kaedeolgy - Tumblr blog

kaedeolgy · 1 month ago

Note

hii. i really loved your monster fics, especially marked. i was wondering if you could write another werewolf fic but wlw this time. female werewolves can sometimes have penises but some people choose not to write them like that, and i honestly leave that part to you because it doesnt matter to me. thank you so much if you consider writing this <3

Filled by Lycanlight

WLW

A/N: I wanted to go in so many directions with this. And omg, writing requests is so stressful; I get why some ppl don't take them. I'll write another one like this, but it'll be shorter and there won't be any weenies. Thank you for the request! I will always write a request as long as it doesn't go against my request rules :)

○𖤓○5.6k words, Werewolf x Fem!Reader, Strangers to lovers, Her privates are referred to using the d and c word, Fingering, Making out, Exhibitionism(not really), Car sex, Protected sex first round->Condom breaks-> The rest is unprotected(keep the willy wrapped), Missionary-> Doggy-> Cowgirl(riding), Kn0tting, Praise and dirty talk, Spanking, Multiple rounds, Dubcon(just to be safe—the condom broke and she kept going), Aftercare, etc○𖤓○

The bar smells like cheap bourbon and burnt grease.

You’re on your third whiskey, elbow on the counter, your mouth sharp with salt and vinegar from the half-eaten bag of chips next to your glass.

Outside, the night’s warm and sticky. Heat pressing in through the door like it’s reaching for something. Or someone.

You feel it before you see her.

That presence—not loud, not flashy. Just heavy. Like she belongs in the woods, not under buzzing neon. Like she should be naked and snarling, not sipping dark liquor in a torn jacket and fitted clothes.

You glance once.

She’s already looking at you.

Not smiling. Not flirting. Just watching. Like she’s measuring you up for something. Like she already knows what you taste like when you’re on the brink.

You look away first. Sip your drink. Tell yourself to stop being dramatic. But your thighs are pressed a little tighter than before.

The jukebox wheezes something slow and tragic. A song no one listens to, just noise filling up the thick quiet between people too used to loneliness, drama, and disapointment.

She doesn’t talk to you.

Doesn’t move closer.

But every few minutes, you feel her gaze like a burn on your skin. Down your spine. Between your legs.

You’re pretending not to notice when she stands.

She downs the last of her drink, throws a bill on the counter, and heads for the door without looking back.

You watch her go. Bootsteps steady. Neck taut under the glow. Her hair curls damp at the nape. And there’s something about the way she walks — not cocky, not careless. Predatory.

She doesn’t glance back. She doesn’t have to.

You stay a minute longer. Let your breath come back. Then you crunch the rest of the chips, wipe your hands on your jeans, and drop enough cash to cover the whiskey. You don’t say goodbye to the bartender.

The night swallows you just as the door clicks shut behind you.

And the only thing you know is this: you’re not going home untouched.

—

The air outside clings to your skin like sweat that doesn’t belong to you. You step into it slow, eyes still adjusting, scanning the lot for denim and boot leather. For her.

But she’s not leaning on the wall. Not lighting a cigarette under the yellow buzz of the overhang. Not where she should be.

The parking lot is empty.

Your chest’s too tight.

You walk — not fast, not slow — toward your car. Keys between your fingers. Just in case. Not that they’d do shit against a feeling like this.

You’re halfway there when you hear it.

A howl — low and lonesome, somewhere off in the trees. It cuts through the silence like a bone snapped in the dark. You freeze.

It sounds close. Too close.

You turn—

And she’s there.

Right behind you. Like she grew out of the shadows. Like she was always just waiting for you to look.

“Hey,” she says.

Simple. Like you didn’t just nearly jump out of your skin.

You swallow. “Hi.”

It comes out hoarse. Your fingers clench around your keys tighter, but not because you're scared. Because you don’t know what the fuck this is. Because your legs are warm and your mouth’s dry and she’s even hotter up close.

Tall. Lean. The kind of body that looks like it was carved, not born. Not in any soft, clean way — in a rough one. In a used way. She looks like she runs at night. Like she hunts for the fun of it.

And her eyes— God.

Sharp. Calling. Too knowing. Like they’ve already seen you come apart, and now she’s just waiting to watch it live.

You try to laugh, but it shakes.

“This the part where I’m murdered in the parking lot?” you joke, voice thinner than you want it to be.

Her smile is slow, but it isn’t kind.

“No,” she says, soft drawl thick as dusk. “That part comes later.”

You stare at her. She doesn’t blink.

The silence stretches.

The heat between you grows teeth.

She tilts her head, and you catch the slope of her neck, the way her pulse beats steady just under the skin. Her jacket's open now. White ribbed tank stretched across muscle. Jeans worn to the shape of her thighs. Hands in her pockets — relaxed, cocky. But there’s a tension under it. Coiled.

Like if you touched her the wrong way she’d shove you against your car and eat you alive.

You can't stop staring.

She steps a little closer.

“You always follow strangers out into the dark?” she asks, voice low.

You manage a breath. “No, i just—You're really pretty.”

She grins, all teeth.

You think — oh.

This is how it starts.

—

You’re not sure who moves first. Maybe it’s you, tilting your head just enough. Maybe it’s her — one step closer, close enough now you can smell her skin. Clean sweat. Leather. The woods. Something faintly metallic under it.

Her hand comes up slow. Fingers graze your jaw, callused and warm. Your breath stutters when her thumb brushes your lower lip.

“You gonna run?” she asks.

You shake your head.

Her smile is sharp. “Good.”

Then she kisses you.

Hard. Wet. Like she’s starving. Like your mouth is something she earned.

It’s not sweet. There’s nothing gentle about it — it’s all teeth and heat, your back bumping against your car door as she presses into you, lips bruising yours open. You moan before you mean to, and she groans— low in her throat, primal, like the sound vibrates out of her spine.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you. Her eyes are darker now. Not brown, not hazel — gold, maybe. But not human.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

But you don’t stop her.

Her mouth moves to your neck. She licks the skin there, then bites — not deep, not yet, but enough to make you gasp, thighs clenching.

And that’s when you feel it.

The bulge.

Hard, thick, heavy between her legs — pressing into your hip through tight denim. You stiffen.

You blink.

Is that…?

Your thoughts go jagged. Something doesn’t make sense. But it’s making your whole body ache anyway. You don’t pull away. You roll your hips, just enough, and feel the way she shudders.

It’s real.

It’s there.

And she wants to fuck you with it.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” she murmurs, teeth dragging your skin as she grinds against you. “Just feel it, baby.”

Your head falls back against the window. She kisses your throat again — lower, wetter, and your hips roll without permission.

That’s when you see it. Her eyes glow. Not a reflection. Not a trick of the light. Just… golden. Lit from somewhere deep. Her jaw shifts — subtly. Like the bone wants to break. Like something under her skin is pushing out.

“God,” you breathe. “What are you—?”

“Something you’ve been needin’,” she whispers, voice not quite hers anymore. “Something that’ll split you just right.”

You should be scared. Instead, you pull her closer.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Do it.”

She groans, low and full, the sound vibrating through your chest. And when she kisses you again — teeth clashing, tongue deep — her hand drops to your thigh, gripping tight. She’s not holding back anymore.

The edge of the car digs into your ass, metal hot through your jeans, and you don’t even care. Not with her hand between your thighs and her mouth dragging across your throat like she wants to taste the pulse right out of it.

Her palm presses hard between your legs. Slow. No rush. Just heat.

You’re already soaked.

She knows.

“Mmm,” she hums, smug as sin, fingers pressing up through the denim. “Look at you. Barely touched and already beggin’.”

You gasp — sharp — when her thumb finds that spot through the fabric. Just enough pressure to make your knees shake.

She grins. Licks her lips. “I wanna do so many things to you.”

Your breath catches.

She doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t relent like it’s a joke. She means it.

You nod, biting your lip — hips rocking slow into her hand.

“Yeah?” she whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Then open those legs for me, sweetheart.”

You do.

She unbuttons your jeans with one hand. The other pins your hip against the car, firm, steady, like she owns the weight of your body.

When her fingers slide inside your panties — bare skin to slick heat — you moan loud.

She kisses you hard to swallow the sound. Mouth open, tongue slow, tasting every breath you give like it’s hers.

And then she sinks two fingers inside you.

“Fuck—” you gasp, nails digging into her shoulders.

She moans against your mouth, fingers curling up, slow and deep and filthy. “That’s it, baby,” she breathes. “So warm. So Pretty. Like this pussy was made for me.”

You cry out again when her palm drags over your clit — slow pressure that makes your hips jerk.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the second I saw you,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You, all pretty and wound up. Bet you’re always like this, huh? All attitude and no one to fuck it out of you.”

You whimper. Rock into her hand harder.

She fingers you deep, steady, curling her wrist just right, then circles your clit with the heel of her palm. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

“Tell me how it feels, baby,” she croons.

You gasp, trying to speak. “Good. Fuck—so good.”

She smiles. “Yeah? You like having my fingers inside you? Against your own damn car dripping like a fuckin’ mess.” Her voice is sweet and slow — Southern molasses dipped in filth.

You nod, tears prickling at your lashes.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Already clenching. Already close.”

You’re grinding now — helpless, filthy — riding her hand like you need it to breathe.

She leans in again, lips brushing yours.

“C’mon, pretty thing,” she murmurs. “Let me feel you cum.”

And when she presses just a little harder against your clit — thumb teasing, fingers deep and wet — you shatter.

You cum hard, full-body twitch, gasping into her mouth as your cunt clamps down around her fingers and you grind, helpless, crying out as the world whites out around the edges.

She keeps moving — slow, steady, working you through it.

“Fuck,” you sob. “Ahhm—Mghnnm”

“That’s it,” she purrs. “Give it all to me.”

And when you finally slump against her, shaking, breath ragged, she pulls her hand back and sucks her fingers clean — eyes glowing.

Still pressed against your car, sweat down your neck, pulse behind your eyes, you whisper “What the fuck are you?”

And she grins like something hungry.

“Lupinus.”

—

You’re still catching your breath when the bar door creaks behind you. A man stumbles out — drunk, half-lit in the orange haze. He pauses on the step, glancing toward the parking lot.

He sees you.

Your body flushed against hers. Your jeans unzipped. Her hand slipping free from between your thighs, wet and slow. His eyes flicker. He looks away fast.

But not before you see the flash of something—judgment, maybe. Or just fear.

He walks on.

You stare after him a beat too long.

Then she speaks. Calm. Soft.

“Get in the car, baby.”

You obey.

You drive in silence, one hand on the wheel, the other still trembling on your thigh. She lounges in the passenger seat like she owns it, like she’s always been there. Her fingers glisten in the passing streetlights.

She sucks one clean. Lazy.

You shift in your seat, biting your lip.

Your house isn’t far, but she doesn’t wait.

“Pull over.”

You blink. “What?”

Her voice is lower now. That same honeyed drawl, but with something wild curling under it.

“I said, pull over. I’m tired of waiting.”

Your stomach flips.

You veer onto a gravel path — trees pressing in on both sides like they’re listening. The headlights cut through the woods, but it still feels too dark. Too deep.

You park.

Then you look at her.

And she glows.

Not bright. Not blinding. Just… wrong. The light comes from under her skin, faint gold bleeding up through her throat, her jaw, her collarbone. Her eyes flash — full yellow now, like a beast watching from the brush.

Her cheekbones shift.

Her canines glint longer. Sharper.

She’s beautiful. Terrifying.

Your chest rises.

“I’ve never…” you start. “I’ve never been with something like—like you.”

She turns to you slowly. Reaches out. Her hand lands on your thigh again — gentler this time.

“I know, sugar.”

Her fingers flex, slow. “That’s why I’ll be sweet.”

You shudder.

“Come on,” she says, nodding toward the back. “I want you laid out when I break you in.”

You hesitate for one breath.

Then crawl into the back seat.

The air smells like sweat and leather and her. You lie back, legs slightly open, thighs still sticky, heart beating too loud in your ears.

She follows — slow, crawling, hungry — and shuts the door behind her.

The dark swallows the space whole.

Except for her. Those eyes — glowing, even now. Gold under the murk. Watching you stretch out across the backseat, breath shallow, thighs parted just enough to feel the air kiss the heat between them.

You try not to shake.

She doesn’t hurry.

“Don’t be scared,” she whispers, crawling between your knees. “You’re mine for tonight. And I’m gonna make you feel everything.”

She leans down and kisses you — not rushed, not rough. Just slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that makes you whimper against her mouth.

And when she pulls back, her hands start moving.

Not to her own clothes.

To yours.

She undresses you one piece at a time — shirt first, then bra. She slides her fingers beneath the band slow, thumb grazing the underside of your breast like she’s memorizing weight.

She presses a kiss to your sternum. Then one to your nipple.

You moan. Her lips curl.

“Sensitive,” she murmurs.

You lift your hips when she tugs your jeans down. She peels them off slow. Then your panties — soaked through, clinging — gone.

You’re bare now. Open under her.

And she’s still half-dressed.

Boots on. Tank on. That worn-out open jacket brushing your knees as she spreads you wider. Her dick strains beneath her jeans — thick, hard, already leaking against the denim.

You can barely breathe.

She kneels between your legs, reaching down — and unbuckles, unzips. Her hips lift, sliding jeans halfway down. Just enough to let it free.

You hum a pleased sound.

It’s big. Slick. Veined. Not human, not inhuman either — just hers. Like everything else. She strokes it once. Then slides closer, the head dragging over your cunt.

Your thighs twitch. Your breath catches.

“Wait,” you murmur, voice rough. “Protection—do you…?”

She pauses. Blinks once. Then smiles.

“You think I'd get you pregnant?”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. “No, I just—” You swallow. “I want it. Just…safe.”

For a second, you expect her to mock it. But she just nods — slow — like she understands something deeper than what you said.

She pulls a foil packet from her jacket. Tears it open with her teeth. Rolls it on.

“It won’t stop what I’m putting in you,” she says low. “But I’ll play nice, if that’s what my girl wants.”

Your stomach flips. “I want it.”

“Good,” she breathes. “Then be a good girl and open wider.”

You do.

Of course you do.

She presses forward just a hair. Just enough to part your folds. You feel it — hot and hard through latex — and your whole body jerks.

“Shhh,” she whispers. “I got you, baby.”

You bite your lip. Nod.

“Words,” she says, pushing in another inch. “Tell me.”

“I—want it,” you whisper. “Please.”

Her hand cups your jaw.

“That’s my girl.”

She pushes in slow. You cry out — softly, jaw falling open. She hisses through her teeth.

“So tight,” she breathes. “Shit—grippin’ me already.”

She doesn’t slam in. She sinks. Inch by inch. Hands firm on your hips, pulling you down, letting you feel every slow stretch of her dick inside you.

You’re gasping before she’s even halfway in.

Your back arches.

She leans down, mouth at your ear. “You feel that?” she murmurs. “That’s me. Fillin’ you up.”

You nod, frantic.

“You take it so good, baby. Just like I knew you would.”

You whimper again — overwhelmed. She pushes deeper. You feel your cunt stretch — wider than before. That sweet burn. That raw pressure deep in your gut. You feel full. Not just fucked — claimed.

“Good girl,” she purrs. “So wet, so fuckin’ pretty. This pussy was just waitin’ for me.”

You gasp when her hips press flush to yours.

Fully inside.

You’re eyes glaze, a few tears slide down your cheeks.

Not from pain. From how fucking good it feels. From how slow she’s moving, how she talks to you like your body is a gift, like she’s gonna unwrap you until you break.

She starts to move. Slow. Deep. Dragging back, then pushing in again — long, full strokes. Every time she fills you, it punches the air from your lungs.

Your hips buck. Your hands grab at her back, nails digging into her tank. Her girth stretches you out so much that it burns. She pulls your leg onto her shoulder and she holds the other open.

She groans. “Fuck—look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. All mine now.” She moves faster. Still sweet. Still slow. But filth in every breath.

You’re babbling now — can’t stop.

“Feels so good, fuck, you’re so deep, I can’t—”

“You can,” she growls, voice velvet and teeth. “You were made for this. Look at you takin’ it. So fuckin’ perfect.”

Her thumb finds your clit — rubs slow circles as she fucks in harder. She fucks like she’s starving. Like she wants to crawl into your body and never leave. Each thrust is slow and ruinous, dragging the length of her dick against every nerve inside you like she wants you to cry. Wants you to break. And you do—whimpering, begging, arching.

You scream.

And she just moans.

“That’s it. Let me feel you cum on my dick, baby. C’mon. Give it to me.”

Your eyes roll back. Your whole body tightens. And you shatter. Cumming hard, cunt pulsing around her, hands clinging to her shoulders like she’s all you’ve got.

She stays inside you. Presses her mouth to your neck.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “Such a good girl. We’re not done.”

You tremble.

You know she’s right.

The windows are fogged. The whole car smells like sex, sweat, and want.

You’re still shaking from the first round, back flat against the seat, her length buried deep inside you — then she pulls out slow and smacks your thigh.

“Turn over.”

You blink.

“What—?”

“Get on your knees, baby. Face down.” Her voice is low. Rough. Shaking with restraint.

You comply. Slow. Shaky. You crawl to your knees, ass up, elbows braced on the seat. Your whole body glows with heat. You’re soaked, still open, and aching. But you want more.

You want so much more.

You feel her move behind you. Her hand slides over your ass — warm, wide. She spreads your cheeks slow, breath hissing through her teeth.

“Look at this. Fuckin’ perfect. Still dripping for me.”

She leans in, tongue dragging along your slit — just once — and you moan, body jolting.

Then smack. Her palm hits your ass, sharp and hot.

You cry out.

Another slap.

Then she grips your hips, pulling you back onto her cock as she sinks in again. But this time—rougher. No teasing. Just a deep, hard thrust that punches the breath out of you. You scream into the seat.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she growls, rocking into you slow but deep. “Take it. Let me see you split.”

Your arms tremble.

Your ass ripples from every thrust — her hips snapping into yours with filthy, relentless rhythm. You hear every wet slap of skin, every gasp you can’t hold. The car rocks with each thrust. Her hands dig into your hips, dragging you back onto her dick like she wants to split you in half.

“Keep moaning for me, sweetheart,” she pants. “Lemme hear how much you need it.”

You do. You moan, high and wrecked, body rocking with her. “F-fuck—fuck, you’re so deep—”

Her hand wraps in your hair. She yanks your head back just enough for her mouth to brush your ear. “You sound like a fuckin’ slut,” she murmurs, sweet and cruel. “Is that what you are, baby? Just a hole for me to fuck?”

You whimper — not in shame. In need.

She groans. “That’s right. Say it. Tell me who you belong to.”

“You—” you gasp. “Yours, I’m yours—”

Slap.

She spanks you again — harder this time — and thrusts deep. Then fucks you deeper. Rougher. Her dick drags against something raw and perfect inside you — that spot — and your vision goes white.

“Good girl,” she grits out. “Taking me like you were made for it.”

Your thighs tremble. Your body sings. You’re half-crying now, high and messy.

You reach back blindly — and she grabs your wrist. Holds it tight. Presses it to the seat. Her chest leans over your back, her hips never stopping.

Her breath burns your neck. “You gonna cum for me like this?” she whispers. “Bent over, used, dripping down your thighs?”

You nod, frantic. Your words are gone.

Her hips stutter. You feel her lock in place. Deeper than before. Full to the point of unbearable. Her hips buck against you rougher, deeper, and you feel the stretch shift—feel her thicken, swell—

And that’s when it happens.

A wet snap — quiet, but sharp.

Your breath stutters.

Something feels different. You clench around her. Feel how raw it is now. How the slide of her dick is slicker—bare.

Your head whips back. “Wait—what—?”

She groans, low and wrecked, still fucking into you. “Shit. Condom tore.”

Your heart skips. Your body locks.

“You—wait—you’re not—”

“Shhh, baby. I know.” Her voice is breathless, strained. “I didn’t mean to. I swear.” But she doesn’t pull out. She grips your hips tighter. Thrusts deeper.

You cry out — a mess of panic and arousal.

“You’re—fuck—you’re still inside—”

“Can’t stop now,” she growls. “You’re already wringing me dry.”

She keeps going until her rhythm is unsteady and frantic. Her body shudders and you feel it.

You feel her fill you. That warmth. That heat. Thick pulses inside—too much, too deep. Your body arches, frozen. You moan. High. Shaky. Overwhelmed. You shook, unable to move, every clench around her met with that unrelenting ache, stretching you wider, deeper, more than you could’ve ever taken from anyone else.

“Fucking hell,” she breathes, forehead pressed between your shoulders. “You’re takin’ it so good. This pussy wants to be filled.”

Hot, thick release spilled into you, wave after wave, and you felt it. Felt her claiming you, stuffing you so full it overflowed, dripping down your thighs even with her locked in place.

You can’t speak. Can’t move. You’re gasping into the seat, brain short-circuiting on the sensation of being used, claimed, soaked from the inside out.

Her hands move again — rough over your waist, then one sliding under to your clit.

“Cum for me like this,” she whispers. “Full of me. Bent over. Mine.” Her fingers rub you fast.

And you break.

You cum with a cry — back arching, body clenching around her, your thighs shaking so hard they nearly give out. But she doesn’t stop.

She rides it out, slower now. Still deep. Still there. Still leaking inside you. Your cunt throbs. Your mind fogs. You’re a mess.

You collapse forward, dazed. Breathless. Ruined. And her body leans over yours — not heavy, but present. Like a weight you asked for. Like home.

She kisses your shoulder once. Just once. Then whispers, “You did so good, baby.”

You’re already sated. You should be done. Your thighs ache. Your voice is gone. You’re full of her — still trembling from being split open against the backseat.

But when she leans back, dick still thick between her thighs, and murmurs, “C’mere, baby,”

—you crawl up and straddle her like it’s instinct. You’re bare, flushed, and soaked — inside and out.

She’s half-dressed still. Boots on the floorboard. Tank clinging to her ribs. Her dick sits slick and ready beneath you, and you shudder just feeling it kiss your skin.

Her hands settle on your waist.

“Look at you,” she says, low. “All wrecked and still hungry.”

You nod, hips twitching.

“That’s my girl.”

She kisses you. Sloppy. Desperate. Tongue pushing into your mouth, teeth dragging your bottom lip, and you moan before you even move. But something shifts in her touch.

A pause.

Her hand slides down between you, fingertips dragging across the slick mess between your legs and her dick. She exhales hard.

You blink, dazed.

“Hold still,” she says, quieter.

You freeze.

She shifts you up, just a little — just enough for her to reach between and slide the broken condom down her cock. Tosses it to the floor. It’s split, stretched, barely a scrap.

Your stomach turns and tightens at once. It looks bigger than before.

“What—?” Your voice breaks. “That was—inside me—”

She cups your face. Gentle.

“I know. I know, baby.”

You can barely process it.

“You okay?”

You nod. Swallow.

She leans in.

“You can stop. I’ll take you home. I’ll clean you up, hold you, swear not to touch you unless you ask me to again.”

You look at her. At the way her chest rises, breath ragged. At the slick heat between your thighs.

She looks pretty like this—mouth parted, eyes dark, flushed skin glowing with sweat and adoration. Her hands bruise your hips with how tight she holds you down, how much she needs to feel every twitch you make.

And you say: “No. I want it.”

You reach down.

Guide her to you.

And when you sink down on her again, it’s everything. Too much. Too good. Your body sings high and hollow, already raw, already twitching.

She groans into your mouth — deep. “So fuckin’ warm. You feel that?” Her hands cup your ass, guide your rhythm. “You take me like you need it.”

Your eyes roll. You ride her slow — dragging up and down, thighs trembling as you grind. Her dick presses that spot deep and steady, and your moans crack, breath shivering on every thrust.

You let out a string of whimpers and moans as you bounce. She leans in close to kiss your open mouth, tongue teasing, slow, sweet—in complete contrast to the way she fucked you earlier.

Then her hand slides between your legs. Fingers circle your clit over and over.

“There she is,” she breathes, watching your face. “Sweet little thing, cryin’ on my dick again.”

You whimper. Your hips stutter.

“You want me to stop?” she murmurs.

You shake your head.

“Didn’t think so.”

Her other hand moves to your chest — palm cupping your breast, thumb rolling your nipple slow.

You cry out, head falling forward. Her mouth catches yours again.

She holds you there — one hand working your clit, the other teasing your nipple, her length deep inside you as you ride her with tears in your lashes and your breath ragged.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” she whispers. “All mine. My perfect girl.”

You moan, voice wrecked.

“I love the way you feel,” you whisper. “You make me feel so goo—Ah—ahhn!.”

She moans softly — presses your hips down hard.

“And you love it.”

You nod, eyes glazed.

“Mmm—fuck. You were made for me,” she whispers, holding your face now. “Say it.”

“I—fuck—I was made for you.”

She kisses you again. Sloppy. Hungry. Tongue pushing into your mouth like she wants to taste the sound you make when you fall apart.

You’re riding harder now. Hips frantic. Her fingers slick between your thighs, every rub against your clit pushing you higher.

Your whole body shakes.

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” she pants. “Gonna cum on me one more time for me, baby.”

“Please—” you sob, forehead against hers.

“I know, baby. I know. C’mere.”

She pulls you down, bodies flush, chest to chest — her arm wrapping around your waist, holding you there as she fucks up into you, slow and deep, her hand still working that swollen ache between your thighs.

You’re crying now — from the pressure, from the stretch, from the way she says good girl in your ear like it’s sacred.

And when you break — it’s silent.

No scream. Just a shattered, shaking collapse against her body as your cunt clenches, thighs trembling, heat spilling over and over as she holds you through it.

“There she is,” she whispers, kissing your shoulder. “Just like that. Just like that.”

You stay there.

Straddling her. Face buried in her neck. Her arms around your waist. Her cock still inside you.

The car smells like heaven and hell.

Her voice breaks the silence again — low and ruined.

“You with me, baby?”

You nod, too dazed to speak.

Her hand strokes your back. The glow’s gone from her skin now — but the wild is still there. The teeth. The hunger.

I’ll be sweet next time,” she says, kissing your temple. “But tonight? I needed to keep you.”

You smile, barely.

“Next time?”

She grins, biting your lip soft.

“Yeah, I like you.”

—

You’re still in her lap. Breath slowed. Skin damp. Her dick softening inside you. Her arms loose around your waist. Neither of you speak for a moment. The air in the car feels heavier now. Like something finished, but still alive.

Her thumb strokes your thigh once, slow. Then she kisses your temple. “Hey,” she whispers, voice low and warm. “You okay?”

You nod against her chest.

She pulls back enough to look you in the eye — thumb lifting to your cheek, brushing sweat and something softer. “You sure?”

You smile. Spent. Wrecked. Loved. “Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m good.”

She studies your face like she doesn’t fully believe you — but she nods anyway, like she’s proud you answered. Then she reaches behind the seat, one-handed, still holding you with the other. Pulls out a cloth — folded, soft, damp already from something else, but clean.

She spreads it over her palm. “Lift up for me, baby.”

You do. Legs weak, thighs trembling.

She slides out of you slow — and you flinch, but not from pain. Just from how much she took from you. She coos under her breath. Not teasing. Just soft. Then she brings the cloth between your legs and cleans you. Careful. Patient. Like it matters. Like you matter.

She wipes you clean, between your thighs, along the inside of your legs — slow and reverent. No shame in it. No rush.

When she’s done, she helps you dress. One piece at a time. Panties first — soft stretch cotton she rolls up and guides into place. You giggle when her fingers brush your still-sensitive skin, and she kisses your knee in apology.

Then your jeans. Your shirt. She helps button it, tugs it smooth over your chest like she’s tucking something sacred back into place.

When you’re decent again, she brushes a curl back behind your ear. You lean into it. “You’re somethin’ else,” she murmurs. “Y’know that?”

You smile.

Then you see her eyes shift again. The gold comes back. Brighter now. Brimming. She lets you go gently — helps you slide off her lap. Her body tenses like something deep under the surface just got louder.

You blink. “Are you—?”

“I can’t stay.”

You hesitate.

She cups your cheek one last time. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll see you again.”

She opens the door. Steps out into the night. Her body stretches — not in pain, but in power. You see it: her spine lengthens. Her arms pulse. Her legs bend like she’s not just a woman anymore.

She drops to all fours — just for a moment — and then she’s gone. One blur of shadow and gold and heat, sprinting into the dark like something wild and holy.

You sit there, alone in the backseat. Still wrecked. Still full of her. And smiling.

Moon divider by @uzmacchiato

Mdni/support dividers by @cafekitsune

256 notes · View notes