’ve known. A car was too…normal. Too practical.

The motorcycle, though—that fits them like a second skin.

Sleek black, polished even though they barely take it out. It suits them in a way the car never could. The sharp edges of it match the sharp edges of their jaw. The deep black mirrors the ink on their arms, the piercings that gleam under dim garage lights. And then there’s their eyes—blue, cutting through the dark like high beams. Jesus.

“I knew you’d be into it,” they murmur, watching you take it all in. There’s that teasing lilt in their voice again. The one that says they know what you’re thinking.

You roll your eyes, but your fingers twitch at your sides. You wanna feel it.

So you try to climb it.

And immediately almost fall on your ass.

REDACTED catches you like they knew you’d do that too.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there, angel,” they laugh, hands firm at your waist, pulling you up like you weigh nothing.

“I got it!” you insist, except you don’t because this thing is heavy as hell, and you don’t know the first thing about handling a bike like this.

“Uh-huh,” they hum, clearly not believing you at all, but still helping you settle onto the seat anyway. Their hands linger at your hips, warm, grounding. They lean in, just a little, just enough for their breath to brush against your cheek.

“Y’look real sweet up there,” they murmur, lips just barely grazing your ear. “Too sweet.”

You swallow. Your heart does something weird in your chest.

“…Are you gonna show me how to ride it or just stand there flirting?”

They grin, slow and sharp. “Can’t do both?”

REDACTED chuckles, low and warm, like they heard the sound you just made—like they felt it vibrate against their chest.

They climb on behind you, and suddenly, you’re caged in. Their legs bracket yours, their arms reach past your sides, hands covering yours on the handlebars. You feel the weight of them, solid and unshakable, and then—

Their hands slide to your waist. Adjusting. Correcting. But fuck, they don’t have to be this slow about it.

“S’posed to sit like this,” they murmur, pressing you back against them, firm, like they know you feel everything. Their breath is warm at your ear, their lips barely brushing skin as they lean in to reach the ignition.

The bike rumbles to life. You feel it first in your fingertips, then up your arms, then—oh. It sinks into your thighs, a steady hum between your legs, and you swallow down the noise that threatens to escape.

REDACTED notices. Of course they notice.

“You feel that?” they murmur, voice all honeyed amusement. Their grip on your hands tightens just enough to make your breath hitch. “S’nice, huh?”

You nod, maybe too quickly, because their laughter comes slow and smug against

You turn. Maybe too fast, maybe too eager, but REDACTED doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, they welcome it—because the moment you do, their hands are already there, steadying you, holding you like they knew you’d come to them.

And then—

Their lips.

Soft. So much softer than you expected, given everything else about them—the weight of their body, the roughness of their hands, the way they talk, lazy and deep, like they’ve got all the time in the world. But this? This is different. This is gentle.

Like they’re savoring it. Like you’re something to be tasted slow, something they don’t want to rush.

Your back meets the sleek body of the motorcycle, and they follow, leaning in, caging you in, their weight pressing into you in all the right ways. You feel them—all of them—towering over you, surrounding you, drowning you in their warmth.

And then their fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face just right, deepening the kiss, making you feel it, and fuck—

They break away first. Just barely. Just enough to let you breathe, but not enough to let you go.

“Y’taste sweet,” they murmur, thumb brushing slow over your lower lip. Their eyes are half-lidded, like they’re already thinking about going back in. “Knew you would.”

You’re breathless. Maybe a little dazed. Maybe a little—

Their lips ghost over yours, teasing, like they want to make you beg for it. Like they want to hear you say it, admit how badly you want them. Their hands? Firm on your waist, thumbs stroking slow, deliberate circles against your skin, like they’re mapping you out, like they’re memorizing the feel of you under their touch.

“Y’should see yourself,” they murmur, voice like a lazy drawl, all heat and hunger and patience that makes your skin burn. “Spread out on my bike like this. Look so fuckin’ pretty.”

The way they say it—like they own you, like they’re claiming you—it sends something hot curling low in your stomach.

Then their hands slide up, up, teasing under your shirt, knuckles dragging against bare skin, slow enough to make you shiver. “Feel good, angel?” They dip lower, fingers playing at the waistband of your pants, like they’re waiting for permission.

And then—fuck—their teeth. They nip at your jaw, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking just enough to leave a mark. You feel the way they smile against your skin, feel the way they hum in satisfaction, like they love marking you up.

“Want my hands on you?” A little squeeze at your hips. “Y’gotta tell me where.”

Their fingers press in slow, teasing, just barely skimming where you need them most. It’s intentional, the way they hold back, the way they make you feel every inch of the wait.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hips twitching, chasing the contact, but they don’t give in. Not yet.

They chuckle, low and dark, a sound that sinks into your skin. “So impatient,” they murmur, dragging their knuckles up your inner thigh, agonizingly slow. “Y’been thinking about this, huh? How long?”

Their words feel like a game—like they already know the answer but want to hear you say it anyway. You swallow hard, your breath uneven as you try to focus, try not to let them see how wrecked you already are.

Their lips return to your throat, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse, while their hand—fuck, their hand—finally moves where you need it, fingers pressing firm and knowing. A sharp gasp leaves you, your head tilting back against the bike, exposing more of your throat to their teeth, their tongue.

“That’s it,” they murmur against your skin, voice thick with satisfaction. “Take what y’need, angel.”

And then they press in deeper, their touch turning slow and deliberate, coaxing out every little sound they can pull from you. Their other hand drags up your side, pushing beneath your shirt, fingers spreading wide as if they want to feel every inch of you.

It’s overwhelming—the heat of their body against yours, the steady rhythm of their touch, the way they watch you, like they want to memorize every reaction, every shudder.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” they rasp, pressing their forehead to yours, breath warm against your lips. “Could keep you like this all day.”

And from the way they’re touching you—like they have no intention of stopping—you’re starting to think they mean it.

You're not sure when you started shaking. Maybe it was the moment they first pressed you down against their bike, the cold metal sharp against the heat pooling in your stomach. Maybe it was when their lips barely grazed yours, teasing, promising, making you desperate. Or maybe—fuck—maybe it was when their hands started to roam, those strong, practiced fingers dragging slow over your skin like they were memorizing every inch of you.

And now? Now you’re undone.

They’ve got you caged in, their body flush against yours, their hands firm but patient as they press against your stomach, fingers spreading wide, palms warm as they pull you closer like they don’t want a single inch of space between you. Their breath is heavy against your lips, teasing, tempting, but they don’t kiss you yet. Not properly. They’re waiting. Watching.

They love watching.

“Y’know how fuckin’ pretty you are?” they murmur, dragging their fingers lower, pressing into the soft dip of your stomach, just enough to make you feel the possessive weight of their hands. “Could spend all night just lookin’ at you like this.”

Their words make something tighten low in your gut, an embarrassing whimper slipping past your lips before you can stop it. Their smirk sharpens, dangerous, and their hands move—one sliding down to squeeze your thigh, the other trailing up to your wrist, fingers brushing against your palm before lacing with yours.

Yeah. They love your hands too.

You feel the press of their lips against your knuckles, slow and deliberate, their tongue flicking out just slightly before they sink their teeth into the sensitive skin. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to mark.

“Mine,” they murmur, voice a little rough, a little distracted, as if the word just slipped out without them meaning to say it.

Fuck.

Your breath stutters as they lean in, their teeth dragging over your throat, nipping at the skin before soothing it with their tongue. They don’t stop there. They trail lower, their mouth finding your collarbone, then your chest, their hands still mapping you out, still pressing and teasing, like they want to touch everywhere at once.

Their grip tightens on your thigh as they spread you wider, their other hand still locked with yours, fingers squeezing tight. Their lips move lower, kissing a slow path down your stomach, mouthing at the sensitive skin, sucking, leaving marks, branding you as theirs.

"Y'feel so good," they breathe against your skin, voice thick with something raw, something real. "So soft. So perfect."

Their breath fans over your stomach, and they press another open-mouthed kiss there, their tongue flicking out to taste before their teeth sink in, leaving another mark—deeper this time. You shudder, a helpless moan slipping out, and they groan at the sound, their grip on your thigh tightening.

And then—fuck—then you feel it.

The cool metal of their piercing drags against your skin as they mouth lower, teasing, biting, before pressing their hips flush against yours, letting you feel everything. The sharp contrast of heat and steel makes you gasp, your fingers tightening in theirs, and they smirk, pleased with your reaction.

“You like that?” they ask, voice pure sin, hips rolling just slightly to let you feel the full weight of their arousal against you. “Y’like feelin’ how fuckin’ hard you make me?”

You whimper, head tilting back against the bike, but they don’t let you escape. Their grip on your hand tightens, grounding you, making sure you stay right here with them.

“Tell me,” they murmur against your stomach, lips brushing over each mark they’ve left, soothing, worshiping. “Wanna hear you say it, angel.”

Your breath shudders, your free hand moving to tangle in their hair, tugging just enough to make them groan. “EH- REDACTED? I love it.”

Their reaction is immediate. Their hips press against you again, firmer this time, more deliberate, letting you feel the piercing drag against you as they grind down slow, savoring it. Their mouth trails up, capturing your lips in a deep, heated kiss, their tongue teasing past your lips, taking, tasting, claiming.

“Good,” they breathe between kisses, pressing their forehead to yours, panting against your lips. “Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, angel. Just lemme take care of you.”

Got it. Buckle up.

The metal of the bike is cold against your burning skin, but you barely register it over the heat of him. [REDACTED] has you spread over his lap, thighs trembling where they bracket his, hands gripping the handlebars behind you for balance. You can feel him, hot and thick, stretching you open inch by inch—again. Your legs are shaking, overstimulated from how long he’s been toying with you, but he just won’t stop.

“Y’make the most lewd fuckin’ sounds.."

His voice is a slow, honey-thick drawl against your ear, and then—fuck

You try to turn your head away, but his free hand is already gripping your jaw, keeping you locked in place.

“Nuh-uh, angel."

He pulls you down hard against his lap, forcing every inch of him deep inside you, dragging that metal along your walls just like before. The sound you let out is shameless, and he groans at the way you squeeze around him.

“There it is,” he murmurs, smug as sin, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Knew I could make y’sing like that again.”

His hips roll slow, lazy, dragging out every second of your torment. You can feel every piercing along his cock, the cool bite of metal making you jolt, overstimulated and desperate, but he’s barely even paying attention to you—like he’s just using your body for his own pleasure.

“Look at how fuckin’ good y’look on my cock,” he drawls, watching your reflection in the mirror across the garage, watching your lips part and your lashes flutter as he thrusts up again. “You were practically droolin’ before. Y’must love bein’ stuffed full, huh?”

You whimper, but that’s not enough for him.

“Go on. Say it.”

He punctuates the command with a sharp snap of his hips, grinding you down so deep you feel him press against that perfect spot inside you, and your head thumps back against his shoulder.

“I—I love it,” you gasp, back arching, thighs squeezing around his waist.

His chuckle is low and dangerous, and then his mouth is on you—kissing, sucking, nipping at the base of your neck as he starts rolling his hips in earnest.

“My angel always does such a good job,” he purrs, barely above a whisper. His hands trail down your thighs, squeezing, teasing, spreading you open just a little wider. “Y’already know that, don’t you?” His fingers dip between your legs, pressing just where you need it most. “’Course y’do. Can feel you squeezin’ around me right now.”

Your fingers dig into his arms, nails leaving little half-moon imprints in his skin as you rock against him, chasing your high, but he tsks, stopping all movement entirely.

“Ah-ah. Not yet.”

You whimper, hips stuttering in desperation, but he just smirks.

“Be patient, angel.” His hands slide back up to your chest, pinching, teasing, making you whine. “Y’can cum when I say so.”

And if you start rutting against him for friction, panting and desperate, he just chuckles, smug and infuriating.

“Look at you. Y’just can’t help yourself, huh?” His breath is hot against your ear, teasing, taunting. “S’alright. S’what I made you for, ain't it?”

And when you finally fall apart—when you finally shudder and break, crying out his name as your whole body trembles—he groans, dragging you down hard against his cock, pushing himself as deep as he can go.

“Fuck,” he rasps, breathless for the first time all night. His hands slide up, one tangling in your hair as the other grips your hip, keeping you locked in place, making sure you feel everything. “Y’took me so fuckin’ well.”

His lips press against the curve of your jaw, almost tender, before he murmurs, “Y’did so good for me, angel. So, I’ll let you pick.”

His fingers trail down your stomach, teasing, possessive.

His words curl around your brain like smoke, thick and intoxicating, clouding out anything but him. Your breath stutters—just enough hesitation for his smirk to sharpen.

“Aw, angel.” His voice is a slow, rolling drawl, lazy and smug. “Y’can’t even pick, huh?”

His fingers drag along your stomach, teasing, possessive. The motion sends a shiver straight down your spine, your overstimulated body twitching in his grip. You’re still stuffed full of him, stretched wide and trembling, but he waits. Like he enjoys watching you struggle to speak, to even think through the haze he’s wrapped you in.

“Tell me,” he murmurs, pressing his lips against your temple, deceptively soft. “Which d’ya want more?”

Your mouth opens, but all that escapes is a shaky breath. His fingers flex against your hip, gripping, kneading—waiting. And then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls his hips.

The noise that leaves you is barely human.

“Fuck—”

The sound of his chuckle is all teeth.

“There it is.”

His hand slides up your throat, tilting your chin so he can watch you—your dazed eyes, your parted lips, the way your body twitches at every lazy, deliberate grind of his hips. His gaze is half-lidded, burning, drinking in every inch of you.

“Feels good, don’t it?” His voice is syrup-thick, dragging down your spine like a physical thing. “Being stretched open like this, takin’ everything I give you…”

You swallow, barely nodding—too lost in the heat, the weight, the slow, devastating drag of him inside you. And he sees it.

His grip tightens.

“Y’can’t even fuckin’ talk, can you?”

You shake your head, eyes slipping shut, body keening against him. He hums, low and satisfied, kissing just below your ear.

“Don’t worry, angel.” Another slow thrust, dragging against that perfect spot inside you, making your whole body jolt. “I’ll decide for you.”

He shifts, pressing deep, locking you against him—and stays there, buried to the hilt, his breath warm against your neck.

“Be good,” he murmurs. “And take it.”

And then—heat. Possession. His arms tighten, his breath shudders, and you feel him let go—deep, slow, branding you from the inside out.

He groans against your skin, dragging his teeth along your pulse, and fuck—he doesn’t move away, doesn’t pull out, just keeps you there, completely filled, his cock still throbbing inside you.

“Guess we gotta keep goin’ till.."

His fingers trail down, smearing sweat across your skin, touching and teasing as he shifts beneath you—still hard, still inside.

And from the way his smirk curls against your jaw, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon.

His hands are everywhere—gripping, kneading, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Your whole body shudders as he grinds against you, still buried deep, his cock twitching with every shaky breath you take.

“Fuck, angel,” he groans, voice thick with heat. “Takin’ me so well—so fuckin’ deep—”

His hips roll, pressing just a little further, like he’s testing how much more you can take. The stretch is already too much, your body trembling against him, but the way he stays inside, stuffed to the hilt, makes you feel—

“Bet y’d look so good like this all the time.”

Your breath stutters.

He hums against your skin, slow and teasing. “All full of me. Carryin’ my cum inside that pretty little hole, leakin’ down your thighs…”

His fingers dip lower, just barely brushing over the mess he’s already made of you. A whimper slips out, and his smirk sharpens.

“Mm. Maybe I should make sure it sticks.”

You don’t even have time to process before his hands are gripping your hips tight, tilting you just right—before he thrusts up in one slow, filthy motion, grinding deep, making sure every drop of his cum stays right where he put it.

Your whole body jolts, overstimulated and trembling, but he just grins.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth along your jaw, pressing lazy kisses to your flushed skin. “Think I wanna see you full of me all the fuckin’ time.”

He rolls his hips again, still slow, still teasing, but his breath is coming rougher now, his grip tightening.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” His voice is a low purr against your ear. “Let me fuck you open every night, make sure you’re stuffed full—”

His fingers trail down your stomach, possessive, like he can already see it, like he wants to see it.

“Y’gonna let me breed you, angel?”

Your whole body clenches around him, and his groan is pure sin.

“…Yeah,” he breathes, voice all heat and hunger. “That’s what I thought.”

And then he moves.

Slow, deep, pushing you down to take him as he fucks his cum further inside, groaning at the way you twitch and shake, overstimulated but still so needy. His hands roam, pressing you close, dragging his nails down your sides like he’s marking his claim.

“Gonna fill you up every fuckin’ time,” he murmurs, lips trailing over your pulse, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Till y’can’t even think of anyone else.”

"But, I- only think of you all the time.."

His grip tightens instantly. The second those shaky little words leave your lips, he stills—buried deep inside you, chest rising and falling against your back, hands locked around your waist like he needs to hold you there.

“…Say that again.”

His voice is lower now, rougher. Almost dangerous in how sweet it sounds—like he’s barely holding himself back.

You swallow, thighs trembling where they bracket his. “I—” Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deep, like he’s savoring the way you squeeze around him. “I only think of you—only you—all the time.”

That does it.

A sharp, ragged breath escapes him, his fingers digging into your skin. His control—his usual lazy drawl, that smug, taunting dominance—cracks.

“…Fuck.”

And then he moves.

Not slow this time. Not teasing.

This is needy.

Desperate.

Like you just shattered something inside him, and now he needs to prove it—to seal that claim inside you, make sure you never even consider anyone else.

His pace turns messy, all deep, rolling thrusts and ragged groans against your ear. He’s so worked up, so fucking sweetly possessive, whispering between every shaky breath:

“Mine.”

“You’re mine.”

“No one else gets you like this.”

“Fuck—no one else even knows you like this—”

His hands roam, clutching, nails scraping your thighs, your hips, your stomach, like he wants to mark you with every touch. His lips are everywhere—on your neck, your shoulder, pressed to the shell of your ear, murmuring between ragged gasps:

“You’re made for me.”

“Fuck—feel that? So deep inside you, fuckin’ claiming you—”

And then he loses it.

He slams into you, grip tightening, burying himself as deep as he can go—and he breaks, moaning into your skin as he spills inside, body shuddering with the force of it.

But even after he’s spent, even when his breath evens out, he doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, keeping you full, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles against your neck, still murmuring in that soft, wrecked voice:

“No one else.”

“Only me.”

“You promise, angel?”

And when you nod—when you whisper, "Only you, always,"—he sighs, pressing a kiss against your pulse.

“…That’s my good fuckin’ angel.”

His breath shudders against your skin, lips tracing the curve of your jaw as he stays inside you, keeping you locked against his chest, filled, owned. His hands, still trembling from the aftershocks, roam your body—soft now, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

And then, in a voice so quiet, so wrecked it barely sounds like him, he murmurs:

“We belong to each other, don’t we…?”

His grip tightens, pulling you closer, like he needs to hear you say it—needs you to confirm what he already knows.

You nod, dazed and pliant against him. “Y-yeah…”

But that’s not enough.

He tilts your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes in the dim light of the garage—dazed, dark, utterly consumed by you.

“Mind,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your temple.

“Body,” another kiss, lower now, lingering against your cheek.

“Soul,” a gentle bite against your pulse, like he’s branding the words into you.

Then, lower—his hands sliding down your stomach, possessive and warm, pressing against the soft swell where he knows he’s still buried deep inside.

“…Everything.”

He groans, grinds against you just to feel it again, to make you squirm in his lap. His voice turns desperate, aching as he breathes against your ear:

“Your hole—fuck—your whole self—”

He kisses you then, messy and hungry, like he wants to swallow you whole, drag you even deeper into him until there’s nothing left between you.

He’s obsessed with watching you. The way your eyes flutter, the way your breath catches, the way your body reacts to every little thing he does. It’s intoxicating. Addictive. He needs to see it—needs to know exactly what makes you shudder, whimper, beg for more.

That’s why his favorite positions always keep you close. Always let him watch.

Missionary, but with your wrists pinned above your head, fingers entwined as he rolls his hips slow, deliberate, drawing out every little noise you make. He’ll whisper filthy things against your lips, drinking in every reaction, every quiver, every desperate squeeze around him.

Lotus, with you straddling his lap, chests pressed together, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He loves the way you tremble in his hold, loves how deep he can go like this, how your body reacts so perfectly to every slow, deliberate thrust. Loves when you bury your face in his neck, whimpering, biting down to muffle the sounds—he always grins when you do, his voice a husky tease in your ear:

"Y'don’t gotta hide from me, angel. Wanna hear every fuckin’ sound y’make."

And when you do let go, when you whimper his name in that breathless, wrecked voice—that’s when he loses it.

It’s never just about the act for him—it’s about you. About making you feel so thoroughly ruined that you never want to be anywhere else but here, tangled up with him, hands clasped, bodies moving as one.

His voice is a breathy, wrecked whisper against your lips:

“Look at me, angel. Wanna see your face when you fall apart for me.”

The second the words left your lips, the moment that trembling, breathless "I love you, [REDACTED]—" spilled from your mouth, everything changed.

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering, chest heaving against yours like you’d just knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, just a second, he didn’t move—just stared, eyes blown wide, lips parted, the slow realization of what you said crashing over him.

Then he broke.

A shuddered breath, a groan, and suddenly his arms were around you, crushing you against him, face buried in your neck. His body trembled—he trembled. His breath came in ragged, uneven pants, and then—fuck—he was whimpering, voice cracking as he choked out,

“Say it again.”

His hands tightened—one gripping your waist like he never wanted to let go, the other threading through your hair, pulling just enough to make you arch against him. His lips pressed to your skin, open-mouthed and desperate, his breath hot as he begged,

“Say it again, angel. Please.”

Your fingers curled against his back, nails digging into his skin, and you gasped as he rolled his hips deep, so deep it sent white-hot pleasure curling through your core. And even though you could barely breathe, barely think, you still gave him what he wanted.

“I love you,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I—I love you, I love you, I love y—ahh—”

He snapped.

A sharp, choked sound spilled from his throat—half-groan, half-sob—and then he was fucking you like he was trying to ruin you, like he wanted to carve your words into his soul. He didn’t care about pace, didn’t care about teasing, didn’t care about anything except chasing that feeling, that overwhelming, all-consuming rush of belonging that had his vision going hazy.

“You—fuck, you love me—” His voice cracked, rough, wrecked, like he couldn’t even believe it. “You—you really—ah—”

You felt something wet against your shoulder, and that’s when you realized—he was crying. His body shuddered with every thrust, every ragged breath, every desperate whimper he tried to swallow down. His fingers laced with yours, squeezing tight, grounding himself in the feeling of you.

“I love you,” he rasped, voice breaking as he slammed himself deeper, dragging you closer, closer, closer. “Love you, love you, fuck—I need you—”

And then he ruined you.

The sheer desperation in his voice, the overwhelming emotion in the way he held you, the way his body trembled with each ragged thrust—it sent you over the edge so hard you screamed. Pleasure crashed over you in an electric wave, body convulsing against his, vision going white, mind shattering as he fucked you through it, chasing his own high.

The moment you tightened around him, he broke completely, moaning your name like a prayer as he buried himself deep, shaking, gasping, tears hot against your skin as he came hard, filling you with everything he had—everything he was.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just tangled bodies, heaving chests, skin slick with sweat, breathless, wrecked.

He held you through the aftershocks, pressing kisses to your damp skin, hands tracing soothing patterns down your back. And when his breathing finally evened out, when his heartbeat slowed, he exhaled shakily, voice hoarse when he mumbled:

“Gonna make you say it every time, y’know that?”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he nuzzled into your neck, voice still thick with tears, still so incredibly soft.

“Need t’hear it. Need t’feel it.”

Then, with a slow, teasing roll of his hips, he hummed,

“Think y’can say it one more time for me, angel?”

He came for the last time...

His cum is thick, dripping slow and warm from between your legs, and [REDACTED] watches with a lazy, satisfied smirk, eyes half-lidded as he traces a slow, possessive hand down your stomach.

“Look at that,” he murmurs, thumb dragging through the mess he made before pushing some of it back inside. “S’like your body don’t wanna let me go.”

His voice is deep, wrecked, still tinged with the aftershocks of pleasure. He’s barely moved, still pressed against you, still inside you, his cock twitching at the way you whimper from oversensitivity. And even though you can feel him softening, you know he’s not quite done with you yet.

Because when he finally pulls out, slow and deliberate, he groans at the sight of his release leaking out of you, thick and white, dripping down your thighs. His fingers spread you open just a little, just to watch, to admire the way his cum still clings to your hole, and he lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle.

“Bet y’didn’t know that was one of my favorite sights,” he drawls, smug and easy, but there’s a hunger beneath it, something darker and deeper that makes his breath hitch. His fingers tease at your entrance, gathering up what’s spilling out before pushing it back in.

“Gotta keep you nice ‘n full, angel.”

Your body jerks, overstimulated, but he just leans down, kissing your temple with something achingly tender.

“S’my favorite way to mark you,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue across your jaw, pressing another slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Better than hickeys. Better than bruises. ‘Cause even if no one else can see it…” His breath fans warm over your lips.

“You’ll know it’s there.”

His hand lingers for just a second longer before he finally sighs, pressing one last kiss to your forehead before rolling out of bed.

"Stay put," he orders, voice soft, indulgent, like he's speaking to something fragile.

You hear the rustling of fabric, the quiet drip of water, and then—warmth. A damp towel glides over your skin, gentle and slow, as he wipes away the evidence of everything he just did to you. His touch is careful, reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of your body all over again. And when he finally deems you clean enough, he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, tilting your face toward him.

“Y’good?”

His voice is quiet now, searching, scanning your features for any hint of discomfort. And when you nod—when you lean into his touch, pressing a sleepy kiss to his palm—his lips twitch into something almost fond.

“Mm. Good.”

Your whole body feels like it’s floating—boneless, weightless—except for the ache between your legs and the warmth still pooling deep inside you. You're barely clinging to consciousness, vision hazy, skin flushed, legs utterly useless after how hard he wrecked you. The bike’s cold metal bites against your overheated skin, but you barely notice—too busy trembling in his lap, still impaled on his cock, still dripping with him.

[REDACTED] presses a lazy, open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, voice still thick and breathless as he rasps, “Look at that, angel…” His fingers trace slow, teasing circles over your stomach, dipping lower—just enough to feel the way his cum is seeping out of you, trailing down your thighs.

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest.

“Still full of me,” he murmurs, like he can’t fucking believe it. His hand drags lower, gathering some of his release on his fingers, pressing it back in—slow, teasing, possessive. You jolt, over-sensitive and trembling, but he just smirks.

“Y’think you can walk?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, let alone move. Your limbs feel like jelly, muscles twitching in the aftermath of too many orgasms, and your hands are still gripping the handlebars behind you for dear life.

“Tch. ’Course y’can’t,” he murmurs, amusement curling in his voice.

And then, without warning, he lifts you.

A startled gasp tears from your lips as he scoops you up, arms firm and steady beneath your legs, cradling you against his chest like you weigh nothing. His warmth envelops you, his scent thick in your lungs—leather, sweat, sex—and you can feel the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat where your head rests against him.

He carries you effortlessly, his grip firm yet careful, keeping you close. And fuck—there’s something so intimate about it. The way his fingers flex against your thighs, the way he presses a kiss to your temple without thinking, the way his breath hitches slightly when he adjusts you in his arms—like he just loves holding you like this.

His voice is softer now, a low, affectionate drawl as he hums,

“Think y’need a bath, angel.”

You barely have the strength to respond, just nodding weakly against his chest. He chuckles, shifting you higher in his arms, pressing you even closer.

“Don’t worry. I got you.”

His lips brush against your forehead, tender, lingering.

“I always got you.”

The bath had been too warm, too soothing, and between the exhaustion settling deep in your bones and the way [REDACTED] had kept tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh under the water, you'd nearly drifted off in his arms. He’d washed you—hands reverent, careful, like he was sculpting something delicate out of soap and steam—before wrapping you in a towel and carrying you back to the bedroom.

And then he’d leaned against the doorway, still damp from the bath, towel slung low on his hips, eyes dark

You'd barely had time to process before his hands were guiding you down, pressing you against the mattress, the cold air prickling against your freshly washed skin.

And fuck—he was so deep, stretching you all over again, hands gripping your hips as he fucked into you with slow, deep thrusts, dragging pleasure out of you until you were shaking beneath him, moaning into the sheets.

He’d taken his time—murmuring soft, possessive praise against your skin, watching the way your body took him, how it clung to him, milking him with every thrust until he finally spilled inside you again, filling you up just like before.

And even then, he hadn’t let you move.

He’d just stayed there for a moment, cock still buried deep, hands stroking down your sides as he hummed, pleased, murmuring something low and smug about "keeping you full for just a little longer."

And only when you whined��utterly wrecked and oversensitive—had he finally pulled out, chuckling at the way you shuddered, at the way his release dripped from you.

Now—

You’re in the kitchen, barely dressed, legs still unsteady as you focus on the dessert you’re making. [REDACTED] is behind you, clinging—all broad chest and heavy warmth, arms wrapped around your waist as he nuzzles lazily into your neck.

“Y’ain’t gonna let me help?” he mumbles, voice still slow and drowsy with leftover satisfaction.

“You never help,” you tease, nudging him lightly. “You just stand there and hug me.”

A lazy smirk curls against your skin. “S’important job, angel. Gotta make sure you’re warm.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t move to shake him off. If anything, you lean into him a little more, enjoying the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers flex gently against your stomach.

Then, without warning, you turn and press a kiss to his jaw.

His breath hitches.

Just a second. Just a tiny pause, barely noticeable—but you feel it.

And then he’s tilting your chin up, his gaze dark and unreadable as he leans in, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s unhurried, indulgent, his tongue teasing against yours as he takes his time tasting you. His arms tighten around you, pressing you closer, like he never wants to let go.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips.

“You’re so fuckin’ sweet, angel,” he murmurs.

His fingers drift lower, toying with the hem of your clothes, dangerous in their intent.

"...Y'ever thought about letting me have dessert first?"

[REDACTED]’s breath catches. Their fingers twitch slightly in yours—scarred, burned, rough in all the ways that tell a story they’ve never spoken aloud.

You don’t press. You never do.

Instead, you lift their hand to your lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to each calloused knuckle.

Their face is unreadable—staring down at you, something flickering in their dark eyes, something raw, something fragile. Like they don’t know what to do with the warmth of your touch. Like it hurts.

And then, as you shift closer, your ring glints under the dim kitchen light. The matching band on their finger catches, too—two small, simple things, yet carrying the weight of a lifetime.

Childhood lovers. Meant to be.

Their grip tightens around your hand, just slightly. Just enough to tell you they’re holding on.

“…If you hadn’t taken his hand that day,” [REDACTED] murmurs, voice rough with something unreadable, “…would you have still said yes?”

Your heart aches at the memory.

That day, years ago—small hands reaching, fingers brushing, the quiet promise sealed with a ring—before Leon’s sneer cut through the moment, before cruel hands tore you away, before [REDACTED] had been left alone with nothing but the sting of rejection and the echo of their own heartbeat.

You squeeze their hand tighter. Hold it against your chest, where they can feel the steady rhythm beneath your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you admit softly. “Maybe my childhood self wouldn’t have understood love the way I do now.”

[REDACTED] swallows, jaw tightening.

“But…” You smile—small, warm, certain. “I’m happy that life gave me another chance with you.”

Something in them cracks.

They look at you—really look at you—eyes shining, throat working around words they can’t quite say. Their lips part, but no sound comes out, and then—then they just press forward, pressing their forehead against yours, squeezing your hand against their chest like they’re the one afraid you’ll disappear this time.

“…You love me?”

A whisper. A plea.

You cradle their face, thumb brushing over the dampness clinging to their lashes, and you whisper back—

“I love you, [REDACTED].”

And finally—finally—they let go.

Not of you. Never of you.

But of everything else.

[REDACTED] shudders—a small, barely-there breath that stutters in their throat, like they don’t know how to take in the weight of your words. Like they can’t believe they deserve them.

But you just hold them closer.

“Only you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to theirs. “The real you.”

Their fingers tighten around yours, almost desperate. You can feel it—the way their body tenses, the way their breath hitches, the way they struggle against something unseen.

“I’ll tell you this for the rest of my life,” you promise, voice steady, unwavering. “I’ll say it as many times as it takes. Just so you know.”

Their eyes flutter shut. Their lips part, like they want to say something, but no words come—just the smallest, strangled sound, like something breaking apart in their chest.

“You,” you whisper again, softer now. “The real you is the one I feel the happiest with.”

And that’s when they fall.

Not physically. Not in any way you can see.

But you feel it—the way their last defenses crumble, the way their breath shudders out of them, the way they just let go and sink into your arms, forehead still pressed to yours, fingers tangled with yours, body trembling as they clutch onto you like you’re the only thing keeping them together.

“…You’re not leaving,” they whisper, barely a sound.

“I’m not leaving.”

Their lips find yours—not desperate, not rough—just deep. Slow. Like they’re memorizing the way you feel.

You giggle at the way [REDACTED]’s eyes soften when you press the small cake piece to their lips. “C’mon, try it,” you coax, voice light, teasing. “I made it just for you.”

They huff, but there’s no real resistance—just a tiny, reluctant smirk as they take the bite from your fingers.

A pause. Then, their expression melts.

“…S’ good,” they murmur, lips still brushing against your fingertips. Their voice is softer than usual, almost boyish in its honesty. “Sweet… tastes like strawberries.”

You beam. “See! I told you you’d like it!”

Their gaze lingers on you—eyes half-lidded, warm, fond. And then, in one slow, deliberate movement, they lean in and press a kiss right to the tip of your nose.

It’s so soft, so unexpectedly sweet, that your breath catches.

And when they pull back, licking the last traces of cake from their lips, they hum lazily, “Mm. You’re sweeter, though.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip.

"Cheer up, angel," they say, voice dipping into that low, syrupy drawl. "Can’t have you lookin’ cuter than dessert itself.”

You’re definitely not blushing. Not even a little bit.

#14dwy #rb

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