#Concrete Spraying Machine

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The Role of Shotcrete Machines in Tunneling and Mining

Shotcrete machine is essential tools in tunneling and mining, offering vital support and efficiency for underground projects. Here's a brief look at their key roles:

Key Benefits in Tunneling

Immediate Support

Stability: Provides instant support to tunnel walls, improving safety and structural integrity.

Strength: Enhances the tunnel's durability against collapse.

Versatility

Application: Effective on vertical, overhead, and irregular surfaces.

Flexibility: Adapts to various tunnel sizes and conditions.

Efficiency

Speed: Accelerates construction processes.

Labor Savings: Reduces the need for manual labor.

Key Benefits in Mining

Ground Support

Reinforcement: Strengthens mine tunnels and shafts, preventing collapses.

Durability: Protects against environmental damage.

Safety and Environmental Benefits

Reduced Dust: Minimizes dust, enhancing safety.

Immediate Support: Provides quick ground support, reducing accident risks.

Cost-Effectiveness

Material Efficiency: Reduces waste and lowers costs.

Long-Term Savings: Cuts down on maintenance and repairs.

İmportant Considerations

Maintenance: Regular checks and cleaning are crucial.

Training: Operators should be well-trained for effective use.

Material Quality: Ensure high-quality materials for optimal performance.

Surface Preparation: Properly prepare surfaces for better adhesion.

Result

Shotcrete machine is crucial for efficient and safe tunneling and mining. They offer immediate support, flexibility, and cost savings, making them invaluable for underground construction. Proper maintenance and training are key to maximizing their benefits.

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Lasparsan Machines: Transforming Underground Construction Efficiency

In today’s fast-paced construction industry, the demand for advanced machinery that enhances performance and reliability is ever-growing. Lasparsan Machines stands out as a leader in this sector, specializing in cutting-edge solutions tailored for underground construction. Highlighted among their diverse product offerings are the innovative wet type concrete shotcrete machine, essential TBM segment sealing gaskets, high-performance shotcrete machine, and the versatile tunnel concrete spraying machine.

Unleashing the Power of Wet Type Concrete Shotcrete Machine

The wet type concrete shotcrete machine is a game-changer in tunnel construction. Designed for optimal efficiency, this machine applies a wet mix of concrete that allows for rapid curing and improved adhesion to surfaces. Its efficient spraying mechanism minimizes waste and enhances coverage, making it ideal for complex tunneling tasks where precision is crucial. As a result, contractors can achieve superior results while significantly speeding up project timelines.

The Critical Role of TBM Segment Sealing Gaskets

One of the most vital components of successful tunneling projects is the maintenance of structural integrity, and this is where TBM segment sealing gaskets come into play. Lasparsan Machines offers highly durable and reliable gaskets that ensure a watertight seal between tunnel segments. This feature is essential for preventing water leakage, which can undermine the structural safety of tunnels. By incorporating high-quality gaskets, Lasparsan supports longer-lasting infrastructure and reduced maintenance costs.

Maximizing Performance with the Shotcrete Machine

The versatility of the shotcrete machine by Lasparsan Machines allows it to adapt to various applications, from ground support to final lining stages in tunnel construction. Its robust design and cutting-edge technology enable seamless operation in challenging environments. This machine not only provides consistency in material application but also enhances worker safety by reducing the amount of manual labor needed.

Advanced Tunnel Concrete Spraying Machine

The tunnel concrete spraying machine is an essential tool for contractors looking to optimize their tunneling operations. With its high spraying capacity and advanced automation features, it streamlines the spraying process—allowing for quicker, more efficient application of concrete. This machine is built to endure the demanding conditions of tunneling projects while delivering exceptional results.

Conclusion

In summary, Lasparsan Machines is dedicated to pushing the boundaries of underground construction technology. Their exceptional range of products, including the wet type concrete shotcrete machine, TBM segment sealing gaskets, shotcrete machine, and tunnel concrete spraying machine, are designed to meet the complex needs of modern construction projects. By choosing Lasparsan, contractors can enhance their productivity, ensure structural integrity, and achieve remarkable results in their tunneling endeavors. With a commitment to innovation and excellence, Lasparsan Machines is paving the way for the future of underground construction.

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Remind Me

Pairing: Agatha x fem!reader Warnings: NSFW, Daddy Kink, Breeding Kink, Oral, Grinding, Plot: Agatha picks you up from jail after being arrested at a protest. Smut. Pure fucking smut. MEN AND MINORS DNI! Buy Mommy a ☕️

The door to the holding cell groaned open with a mechanical click, a burst of stale air and flickering fluorescent light bleeding across the cement floor. It spilled into the room like something sour and uninvited. You squinted as the frame widened—like the night itself had blinked awake, and you were the first thing it saw.

“Harkness!”

The name cracked through the stale air like a warning shot—sharp, nasal, and clipped with bureaucratic disinterest. The desk sergeant didn’t look up from his clipboard. He didn’t have to.

A summons. A signal. The sound of consequences catching up to chaos… and letting it walk free.

It took you a full breath to register he was calling for you. Your last name, detached and impersonal, echoing across steel and stone like it didn’t belong to flesh. Before you could even respond, it came again—louder, more impatient this time: “Harkness!”

Your name, barked out like an accusation. Like a command. Like you were both the problem and the proof. You rose slowly from the concrete bench you'd been slumped on for hours, spine creaking, shoulders groaning under the weight of stillness and dried sweat. Your legs protested, stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. Every muscle in your body buzzed with fatigue, but you moved like you weren’t giving anyone the satisfaction of seeing it.

Nothing was broken. Nothing that wouldn’t fade. But the ache was real. The skin around your wrists stung, raw and red where the zip-ties had dug in deep. Raised welts circled your skin like branding, half-faded but unforgettable. Your shirt stuck to your back—damp with sweat, dried gas, maybe blood. You couldn’t tell anymore. Couldn’t care.

You smelled like protest: Pepper spray. Adrenaline. Smoke. Truth. And you walked like you’d earned every second of it.

Boots hit concrete with a weight you didn’t bother to hide. Every step was deliberate. Measured. Yours.

The Sharpie number on your forearm was half-smeared from sweat and friction, but still visible. Still inked into your skin like a spell. Still there. Just like you would continue to be until people woke up to the insanity around them taking place.

The hallway stretched ahead like a tunnel built from fatigue and bad lighting. You passed fingerprint stations and cold metal desks. You passed other faces—blank, bureaucratic, bored. The hum of vending machines and overused fluorescents filled the air like static.

And then— him.

The cop.

The officer who’d slammed your face into the sidewalk during the scuffle, who’d muttered something about “you people” when the zip-tie bit into your bone. He sat behind a glass partition in a side office, half-shadowed, chewing the end of a pen like it owed him something.

His eyes didn’t lift. But his presence soured the entire hallway. As you passed, he muttered without looking: “Stay out of trouble and listen next time.”

You didn’t break stride. Didn’t slow. Didn’t blink. You just raised one hand behind you—deliberate, smooth, no hesitation—and extended your middle finger like a quiet act of war. A blessing, even. A fucking benediction. That gesture was a full sentence. A punctuation mark. A signature. One last message to the officer who thought the right to protest needed to be approved by him personally.

The door to the lobby buzzed. A low, grating sound—followed by the clank of an electronic lock disengaging.

You pushed it open with your shoulder. And there she was. Agatha.

Standing just inside the threshold, like she’d been pacing seconds before and froze the moment the door released. A single line of harsh overhead light caught the crown of her head and the curve of her cheekbone, casting the rest of her in shadow.

Her coat was black, unzipped, thrown on in a rush. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot, haphazard and unstyled—too high, too tight, like she hadn’t meant to come out. Like she hadn’t expected it to be you she was bailing out until it already was. Jeans. Boots. No makeup. Still beautiful. Still furious.

She didn’t move. Not right away. Just stood there, arms folded tightly across her chest, one boot angled slightly out—her weight tilted like she didn’t trust the ground beneath her anymore. Her eyes found you instantly. They dropped to your wrists first, where angry red bands still marked your skin. Then up to your face—your swollen cheekbone, your tear-gas eyes, the smirk you couldn’t quite wipe off your face. And then her gaze hardened. Not in rage. Not in judgment.

In something worse. Fear, choked and weaponized. A gut-punch of helplessness buried under the brittle armor of restraint. Her head tilted just a fraction. Her brow arched just enough. That look. The Agatha Harkness look. Sharp enough to slice through steel. Soft enough to hold your name inside it. Somehow, impossibly, it held both: You absolute idiot and thank God you’re standing. Judgment and devotion in one unbroken, devastating line of sight.

Your lips parted. You had something cocky on the tip of your tongue—something like “Miss me?” or “Wasn’t even the worst night I’ve had.” You almost said it. But before a single syllable passed your lips, her voice cut across the space—low, quiet, final: “Not now.”

It landed like gravity. Not a threat. Not a plea. Just a truth wrapped in warning. An invocation of privacy. Of safety. Of boundaries drawn by love, not law. You stopped. The smirk faded just slightly, tucked back into the corners of your breath.

A pause bloomed between you. Thick enough to carry everything unspoken: the worry in her shoulders, the heat in your ribs, the way you had both seen this moment coming and still hated the fact that it had arrived.

She turned before you could answer, pushing the door open to the parking lot without looking back. The concrete was slick with dew. The air still held a trace of smoke. The smell of asphalt and distant rain filled your nose, wiping away the bleach and stale sweat of the jail behind you. And as you passed her to slide into the car, your thigh brushed hers—accidental, but real. She flinched. Just barely. Just enough.

You climbed into the car without a word. The seat creaked under your weight, the scent of her perfume rising up from the upholstery like muscle memory. She closed the door behind you with the softest click. You closed your eyes for half a second—just long enough to feel the ache settle.

She got in beside you, turned the key, and backed out with a sharp turn of the wrist. Headlights flooded the cracked concrete in front of you, catching the faint haze of rising mist. The tires rolled slow over the speed bump in the lot, then faster once the road widened, away from the building, away from the cuffs, away from everything that reeked of detention and authority and stale coffee breath.

The city was quiet at this hour, not asleep but sedated. Fog drifted low across the asphalt, blurring the orange glow of the streetlamps into watery halos. The roads were slick from earlier rain, and everything smelled like pavement and static.

Agatha said nothing.

The dashboard cast her face in a dim blue wash. Soft shadows sat beneath her eyes, deepening the sharp line of her cheekbone. She looked composed, but not calm. Her jaw was too tight. Her hands too still on the wheel.

You shifted in your seat, restless. Your knee bounced on a melody of its own. Your fingers picked at the half-smeared Sharpie ink on your arm. The numbers were fading fast, blurring into a mess of gray lines and sweat, but you kept rubbing them anyway. Like the act itself might keep you tethered to her voice on the other end of the phone. The bruises on your arms pulled tight when you leaned to adjust your seatbelt. You winced—quietly. Didn’t want her to see.

She saw. She always saw.  Her eyes flicked to you at the next red light. Not long. Just enough. Her gaze lingered on the movement of your hand, your arm, the slight shake in your knee. She didn’t speak. But she didn’t have to.

The silence in the car wasn’t cold. It was thick. Dense with everything she wanted to say but wouldn’t. Not yet. The light turned green. She drove on. Another few blocks passed before her hand moved—slow, deliberate, cutting through the heavy stillness between you. It slid across the center console and found yours.

Warm. Steady. Real. You didn’t squeeze back. Not at first. Afraid to misread it. Afraid this was about control, not comfort. Her thumb brushed across your knuckles. Once. Twice. A soft, rhythmic motion. Not forgiveness. Not approval. Reassurance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your throat tightened. You cleared it, voice catching in the silence. She didn’t look at you, not fully, but her voice came low and edged: “My number is on your skin.”You nodded.

“I said you it might happen. I didn’t even think. Just…Wrote your number before I left the house. I knew it might get bad.” You glanced down at your arm. The numbers were nearly gone.  Her fingers paused. Then gripped tighter. Not painfully. Just... present. “And when I didn’t hear from you for hours?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t crack. But you heard it anyway beneath the words. That coil of emotion she wouldn’t let unspool. Not yet. Frustration. Fear. The helpless, gnawing dread ofnot knowing. And something else, too. A flicker. A break in the current. Relief.

You stared out the windshield, the empty stretch of road ahead gleaming with scattered puddles. “I knew you’d find me,”you said quietly.“You always do.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Didn’t nod. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t pull her hand away.

She just kept driving.

The city gave way to quieter streets. The fog thickened, wrapping around the windshield like cotton gauze, softening the edges of the world. The headlights carved a narrow path through it, bright and breathless.

Her hand stayed in yours. You could feel the tremor in her palm—barely there, like something she was holding back on instinct. Rage, maybe. Or the memory of hearing your voice from the other end of a jailhouse phone line, too calm, too quiet, using the word “processed” like it didn’t mean caged.

She took the next turn too quickly. The tires skidded just slightly, and her knuckles went pale around the wheel. Still, her hand in yours never wavered. A streetlight passed overhead. For a moment, her face caught the glare. You saw the tightness in her jaw. The way her lips were pressed thin. The way her eyes flicked to you and then away again like she couldn’t look too long or she’d unravel something she didn’t want you to see.

When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper: “They could’ve hurt you worse.” Her voice was barely above a breath. Flat, restrained. Not numb—but trying to be. You turned your head, slowly, watching the way her fingers tightened against the leather of the wheel. Her other hand was still tangled in yours, thumb still frozen against your skin like she didn’t trust herself to keep moving.

The car was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt. You inhaled through your nose—slow, steady. “They have,” you said finally, eyes fixed ahead. “Not me. But others. Way worse. For generations” Your voice didn’t shake. Not even close. “This?” you added, glancing down at your arms, the bruises just now darkening to a sick shade of violet. “This I can handle.”

She didn’t respond. But her jaw clenched again. You let the silence fill the space between you. Let it be uncomfortable. Let her feel it all.

Because it wasn’t about her. And she knew that. And still—it wrecked her. The drive turned familiar. The houses started to look like memories instead of background noise. You passed the little bookstore she liked, dark now, the yellow awning damp with rain. The corner market. The faded mural three blocks from home.

She made the last turn tight, then slowed into the driveway. The engine ticked softly as she shifted into park. The headlights cut off. Just the amber glow from the porch light now, and the long shadow of the night trailing behind you. She didn’t move to open her door. Neither did you. Her hand still cradled yours, still unmoving. But something in the air shifted—like a held breath exhaled, slow and unwilling. You turned to her fully this time, the side of your body screaming from the movement, but you did it anyway. You turned to her, slow and aching. “I’m okay.”

The words felt small in the air between you, too neat for the wreckage they were meant to contain. Agatha didn’t respond at first. Her hand flexed on the steering wheel—once, then twice—leather creaking beneath her grip. Her jaw was tight. Set. Not clenched in anger, but in preservation. Like her whole body was holding something back.

When she spoke, it was quiet.nNo drama. No theatrics. Just precision. Just truth.

“Your friend called.” A pause. Measured. “Said they took you.” Another. “Said no one knew where.”

Her eyes didn’t leave the road ahead, but her voice came sharp—like frost under fire: “Your friend. Not the police. Not the station.” You heard the emphasis, the edge under it—the insult of being forced to rely on someone who shouldn’t have been the one to tell her. “Then their phone died.” That silence bloomed again—thicker now. Nearly unbearable. “No location,” she said, quieter still. “Just… ‘on the ground. Bleeding.’”

You felt the breath leave her—not all at once, but in pieces, like it cost her something to remember it. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. “Three hours of silence.” Her voice hit like a knife honed on restraint. “I had your blood in my head and some asshole at the desk asking me to spell your name like it was a trivia question.”

She let out a breathless laugh—sharp and mirthless. It sounded like something that had been waiting days to escape. “They made me wait.” Her voice lowered, dropped into something dangerous. Controlled. Clipped. Each word like a match struck and held just shy of flame. “While I imagined your body in the back of a van. Head hitting the floor. Face-down. Cuffed. Bleeding.”

The weight of it landed on your chest before you could process it. She shook her head, just once—barely a movement, but loaded almost like she didn’t trust herself to do more. “I looked at every blank face behind every window and asked for you.” Then, finally, she turned. And when her eyes found yours, they didn’t just hold fury. They held proof.

“And no one said a word. No one gave a shit that you were missing.” A pause. “That you were mine.” The word landed soft, but final. Like it had already been carved into the bones of the night. She exhaled. Not shaky. Not broken. Just steady—like someone who had made it out of the worst moment of her life and hadn’t forgiven the world for it. “The system didn’t just take you.” Her voice lowered to a level that chilled your skin. “It erased you. For hours.”

A pause so long it bordered on sacred. “Like your name didn’t matter.” She blinked once. “Like I wasn’t standing right there. Demanding it. So don’t tell me you’re okay.” There was no venom in it. Only grief sharpened into something lethal. “Let me be angry first.”

She stared straight ahead.

And you sat there, head bowed slightly, fingers curled loosely in your lap. Sharpie smeared. Wrist raw. Still breathing.

A minute passed. Maybe more. You counted the beats of your pulse like footsteps in your chest. Then, without a word, Agatha opened her door and stepped out. Not loud. Not abrupt. Just done waiting. You watched her walk around the front of the car, her silhouette catching the faint wash of the porch light as she moved—composed rage wrapped in denim and shadow. She rounded the passenger side, pulled the handle, and opened your door. She didn’t speak. Just looked at you. Her face was unreadable—not because she was hiding it, but because the storm behind it was still deciding whether to retreat or rise again.

Still, she was here. Still, she’d come for you. Still, she was holding the door open with one hand and her breath with the other.

You stood. It took effort. Your legs protested the movement.  Her hand brushed your back once, barely there. Not a push. Not support. Just… proof. The gravel of the driveway crunched beneath your feet. The porch light caught the corner of your jacket, your frizzed hair, the shine still clinging to your cheeks from dried gas and sweat.

Agatha didn’t walk ahead. She matched your pace. Shoulder to shoulder. No words. Only the quiet weight of everything she hadn’t said—and everything she already had. She unlocked the front door and opened it.

The house greeted you like it had been holding its breath. Soft light spilled in from the kitchen—left on, maybe out of hope. The air was warm, still faintly scented with whatever candle she must’ve blown out before she left. Rosemary. Smoke. Wax. Home.

You stepped inside first. Your boots met hardwood with a soft thud. The ache in your thighs flared with every movement, and your ribs pulled tight where the bruises were beginning to set in. Sweat still clung to your back, to the backs of your knees. The scent of tear gas and adrenaline followed you like a second skin.

Behind you, Agatha closed the door. The lock clicked into place—clean, final. You didn’t look at her. You didn’t need to. You moved on instinct now. Down the hall. Around the corner. Through the bedroom to the bathroom.

The path was muscle memory now—dim light, familiar shadows, every step echoing louder than it should have. You peeled off your jacket as you walked, fingers fumbling a little at the zipper. Then your shirt, tugged over your head with a wince. Every movement dragged at tired muscles, each one aching in a different register. The fabric stuck to your back, damp with sweat and tear gas and hours of tension. You let it fall in the doorway without looking back.

The mirror caught your reflection under the soft, gold light from the fixture overhead—low, almost merciful. Still, it didn’t hide the truth.

Your skin was flushed, red from heat and movement. Dried tear tracks curved down your cheeks in uneven lines. Your hair stuck out in every direction, curls frizzed and tangled from sweat and smoke and the weight of the night. But what caught your eye first—what made your stomach pull—were the bruises.

Dark. Ugly. Blooming across your arm in shades of violet and rust. The edges had already begun to swell, pooling in thick shadows under the skin. And that wasn’t even the worst of it.

You reached forward, turned the water on hot. Steam rushed up almost immediately, fast and thick, wrapping itself around the glass and climbing toward the ceiling. Within seconds, the mirror blurred, softening the edges of your reflection until you couldn’t see yourself at all.

It helped. One by one, your clothes hit the tile—pants, underwear, socks. You didn’t fold them. Didn’t bother. You just wanted them off. Wanted everything that clung to you—the night, the fear, the humiliation—gone.

You stepped into the shower. And the water hit you like gravity. Hot. Relentless. Real. The first few seconds stung, the heat dragging across raw skin, catching every scratch and welt. But then… you exhaled. Not dramatically. Just a slow, shaky breath from somewhere deep in your ribs, like you hadn’t let yourself take one since the moment you were cuffed.

Gas. Dirt. Someone else’s blood. It all swirled down the drain in thick streaks, carried away with the last traces of control you didn’t even know you were still clinging to. You pressed your hands against the tile wall, head bowed, water pounding against the back of your neck. The pressure pushed into your spine, your shoulders, your bruised ribs, until it felt like you might finally collapse.

You didn’t cry. But your shoulders shook anyway. Not from pain. Not from fear. Just from release. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Softly, so quietly it could’ve been imagined, you heard the door open behind you. You didn’t flinch You knew it was her. You reached for the knobs and turned the water off slowly, each movement deliberate, aching. Your hands trembled as you pushed the glass door open, steam rolling outward in thick waves. The room had filled with it entirely, fogging the mirror and blurring the outside world to a haze of silver and light.

Agatha stood by the sink, arms crossed, still in the black coat she hadn’t bothered to take off. Her hair had begun to fall from its pin, a strand curling against her cheek. She didn’t speak. Her eyes caught yours in the mirror first—dark, unreadable. Then they dropped.

To your ribs. To your thighs. To the darkening bruise on your shoulder. The raw, red pressure marks around your wrists. The angry welt stretching violet across your hip.

Her entire body tensed, but she didn’t move. And just for a second, you saw it again—the exact expression she’d worn in the jail lobby.

Not horror. Not pity. Rage, tempered only by awe.

Not awe at what had been done to you— But awe at the fact that you had walked away from it.

She didn’t move toward you. Not immediately. Her eyes continued to scan your body, slow and deliberate, like she needed to memorize it. Every mark. Every place they had dared to lay hands on. Every part of you that hurt.

She stepped forward only when the silence between you shifted from fragile to sacred. Her movements were quiet. Almost reverent. She reached for a towel on the nearby rack. Unfolded it with careful hands. Wrapped it around you in one slow, precise motion—starting at your shoulders, tucking it close at your back.

And then, she knelt. Not fully. Just enough to place herself lower than you. Just enough to bring her eye level with the bruise near your hip, the abrasion across your thigh. One of her hands reached out—hovering just above your skin. Waiting.

She didn’t need to ask. But she did, with her body.

You nodded.

Her fingers ghosted over the bruises. Light as air. Not pressing. Just present. Her voice, when it came, was almost nothing. Just breath shaped into words. "This… they’ll answer for this.” Your throat tightened. You swallowed. Still wrapped in the towel, still damp and shaking.

“I’m okay,” you said again, softer now. Not to reassure her. Not even to reassure yourself. Just to mark that you were still here. But she shook her head, rising to her full height with measured grace. “No.” She took a breath, steady and quiet. “You’re hurt. And you’re mine.”

The words rang out low and absolute—like a spell cast not to control you, but to protect you. She looked at you fully now, eyes locked on yours. Every inch of her tall with fury, with grief, with love she hadn't been able to voice while you were missing. “So no—they don’t get to walk away from that.”

And in her gaze, you saw it:

Claim. Sanctity. A rage that bent toward justice, not vengeance.

You stayed like that for a few seconds longer—still damp, wrapped in the towel, her hands no longer touching you but her presence close enough to feel. Then you moved. Not far. Just a few steps out of the fogged bathroom and into the bedroom. You walked slowly, body aching, towel clutched tight around your ribs. Agatha followed without a word, the rhythm of her footsteps deliberate and light behind you.

The bedroom was dim, quiet, safe. Moonlight brushed the edge of the comforter. One lamp glowed on the nightstand. You sat on the edge of the bed, exhaling long and slow. She moved around you—methodical, steady—and pulled a soft shirt from the dresser. One of hers. Black cotton, worn thin from years of wear. The kind that smelled like her skin, like amber and salt. You took it without speaking, tugging it gently over your head. The motion hurt your arms, made your back sore, but once it was on, it felt like being held. Not fabric. Her.

She disappeared for a moment, then returned with a glass of water. She knelt in front of you again, the glass offered in silence. Her hand brushed yours as you took it. You drank slowly. Half the glass, then set it aside. She didn’t move. “You smell like smoke and injustice,” she murmured then—almost to herself, almost like it surprised her.

You let out a breath of a laugh. Not quite humor. Just something loosening inside your chest. You shifted, resting your hands between your knees. “We were handing out water,” you said, voice rough but steady. “It was calm. Peaceful. People were chanting, walking. Holding signs.”

Agatha didn’t interrupt. “Then they brought the riot gear,” you continued, your gaze unfocused, fixed somewhere past the floor. “And the gas hit. I didn’t flinch.” You looked up then. Let her see the fire still sitting behind your eyes. “I didn’t fucking move.”

Her face twisted at that—something sharp and unreadable crossing over her features. Not surprise. Not pride. Something harder. “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. Her voice was flat, but her body wasn’t. Her shoulders had drawn inward slightly, her hands curling in her lap like she was holding back more than words.

You looked down at your thighs. The bruises. The raw skin near your wrist. “But they saw that as defiance,” you said. “Guess I was easy to grab.” Her exhale was quiet but fierce. Her hand slid along your thigh, slow and grounding, then came to rest on your knee. Warm. Anchored.

“I know why you went,” she said. “I’m not mad.” You turned your head. Met her eyes again. There was something else in her face now—something softer beneath the heat. Something that hadn’t had space to show itself until now. “But next time,” she added, voice lower, almost reverent, “you don’t go without me. Not again.”

There was a beat of silence. Your breath caught somewhere between protest and understanding. “You’d get arrested too.”

“Good.” She didn’t blink when she said it. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t flinch. And she meant it. You stood slowly, rising from the edge of the bed. Her shirt—the one she’d handed you minutes ago—hung loose on your frame, skimming the tops of your thighs, still damp from the towel you let fall in a hush to the floor. The fabric smelled like her. Cedar, smoke, and something deeper—clove, maybe. Home.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone. Her eyes tracked you as you moved—every step, every breath. But she didn’t move toward you. Not yet. You stepped in close. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to taste the tension that lingered in the space between your bodies like static before a strike. And then—gently, reverently—you reached for her hands.

Her fingers were warm in yours, a little unsteady. You didn’t rush. You brought them up, guiding them to your waist with a care that felt like ceremony. Her palms settled against your skin. They hesitated for half a second. Then spread—slow, open, searching. “Touch me,” you whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “See? I’m still here.” Agatha’s lashes fluttered once. Her lips parted, but no sound came. She obeyed.

Her hands began to move—not with urgency, but with a sacred slowness. She traced the edge of your hips with the same focus she might have used to trace runes. Her thumbs swept inward, brushing the slight dip just above your pelvis, then up—across your ribs, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch she touched was treated like proof of life. Of endurance. Of return.

She didn’t speak. But her hands said everything. They moved up your sides, cataloging every bruise, every scrape. Her fingers paused at each one—lingering, memorizing. Not because she needed to know where you hurt, but because she needed to know where they had dared to leave a mark.

And then, her mouth followed. She leaned in and pressed her lips to your collarbone, slow and open. You tasted her breath against your skin, warm and uneven. She kissed the hollow of your throat, then lower. Her mouth ghosted over your sternum, then down the side of your ribs, just shy of the bruise beneath. When her lips found the edge of it, she paused. Exhaled. Pressed a kiss there, too. It wasn’t comfort. It was claim. You felt it in the way her lips lingered, in the press of her cheek to your ribs. And then she whispered—barely audible, thick with need. “I need to feel you safe.”

The words hit harder than any bruise. You nodded. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t need to. Your hands moved to her shoulders—strong, steady. You turned her gently, guiding her backward toward the bed. Her knees hit the mattress first, and she sank down without protest, her hands never leaving your waist. And then—gently—you laid her down, pressing her down like a benediction. The mattress dipped beneath your bodies, the sheets whispering around you. She yielded beneath your touch like water bending to pressure—unresisting, unafraid.

She looked up at you like she was trying not to fall apart. Like she was trying to memorize the angle of your face above her. Her breath caught when your fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist, then her forearm. You kissed your way down to her throat, over the pulse beating there like a secret.

Her hands slid up to your sides, not pulling—just holding. Her touch was slow. Devout. Nothing selfish in it. Just devotion, made flesh. You kissed her like a confession, mouth soft but sure. You opened against her lips, let her taste your exhaustion, your survival, your hunger to be seen again outside of pain. She kissed you back like absolution. Like she needed this to believe it was over.

You whispered her name. Not as a question. Not even as a prayer. Just to say it. Just to feel it in your mouth. Agatha exhaled like she had been holding her breath since the second your name came through the phone hours ago—dry, hoarse, and terrified. Your mouths found each other again, slower this time. Her lips parted under yours, soft and seeking, as though she were relearning how to be kissed after hours of holding her breath. Her hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt—the one now clinging to your damp skin—fingertips brushing your waist like they were rediscovering a coastline she used to know by heart.

Your hands moved up her shirt, lifting it just enough to press your palm to her stomach. You felt her muscles jump beneath your touch—tiny, electric tremors. She let you pull it over her head in silence. Underneath, she was bare. No bra. No armor. Just skin—warm, freckled, trembling faintly where your breath touched her.

You didn’t lunge. You looked at her. The pink rise of her nipples. The soft swell of her stomach. The tension still curled in her lower abdomen like a held note. She didn’t cover herself, but her eyes flicked up to meet yours—waiting to see what you’d do next.

You bent, kissed her sternum. Lowered your mouth to one breast and wrapped your lips around it slowly, drawing her into your mouth with purpose. Her breath caught instantly. One of her hands flew to the back of your head, not to guide but to feel—to tether herself to the reality of your mouth on her.

You sucked, slow and sure, tongue dragging against the peak of her until she arched beneath you. A low sound spilled from her throat—half-gasp, half-growl. You moved to the other breast and gave it the same devotion, your free hand sliding down the flat plane of her stomach, fingers following the subtle lines of muscle and tension.

She was already shaking. Not from fear. From release—emotional, physical, holy. You kissed your way lower, slow as sunrise, your breath warm against her belly as your mouth descended. Her thighs parted instinctively, one drawn up at the knee, the other falling open to welcome you in. Your fingers found the button of her jeans and lingered there—not for permission, but to mark the moment. She watched you with parted lips and a flush blooming along her chest, her pupils wide and swallowing the light.

You undid her pants with deliberate precision, the metal catch releasing with a soft click, the zipper rasping down like silk drawn through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips without being asked—composed, compliant, offering. You eased the denim down her legs, the gentle curve of her thigh, the ridge of her kneecap, the vulnerable softness of her calf.  She was laid bare before you. Her underwear was damp. Not just from arousal, but from everything that had built between you since the moment you stepped out of that jail. Her body had been waiting for this—not just release, but restoration. Her breath hitched as you hooked your fingers under the waistband and dragged the last barrier down, watching the way her body responded: muscles twitching, thighs parting further, the gleam of her already-slick folds catching the low light.

When you reached the edge of her, you paused—your lips hovering just above the place where her scent thickened, where heat pooled, where need lived. She looked at you then, eyes glassy and dark, lips parted around a breath she hadn’t let go. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. You licked her slowly. From base to tip. Flattening your tongue and dragging it up her center like you were writing something into her skin—something she could only read with her body.

Her hips jolted beneath you. Not a flinch. A response. Her thighs locked tighter around your shoulders, anchoring you in place, as if her body already knew this was where it had been trying to return all night. You moaned softly into her—the taste of her warm and familiar and wild. Salt and heat. Lightning and earth. You licked again, slower, firmer, letting your tongue press into her like a vow she could feel in the marrow of her bones. She gasped, a sound caught low in her throat, one hand flying to the headboard as if something in her needed grounding—needed anything to keep her from coming apart too fast. The other found you. 

Her fingers slipped into your hair, threading through the damp strands with the kind of pressure that made your spine tighten. She wasn’t pulling, not exactly. Just holding—curling her fingers into the roots like she needed the physical proof that you were real, grounded, there. Her palm pressed flat to the back of your head, her thumb stroking behind your ear. She guided you not with force but with reverence, her whole body trembling beneath your mouth.

You kissed her clit gently, lips sealing around the swollen flesh, tongue flicking once, twice, slow and deliberate. Her grip in your hair tightened just slightly, and a low, broken sound slipped out of her—half need, half disbelief.

You pushed two fingers inside her—slow, steady, unyielding. Her whole body jolted as if struck from the inside. A gasp tore out of her, raw and ragged, sharp enough to leave her throat aching. It wasn't just breath—it was need, it was the wild instinct of someone who had been holding themselves together for too long.

She clenched down around you immediately, tight and wet and pulsing, the heat of her body drawing your fingers in like a promise. You didn’t give her time to settle. You filled her with purpose, curled your fingers inside her with the quiet rhythm of worship, of knowing. The press of you was deep, certain, reverent. You kissed her clit again, slow and soft, then harder—your tongue circling with aching, relentless care. Agatha’s legs trembled violently around your shoulders. You felt it in the way her calves tensed, the way her thighs bracketed your body like instinct and defense and surrender all at once. She tried to breathe through it—but her body was speaking louder than her control ever could. You didn’t want stillness. You wanted the way her hips bucked upward, wild and graceless, seeking more. You wanted the way her voice cracked open, not in language but in pure, desperate sound. You wanted the way her breath staggered as her fingers twisted deeper into your hair, holding you to her like her life depended on it.

Agatha—always composed, always calculated. The sharpest voice in any room. But here, under your mouth, around your fingers—she fractured. Her back arched off the mattress, the curve of her spine a perfect, trembling bow. Her head fell back, mouth open in a silent plea. One hand fisted the sheets beside her, white-knuckled, pulling until the fitted corner snapped loose. Her other hand never left your head. It gripped the back of your skull like she didn’t dare let go, like if she did she’d be dragged under completely.

You pressed harder. Worked her deeper. Tongue circling her clit in unrelenting spirals, fingers curling inside her with divine purpose. You could feel her starting to break—her muscles locking, her core tightening, the low whimper curling in her chest like lightning about to strike.

You watched her fall apart from the inside out. And just as the first cry spilled from her lips, her hand flew upward—reflexive, frantic—covering her mouth like she could somehow swallow the sound. You lifted your head just enough to speak, your voice dark with reverence and heat. “Agatha.” A pause. Her eyes met yours, wide and wet. “Don’t you dare hide those moans from me.” The hand fell away slowly, shame stripped bare beneath your gaze. Her lips parted, but it wasn’t an apology you were after. It was release. And when she did moan—raw, shattered, helpless—you groaned in return. Low. Hungry. Possessive. The sound of her pleasure ricocheted through your spine, setting your body alight. You moaned into her, the vibration of it surging through her clit like a spark to kindling.

Her whole body jolted. “Fuck—” she gasped, the word dragged from her throat like a secret finally exposed. That’s what you wanted. Not silence. Not restraint. You wanted her loud. You wanted her to give herself over to it completely.  You moaned again—because of her,for her—and she cried out, hips bucking against your mouth like her body couldn’t take it anymore. The way you said her name, the way your voice trembled around her, the way your fingers curled just right inside her—it tore something open.

Her voice followed, thick and broken between panting gasps. “Please—don’t—don’t stop—” The words spilled out of her like a dam had cracked wide. Her voice was hoarse with desperation, her body straining for you, toward you. Every muscle in her thighs trembled, her hands fisting the sheets on either side of her hips. Her knuckles had gone white.

Your fingers stroked deep inside her, slow and relentless. Your mouth latched onto her clit again, tongue pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Your name fell from her lips like worship. Her voice caught on it. Broke. “I need to—God, I need to cum—on your mouth, I want to come on your mouth—”

You paused just long enough for her to feel the absence of your tongue. Then you lifted your head—barely—just enough to speak against the slick heat of her. “Is that what you want, Aggie?” you whispered, voice dark and rich with authority. Your breath dragged over her, teasing the edge of her clit. She whined—high and wrecked.

You slid your fingers deeper.  Her head tossed against the pillow, her voice hoarse with need. “wanna cum for you—please.” You moaned at the sound of her begging, the raw edge of it cutting straight through your chest.  She arched off the mattress, a full-body quake that overtook her entirely. Her thighs trembled, locked around your head like she could fuse you to her. Her fingers dug into your hair—not to guide, not to control, but to hold—to anchor her in the only truth she knew anymore: you.

You pulled your fingers out slowly, deliberately, watching the way her body clenched around the absence. Slick coated your knuckles, glistening with the proof of her need, her surrender. But you weren’t done. You leaned in lower, kissed the inside of her thigh once—then again, a whisper-soft press of lips against skin flushed with heat.  You pushed your tongue inside her. Her moan broke apart mid-air, jagged and helpless. She convulsed. The moment your tongue slid into her—deep, slow, possessive—her back bowed hard off the mattress. Her legs trembled violently on either side of your face as you fucked her with your mouth—smooth and strong and steady—tongue stroking deep, then pulling back, then driving forward again with the full weight of your devotion.

“Fuck—” she sobbed, and the sound was wrecked, nearly inhuman. Her voice cracked in half around it. “Mmmf—right there—””

You curled your arms under her thighs and pressed deeper, locking her in place. You moaned into her and the vibration made her choke on her next cry. She broke. Hard. Messy. Loud. Soaking your mouth, twitching under your tongue, gasping your name like it was the only anchor left in the world. Her thighs shook. Her body trembled. And still, you stayed with her. Inside her. Worshipping her with every stroke of your mouth, until she had nothing left to give but your name, whispered again and again like prayer.

You kissed her one last time, slow and deep, letting your tongue linger inside her. You felt the final tremors roll through her body like aftershocks, her thighs twitching, her chest still heaving, one hand still tangled in your hair like she couldn’t quite bear to let you go.

Your palms pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips as you climbed—not over her, but along her—tracing the altar of her body like scripture. Your mouth dragged over the soft plane of her stomach, the fluttering curve of her ribs, the flushed slope of her breast. She shuddered beneath your touch, every muscle drawn tight in the echo of what you'd already given her—legs parted, chest rising in shaky, uneven gasps.

Her eyes found yours through the haze, wide and reverent and burning. Not begging. Offering. You leaned down, just enough to let your breath ghost over her lips. “I’m not done with you,” you whispered. A vow against her mouth. Your voice was low, wrecked, raw—full of need, full of knowing. “Not even close.” Your mouth collided with hers in heat and hunger, tongue sliding deep. She tasted like salt and surrender—like skin and aftermath, like the echo of your name caught in her throat. She gasped into you, helpless, and you swallowed it whole. Her hands flew to your back, clawing hard down the damp curve of your spine like she needed to leave marks. Maybe she did.

Your chests brushed—nipples tight and aching—and the contact made you both groan into the kiss. A low, shared sound. Desperate. Devout. You sat back slowly. Moving your body to let her see you. Let her watch. Your fingers found her right leg—slick, trembling. You lifted it gently, reverently, pressing a kiss to the inside of her knee. And then, in one smooth motion, you draped it over your shoulder. Her body flexed beneath you, breath hitching.

You leaned against her left thigh, sliding into place like you’d been sculpted to fit her. Not above her. Not controlling. Aligned. Open. Anchored. The angle was perfect—your leg slotted beside hers, your center catching hers with devastating precision. That first touch—clit to clit, slick and swollen—made your whole body jolt. Your mouth parted around a gasp, head falling back as heat shot down your spine like lightning.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You leaned back slightly—just enough to keep her leg curled over your shoulder, just enough to rock your hips into her with deliberate rhythm. Your clit caught against the underside of hers—that ridge—so sensitive, so swollen it felt like it was made to meet yours. Agatha’s breath tore from her throat in a raw cry, her head dropping back, spine bowing off the bed. Her hips twitched, chasing your rhythm. Her fingers dug into your waist—not to stop you, never that—but to anchor herself. To feel.

You circled again. Firmer. Sharper. Each pass of your clit dragged through hers with a heat that bordered on unbearable. The contact was obscene—wet silk, soft friction, slippery pressure that made your breath shudder out in broken pieces. Her leg trembled over your shoulder. Her breath faltered. You kissed her calf. Then your voice dropped—low, guttural, trembling. “Just like that.”

You moved—hips grinding in a soaked, sacred rhythm. Every circle hit that same angle, that same nerve-rich ridge where you met her perfectly. Agatha whimpered. You moaned. The sound of your slick bodies meeting filled the air—wet, rhythmic, shameless. And still, you moved. Again. And again. And again. You leaned into the drag—controlled, wrecked, reverent. The pressure bloomed at the base of your spine, sharp and divine. The angle. The heat. It was all too much and not nearly enough. Your clit caught beneath hers again—right in that aching spot—and her entire body arched like she'd been struck by lightning.

“Ahhh—fuck—” Her voice cracked, hands flying to the sheets, the mattress, you. “You feel—oh God—” You rolled your hips again, your breath catching on the impact. The drag was soaked. The ridge was sharp. The friction was perfect. You cried out—raw, guttural—as pleasure surged through you like fire. You kissed the inside of her knee again, teeth scraping lightly against the muscle as your back arched and your hips snapped.

Your grip tightened—one hand braced on her hip, the other still holding her leg where it crowned your shoulder like something holy. She held on. You found your rhythm—deep, slow circles that made her whimper with every pass. Her clit pulsed beneath yours, slick and swollen, catching you in that divine slide. Her head thrashed. Her hips bucked. “Look at me.” Your voice was rough now, cracked with need. Sacred. Sharp. “I want to watch you while I fuck you like this.”

Her eyes flew open—wrecked, glassy, pleading. But they met yours. Locked. Wide. Glowing. And what you saw there was beautiful. Ruined devotion. Wide-open need. It nearly broke you. You ground down harder. Slower. Let your clit drag through hers in one long, brutal slide that made her cry out, voice splintering in your name. Her mouth opened. But no words came. Just sound. Just you. Your body was fire—burning from the inside out, every nerve wired to hers. Every grind of your clit sent new waves of heat crashing through your spine. You moaned—louder this time, no shame, no restraint—as your climax clawed its way up from your core. “F-fuck—Aggie—fuck—”

Your hips moved faster. Deeper. Tighter circles that slammed your clit against hers again and again until the pleasure went white-hot, ragged, unstoppable. The drag of your bodies was slick and relentless. Soaked. Sacred. Her breath caught. It hit her like a tidal wave—her thighs locking, hands clawing at the sheets, mouth torn wide in a moan that cracked into pieces. She came hard, convulsing under you, her whole body seizing with the force of it. You were right behind her. Your orgasm slammed into you like thunder, blinding and wild. You cried out her name—wrecked, gasping—as your clit spasmed with every beat of your heart. Your body shook. Your vision blurred. The pleasure tore through you like something holy.

You kept circling, trembling, your body grinding through the aftershocks as if you could give her more, all of you. You moved her thigh off your shoulder, kissing it once more. Laying it down gently. You collapsed into her, chest to chest, trembling, your breath hot against her throat. Agatha was gasping, your name slipping from her lips in pieces—quiet, hoarse, like a prayer spoken through tears. Her hands slid slowly up your back, not searching, just holding, like she needed to feel you pressed close to believe you were still real. She was shaking, still whimpering softly into your neck, her legs quivering around your waist, her entire body limp with the weight of what had just passed between you. Your slick mingled with hers in a soaked, sacred mess between your thighs—evidence of need, of trust, of everything you’d just given and taken.

The room around you vibrated with aftermath—wet skin, broken rhythm, the trembling hush of something holy having torn through both of you. The air smelled like sex, like salt and heat and skin, but beneath that, it smelled like home—like her. You kissed her. Not hungrily. Not to claim. But because you needed to. Because the only thing left to do in the wake of what you’d shared was to seal it with reverence. Your lips pressed to hers with the kind of aching slowness that meant everything. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand or devour, but promised. A kiss that said, I see you. I always will. You lingered there, mouths open and soft, letting the weight of the moment settle into the center of your chest like gravity.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words catching on what little breath you had left. It wasn’t a dramatic declaration. It didn’t need to be. It came out like marrow—raw and unshakable, undeniable in its truth. Her breath caught, just once. And then her hands began to move.

They slid up your sides in long, steady strokes. Down your spine. Into your hair. Her fingers cradled the back of your head, firm and sure, like she was taking hold of something she already owned. She kissed you again, deeper this time, her mouth opening beneath yours, guiding rather than asking. “I know,” Agatha murmured against your lips, her voice still frayed around the edges—wrecked, but shifting.

And then she moved. It was subtle at first. Barely perceptible. Just the tilt of her mouth against yours, but you felt it. The shift. The transfer. Something beneath your skin recognized it before you did. Her lips parted beneath yours—and then sealed again—this time deeper, firmer. Her kiss was no longer a reply. It was a command. Her tongue met yours, coaxing at first, then catching. And then she sucked—slow, hungry, deliberate—pulling your tongue into her mouth like she was taking something sacred. A taste. A vow. Your breath. The sound you made cracked open from your chest, half-moan, half-sob. You shivered beneath her, your hands slipping, trying to hold on—but she had you.

Agatha kissed you like she wanted to swallow your pulse. And as your hips trembled up into her, she began to rise. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other slid down, anchoring at your hip. She rolled her body against yours—not aggressive, not forceful—but with the quiet power of someone reclaiming ground that had always belonged to her.

She shifted her weight, one leg sliding between yours, her thigh nudging yours apart again, her breath still catching but her movements gaining precision. You felt her fingers flex against your ribs as she took a breath and exhaled through her nose—steadying herself.

And then she rolled you. It happened in a fluid wave. One moment you were on top—straddling, trembling, kissed open. The next, her hands were guiding your hips and your spine, your body turning beneath hers with the ease of water answering gravity. You landed back against the mattress with a soft gasp, your hair fanned across the pillow, your legs open and wet and waiting.

She followed you down. Didn’t hesitate. Her body stretched over yours in one long, heated press—shoulders shadowing yours, her thighs bracketing your hips. She hovered just above you for a breathless second, her gaze drinking you in—cheeks flushed, chest rising fast, lips swollen from the way she'd kissed you.

You stared up at her like you'd never seen anything more beautiful in your life. Agatha was trembling—but it was a different kind of tremor now. Not overwhelmed. Not undone. It was control, newly returned to her hands. It was power, held gently, like fire carried in open palms. She looked at you like she’d waited her whole life for this moment. Her hair fell forward around her face as she leaned in again, mouth just barely brushing yours.

When your lips parted beneath hers, she didn’t hesitate—she sucked your tongue into her mouth with a low, shuddering moan that made your hips jerk up beneath her, involuntary, aching for her again.  She kissed you like she wanted to live inside your mouth. Like she wanted you silent and shaking beneath her. Each pass of her lips tasted like gratitude. Like a name whispered in a temple. There was nothing rushed about it—just warmth and breath and the shared stillness that follows sacred things. And then, slowly, she pulled back.

Her hand slid down your thigh again, steady and grounding, and then she rose—leaning back on her knees, settling between your hips like she belonged there. You blinked, dazed and open, every inch of your body slick and oversensitive. She looked down at you, and something in her expression shifted. Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes roamed over your flushed chest, your parted legs, the shine of your arousal spread across your skin—and something ancient unfurled behind her gaze.

Without speaking, she brought her hand to her abdomen. Her fingers splayed across her skin just below her navel, and the air changed. You felt it first—a pulse, soft and rhythmic, like two heartbeats meeting in the dark. A violet glow flickered to life beneath her palm, faint at first, then brighter. Tendrils of energy coiled outward from her center, crawling across her torso in patterns that looked almost alive. The magic trailed over her hips, down her thighs, up her sternum, like molten silk, casting her skin in otherworldly shimmer. The heat of it rolled off her in waves, thick and heavy. She gritted her teeth, her jaw flexing with the effort of containing it. Every muscle in her body rippled with purpose, tightening as the spell took shape.

Her back arched, and then she gasped. The sound came from deep inside her—a raw, broken groan that fell out of her before she could stop it. Her head bowed. Her hair fell around her face like a curtain as her shoulders shuddered. You could feel the magic converging, sharpening, concentrating in her pelvis.

And then it appeared. Not an illusion. Not a trick. Something real. Summoned from the place where desire and divinity meet. A cock—thick and heavy and irrefutably hers—rose from her body, glowing faintly in the soft violet light of her magic. Veins ridged beneath the skin, hot and flushed, pulsing with the rhythm of her spell. It curved upward as though it had always been there, summoned not just from flesh but from need, from history, from some buried truth made manifest.

She moaned again, quieter this time. Shaken. Her hand wrapped around the base of it, tentative, like she was still learning the shape of herself. She stroked once. Then again. Slow and reverent. Her breath caught on the third pass, her shoulders twitching as her body adjusted to the new weight, the new heat. Her magic shimmered across her chest and arms, trailing after every movement like her skin couldn’t stop singing.

Her arms trembled. Her hips flexed with each slow stroke. She was still getting used to the weight of it, the power of it, the promise of it. "Fuck," she whispered. Her voice broke over the word like it didn’t know how to survive it. Her thumb dragged over the head, gathering her own shimmer-slick, her breath catching as her cock twitched in her grip.

When her eyes lifted to meet yours again, they burned straight through you. You didn’t realize you were moaning until she tilted her head, lips parted, and said your name so softly it sounded like an invocation. There was nothing performative in her expression. Just hunger. Reverence. Love, edged with something wild and claiming. “You’re trembling,” she whispered. Her voice was hoarse, roughened by sensation. “Look at you... spread open for me.”

The words hit you like a wave. You whimpered, hips canting upward in pure, instinctive offering. The air between you crackled. Her hand kept moving between her legs, stroking herself slowly to full hardness. She groaned under her breath, teeth gritted, her jaw clenched like she was holding something back. Then her fingers stilled, and she leaned forward.

She exhaled hard, and her cock twitched in her hand like it heard you. Her magic pulsed with it. Her whole body seemed to sharpen, realign, steady itself around your need. Then she moved. Slow at first—like a wave shifting its weight before the crash. Her hands slid to your knees, guiding your trembling thighs into place with a touch so gentle it hurt. And then she rose higher onto her knees, the heat of her body pulsing between you. Her cock, flushed and gleaming curved up from her hips like something holy. A weapon forged from magic and want. She held it loosely at the base, breath hitching as she watched the way you fluttered open beneath her.

And then—deliberately, devastatingly—she leaned forward. Her thighs slipped between yours like water seeking depth, parting you with reverence. Her body lowered above yours, the air shifting with the weight of her presence, the gravity of what she was about to do. And then you felt her.

The crown of her length, flushed and slick with need, brushed your inner thigh like a secret you weren’t ready to hold. You gasped. The sensation was maddening—too soft, too searing, too much, not enough. A whisper and a thunderclap all at once.

Her skin clung to yours—slick with sweat and humming with magic, the heat between you thick enough to taste. Her hips hovered just above yours, mercilessly patient, but the weight of her cock hung low, suspended in tension, dragging across your thigh like a vow she hadn’t yet spoken.

The tip of it glistened, leaking warmth in slow, deliberate beads. Each time she shifted, it left behind a searing trail—a streak of wanting—a mark not yet visible, but already burned into you.

Her left hand braced beside your head, palm flat, arm trembling under the strain of control. With the other, she reached between your bodies—fingers steady, reverent—and wrapped around the base of herself like she was holding a relic, not flesh. She adjusted the angle, her knuckles grazing your skin as she guided her shaft down to meet you.

And then—you felt it.

The velvet heat of her cock slid through your folds. Once. Twice. Again. Deliberate. Worshipful. Her tip nudged your clit on the third pass and your whole body jumped, a cry torn from your throat as fire shot up your spine. She groaned above you—a low, wrecked sound, as if it cracked something open in her.

But still, she didn’t push in.

She moved through you slowly, the underside of her length dragging across every swollen inch—thick, heated, reverent. Her palm followed the motion, firm around the base, guiding each stroke with ruthless, aching precision. Each pass made your breath stutter. Each drag sent another jolt through your core—not deep, not even close—just enough to leave you soaked and trembling.

The tip of her, slick and flushed, circled your clit with maddening patience before sliding down again, catching against you, spreading you without entering. She kept her grip steady. Adjusted the pressure. Aligned herself perfectly with every trembling inch. Her knuckles brushed your skin as she moved—controlling the rhythm, controlling herself.

The head nudged again, pressing into your clit in a slow, deliberate arc before dragging back down to rest—just barely—at your entrance. The anticipation coiled, sharp and unrelenting. You could feel it gathering in your belly, your throat, your skin—a need edged in reverence.

Her jaw was clenched. Her thighs shook. Her breath came hard and shallow through her nose, and still she didn’t give in. You could feel it—her restraint. A tremor disguised as control.

“God, look at you,” she rasped. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.” Her voice cracked, and she stopped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as she grounded herself in the sensation. When she looked at you again, her pupils were blown wide, her face caught somewhere between awe and hunger.

Your fingers clutched at the sheets. Your mouth opened but only broken sounds came out. Her cock teased your entrance again, pressing in just enough for your body to part around her crown, just enough to make you sob with need.  

“Look at me,” she rasped.

Your eyes flew to hers. Her gaze was fire and storm—wide, blown, burning with something old and sovereign. The magic behind her eyes glowed faintly violet at the edges, laced with reverence, with need, with the terrible beauty of being known. Her fingers released their grip from the base of her cock and braced instead beside your head, caging you in. You felt the shift. The change in gravity. The surrender of resistance.

With the slowest, most devastating precision, she began to push forward. You felt her enter you inch by inch—her, not a spell or a toy or a placeholder, but Agatha. Her cock stretched you open with reverent force, thick and alive, pulsing with magic and heat. Your body gave way around her, clutching tight and slick, your cunt fluttering in desperation as she filled you deeper than you thought you could take.

The pressure was overwhelming, but not pain. It was fullness. Expansion. A claiming. You could feel your walls adjust to her shape, your muscles trembling with the effort of holding her, welcoming her, keeping her. The sensation tore a cry from your throat—raw and helpless—and your head tipped back on instinct.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and measured, as though the feeling of your body accepting her was the reward she’d waited her whole life for. Then her mouth was on yours—hot, breathless, consuming—as her hips pressed forward in one smooth, controlled motion. She slid all the way in. Not fast. Not rough. Just full. The stretch burned its way through your core, your body breaking open around her, split wide by the sacred pressure of being taken. Her moan spilled into your mouth, ragged and low, vibrating against your tongue. Her body shook above yours, her muscles clenching with the effort it took not to lose control.

She collapsed against you, breasts pressed tight to your skin, both of you slick with sweat and spellwork and need. She throbbed inside you, thick and impossibly deep, every pulse matched by the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. Her thighs braced around your hips, trembling as she held you down with her weight, surrounding you in heat and strength, in the unbearable intimacy of now.

A soft, broken moan spilled from your lips, your mouth grazing her collarbone. “Ahh—Agatha…”

Her breath caught, a low, strangled sound rising in her throat. “Nnh—fuck…” Her hips jerked just slightly. Barely. Just a slow, languid pull of her hips—an inch, maybe two—before she slid back in, deep, deliberate. The stretch renewed, softer now, the ache melting into something wetter, something hungrier, and you moaned again—louder this time, throat open, breathless.

“Ah—god—yes…”

Your voice broke against her skin, trembling against the slope of her neck. She felt it—heard it—and her mouth curved into a smile so gentle, so wrecked, it made your heart seize. “There you go,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence.

She thrust again—slow, fluid, the drag of her cock thick and heavy as she pulled back and sank in deeper, letting her hips roll in a way that made your entire body bow beneath her. Your moan spilled out raw and unrestrained, your hands scrambling from the sheets up her back, trying to hold her closer, tighter, as if you could pull her inside your bones.

She groaned in response—low, breathy, helpless. “Mmmnh—fuck, you feel incredible…”

Her cock slid against every nerve, every tender edge inside you, and her next thrust came with more weight—still slow, still aching, but impossibly deep. You whimpered into the heat of her neck, your lips catching on damp skin as her rhythm built—steady, patient, devastating.

“I’m gonna take my time,” she whispered, breath hot in your ear, voice laced with the strain of control. “I want you to feel all of me… every inch. Every goddamn stroke.”

You moaned again. The syllables dragging out of you like worship. And she gave it to you. One deep, sinuous thrust at a time. Not fast. Not hard. Just full.

She moved like the tide, hips pressing forward in slow, shattering waves, your core gripping her with each stroke, wetter by the second, slick running down your thighs with every deliberate grind. The sound of your bodies meeting—wet, obscene, sacred—filled the room in soft stutters: smack… mmgh… fhh…

“God,” she rasped, biting gently at your earlobe, her hips circling as she stayed buried. “So fucking wet for me already…”

You could barely speak. Could barely breathe. A soft gasp broke from your lips—“Mmh—”—as your head turned into her shoulder, the tremor in your exhale betraying just how deep she’d reached. She pulled back again, then pushed forward once more—deep, slow, consuming—and made your whole body jolt.

“Aahh—Agatha—!”

She leaned in closer—her mouth brushing your jaw, then lower, lips parting against your neck—and sucked just beneath your pulse, slow and deliberate. The drag of her tongue made your breath hitch again— “Ahh—fuhhh—”

“I’ve got you,” she whispered against your skin, voice frayed. “I’m gonna take such good care of you…”

You nodded beneath her mouth, unable to speak—only moaning, low and helpless, as she kept moving. “Nnh… mmh… fuhhh—”

Each thrust was a vow, sinking into you with deliberate pressure, making your body light up, cell by trembling cell. Her cock dragged along every swollen nerve—thick, ridged, pulsing with heat—slow enough that you felt every vein, every twitch of her arousal mirrored through your walls. You were soaked. Slick dripped from the place where you took her deepest, where your body clung to her with desperate, greedy rhythm.

Your moan turned sharp—“Ahh—fuck—Agatha—oh my god—”—your back arching under her weight as you trembled beneth her.

She groaned, low and guttural, a rough sound torn from somewhere deep as you clamped down around her. Her mouth never left your skin—lips dragging upward now to kiss the corner of your mouth, her breath shaking as she murmured into it.

“mhhaahh—shit, baby,” she breathed, hips grinding slow but deeper, “you’re so tight—so wet for me…”

Your answer came in breath, not language— “Mmmh—nnh—tch—” You could barely hold still beneath her. Every inch of you was shaking, your skin buzzing, your mouth dragging open for another moan as she filled you again. The sound of her—the sound of you—was everywhere now. Moans tangled in the thick air, sharp gasps, wet cries. The slick, obscene drag of her inside you. The soft thump of her balls meeting you with each deep roll of her hips, sending shocks through your core that made you cry out, made your thighs tremble wide around her.

And she felt it. All of it. The way your body pulsed around her with every slow retreat, every devastating return. Her rhythm never quickened, not yet—just deep, deliberate strokes that left you clawing at her back, at the sheets, at yourself. She pressed deep again—one long, shattering stroke and bottomed out sending you arching beneath her, your head thrown back in a sobbing moan. “A-ah—Agatha—! I’m gonna—fuck—”

She caught your hips, pinning them down, and stilled inside you buried to the root. Her voice dropped, breath brushing your cheek, dark and loving and absolute.

“No.”

You froze, panting against her shoulder. Her lips ghosted your ear. “You don’t get to cum,” she whispered, voice tight and reverent, “not until Daddy says so.”

You whimpered—clenching hard around her in response, aching, throbbing, already teetering on the edge. The denial cut through the haze like lightning, sharp and grounding, your whole body trembling from the effort of holding back. “Daddy—please—” you gasped, your voice cracking around it.

“No,” she growled again, gently, into your neck. “You’ll wait. Be a good girl and let Daddy take her time.”

She pulled out halfway—your walls clenching, fluttering in protest—then thrust back in with such aching slowness you nearly sobbed. Your hands flew to her back, to her ass, to anything you could hold to keep from unraveling. Her shaft was too thick, too hot, too deep, every vein scraping against the inside of you in a rhythm that bordered on torture.

“You feel that?” she breathed. “Every inch of me—every fucking part of me inside you?”

Your mouths found each other in the mess of it—open, gasping, wet. Lips clashed, tongues tangled. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t composed.

She groaned into your mouth as she thrust again, harder this time—still controlled, still intentional, but the power behind it made your back arch and your thighs tremble. Her cock pushed deep and her balls slapped wetly against your ass with a smack that made your toes curl and your walls clench down tight.

She felt it.

“Fuuuck—” Her voice cracked, hips stuttering before she caught herself.

Your legs wrapped tighter around her hips, locking her in, refusing to let her go. You felt her cock throb inside you, thick and soaked, every thrust now hitting deeper, sharper—wet, messy, sacred. Her hips slammed into yours with rising urgency, the sound of your slick bodies meeting echoing between the broken gasps and frantic kisses.

Your head dropped back against the pillow, a sound catching in your throat— “Hnn—ah—mmnh—” It slipped out helplessly, your body arching to meet her.

“Ahhh—f-fuck, Daddy—!” you sobbed, your voice cracking open as her thrusts drove deeper, each one dragging more sound from your chest than you knew you had. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

She groaned—loud, guttural—as your words washed over her. Her mouth dropped to your throat, lips grazing your pulse, breath thick against your skin. “Yeah? You like how my cock feels inside you, baby?”

You moaned again—shakier this time— “Nnhh—tch—fuhhh—” Your hips twitched under her weight, your legs squeezing tighter as your body began to tremble. “God, yes—yes, I love it, I—fuck—I love when you fuck me like this, Daddy—”

Her pace stuttered, her next thrust rougher, deeper—perfect. “Mmmnnh—shit,” she growled, hips grinding into you. “You were made for this—look at the way you open up for me… this pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”

“Yours,” you choked.

She moaned against your skin, the sound rough and filthy and wrecked. “I love fucking you,” she gasped. “I love how deep I get—how tight you are—how you clench around me like you never want me to leave—”

Her next thrust had you screaming—sharp and desperate. She slammed into you again—deep and wet, the slap of her balls hitting you sending stars through your vision—and you cried out, your voice breaking, body shaking beneath her.

“Listen to you,” she panted, mouth dragging across your jaw, lips brushing your ear. “So loud for Daddy. You need it, don’t you? You need my cock. Say it.”

“I need it,” you gasped. “I need your cock—”

She growled again, fucking into you harder now, her pace still controlled but relentless, every thrust sinking to the hilt. “That’s it. That’s my girl. So fucking wet for me—dripping, soaking my cock like you’ve been waiting your whole life to take me—”

Her words drove you wild—your hips rocked up to meet her, thighs trembling, moans pouring out of you like prayer. “Nnnh—ah—ahhh—”

“I can feel it,” she groaned, biting your neck. “The way your pussy’s clenching—grabbing me—like it knows it’s mine…”

You whimpered, nearly crying from how full you felt, how good she felt, how you couldn’t get close enough. Your bodies moved like one—your sounds rising together.

Her voice hit your ear again, raw and breaking. “No one else gets this. No one else makes me this hard. This gone. It’s only you. You do this to me.”

Your head fell back, a guttural moan breaking free. Your voice cracked, legs shaking around her as she rocked her hips again, just as slow, just as merciless.

Her hands found your wrists and pinned them above your head, her body bearing down with all that heat and weight. She kissed you hard—messy, open-mouthed—tongue sliding over yours as another deep thrust made your body arch, your cunt gripping her so tight she groaned straight into your mouth.

“Not yet. My brave girl.” she whispered.

You whimpered, sobbing softly, your body shaking beneath her from the ache of holding back. Every part of you was strung tight, your cunt soaked and pulsing around the heat of her cock, your breaths ragged, mouth open in helpless moans.

And then she pulled back just enough to see you, releasing your wrist.

She braced above you, trembling slightly, and her eyes scanned every inch of your face like she was trying to memorize the way you fall apart just for her. Your hair was a wild halo against the pillow, lips kiss-bruised and parted, breath coming hard and fast. The flush on your cheeks mirrored the heat in hers. Your chest rose and fell in sharp waves beneath her, the soft swell of your breasts brushing against hers with every trembling inhale.

She stared—stilled in that space where worship met want—and her pupils were blown wide, blue and endless. Her mouth hung open, the bottom lip twitching like she was about to say something, then forgot how to form words. She looked down, groaning softly at the sight of her cock still buried deep in your cunt, slick and twitching inside you. Then her gaze snapped back up—eyes glazed with heat, yes, but also something raw. Something more than hunger.

Devotion.

Her breath hitched. You felt it—tight and shaky where her chest brushed yours. Then her voice, low and cracked and full of awe: “God, baby…” Her eyes traced your every ruined, radiant inch. “Just lay there like that. Let me look at you.” Her hips rocked forward again, slow and dragging, her cock pulling nearly out before she slid back in, pressing so deep it punched a moan from your throat.

Your mouth dropped open, head falling back. Your fingers fisted the sheets. Your back arched. “Ahhh—nghhh—”

She groaned at the sound, her whole body stuttering like your voice had gone straight through her. Her hands trembled against the bed, but then she moved—shifted her weight to one arm, keeping her chest hovering just above yours. Her other hand slipped down, fingertips brushing your stomach, then lower, slow and reverent, until she found the base of her cock where it disappeared inside you.

You felt her knuckles brush your swollen lips as she wrapped her fingers around herself again—steadying, guiding. Then she pulled back. Her cock dragged through your slick heat, every vein scraping against the oversensitive clutch of your walls until just the head remained inside you. She paused there, hovering, teasing. Her breath fell hot against your cheek as she looked down between your bodies, watching the way you stretched, watching your cunt flutter open and empty without her.

And then she slid herself along you—up through your folds, thick and slick and unbearably slow—rubbing the head of her cock up your center and catching on your clit with a pressure that made you cry out.

“Mmmppphhhh—” The sound cracked from your throat before you could swallow it.

She moaned at the sound—low, wrecked—and did it again. Dragged herself down your slick folds, nudging at your entrance, pressing just enough to feel the resistance, then slipping back up. Her cock gleamed with you, soaked, pulsing in her hand. “Fuck…” she breathed, her voice unraveling. “God, baby, look how wet you are for me…”

Another pass—slow, obscene. She rubbed herself against your clit again, made you jerk under her, made your thighs twitch and your cunt clench around nothing. You gasped—“Ahhh—nnh—mmh—”—half-sob, half-shiver, your voice catching on the edge of need.

Then, finally, she lined herself up and pushed back in. Her hand stayed there, guiding herself through the tight squeeze of your cunt until her hips pressed flush to yours again, and she moaned—long, guttural, helpless. “Fuuuck…” You sobbed beneath her, legs wrapped tight around her waist. “D-Daddy—” The word fell apart on your tongue.

She did it again. Pulled back with aching control. Rubbed herself through your folds once more—slow, loving, filthy—then pushed back inside, slower this time, like she needed to feel every twitch of your body welcoming her.

And you gave it to her. Every time she slid in, you opened for her. Every time she dragged herself out, you ached for more—hips twitching, coating her cock in wet devotion. Her voice broke at your ear, thick with need. “I could do this forever… tease you, fuck you slow, watch your face every time Daddy slides back in…”

“Shit,” she breathed, eyes locked on your face as she pulled out again. Her fingers wrapped tight around the base, guiding herself back through your folds. You whimpered when the head rubbed over your clit, your voice breaking with it— “Nnh—ah—don’t—please—” She grinned—crooked, hungry, knowing. She lined herself up and sank in once more, all the way to the hilt, slow enough that your whole body arched and your breath caught. “Ohhh—fuhhh—Agatha—”

She groaned. Long. Shattered. “God, baby… you love this, don’t you?” she whispered. “It kills you, but you love it…” Her thrusts slowed again, her hand still on herself, controlling the angle, the pressure, the tease. You nodded, tears in your lashes from the burn of holding it all in. Her lips ghosted across your cheek, her breath hitching. “This drives you just as crazy as it drives me. Say it.”

You moaned against her jaw—“Mmnh—yeah—”—your voice breaking on the inhale. “I love it… I love when you do this to me…”

She pulled out again, ran herself over your folds—your clit, your entrance, back again—her cock soaked and twitching against your skin. “You love the way I fuck you slow. The way I wait.”

“D-daddy—please—” The word tore from you—broken, breathless, soaked.

Her hand still gripped her base, steadying, guiding, shaking. Then she pressed forward and slid back in, slow and devastating, until she was buried to the hilt.

Your whole body seized with it—back arching, a sob of a moan catching in your throat. “Ahhh—nnn—fuck—”

Her eyes dropped to where your bodies met, to where your cunt stretched around the thick base of her cock, soaked and trembling. “You’re so full—fuck—you look so good full of me.”

The words hit like heat. Your chest heaved. Your walls fluttered around her. She held there a beat longer, breathing hard, eyes locked on your face like she was reading every quake of your body, every trembling moan. Then her hand left the base of her cock—slow, deliberate.

And she moved.

One thrust. Then another. Deep. Heavy. Unforgiving. Her length dragged through you with unbearable thickness, every swollen vein and pronounced ridge scraping slow along your walls like a brand. It was too much—it was perfect. A stretch that lit you from the inside out, left your thighs trembling and your cunt fluttering wildly around her. Your slick coated her, dripped down between your legs, wet and hot and endless, every stroke pulling more from you.

Your fingers twisted the sheets. Your breath stuttered through parted lips. Each time she bottomed out, your voice cracked with it.

Above you, Agatha groaned—low, long, aching—her chest beginning to tremble with every thrust. “Shit—ahh—fuck—” “Mmmgh—god—baby—” She didn’t hold back now. Didn’t slow. Her hips rocked into you with rhythm and reverence, every stroke buried to the hilt.

Then she folded over you.

Bracing on her elbows, her chest flush to yours, slick with heat and breathless sweat, her mouth caught your cry as her hips thrust hard. The weight of her ground deep inside you like she belonged nowhere else—like home was something she found in you.

You felt her everywhere. The pressure. The weight. The relentless drag of her rubbing inside you. She slammed into yours, her hips pressing down, claiming. Her skin was hot and tight and trembling against yours, and your legs fell open without thought, trying to take her deeper.

Her balls slapped against your ass—wet, rhythmic, relentless. Each impact hit with a soaked precision that made your breath stutter and your cunt clench around her cock. That sound—obscene and sacred all at once—echoed between you like worship. Like ruin. Like everything she ever wanted was happening right here, in the way your bodies met over and over again.

Agatha groaned behind your ear—“Uhhhn—fuck—”—deep and thick, pulled straight from her chest. Her hips ground into you harder, her weight pressing you down into the mattress like she wanted to leave a mark on your soul.

“God—your pussy’s so fucking tight, baby,” she growled, her voice shredded with reverence and need. “So tight for Daddy…”

Your mouth fell open, your head thrown back. You couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out—high, broken, needy. “Hhhah—uhh—uhnnh—”

You could feel everything—every drag, every pulse, every twitch of her cock inside you. The way she dragged along your walls, the ridges of her veins catching and pulling against every swollen edge. The head—wide, swollen, pressure-heavy—pressed deeper and brushed the place that made your voice snap in half.

Your nails scraped down her back, desperate and trembling, your voice cracking as it left you. “Ah—ghhh—f-fuck—too much—”

She moaned into your skin, low and guttural, the sound scraped from deep in her chest. Her hips stuttered for half a breath, tension rippling through her frame. “Ffhh—shit—baby—”

Then she snapped forward again, grinding so deep the base of her cock pressed flush to your slick folds, her hips rocking in like she needed to carve herself into you. “I know, baby. I know it’s too much,” she panted, her lips dragging across your cheek, your temple, your throat—frantic with reverence. “But you’re doing so good—so fucking good—. You love how full you are, don’t you?”

You whimpered. Your voice failed. Your whole body locked up in answer. All you could do was nod—trembling, wide-eyed, jaw slack—until another thrust knocked a cry out of you. “Hh—ahh—mmgh—fuck—” The burn was sacred. The stretch was heaven. You nodded, head rolling back, jaw slack—until her next thrust forced a sound out of you that didn’t sound human.

“Ahnn—huhh—hahhh—D-Daddy—”

She didn’t slow. She didn’t let you breathe.  “That’s it,” she growled, lost now. “Let me in, baby. Let me have all of you—”

Her cock slammed in again. Then again. Every thrust was heavier now—deeper, like she wasn’t just fucking you, she was planting herself inside you. The drag of her cock pulled a string of slick sounds from your body—lewd and soaked and sacred.

Your legs trembled around her waist. Your arms locked around her shoulders like you could anchor yourself through the storm. “T-too big,” you gasped, voice thin and shaking. “So fucking big—mmmnnh—hurts, Daddy—feels s-so good—”

Agatha moaned again—“Fuck, fuck—”—low and biting, like she was barely holding it together. Her forehead pressed to yours, her breath pouring over your lips, every exhale unsteady. Her voice dropped to a growl. “Shhh… look at you—so good for me, baby, so fucking good—””

She rolled her hips again—slow, so deep—and your whole body jumped. Your cunt spasmed around her. Another gush of slick spilled between you, coating her cock, your thighs, the sheets. “Unhh—nhghhh—c-can’t—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” she breathed, panting now, voice twisted with awe and hunger. “You want this. You want me to fuck you until you can’t think—til you're crying, saying it’s too much—while your pussy just keeps sucking me in—begging me to stay—”

You moaned—long, cracked, desperate—as you clenched down without meaning to, your cunt fluttering like your body had made peace with breaking.

Agatha groaned—“Hhrrgh—shit, baby—you feel that?” Her voice cracked. Her hips jerked again, her cock twitching inside you. “You’re dripping—fucking shaking— and your body’s still begging—still asking Daddy for more—”

Her rhythm faltered—hips stuttering, breath catching—but she forced herself back in. Controlled. Grinding. Her thrusts weren’t wild anymore. They were starving.

Each one came with a moan scraped straight from her lungs: “Ngh—fhhk—hnnh—so deep—” “Mmmnn—tight—tight—fuck—”

The slap of her hips against yours filled the room. Louder. Faster. Filthier. Her balls hit you with every stroke—wet, heavy, punishing. Each smack made your thighs twitch, your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back. Your cries came in waves—shattered, breathless, sobbing sounds. No words. No shape. Just the wreckage of want echoing off the walls.

“So hard…” you gasped, barely audible. “So deep—c-can’t—mmmnngh—so full—”

Agatha kissed your jaw, your neck, your collarbone—open-mouthed and panting. She moaned against your skin, her voice raw. Her hips never stopped. She rutted into you like she was losing herself inside your body. “I know, baby. I know. You’re being so good—taking every inch”

The bed creaked beneath you in a steady rhythm—sharp, hollow thuds that matched the weight of her hips slamming into yours. Each thrust jolted the frame, the soft squeal of wood and motion becoming a relentless cadence. Her cock dragged through your core with lewd, aching precision—thick and soaked, every ridge and vein scraping along your walls like it had been made to fit you and only you. The wet sound of her slipping in and out filled the room, louder now, impossible to ignore—raw, slick, sacred. The weight of her balls slapped against you, adding to the slick echo of your bodies meeting. Slap. Slap. Slap.

You choked on a moan, eyes fluttering, mouth falling open. “Mmf—mmf—nnnh—”

The bed rocked harder, the headboard tapping the wall in time with every movement. Her skin stuck to yours. Her sweat beaded at the hollow of your throat. Your slick coated her thighs, ran down onto the sheets, made every stroke louder. The air was thick with it—sex and heat and magic and the kind of desperation only she ever pulled from you. The mattress heaved beneath you, the bed groaning under the force of her body. Slap. Her balls struck you with the next thrust—wet, firm, heavy. Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your breath hitched. “Hnnn—hh—gghnn—” A sob burst from your throat, crumpling your voice in the middle of a gasp. “Uh—uh—uh—ahhh—f-fuck—” you whimpered, each gasp caught on the back of your tongue like you couldn’t quite keep up with her. “Daddy—” Above you, her breath broke into a moan—low, guttural, feral. “Nnnnnnnnnh—fuck—”

Her teeth grazed your neck as her hips slammed forward again, chasing the sound she just pulled from you. “You sound so good when I’m inside you,” she panted, voice hoarse, ruined. “You love when I fuck you like this, don’t you?”

You nodded before you could speak, tears clinging to your lashes, jaw slack as your body rocked beneath her. The rhythm of her cock was constant and unholy, the obscene drag of her thickness pulling out just enough to make you cry for her, then slamming back in with a slick slap that echoed off the walls. “Khh—khhn—fuckfuck—” Your voice cracked, dragged raw with the rhythm.

The sound was so intimate it made you cry out, your body convulsing in helpless pleasure. You felt it—the swing and slap against your ass with every deep thrust, every grind that forced her cock as far as you could take. They were hot and tight, bouncing against your skin, again and again, swinging low enough to land perfectly, rhythmically, over and over, until your spine arched to meet each blow. The pressure, the weight—it made your thighs tremble. Your walls clenched around her, clutching with instinctive hunger. “Nnnh—nghh—fuck—Agatha—ahh—”

Agatha let out another moan—drawn from the depths of her chest, broken at the top. “—god, baby—” She bent low, her mouth pressed to the corner of your jaw, sucking in each of your sounds like breath.

Your voice cracked on her name, and something in her broke open. She groaned low, primal, her mouth pressed to your jaw as her hips rolled again. Slap. Your breath hitched. A choked moan escaped—half-formed, soaked in need. Slap. Again. Again. The sound of your slick, her cock, your moans—the rhythm was deafening now.

“Mmmph f-fuck—” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “—it’s s-so loud—” you sobbed, voice cracking as the bed knocked against the wall, as the slap of her balls hit you again, again, again. “So loud, Daddy—””

Agatha froze for just a beat—like the words gripped her spine and dragged a moan straight from her chest. It rolled out of her low and shaking, not a word, not a command—just a raw, punched-out “Nnh—ah!”, scraped from somewhere primal. Her hips stuttered, cock buried deep, her body trembling from the force of it.

She loved it. The wet slap of her against you, the bed knocking the wall, your cries catching on every thrust—it did something to her. Her moan deepened into your neck, long and ruined, the sound vibrating straight through you. She didn’t speak right away—just groaned again, voice curling out of her like smoke, like surrender and power in the same breath.

The slick wet sound of your cunt wrapped around her cock echoed loud in the room now. Louder than it should’ve been. Louder than it had to be.

Agatha moaned into your skin, deep and drawn out, her hips stuttered for half a beat—not from weakness, but from the way you said it. From the way you meant it. Her grin was sharp, breathless, possessive—pressed against your jaw as she rocked deeper. “You hear that, baby?”  

She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Ahn—ahn—ahn—ahhh—fuck!”

“That’s your pussy,” she murmured, voice soaked in reverence. “That’s what you sound like when I’m inside you. When I’m fucking you right.”  She thrust again and your body jolted under her, a wet cry tearing from your throat. “Hnn—fuck—” Her voice dropped, low and ruined, right against your ear. “Listen to it.”

Another thrust. She eased in until her thick tip went slack, swelling in your depths, pressuring just enough before she rocked forward.  Slap. “That’s us. That’s my cock, my balls, —Daddy fucking you raw and open—fuck…..” she growled, voice thick with awe, her lips brushing your ear.  She snapped her hips harder, and the slap was louder this time, more deliberate.

You whimpered, your whole body tensing beneath her. It was so obscene. So perfect. That heavy, rhythmic smack against your skin—it drove you wild.  You couldn’t speak. You could barely breathe. You nodded, whimpering, pussy fluttering as her cock dragged slow through you again, thick and pulsing. You sobbed beneath her, helpless and soaked. Her moan hit your ear, rough and ragged, her body trembling above yours. “I love it,” she said, breathless. “No one else gets to hear this. Just you. Just me.”

Every sound matched the sensation: her grinding deep, hitting your cervix with every pass, her balls smacking your skin, the slick, obscene squelch of your core soaked around her. The headboard rattled. The sheets shifted. The whole room sang with it.

“It’s so much,” you gasped, your voice shredded, every breath catching. “So loud—”

“I know it is,” she gasped, rutting forward, her hips finding that devastating rhythm again. “You’re taking it. Like you always do.”

Your cries weren’t words anymore. They were open-mouthed gasps, whines, shattered, aching moans you couldn’t hold in if you tried. “Ahnn—khh—hhhn—!”

Agatha kissed you hard, catching one of those sounds against her tongue, swallowing it like a gift. She twitched inside you as you clenched again.

“That’s it,” she moaned. “Sounds so pretty—every fucking sound you make for daddy.”

You tried to speak—but your mouth only opened around air, around need. A whimper escaped instead, thick and trembling, catching on your tongue like it wasn’t sure if it belonged to pain or pleasure. You felt splintered under her—overwhelmed and pinned and dripping with want. You couldn’t shape a single word. Just noise. Just that sound, raw and bitten down, forced from your throat as she drove deeper.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered.

Your lips parted before your mind could catch up. Agatha moaned—a deep, wrecked sound scraped from somewhere primal—before leaning in and spitting into it. It hit your tongue hot and heavy, tasting like salt and sin and the sacred claim she never stopped making. You swallowed instantly. Reflex. Worship. Her breath caught as she watched you do it, her body twitching above yours like she could feel it in her spine.

“That’s my girl,” she breathed, voice shaking. “So fucking good—so sweet like this.”

And then her hips snapped forward.

Slap.

It echoed off the walls like punctuation—sharp, soaking, final.

“Say it,” she growled, voice barely tethered. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

You tried. Tried to speak through the wreckage of your breath, through the tears on your tongue and the moans stuck to your ribs. Your head tipped back into the pillow, mouth open, body trembling beneath her. Your throat gave first.

You sobbed. “You, Daddy. Always—fuck—always—”

Her moan followed instantly—“Nnhhh—fuck, that’s it—”—shuddering out of her like she couldn’t keep it in. Her chest pressed flush to yours, sweat-slick and searing, grinding impossibly deeper as she whispered into your skin.

“That’s right. All mine.” One hand slid under your thigh and lifted it higher, spreading you wide, forcing you open. The angle was brutal. Perfect. She surged again, driving into the softest, deepest part of your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

Her next thrust was devastating—hard, slow, exacting. You screamed—wordless, holy. A wrecked, high sob tangled with a moan. Your core gushed around her again, drenching her, the sheets, everything. The sound was wet, shameless, sacred.

“Khh—ahhh—mmnfhh—Daddy—fuck—”

Agatha shuddered. Her voice splintered on a groan. “God—baby, you sound so fucking good—so wet—so tight—so fucking mine—”

The bed slammed into the wall now, over and over, in time with her thrusts. Her moans broke free between clenched teeth, and each one only drove her harder. Deeper.

Your cries poured from you like heat, each one higher than the last— “Ahh—mmhh—nnnh—please—please—please—” You didn’t know what you were begging for. More? Mercy? Her? All of it?

Her hand caught the back of your neck. Her thumb pressed under your jaw—not choking, not cruel—just enough to hold you in place. To feel the moans crawling out of your throat.

You clenched again—reflexive, involuntary—tightening around her your body was trying to keep her there, locked inside, sealed with heat and need. Agatha moaned, deep and guttural, the sound catching at the base of her throat before it cracked on the way out. Her hips stuttered—barely—but enough for you to feel her restraint fracture.

“Fffffuck—” It rasped through her teeth, rough and trembling, her breath dragging across your jaw like she couldn’t speak without breaking.

She pulled back—slow, every ridge and vein dragging through your slick, swollen walls—until your breath caught, and you whined for her, small and shaking: “Nnnh—D-Daddy—please—” —and then slammed back in, hips smacking wet against your ass, her balls landing with a heavy slap.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as your body seized beneath her. The sounds pouring from you weren’t words anymore—just cracked, desperate gasps from somewhere deep inside: “Ghhn—nnnk—fffh—ahhh—”

Agatha groaned—louder now, breathless, strained. She kissed you mid-sound, catching one of your cries against her mouth like it belonged to her.  Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite—like her rhythm had been carved to match yours. She dragged perfectly along your soaked walls, each grind punching a new sound out of you. Your body knew her. Reacted to her. Opened for her.

Her voice broke into your mouth like a spell. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck—you’re right there—” You gasped—nodding frantically, helpless. Too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled beneath her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your center, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Let me feel it,” she whispered, voice trembling with reverence. “Let Daddy feel you break.”

Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as you clamped around her shaft like you never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha groaned so deep it sounded like her soul cracked open. Her hips stuttered mid-thrust, unable to stay steady through the feel of you pulsing around her like that. “That’s it,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Just like that—cum for me—goddamn—you’re perfect—”

You sobbed beneath her, back arched, drenched in heat and sound and the rhythm of your own ruin—every part of you drawn tight and trembling as she fucked you through it, holding you to the edge of yourself like it was a prayer.

Her thrusts slowed, then stilled—hips hovering just above yours, trembling with the effort not to fall. Her cock pulsed inside you, deep and thick, twitching like it was lost without movement. The flush across her cheeks deepened, crawling down her throat like it had been dragged from the furnace of her chest. The fire in her eyes didn’t fade—but it flickered. Drawn inward. Banked behind clenched teeth and a jaw so tight you could see the restraint in every shaking muscle.

Her breath hitched—hard and sudden. Not a moan. Not even a gasp. A warning. One she couldn’t bear to give voice to.

And then she shook. Not from weakness. Not from fear. From restraint.

A full-body ripple of heat and hesitation rolled through her like a tide breaking against stone. Her shoulders tensed. Her eyes fluttered closed. And then she smiled—barely. Just enough to reveal the crack in her armor. That soft, secret kind of smile she only ever wore when she was on the edge of breaking. The kind that belonged to you alone.

“I don’t—I don’t have a condom,” she said, and the words came out wrecked. Frayed at the edges. Her voice trembled like it hurt to say, like it was a confession she didn’t want to give. “Fuck, I don’t—I don’t wanna hurt you—”

But you knew that tone. You knew what came after it.

This was the part of the story you’d rewritten a thousand times—on breath, on trust, on soaked sheets and holy promises. The line between devotion and craving blurred so beautifully here, it left you both trembling. This was the game. The ritual. The ache you loved to live in.

She was your first. She was your only. And she was already shaking from how badly she wanted to stay buried inside you.

You didn’t answer.

You moaned—deep and cracked, a sound that came from the pit of your stomach—and let your legs fall open beneath her, wider than before. A silent dare. A sacred offering.

Agatha’s breath hitched again—this time so violently it punched through her chest. Her hands flew to your thighs, clinging like she needed the contact or she'd fall through you. “You—fuck—” she gasped, her voice breaking. Her head dropped to your shoulder, trembling, her breath ragged against your neck. “You’re not making this easy on Daddy…”

She lifted her head—barely. Her eyes dragged down your body, slow and reverent, until they landed between your legs—at the place where her cock was still sheathed inside you, flushed and soaked and trembling. And something broke in her. You saw it.

“You look so fucking perfect like this,” she whispered. Reverent. Wrecked. “So full of me…”

You moaned again—low, guttural, full of possession. Your arms came up around her, locking behind her back like you could hold her in place with will alone. Your chests pressed tight together, sweat slick between you, the heat of her body pulsing like a second heartbeat inside you. The tremble in her thighs grew more frantic. Her breath stuttered into your hair.

“So good—so good—so—fucking—good—” she panted, forehead pressed to yours. Every inch of her was shaking. Every muscle burning with restraint. “I don’t wanna hurt you…”

But her body had already betrayed her.

Her hips shifted—just a twitch—but you felt it. The slow, aching grind of her cock rocked through you—deep, searching. Not a thrust. Not a decision. Instinct. Need. Too old and too deep to be masked. She gasped—sharp and startled—like the motion had shocked her. She shook her head. “No—fuck—” she whispered, almost to herself, like she was trying to anchor her soul to her skin.

She tried to pull back. Not in fear. Not in shame. In discipline. In love. Her hips lifted slowly, deliberately, every muscle in her fighting the pull of your body. Her cock dragged against your walls—thick, soaked, trembling—and the stretch of losing her made your whole body whimper. You felt your cunt clutch at her, fluttering, desperate, slick and aching. Your body didn’t want to let her go. Her thighs tensed. Her shoulders shook. Her breath fractured into your neck. She was slipping.

You felt it. Her cock twitched at your entrance. Her chest quaked with effort. Her mouth opened—maybe to apologize, maybe to say goodbye.

But you didn’t let her. You moved. Your hips surged upward, deliberate. Hungry. You caught her just as the head of her cock began to pull free. Your thighs clamped around her waist, anchoring her with something deeper than muscle.

You knew. You knew she needed this. You knew what she was asking without saying. You caught her. And she gasped—a sound so raw it cracked through the air like lightning. Her hands flew to the mattress, bracing herself. Trembling. Her whole body thrown into chaos by the feel of you tightening around her again.

“Baby—” she choked. But it was already too late. You were clinging to her, soaked and shaking, every inch of your body begging to be filled. Your arms wrapped around her back. Your legs held her in place.

And then—your voice. It rose like a vow between you, trembled in the stillness, and split the world open. “Stay,” you whispered, your lips brushing hers, your eyes locked to the soul of her. “Don’t pull out. Cum in me.”

Her breath hitched like a sob. Her hands braced hard against the mattress like she was trying not to collapse. Her whole body trembled above you, suspended between the ruin she wanted and the reverence she still thought she had to maintain. “Fuck—baby, I can’t—” she moaned, voice breaking apart in your ear. Her hips pressed forward again, helplessly. Her cock twitched deep inside you. “Daddy won’t be able to stop.”

Your voice cracked. “I said don’t.” Her hips twitched—once, then again—small, helpless movements that betrayed her restraint. She hovered over you, every muscle shaking, her cock still buried to the hilt inside your soaked, aching cunt. You could feel her pulse there—thick and frantic—each beat a warning, a plea, a promise she was no longer capable of keeping. She was holding herself back with trembling, white-knuckled effort. But the illusion of control was slipping.

“I wanna come so deep inside you,” she whispered, voice splintered at the edges, her lips brushing your cheek like a kiss she couldn’t quite commit to. “I want it to spill out when I’m done. I want you to feel it all night.”

Your answer wasn’t a word. It was a moan—low, wet, reverent—dragged from your throat like prayer. Your body arched to meet hers, your center clenching around her with instinctive, aching hunger. It felt like your entire body was answering for you.

You couldn’t speak at first. Couldn’t breathe. And then, breathless: “Y-yeah…”

Her breath hitched like the word wounded her—like it split something in her open.

“You want that, don’t you?” she rasped, grinding into you—barely. Just once. Just enough for her cock to drag thick and slow through your desperate heat. “You love it when I talk about it. When I tell you how bad daddy wants to cum inside her girl’s perfect pussy.”

Your whimper cracked through the air like a sob, high and broken and helpless. It echoed between your bodies, filled the room with something raw and sacred. Agatha shuddered. Her hands clenched against the mattress like she was trying to anchor herself.

“Fuck—when I say how bad I want to breed you—”

That shattered something inside you.

She was all instinct now. All ruin. And then—mid-thrust—you cried out: “Daaaaaadddyyyyy”

Your clamped around her with brutal force—slick, pulsing, desperate—and your moan tore loose like your body couldn’t contain it another second. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t quiet. It came out high and aching, the kind of sound only she ever got from you. The kind that made her shake. Her own cry followed—lower, guttural, deep in her chest like it had been buried there and finally broke free. She rocked forward again, unable to stop herself, her body betraying her with every twitch.

“You want me to fill you so full it leaks down your thighs,” she choked, voice climbing, rhythm faltering. “Claim you from the inside out—mark you.”

Her balls slapped wetly against your ass with the next thrust—sharp, filthy, final. The sound echoed off the walls: smack, squelch, moan. The bed creaked. The headboard tapped. Your soaked body made everything louder.

“I want to stay inside you, baby,” she panted, forehead dropping to yours. “Come so deep you’ll feel it tomorrow. I need it—”

That was when the rhythm changed.

No more reverence. No more restraint. No more holding back.

Her hips slammed into you with rising desperation—wet, heavy, obscene. Slap, slap, slap. Her cock drove deep, the sound of her plunging into your soaked heat nothing short of sacrilegious. Every thrust rang through the room like a chant. Her moans broke free without filter now—low and guttural, cracked and pleading.

Her breath stuttered each time she bottomed out, your name tumbling from her lips like a litany—like she needed to say it or lose herself entirely. Her voice cracked.

“God—you feel so fucking good—so fucking tight—”

You couldn’t even think. You were sobbing with every thrust, breath catching, cunt fluttering helplessly around her cock. You were soaked. Slick poured down your thighs, your body begging for everything she had.

And she felt it.

She felt how you welcomed her—dragged her deeper, clung tighter, fluttering open with every thrust like your body had been waiting just for this. Just for her.

Her hands tightened around your hips, knuckles white, anchoring her to this moment like it was the only thing keeping her breathing. Her mouth found your throat—hot, desperate—moaning into your skin like she needed the taste of you to survive. Her hips rolled harder, faster, her cock grinding deep with every wet, shuddering thrust, the bed groaning beneath you both.

“Mmnnnnghh—D-Daddyyy—” The moan cracked from your throat like it had been torn loose from your chest, thick with heat, soaked in reverence. Your head fell back, your lips parted in a ruined O, and your cunt clenched down around her—tight, fluttering, dripping—as her cock dragged deep through your heat.

“F-fuck—s’too big—” you sobbed, voice catching as her hips rolled forward again, thick and unrelenting. “You’re so big—fuck—you're splitting me open—”

That shattered what little restraint she had left.

Her hips slammed forward with a groan, and her cock drove into you—deep. Thicker than you could bear. Harder than you could take. And still you took it.

Slap.

Her balls struck your ass, wet and firm.

Your soaked core sang with the sound of her sliding through you, obscene and perfect.

Smack. Slap. Wet. Slap.

The room echoed with it—your joined bodies loud and desperate, a symphony of slick, moans, and the stuttering bedframe beneath you. The headboard tapped the wall, sharp and rhythmic, as she fucked you into it without mercy.

You were sobbing now, openly, your moans cracked and high and helpless. “Mmmmppph—ahhh—ngghhh—so full—c-can’t—”

And still you clung to her. Still you begged. “make me take it—”

Agatha gasped, like your words pierced her straight through. Her hips rolled forward harder, pounding into you with a rhythm that bordered on reverent destruction. Her cock dragged against every nerve ending inside you—every ridge and vein catching on your walls, scraping you open, carving her into your body with every thrust.

“You’re takin’ it,” she growled, voice ragged with awe. “So fucking deep, baby—God—look at you—squeezin’ me like that—like your body wants me to stay inside forever—”

You moaned so loud it made her groan, your body shaking under hers. “Mmmmnnghh—ahhh—fuck—s-so deep, so fucking big—can feel it all—every inch—”

She was unraveling above you, moaning into your skin, her voice breathless and raw, hips slamming deep inside you. Your slick spilled over her, onto your thighs, onto the bed.

“Y-you love it,” you gasped, your voice shattered but sure. “You love how my pussy pulls you in—how it takes you—how it wants you—”

“Fuck—fuck—I love it, baby,” she cried, hips stuttering. “I love how you open for me—how you beg for it—how your body won’t let me go—”

And she was right. You couldn’t let go. Your walls fluttered, clenching down, milking her cock with every thrust, chasing every ridge like it was holy.

“Fuuuck—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, helpless cry. “Harder—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

The bed creaked beneath you, wild and unsteady, as her hips slammed into yours again—wet, sharp, sacred. The sound filled the room, slick and obscene, the rhythm of your bodies raw and unrelenting.

Her length dragged through you with brutal grace—thick and veined and so hot you could barely breathe through it. You felt the tilt of it, the way the thick underside vein caught on your soaked walls with every pull, every push—rubbing you open, making your thighs shake, making your core weep for her.

“Mmmnnnh—ahhh—fuck—right there, right fucking there—” you gasped, your moans slurring into sobs, your hands flying to her back, your nails clawing down in frantic arcs. “You feel so big—s-so big—your cock’s too big—fuck, fuck, please—”

“Good girl” Agatha groaned, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as she slammed into you again, cock throbbing inside you. “ so fucking good—”

“Don’t stop—please don’t stop—d-don’t stop,” you begged again, crying through your moans, your voice nothing but cracked sound and open-mouthed gasps.

“Shhh, I won’t,” she panted, her forehead dropping to yours, sweat dripping between your bodies. “I’ve got you—so fucking tight around me—gonna make me—fuck—”

You whimpered, sobbed, rocked up into her again and again, chasing every inch of her with your body. You could feel it—every vein, every ridge, every desperate throb as her cock dragged through your fluttering walls. That thick vein on the underside—that was what made your back arch, made you scream, made you sob out again, “Daddy—right there—ahhhhhh—”

Her rhythm snapped, her hips tilting just enough to catch that same spot over and over. You choked, your whole body clenching around her as the pressure spiraled again, unbearable and holy.

Agatha growled above you—low, breathless, wrecked. Her hair stuck to her cheeks, her shoulders gleamed with sweat, and her jaw locked tight as she slammed forward again, cock dragging through your heat like a live wire.

“I know those sounds,” she panted, her voice a ragged whisper right against your mouth. “That little gasp—right there—that’s the one you make when you’re close, baby. That’s the one that drives me fucking insane—”

“‘M close,” you cried, tears brimming again, your thighs quaking.

She moaned—loud, raw, her voice breaking open in your ear as her hips snapped forward again, rough and deliberate. “Fuck—you feel so good—so fucking wet—I can feel you clenching—you’re right there, I know you are—just a little more—give it to me, baby, let me feel it—”

The sounds were obscene now—your soaked bodies meeting in a frantic, slapping rhythm, the headboard knocking faintly against the wall, your moans a rising symphony of want and unraveling. Her cock dragged deep with every stroke, her balls slapping wetly against your skin.

“Ahnnn—nnnghh—mmmphh—please—please—” You sobbed, clutching at her arms, at her back, your nails digging in as the pressure crested inside you like a tidal wave breaking.

Agatha kissed your mouth and didn’t stop moving. Her thrusts were steady, punishing, exquisite. Her rhythm owned you, like her body knew exactly how to wring sound from yours with every thrust, every grind, every perfect drag of her cock along your soaked walls. Her voice broke into your mouth like a confession. “You’re gonna cum on me, baby—I can feel it—fuck, you’re right there—”

You gasped, nodding frantically, too wrecked to speak. Your whole body trembled around her, thighs shaking, breath stuck somewhere between a sob and a scream. “C-can’t—hold—oh God—f-fuck—please—”

Agatha was groaning now—low and constant—every breath a ruin. “Mhrrnnh—hfff—nnngh—baby—fuuuck—” Her voice was shot—rasped thin from the strain of holding on.

She pressed her palm flat over your stomach, just above your core, the weight of her hand grounding, claiming, sacred. She could feel it—every flex of your walls around her cock. Every tremor building in your core.

Her lips touched your ear. “Cum for me.”

That was all it took. Your whole body snapped tight as the orgasm hit—no warning, no space to think—just white-hot pressure exploding outward, dragging a scream from your lungs as your cunt clamped around her cock like it never wanted to let go.

“Aahhh—hhnhhh—ghhk—fuckfuckfuck—” You shook—legs twitching, mouth open, your cries slurring into each other as you came hard around her.

Agatha didn’t stop. Even as your body convulsed beneath her, even as your walls clamped tight around her cock and your thighs trembled like you were breaking apart, she kept moving—rocking through you with reverent, unrelenting strokes. Her breath caught on every thrust, her voice splintered with awe and desperation.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s it,” she panted, her rhythm fraying, her body grinding into yours like she was trying to leave a part of herself inside you. “You’re taking me so good, baby—look at you—fucking soaked for me…”

Your moans were ragged, helpless. Every inch of you was pulsing, oversensitive, radiant with aftershock. But you didn’t pull away. You pulled her in. Your arms moved across her slick skin, trembling, desperate. Your thighs quivered but refused to loosen. You held her like you were afraid the world might end if she left your body before you were ready—before she was ready.

And Agatha felt it.

Felt the way you clung to her cock, still fluttering, still wet, still begging even as it throbbed with the remnants of release. The way your body flexed in involuntary aftershocks—tight, wet pulls that milked her deeper, pulled her harder, made her gasp like it physically hurt to stay buried inside you and still not cum.

She whimpered at the feel of you—guttural, raw, her whole body stuttering like she’d forgotten how to hold herself together. “Oh my god—” she breathed, voice catching on a ragged moan as your walls fluttered again, sucking her back in with that perfect, maddening grip. “You’re still—fuck, you’re still clenching around me…”

Her hips drew back just enough for you both to feel it—that slick, obscene stretch, that almost-pull that made your spine arch and your mouth drop open in a soft, broken cry. Then she sank in again—slow, dragging, deliberate. Her shaft pushed through the mess she’d made of you, thick and trembling, gliding past every hypersensitive nerve like worship.

The sound of it was devastating—wet, sticky, sacred. A lewd kiss of bodies slick and shaking, heat folding into heat. Your hips twitched as she bottomed out again, and you sobbed—a soft, breathless whimper that turned her bones to ash.

“Ahhh—nnghh—m-mmmhhf—” The sounds tore out of you unbidden, your voice cracking as she rocked inside you with aching precision, her breath catching at your neck.

Her hand slid up your side, knuckles grazing slick skin, then curled around your ribs like a promise. A grounding point. A quiet prayer not to fall apart then dragged slowly down your body, over the swell of your hip, the dip of your waist, until it slid between your thighs and gripped the inside of your knee.

And then she opened you.

Not with haste, not with force—but with reverence. Her fingers spread wide, guiding your leg open, wider, until your body trembled with the exposure. She tilted your hips with one slow pull, adjusting the angle like she was tuning a sacred instrument. And when she moved again—when her cock sank into you, deep and deliberate—you both gasped at once.

“F-fuck—” she choked out, her voice wrecked, her restraint fraying at the edges. The new angle let her slide in deeper—thicker, hotter, pressing right up against that swollen, aching place inside you that made your legs jerk and your mouth fall open in a helpless moan.

“Dadddyyy”

Your voice cracked, and she shuddered.

Her grip tightened, her body bowed over yours like she was praying with her whole form. Her hips rocked forward again, slow but devastating, and your thighs twitched wider under her hands—open, aching, desperate.

She dragged back. So slow it felt like cruelty. Deliberate. Precise. She slipped out inch by inch, gliding slick and thick from your cunt until just the head remained—pulsing, wet, swollen. It caught on the sensitive swell of your entrance, and your pussy fluttered instinctively around it, already aching, already begging .

Your moan tore loose—not pretty, not practiced, but primal. “Nhh-ahhh—fhhuhhckk—don’t—don’t—”

Your hips chased her before you could think, lifting from the bed in a frantic tilt, body arching toward her like gravity had shifted.

Agatha hissed—a feral, guttural sound that rattled in her chest. Her cock twitched hard between your legs, flushed and glistening, so slick with you it looked glazed. Her whole body shook like restraint was becoming impossible.

The air around you thickened—hot, drenched, heavy—as if even the room couldn’t bear the tension.

“Brave fucking girl,” she rasped, voice thinned with strain. “Taking me so deep—so fucking deep— and now you’re just… letting me pull out like this?” She leaned in closer, her breath against your mouth. “Fuck. Knowing I won’t last. Knowing it makes me fucking insane—”

She wasn’t wrong. Her grip faltered, breath staggered, like she was seconds from falling apart. Her hand fisted the curve of your hip, grounding herself. But it was your body that wrecked her. soaking her cock, shining her in the mess of your need, and clenching around nothing like you were trying to break yourself with how much you needed her back inside.

“Fhhuckk—” she groaned, barely able to breathe. “Look at you. All spread out for me… greedy little pussy begging to be filled—”

Her hips rolled forward—slow, steady, claiming. The thick head of her length slid through your slick folds, dragging across every soaked, swollen inch until it caught right at your entrance. She paused just long enough for your body to twitch—needing, fluttering—and then she pushed.

Hard. Deep. All at once.

Your body seized, a strangled cry catching in your throat as her cock slammed in to the hilt—thick, soaked, unrelenting. The breath left your lungs in a stuttering rush, and your walls clamped down on her so tight, so instinctively, it felt like a reflex as old as need.

“Hhhhnn—nnhhhGod—”

The stretch hit you like heat, like revelation. Blistering. Breath-stealing. Fucking perfect. Your legs wrapped around her waist before you even realized—desperate, trembling, refusing to let her go. She groaned at the feel of it, low and wrecked, her hips twitching inside you from the tightness. “That’s it,” she panted, her voice cracked and reverent. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Her next thrust came slow—a long, merciless drag pulling partway out, slick with your need, before sinking deep again, grinding up into your cunt like she was branding her shape into your walls.

You sobbed—sharp and soaked—your nails biting into her back. “Ahh—ahhhnn—f-fuckkk—Daddy—”

She moaned at the sound of her name on your tongue, her whole body shuddering. “Say it again,” she breathed against your mouth. “Fuck, say my name like that again while I ruin this sweet little pussy—”

Your response came as a broken whimper—high, desperate, wet—and she answered it with another thrust. Another brutal, gorgeous stroke that dragged through your core like lightning. The sound of her shaft sinking in—slow, soaked, reverent—filled the room like worship.

Her breath trembled as she rocked into you again, each grind deeper than the last, her rhythm steady but intense—each movement designed to undo you slowly, intimately, until all you could do was moan for her.

You whimpered, long and low, your hips arching, body trembling under the weight of her cock. “Mnnnh—nnhh—please—”

Her hips pulled back—just slightly, her cock dragging against your walls with a pressure that felt like it had teeth. And then she pushed forward again, slow and relentless, like the world had narrowed to the wet sound of her moving inside you.

You gasped—a soft, wrecked little sound that left your mouth open and trembling. Her cock ground into you with purpose, every ridge catching just enough to make your legs twitch beneath her, your back arch without permission.

“Fuck,” you choked, the word falling apart against her throat. Your lips brushed her skin, tasted sweat and salt and something like surrender. “It’s s-so—” but you couldn’t finish. Your breath caught. Your throat closed.

Because she was still moving.

Not fast—never fast. Just intense, deliberate, soaking you in friction so slow it felt like it burned. Each thrust was a promise and a threat, her cock dragging out, then sinking back in like she had all the time in the world to destroy you.

“Daddyyy—” Her name tore loose, wet and high and wrecked.

She moaned at the sound of it—deep, from her chest, like the syllables had lit her nerve endings on fire. Her mouth found your jaw, her lips brushing just below your ear as her hips rolled forward again—slow, wide, obscene. You felt her cock pulse inside you, thick and flushed and so deep you couldn’t tell where your body ended and hers began.

You whimpered again—softer this time, soaked and clinging—because it wasn’t even the pressure that undid you. It was the control. The fact that she hadn’t let herself go yet. That she was holding back—on purpose—just to see how much you could take.

She moved again.

A small thrust. Just the tip. A drag that barely stroked you, but still sent heat rippling up your spine. Then another. A deep, steady push that made your breath catch, her cock sinking into you slow and wet and endless. Your walls clenched, slick and fluttering around her, soaking her in the need she'd spent the whole night building. Another thrust followed—then another—a rhythm, slow but complete, deep enough that your back arched off the mattress, your mouth falling open.

"ffhhhh—fuck—Daddy—" you gasped, your hands clenching at the sheets.

And then she found it. That spot. You felt it when her cock dragged over it—a thick, swollen place deep inside that made your whole body jolt. You spasmed, fluttering around her as if to plead. Your thighs twitched. Your voice cracked on a moan that spilled out half-broken and high.

She felt it too. Her hips froze—just for a breath.

Then she moved again. A full thrust—slow, deep, deliberate. Her cock dragged right over that swollen, aching spot, and you seized beneath her like you'd been shocked. She watched it happen—watched your breath hitch, your mouth fall open, your thighs jerk around her waist.

Another thrust. Then another. Each one deep, steady, unhurried—just to feel you react. To feel how you spasmed around her, fluttering wildly, your moans breaking apart with every stroke. Your body arched helplessly, your hands scrambling for her arms, her shoulders, for anything to hold onto.

"That’s it," she murmured, voice thick with hunger. "—so fucking good when I fuck you just like this—" And then she paused. Her hips rolled forward, cock still buried deep.

She adjusted—tilted her angle just a little—just enough to align the swollen head of her cock against that spot with surgical precision. Her eyes never left your face.  A small, deliberate thrust. Just enough to let the swollen head of her cock nudge that same spot—deep, aching, devastating. The one that made your whole body seize like it had been struck by lightning.

Your spine arched. Your throat tore open. “Ahhh—hnnnnngh—fuuhhhk—” The sound cracked out of you like a sob, soaked and raw, half-swallowed against the damp heat of her shoulder. It didn’t even sound like your voice anymore—just broken need scraped into sound.

She did it again. Then again. Tiny thrusts. Measured. Cruel. Divine. Each one punched into that throbbing bundle of nerves buried inside you like she was branding her name into it. The angle was obscene—too precise, too perfect—and it made you clench in helpless, fluttering waves around her cock, soaked and swollen and desperate to keep her there.

You twitched. Your hips jerked. Your moan came high and strangled, shattered through your teeth like it was being dragged from your lungs by force.

Your body rocked in place, helpless under the weight of her control, the friction of her dragging slow, shallow, maddening strokes that felt like they were splitting you open by degrees. She wasn’t fucking you in thrusts—she was fucking you in fractions, in slow surgical pressure that didn’t allow for escape. Just sensation. Just fullness. Just the aching slide of her cock dragging across that place again—

—and again—

—and again.

You whimpered—wrecked, breathless—as the pressure curled tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with every grind. Your chest heaved. Your mouth stayed open but nothing came out. Just panting. Gasping. Trembling heat. The edges of your vision blurred with tears. Your hands clawed at the sheets, desperate for something to ground you. Your hips moved. Just a little. An unconscious roll. A silent plea. You didn’t even realize you were doing it—seeking relief, seeking mercy, seeking more.

But Agatha was already there. She growled—deep and guttural, her voice catching fire in the space between you—and grabbed your hips with one hand. The grip was brutal. Final. “Stay open for me.” Her breath shook. Her voice was wrecked with the sound of restraint ripping at the seams. “Take it. Just like this.” You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her cock moved inside you in slow, measured drags—barely there, but devastating—like she had all the time in the world to watch you fall apart.

Your hips trembled in her grip, thighs twitching as you tried to stay still, tried not to writhe under her—because she wouldn’t let you. Her hands held your hips firm, thumbs digging in just enough to ground you, to remind you who you belonged to. You sobbed through clenched teeth, your fingers scrambling for purchase—her back, her arms, the sheets—anything to hold you down as she ruined you.

Her rhythm stayed slow. That deliberate grind of thick pressure against your most sensitive place made your toes curl, your back arch, your core clench like it couldn’t bear the emptiness between each stroke. The weight of it. The ruin. It was too much. And not enough.

“Daddyyyy—” you moaned, her name tumbling out wrecked and helpless.

She groaned at the sound of it. Deep. Unrestrained. Her hips never stopped. “That’s it,” she murmured, voice thick with reverence. “Say my name like that, baby. Let me hear who’s fucking you like this—who’s got you dripping and shaking—”

You gasped, eyes fluttering, the tears finally breaking loose. The intensity was overwhelming—but holy. Her cock ground into that spot again, and your whole body jerked. You couldn’t stop it—your hips rolled beneath her, your body moving without permission, chasing something, anything, everything. Her moan tore free—loud, wrecked, helpless. “Fuuuuck—”

She sped up. Not in distance. Not in depth. Just speed. Just those tiny, punishing thrusts. Again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock hit that same spot over and over until it felt like your soul was unraveling. You screamed for her without words, your moans peaking, catching, melting into hers.

“Mmpphh—ahhnn—A-Agatha—fuck—please—”

“That’s it, baby,” she gasped. “That’s my good girl.” She didn’t let up. Those shallow thrusts grew quicker, sharper—just a little more pull, just a little more force. Just enough to build power. Her hips rocked with ruthless control, her cock dragging back that fraction further before driving in again, each time landing squarely on that spot that had you twitching, sobbing, writhing beneath her like a live wire.

You were keening now—moaning raw and wordless, your breath stuttering out in high, desperate pitches. Each sound was a plea without shape, every vowel broken around the weight of her inside you. Your walls fluttered. Clenched. Gasped for her.

Agatha’s eyes were locked to you, wide and dark and awestruck—like she couldn’t believe the way you looked, wrecked and shaking, stretched around her, soaking her with every thrust. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched your body pulse, your cunt gripping her cock like it knew who it belonged to.

You pulled back. Not much. Just a shift. Your hips arched, spine bowing, breath caught in your throat as your body tried—futilely—to seize control. To find air. To keep from drowning in her. But the second your movement met hers, the second your cunt flexed and fluttered around her cock with that slick, aching need.  She felt it. Her grip, already tight on your hips, turned punishing. Her fingers dug in—possessive, anchoring you like she owned the gravity that held you down. “Don’t run,” she snarled, low and savage, her breath ghosting over your cheek. “You’ll take it—just like this—”

Then she fucked you. Hard. Ruthless, hungry thrusts that left nothing between you—no space, no pause, no forgiveness. Just slick, brutal friction. Just her cock pounding deep and thick and fast, burying itself inside you like she was trying to mark the end of you. The mattress jolted beneath each stroke. Your moans cracked apart, helpless and high, as she chased the sound of you breaking.

Her own moans hitched in rhythm with yours—guttural, choked, holy. She gasped your name like a prayer and a curse, her mouth falling open, her breath stuttering as her heat pistoned into you. Sweat slipped down her spine. Her chest rocked against yours.

And she didn’t stop. She drove into you—loud, soaked, merciless. Her cock slick with everything you’d already given her, now thrusting so deep your legs shook with every impact.

Your voice broke entirely, no longer words, just sound. Sharp, aching cries tangled with breathless whimpers as she fucked you through it—through the overwhelm, through the heat building low in your belly, through the raw, shattering edge of too much and not enough.

She groaned into your throat, ragged and desperate, her jaw clenching as she slammed forward again, and again, and again. “Fuck—fuck, you feel so good—so fucking tight—you’re soaking me, baby, you’re—”

A moan ripped out of you before she could finish.

You sobbed against her shoulder, shaking under the weight of her body and the brutal rhythm of her cock. You spasmed around her, fluttering hard with every stroke, and still she kept going, chasing the slick, squeezing heat until your whole body seized up beneath her.

Her hips stuttered. Slowed. Still deep. Still buried to the hilt. Her thrusts shifted again—shorter. Sharper. Targeted. Right against that devastating spot, Right at the edge. She stayed deep, her hips rolling in those slow, ruinous thrusts—angled just enough to keep dragging over that spot again and again. Precise. Relentless. Her grip on your hips didn’t loosen, not even a little. She kept you pinned, trembling and slick, her rhythm steady enough to drive you mad.

You whimpered—soft at first, then louder, less coherent. A stream of helpless sound slipped from your lips with every motion. Moans, gasps, fragments of her name tangled with raw pleas you couldn’t form into sentences.

She kissed you. Not a whisper of a kiss—no, this was a claiming. Her mouth crushed against yours, open and messy, slick with sweat and moans. Her tongue moved with purpose, with need, with heat that stole the very breath from your lungs. She kissed you like she was trying to crawl inside you through your mouth, like the only way to survive was to be in you—flesh to flesh, soul to soul.

Her hips never faltered. That same brutal slowness. That same precision. Her cock moved with surgical intent, grinding into that spot again and again—so deep, so devastating. You clenched with every drag, every wet pass of her catching exactly where you needed it. The rhythm stayed maddeningly slow, each thrust pushing the pleasure further past the threshold of what should’ve been survivable. You moaned into her mouth, and she moaned back—low, wrecked, the sound of a woman losing herself. Her breath stuttered. Her hips rocked again, her cock thick and wet inside you, your slick coating every inch of her with obscene warmth.

She tilted her hips—just a breath, just enough—and everything changed. Her cock slid deeper, impossibly deep, the head angling upward until it caught perfectly, scraping over that swollen, desperate knot of nerves with surgical precision. You seized under her. Your whole body jolted, a cry half-caught in your throat as your eyes went wide.

And Agatha—Agatha felt it.

Her hips stayed locked to yours, her cock buried to the hilt, pulsing thick inside you—and then her breath shattered. She gasped into your mouth—sharp and sudden—like the new angle had struck something deep inside her. Like it had split her open. You felt it too. The way her cock drove even deeper now, angled just right, the thick underside catching along the swollen nerve-vein that pulsed like it belonged to her. It did. Everything did. Your body arched without asking—hips lifting, thighs trembling, nails digging into her shoulders with a force that barely scratched the ache blooming inside you.

“—fuuhhckkk—” she gasped, voice breaking on the inhale, as if she hadn’t expected you to feel that good. Like the new angle had touched something in her, too—something raw and holy and ruinous. Her head dropped, her chest pressed to yours, and her mouth found your lips again, crushing into you like it was the only thing tethering her to this earth.

She kissed you hard. Desperate. Tongue deep. Mouth open. Breath lost between you. And all the while, her hips never stopped moving.

That same precise rhythm. That same controlled torture. Slow, shallow thrusts that dragged the over your sweet spot with agonizing accuracy, over and over and over again, each one punching the air from your lungs like she was sculpting you into something she could never let go. Agatha moaned into your mouth—wrecked, high, trembling—and you felt it everywhere. It wasn’t just sound. It was a vibration, a tremor that started in her chest and spilled into you, flooding the heat where your bodies met. Her shaft dragged deep inside you with slow, devastating precision, and your whimper cracked open between her lips like an offering. Then she pulled away, lips brushing across your cheek, breath stuttering like she couldn’t believe what she was feeling. You barely had time to brace.

Her mouth dropped to your neck. And that was it. She broke. Her moan punched out of her chest like it had been trapped there raw and ragged, hot and hoarse, muffled against your skin like she was trying to bite it back and couldn’t. It didn’t sound human. It sounded wrecked. And still—her hips kept moving.

Slow. Focused. Punishing. Tiny thrusts that shouldn’t have had power but did—because they hit that spot. Your spot. The one only she could reach. And she hit it again. And again. And again. The swollen head of her cock dragged across that nerve like it was drawn there by instinct, and your back arched in response, a choked cry tearing from your throat.

Her moans were relentless now. Shaky, high-pitched, desperate. Her hips shifted just enough to pull back, to gain power, and she slammed into you once. Then twice. Then again. Each thrust was thick and brutal and blinding. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t think. You could only feel. “F-fuck—fuck, baby—oh my God—” Agatha gasped, her voice cracking like she couldn’t bear how good you felt. Her grip on your hips tightened like iron, holding you steady while her cock hit that spot with every merciless stroke.

“You feel—Christ, you feel so fucking good—so tight—so wet—fuck.” Her words broke into moans, open and unfiltered. She sounded wrecked, like your cunt was pulling her apart from the inside out.

All you could do was sob under her, your moans coming in a frantic, wet string of syllables that barely made it out of your mouth. You tried to move—just a little, just to breathe—just to ease the pressure—but her hands slammed you right back down. Her hands gripped tighter, holding you down as her hips dragged another thrust through you, deeper this time, devastating.

“Stay,” she growled, voice ragged and raw.

Then she fucked you harder. One deep thrust. Then another. Then another—each one angled with perfect cruelty, hitting that electric place inside you that made your thighs twitch, your nails claw for her back, your mouth fall open in a gasping, soundless scream.

And then—she slowed again. Back to those small, ruinous thrusts. That lazy, agonizing rhythm that had your whole body convulsing. She moaned into your neck—long, loud, nearly broken. Her mouth was open against your skin, panting raggedly, her voice trembling like she was right on the edge of losing control. Each thrust felt sharper, deeper somehow, as if the new angle had split her wide open, too.

You didn’t know when the tears had started—only that your body was shaking, soaked and clenching, your voice long past words. Your mouth hung open, too breathless to moan, too full to beg, your head tipped back against the mattress like it was the only thing still holding you together. Everything below your ribs was pure sensation: wet friction, aching fullness, the relentless grind of Agatha’s cock dragging through your cunt like she owned it—because she did. She hadn’t even let herself move fast yet. That was the worst part. She was still slow. Still deliberate. Still holding back just enough to ruin you by inches.

Her body hovered over yours—forearms braced, muscles tight, sweat dripping from her collarbone onto your chest. Her eyes stayed on your face like she could read every flinch, every twitch, every sobbed breath that fell from your lips. She shifted her weight slightly, and her cock pressed deeper—thick, hot, soaked in everything your body kept giving her. And then she stilled.

The sudden lack of movement made your hips jerk without permission. Your cunt clenched again, fluttering helplessly around her. The need to be filled, to be fucked, was unbearable. And still—she waited.

“Say it,” she gasped, and her voice cracked on the words—wrecked, raw, barely tethered to control. Her grip on your waist tightened, possessive and bruising, like she could hold you in place with just her fingers and her will. “Say you want it—say you want Daddy to fucking breed you—”

You tried to speak, but your throat failed you, too full of breathless sobs and trembling tension. And that silence was all she needed.

A growl tore from her chest—a sound so low and feral it vibrated straight through your ribs—and her hips snapped forward. The slap of her heat plunging back into your core was brutal and wet and final, your whole body jolted from the force of it.

“Don’t make me pull it out of you,” she snarled, and her words hit your skin like a lash. Her cock ground in deep—long, slow, ruthless—dragging against every oversensitive inch inside you, catching on your swollen edges like she wanted to carve the shape of herself into your body from the inside out.

“You want me to cum in your perfect pussy?” she hissed, and her breath hit your mouth like fire, like fury. Her hips stayed locked, buried to the hilt, and the twitch of her cock inside you made your walls flutter again. You moaned—a broken, sobbed sound, high and shivering, your voice catching on the unbearable friction of her filling you. “Nnnh—A-ahhh—!”

She groaned at the sound, her lips curling into a cruel, reverent grin. “You want it so bad—you're shaking for it—so fucking say it.”

Another thrust—hard, sharp, deep—and it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your hands scrabbled for her shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto, something to ground yourself against the storm building behind your ribs. “Open your mouth, pretty girl. Beg for it.”

You sobbed. You were past pride now—your body slick, your cunt aching, your thighs trembling from the tension she kept you locked inside. Her next thrust came slow and punishing, grinding every ridge of her cock against your slick walls, dragging her heat through the soaked, swollen mess between your legs. “I said beg. Fucking earn it,” she rasped, her voice splitting on the edges, straining against how close she was to breaking.

“F-fuhhh—Daaddyy—” The words broke on your breath, a guttural gasp that scraped its way from deep in your chest. Your hips jerked beneath her, legs trembling, cunt already clenching down around her cock like you were trying to drag the orgasm from her by force. You didn’t even realize you were grinding up into her until her hands locked tighter on your waist, holding you steady, making you take it.

Your body was soaked—dripping—slick sliding down your thighs, your cunt fluttering and flushed, too hot, too open, too needy. Every thrust made you arch—your back lifting from the bed, your moans torn out in broken, breathless gasps, each one louder than the last. The sound of her inside you was obscene—wet and thick and holy—the slap of skin, the suck of soaked friction, the quiet gasp that came every time your body clenched and pulled at her cock like it needed more.

Agatha’s breath hitched—sharp and shaking—a broken inhale like the pleasure had caught her mid-thrust and split her wide. Her hips bucked forward hard, slamming deep enough to flatten your spine to the mattress. Her groan cracked—rough, frantic, raw.

“Oh—fuck—baby, I’m close—so close,” she gasped, the words punched out of her. Her rhythm faltered, hips rocking now in rougher, needier strokes—her control hanging by a thread. And then her hand slid from your waist down—down—until it found your thigh.

She shoved it open—rough, sure, demanding—until your legs were spread so wide you could feel the stretch in your hips and the throb of your cunt fluttering open around her. Her palm pressed firm, keeping you there, your body trembling and exposed, laid bare for her to take.

“Open for me,” she groaned, voice cracking, thick with possession. “Let me in—take it—fuck, take all of it. You’re mine. You’re gonna take all of me—every inch—until I can’t pull out.”

Your moan cracked high and raw as your body gave way, the new angle hitting so deep your vision blurred. Her cock slid in to the hilt, thick and pulsing, stretching you wide with every slow, ruinous grind. The sound of it—of her fucking you open—was soaked, filthy, full of slick and breath and gasping. Your cunt sucked her in like you were starving for her. The room echoed with it.

She let out a moan—wrecked and guttural—as she rocked into you again, rougher now, desperate. “I’m gonna fill you up,” she groaned, biting the words into your throat. “Put a baby in you—fuck—stuff you so full they’ll know. Everyone will know. You’re mine—you’re fucking mine—” You sobbed, body spasming under her, your mouth falling open in disbelief. “Yes—Aggie—oh god, yes—please—fill me—”

A fresh rush of wetness coated her cock as she rutted into you. Your body was shaking, thighs trembling, nerves sparking at every contact point. She kissed you then—wet and open-mouthed—her tongue dragging across your cheek, your lips, your jaw.

“You take me so well—fuck—you’re perfect—” Her thrusts were messier now, deeper, sloppy with need. Her breath fell against your ear in shuddering waves. And you couldn’t stop it—the pleading, the hunger, the ache rising up your throat in sobbed, desperate moans. “Please—need to know I’m yours—make me yours—” you whimpered, voice cracking wide open. “Want it—wanna belong to you—please, baby, remind me—remind me who I belong to—”

Agatha’s head snapped down like she’d been summoned. Her mouth sealed over your pulse—hot, wet, desperate—and her groan into your skin was a sound ripped from the pit of her body. Her hips surged forward on instinct, cock driving in so deep your breath punched out of you, your moans dissolving into strangled, broken gasps. “Mine,” she growled into your neck, her teeth grazing just shy of another bite. “Say it. Say it again—”

“Yours—yours—oh my God, Agatha, I’m—”

Her thrusts hit ruinous—hard and shallow and perfectly angled. You were soaked, your cunt a mess of slick and stretch, fluttering around her like your body didn’t know how to stop wanting. Her cock slid through it like she was made for this, made for you, thick and unforgiving, dragging through every nerve-ending she’d ever lit on fire.

Agatha’s hand dragged up your thigh again—pushing, spreading—until your legs were open so wide it hurt, until she could grind deeper, slower, filthier. The sound of it—wet and loud and holy—filled the room. Her body slapped into yours again and again, skin sticking, breath caught, sweat slicking both of you down to your bones.

Her moans were wrecked now—short and guttural and constant, bursting from her throat with every slam of her hips. Her hand braced beside your head trembled, the other still clutching your thigh, pressing you wide, open, made to take every inch of her.

You cried out, unable to hold anything back. “You feel so good—so fucking hard—I can feel you in my stomach—don’t stop—don’t stop—” She gasped. Then again—louder, messier, mouth dragging along your jaw like she was chasing the taste of you. Her magic surged in pulses, crackling in the air, slipping between your fingers, coiling low in your spine like it knew.

“I’m not stopping,” she growled, each word slurred through moans and ragged breath. “You’re gonna take it—all of it—I’m gonna fill you up, baby, fuck you full till there’s nothing left but me. I want you full, round with me—I want them to see who you belong to.” You sobbed. Loud. Soaked. Arching into her like your body was pleading to be taken.

Your orgasm broke. Silent at first. A flash of heat and lightning ripping through your spine—your hips jerking, toes curling, breath seizing like you’d been struck from the inside out.Then came the sound—wet, obscene, sacred. A guttural cry torn from your throat as your cunt clenched tight around her cock and your body poured slick over her. Your magic surged with it—bright, violet, starbursting—casting light against the ceiling, illuminating the soaked sheets, curling through Agatha’s body like a brand. You felt her breath catch against your throat, her pulse jump beneath her skin where it pressed to yours.

Agatha’s lips kissed across your face—your cheek, your jaw, your temple—as if grounding herself in the reality of your body. Her tongue followed in a slow, trembling drag, licking the sweat from your skin like it was the holiest thing she'd ever tasted. The air shimmered—tinted violet and silver—threads of your magic clinging to her lips, to the curve of her neck, to the space between you like spider silk laced with starlight.

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. She only moaned—low, broken, reverent—as her tongue moved down to your neck, licking gently over the skin, her breath hot and shaking. Her hips slowed, not stopping but savoring, every grind of her cock dragging her deeper into your soaked cunt. The sound of it filled the air—squelching, filthy, beautiful. Yours.

Your breath hitched, caught between the rhythm of her thrusts and the heat crawling up your spine. The words slipped out raw, instinctive—low enough that only she could hear. “Baby,” you whispered, voice cracking on want, not weakness. “Remind me.”

Agatha froze—just a little. Just long enough for your hand to curl around her shoulder, your chest arching into her. And that’s when she saw it. The faint bruise beneath your collarbone—just left of center. A shadow from only hours ago—the press of a baton or a boot or a body that never should have touched you. It wasn’t fresh enough to bleed. But it was fresh enough to burn.

She inhaled sharply—like it hit her in the lungs. Her gaze locked there. Her jaw tightened. And then she kissed it. Softly. Once. Then again. Her lips shaking. Your body clenched around her again, fluttering with the weight of what you meant. Not just pleasure. Not just release. “Fill me,” you breathed, your hands curling around her shoulders, anchoring her. “So they know who I belong to.”

That did it. Agatha’s jaw slackened, just slightly— But her moan tore straight from her chest like it had been waiting to be born. Her hips jerked once, deep—reflexive. Her tongue dragged across your neck again before her mouth opened in a gasp that cracked into your skin like thunder

She collapsed into you—pressed belly to belly, chest to chest—skin flushed, breath tangled, soaked in want—like she needed more than friction. She needed contact. She needed you. Her body sank against yours in full surrender, and for a moment, she stopped holding back—stopped pretending she could be anywhere else. Like if she didn’t touch you, she’d come undone entirely.

One hand was already braced beside your head—steady, grounding, trembling under the weight of restraint. The other, still gripping your waist, loosened. Her fingers slid upward—shaking, reverent—as they skimmed the curve of your ribs, your side, your breast… until they reached your face. She cupped your cheek with a touch that felt more like worship than control, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like she needed to feel how ruined you were. Like she had to know it in her bones.

You turned into the touch with a gasp, lips parting around her thumb—and sucked. Slow. Needy. Mindless.The taste of her skin, the tremble in her breath, the way her hips faltered just slightly—it all fed the hunger curling hot and helpless in your gut. She moaned—low, wrecked—and pulled her thumb from your mouth with a slick drag. The loss made you whimper, chasing her without thinking, your mouth still open, your chest arching into her.

Your hand reached for hers—blind, aching, instinctive—and she caught it at once. Her fingers threaded between yours, firm and grounding, then she pushed your joined hand up above your head, bracing them there with steady pressure. Holding you down without force. Her hips surged, fast and wild, fucking into you with the sharp, soaked sound of flesh meeting flesh, louder now, endless, devotional. The weight of her body—all of her—was on you. Not crushing. Claiming. Her nipples dragged across yours with every thrust, hard and aching, the friction a lightning-hot drag of sensation that made her whimper against your mouth.

Her thrusts turned frantic—wild and deep, lost in the rhythm of her need. The bed rocked with every soaked collision of her hips against yours, the wet slap of your bodies filling the air with each devastating stroke. She wasn’t holding back anymore. She couldn’t. Her breath hitched with every thrust, torn from her in half-formed gasps and ragged, broken moans.

“Ahhh—nnhhh—hahh—baby” She sounded ruined. Ruined for you. Each one sounded like it shocked her, like she couldn’t hold them back anymore. She bucked wildly, her thighs trembling, your slick coating her skin with every desperate grind, and she was sliding through it—like lightning made flesh, called home to the storm you had become.

Her fingers unthreaded from yours and cupped your jaw like something sacred. Her thumb brushed your lip—slow, reverent—and then she pulled you into her, kissing you like it was the only thing anchoring her to this world. Mouths collided. Moans spilled. The taste of her breath, the tremble of her need—it filled you like a spell already cast. You could taste her desperation, feel it in the way she clung to you, like if she didn’t kiss you now, she’d fall apart completely. The kiss broke as she gasped against your mouth, voice shaking.

“My love,” she whispered, wrecked and reverent, her eyes glassy, wide, worshipful. “Fuck—I’m gonna—”

Her whole body arched into you—wild, trembling, possessed—and she shattered.. She slammed deep and then she shattered. The first pulse hit like lightning—hot, thick, claiming—flooding you with an overwhelming heat, and you felt every drop. Felt it rush into you like a spell, like a star being born inside you. The shock of it seized you—your spine bowed, your mouth fell open in a voiceless cry before it cracked loose on a sob of disbelief:

“Ohh—ahhh—Agatha—”

She moaned—loud, guttural, a wrecked whimper that cracked straight from her chest as her whole body locked down against yours.  Her hips jolted, trembling as she spilled into you with another pulse, each one thick and sacred, flooding you so fast and so full your body could only convulse around her, slick and radiant and open.

She was panting against your cheek now, whimpering with every twitch—“H-hhhnn—God—ohh—yes—”—her voice a spiral of disbelief and surrender. Her cock jerked helplessly inside you, sliding deeper as her body rocked with the rhythm of release. It was messy. It was unstoppable.

And it was holy. You could feel it in your bones, like magic. Like she had poured a piece of her soul into you and sealed it with heat. Like a sacred claim that threaded itself through your womb, your blood, your ribs. Like she was pouring a part of herself into you, and the universe was holding its breath. The world narrowed to the rush of her coming undone in you, for you, because of you.

Her forehead dropped to yours, sweat-slick and burning. Her breath tangled with yours. The moans didn’t stop—smaller now, sweeter, every sound peeled straight from her chest like she couldn’t hold anything back.

Even as the last pulse shuddered through her, Agatha didn’t stop moving. Small, soaked thrusts. Slow and instinctive. Like her body needed to feel it deeper. Like she had to work every drop further into you—into the place that belonged to her—and couldn’t stop until she had.

The motion wasn’t about climax anymore. It was about claiming. About connection. About sealing herself inside you in every way that mattered. You whimpered at the sensation—body still twitching, overstimulated and glowing, every nerve stretched thin with aftershock—but you didn’t pull away. You let her move. You let her stay.

And oh—God, the way she moaned.

Quiet now. Wrecked. Her voice broken open at the edges as her lips brushed your skin between panting breaths. Little sounds spilled from her as if her heart couldn’t hold them anymore. You felt her everywhere. Her sweat-slick chest flush against yours, her hardened nipples dragging gently over your skin with every tender thrust. Her breath hitched every time your clenched down, milked her deeper.  Agatha buried her face against your neck, inhaling you like you were air. Her body finally began to still—her hips slowing, her weight sinking into you as though gravity had finally caught her in full. Her voice, barely a whisper. Wrecked. Honest.

“I love you.” She didn’t lift her head. Didn’t pull back. She just held you—in her, around her, with her—and let the words breathe where they belonged: in the space between your joined hands, your joined bodies, your joined futures.

----------

Time had folded in on itself. The air still smelled like sweat and skin and magic, like something sacred had split open and wrapped around the two of you.

Agatha hadn’t moved far. Just enough to rest her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with your own, her hand still twined in yours above your head. You felt her pulse in her wrist. Still fast. Still real.

Your voice broke the silence—ragged and dry, but smiling. “…I should get arrested more often.”

Agatha’s laugh cracked out low, wrecked, and full of wonder. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. You squeezed her hand. “And yours.”

Her lips brushed your cheek. “Always.”

And that was how it ended—your body still open around hers, her magic still glowing somewhere low and deep inside you, and the weight of her love holding you exactly where you’d always belonged. Even when the world was burning around you, Agatha was there to light the next match.

-----------

Now go ahead and tell Mommy what you think. I may need to ask for forgiveness for this shit.

[sexy-monster-fucker]

Aromatic

Sex Pollen!Eddie Brock|Venom x Spider-Girl!Reader

Summary: After a failed fight with a local villain, Venom and the Reader find themselves overwhelmed by some gas that was sprayed on them.

CW: choking, oral f!receiving, p in v, creampie, breeding kink,

a/n: so sorry this took so long, I’ve been stressed out here lately! I’m leaving the villain ambiguous so you can decide who it is as you read :)

~~~

Cold Autumn air cut through your suite like a knife. Swinging around the city as the sun went down, checking for any sign of mischief. Catching a glimpse of one of your partners in an alleyway. Deciding to check-in on him and see what was going on.

You crawled slowly down the wall behind him. Sneaking up to see if maybe there was something he was hiding.

"I know you're there," his deep voice rumbled in your ears.

Venom. An alien symbiote. Vigilante by night. Not entirely sure who his human vestige was underneath. Always curious, but never willing to ask.

You hopped off the wall with a sigh. Landing directly behind him, "Your senses are getting better."

"I can always smell you coming," he chuckled with a grin on his face. Your cheeks flushed under your mask. There always was a hint of flirtation between the two of you. You jokingly sniffed your armpit, “Do I really smell that bad?”

Venom scoffed, “Of course not.” A small sting of embarrassment on his tone. Like something deep inside him did not want to offend you.

You felt your senses go into overdrive. Whipping your head around in the direction you were being called to. Leading your gaze into the small view of the streets you had from the alleyway. Hearing the familiar laugh of the villain you had been tracking for weeks now.

“Come on,” you instructed him as you thwipped a web up, pulling yourself higher. Landing on top of the building surrounding you. Staring at the new machine they created. A giant vessel holding some colorful liquid on its back. Giant legs hoisting it up as it rampaged down the streets. Clamping down on cars and throwing them into buildings.

You and Venom diving down head first into the battle. Venom stopping the newly thrown car mid air before it struck a mother and her child. Your webs wrapping themselves around the arms of the machine, pulling and pinning them backwards. The villain shooting a dreadful look at you.

“So this is what you’ve been up to? Thought you were just scared to see me,” you mocked as you shot webs against the arms, pinning it to the ground.

“Pesky bug!” They shouted at you, fingers rapidly pressing buttons on the board of the machine. Watching as a canon extended from the back of it. Feeling your senses tingle every end of your nerves.

“VENOM! WATCH OUT!” You called out as you swung over to your partner. Attempting to shield him from whatever attack was coming from the villain. Your body moving without thinking to his defense.

Gas poured from the cone-shaped end. Surprising you that a missile of some kind didn’t fire out. Thick smog filled the entire street you were in. Fogging up your vision and burning your nose.

You both coughed as the dust coated the insides of your noses and throats.

"What the hell was that?!" Venom growled, noticing the villain had disappeared in front of you.

"I have no idea," you coughed out, "I don't feel any different. Not noticing any physical changes."

"Maybe it was just a distraction," Venom groaned frustrated that you had let them get away. Slamming his giant fist into the nearby concrete. Quiet cursed grumbled under his breath as he jumped back to the ground. You followed closely behind, shooting a web and sliding down it. Feeling a ting in your heart for him.

Walking over and flattening your hand against his back, “We’ll get them next time.”

The monster sighed.

Your chest jumped. The growl on his voice vibrating through your entire body. You swallowed heavy as you awkwardly removed your hand from him. His white eyes looking over his shoulder at you. Widening when they met yours.

“I’ve got to go,” Venom forced his head forward. Rushing off from you. Somewhere you were unsure of. An abrupt end to your nightly routine.

You headed home. Swinging along the large glass buildings in your city. Jumping down a hidden part of the alley next to your apartment. Grabbing your bag you had hid and changing clothes.

Your body went through the familiar motions as you walked up to your apartment. A haze around your vision, your mind somewhere else entirely. Unsure why you felt what you were, but focusing on the one thing that cleared up your fog.

Venom.

Your large alien partner in crime. Well— stopping crime. Ever since you had parted ways after your failed face off today, he was the only thing you could focus on. How gentle he always was with you, his deep voice, how effortlessly flirty he was with you during your endeavors, his tongue—

Oh God.

You felt every last vein in your body run hot. Tingling spreading from between your thighs throughout your body. Fumbling as you tried to get your key in the lock, hunching over at the deep sensation taking over your body. Your breath hitched in your throat.

- click -

Fuck, finally.

You stormed into your apartment. Arms wrapped around your chest. Your clothes feeling extra tight. Sweat bubbled along your body. You fanned yourself with your hands. Rushing into your kitchen to open the freezer. Cool air persisting your sudden sweats. Nothing was cooling you off.

You stumbled down your hallway as your core throbbed, an unspeakable feeling seizing your figure. Grabbing the box fan from the closet. Hurrying into the living room and plugging it in. Slumping against your couch directly in front of the fan. Growing agitated at the feeling swirling deep inside you. Unsure how to calm it.

A loud knock at your door made you sit completely up.

Why didn't your spider-sense warn you?

Walking over to look through the peephole. A man with a beard wearing a black leather jacket stood before your door. Not someone you had recognized before. Something inside you begged for you to open the door.

"Hello?"

The man awkwardly smiled at you. A hint of sweat on his forehead. "Uh- Yeah, hi," his eyes darted around the stairwell.

"Can I help you?"

"I think you can actually," he sighed, seeming like there was something he wanted to say. You could see his tongue moving around in his mouth as if he was feeling out the words before saying them.

Suddenly, black ooze began morphing around his arm. Quickly taking the shape of Venom's head in front of you. "We need to come in now," Venom insisted. Your body instinctively moved out of the way allowing them inside.

"How did you find where I live?"

"Do you feel it too?"

You blushed. Completely overtaken by the smell of him. The musky cologne mixed with the sweat on his skin. How his plump lips begged you to plant yours against them. The way his dark eyes stared into yours.

When you suddenly realized. He was feeling the same way you had been all afternoon. The deep burning inside you. The way your body ached and craved another. One that you could not put a finger on until now. It was him.

"Yes," you breathlessly said. Following close behind him.

"I told you so," Venom hissed in the man's face. He held up a hand, pushing him away from his face. "I'm Eddie by the way," he smiled at you, "We've kinda knew each other through some costumes before now." You returned his smile. Feeling a connection to him beyond understanding. Almost like you had known him forever.

“So— uh… guess we need to talk about this? It had to be whatever that psycho sprayed us with earlier. I’m not exactly sure what the side effects are, but I’ve been feeling—“

“Aroused?” Venom blatantly asked, embarrassing his human half. Eddie reached out attempting to cover Venom’s mouth. Pink decorating his cheeks at the aliens lack of social skills. Both of you sharing in your color filled facing.

“Sorry about him—“

“No— No I think he’s right,” you walked over to Eddie and Venom. Locking eyes with Eddie. Both of your bodies instinctively meeting each other. His hands splaying around your lower back, your arms wrapping around his neck. A warmth rising between you. Spreading throughout your body from where his hands met your skin.

“Have you been feeling it too, Eddie?”

His tongue came out to wet his lip. Dark eyes examining your face, pupils blown in lust. A sigh of a “yes” falling from him as he leaned in to plant his lips on yours. Tenderly you kissed back and forth. Tongues exploring each other’s mouths. Soft groans sharing between kisses. Taste of your shared saliva filling your senses.

Eddie’s kisses turned hungry. One hand roaming up your body to tangle in your hair, deepening your connected mouths. He led you backwards, the back of your legs hitting the couch. Bending as you sat back, Eddie’s arms pinned on either side of your head. Your lips parting as you stared at each other. Black pupils stared into yours. Feeling yourself grow lost in his presence. Needing him all over you.

“You smell delicious,” Venom’s deep voice huffed into your ear from behind. Turning your head to meet his gaze. Not even noticing he had crept up behind you while his host hovered over you. A tentacle of ooze wrapping around your neck and pinning you back against the couch. Ripping the air out of your lungs with his strength. Eddie’s lips kissed along your jawline, “Tell us if you want to stop.” You nodded in acknowledgment.

Your eyes squinted shut as their touches stimulated you. Eddie trailed down your body, knees hitting your floor. Fingers traced the waist of your shorts, playing with the elastic. Deep blue eyes stared up at your arched neck. Pressure left your neck as Venom retreated. Taking a deep breath that had been escaping you. Leaning your gaze forward to meet his eyes.

"May I?" Eddie hooked his finger around your waistband.

"Please-"

Eddie pulled your shorts down your legs. The sensation of his hands barely touching your skin sending shivers through you. He admired the darkened fabric of your panties as your core leaked for him. A goofy grin coming across his face. His hot breath fanned at your clothed entry. He leaned forward planting an open mouth kiss against you. Your hips lunged forward at the sudden contact. His hands gripped your thighs firmly holding you in place. "I'll make you feel good," he promised breathlessly. Eyes fixated on the faint image of your pussy in front of him. The smell of your arousal sending him over the edge. Animal like urges taking over. A strong hand ripped your panties off in one swipe. Eddie's brows raised in shock. Looking up at you with an awkward smile, a faint "sorry" escaping him.

Dipping in, his tongue swiping up your entrance. Your breath growing shaky, head falling onto the back of the couch. Trying your best to let him take control. Dying to grind into his face and ride his tongue. One of your hands tangled in his hair, lacing your fingers through it. A grunt vibrated through you when you pulled his hair a little harder than intended. One of his fingers circled your entrance, coating it in your juices before sliding it inside. Curving it with each slow and long thrust. Eddie's name a loud moan from you.

It rang in their ears. Venom inside Eddie's mind telling him to keep going until he had you a squirming mess. Fueling the fire that burned inside Eddie. His hard-on throbbing and begging to be inside you. Whatever had taken over the two of you stinging his skin. Your taste on his tongue turning him on even more.

Your orgasm was approaching at a rapid pace. Your legs were shaking with the magic Eddie worked on you. You were panting, eyes squinted shut in pure ecstasy. You felt Eddie rocking back and forth differently than before. Looking down to see him humping into your couch while still going down on you. Hot breath hitting your core as he continued sucking on your sensitive nub. Your eyes met, holding together. Eddie's brows contorted slightly, wanting nothing more than to be inside you. You could feel the coil inside you about to unwind. One more curve of Eddie's finger had it washing over you. A loud moan escaping you as you gripped his head for support. Forcing yourself further onto his face.

"That's it," Eddie cooed.

You sighed, your body relaxing into the sofa. Your hole still gripping around his finger post orgasm. Slowly, he removed his finger from you. Huffing as he rested his head against your quivering thigh, a wide grin on his face. Admiring how your chest rose and fell with every harsh breath you took. He held his finger up in front of his face staring at how your orgasm coated his finger. Pushing it between his lips and cleaning it off. Lingering in the taste of you.

"Eddie..."

"Yes?"

"Please, I need you to fuck me," you begged. He sighed heavily. Rising to his feet in front of you. Dropping his jacket from his shoulders, then pulling his shirt off. Undoing his belt and dropping it into the floor. Scooping you up into his arms effortlessly. Strength clearly from his symbiotic partner. "I thought you'd never ask," Eddie smiled at you, kissing your lips. Taking you down the hall where he assumed your bedroom was. Pretending the monster in his mind was not leading him to the area strongest of your scent. That's how Venom had taken him here to begin with. When they both were overcome with a desire they could not relieve themselves. The symbiote begged Eddie to allow him to go to you. You were what they desired.

Eddie sat you onto your feet, hands grazing up your sides as his forehead rested against yours. Lips locking with yours. Tongue exploring your mouth. Hands groped your chest. Pinching at your sensitive nipples through the fabric. Hands finding their way under your shirt, dancing up your back to the clasp of your bra. Fingers effortlessly undoing it. Pulling your shirt and bra off in one clean motion. Lips attaching to the soft skin of your chest. Sucking purple marks into them as his fingers rolled your nipples.

"Your skin is so soft," he moaned into you.

You moaned, grinding your knee into his erection. Hands circling his waist, dipping into the band of his jeans. Playing with his boxer-briefs underneath. Undoing the button and zipper. Hand delving down and wrapping around his thinly clothed cock. Eddie's hips rutted at your touch. Smiling into your skin.

Suddenly you felt yourself get thrown back onto your bed. Nude body on complete display for them. Eddie's wide eyes stared at you. Venom had grown impatient. Deciding he could no longer wait to be inside you.

"I want her now, Eddie," Venom growled in his face.

Eddie dropped his jeans and boxers. Hard cock springing free. You felt your mouth watering at the sight. Spreading your legs, inviting them in. That burn inside you igniting again. He stepped in front of you on the edge of the bed. Hand gripping his erection, pumping it. His brows furrowed, "Not what I need." His head tilted to the side as he eyed your body.

His toned body leaned on top of yours. Muscles flexing as he held himself up, other hand guiding himself at your entrance. Circling your folds with the tip. "Fuck, Eddie," you moaned. Forcing yourself down on him just enough to take his head in. Eddie groaned at the feeling, "Ah- Y/N, goddammit."

Eddie planted a strong kiss against yours lips as he sheathed himself inside you. Rolling his hips, allowing you to adjust to him. An instant relief overtaking you both. Exactly what you needed.

You felt ooze touching every inch of your body. Venom wrapped himself around you, wanting to feel as close to you as Eddie was. Stimulating your sensitive body, pinching at your hardened nipples, wrapping around your wrists and interlocking with your fingers. Far more intimate than you thought he was capable of. "Pretty thing," his voice boomed inside your ears.

Eddie continued his thrusts inside you. Face contorted at the relief he felt. Your insides cooling the burn he had been feeling. Walls coaxing him further inside you, practically sucking him in. Needing him all over you. Loving the attention Venom was giving you. The symbiote finding his way down to your clit. Circling it.

Your back arched. Moaning loudly at the feeling. Overstimulation taking over your senses. Losing yourself as Eddie's cock hit the spongey spot inside you that had you seeing stars. Breath hitching in your throat as your eyes rolled back into your head. Your cunt contorted around his member as they got you closer to your edge.

"I could fuck you forever," Eddie groaned as he leaned down closer to you. Lips tangling together as your wrapped your arms and legs around him. Pulling your bodies flush together. Venom spreading across both your bodies. Connecting you more than you had ever been with anyone else. You began meeting Eddie's thrusts with your own. Needing him to fill you up.

"Want us to breed you?" Venom licked his lips, "Dirty girl..."

You and Eddie's eyes locked. Lust blown pupils staring into each other. Both your mouths hung open, sharing the same air. He cocked an eyebrow at you, asking the same question that Venom had.

"Cum inside me, Eddie," you moaned, breath escaping you as he thrusted harder into you.

Hips snapped into you. Harsh and sloppy thrusts. Venom continued circling your sensitivity in an attempt to get you both to finish at the same time.

"Come on, Eddie," Venom snarled, "Fill her cunt up."

Eddie's face rested in the crook of your neck as he searched for both your highs. Grunting with each snap of his hips. "Yo-You have the per-perfect pussy," Eddie praised you as he felt your walls begin to tighten around him.

You came undone around him. Walls spasming around his cock. Pushing him over his own edge. Eddie shot hot up inside you, coating your walls with his seed. Pushing himself as deep inside you as he could get. His body twitched with each rope he shot into you. Lips kissing your skin.

Eddie slumped his body onto yours unable to remove himself from your warmth. Savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. Your hands rubbed his back, nails scratching at his skin. Hesitantly, Eddie rolled off of you. Pulling himself out. The mixture of juices inside you spilling out. Venom forcing it all back inside you.

You rested against his chest. The fire inside you finally subsiding. Both of your chests heaved with deep breaths. Bodies having been worked.

"You can stay here," you sighed.

"We would love that," Eddie kissed your head.

~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! It feels so nice to return to the character who originally got me writing so much on this blog. I've missed these two so much. My inbox is always open for requests. If you want to be tagged in the future let me know! //

{tags}

@heif ~ @its-in-the-woods ~ @denisedixon ~ @crazymuffin1 ~ @gruffle1 ~ @atthediscowithoutpanic ~ @glader13 ~ @frenchkimbo ~ @wuuuuman ~ @vexties ~ @f4ngedgirl ~ @megangovier ~ @globinsmerchant ~

[sevarchive]

♡ she fights like a demon, then falls asleep like a cat ──

જ⁀➴ windbreaker characters! with an s/o who falls asleep easily during fights!

starring: ren kaji, mitsuki kiryu, hayato suo, and sakura haruka

a/n: guys this is funny trust me. btw this plot was suggested from this request!

REN KAJI was meeting up with you at your usual hangout spot, where the air smelled like cigarette smoke and old soda, and the vending machine made a weird grrr-grrr-ksshhh sound every time someone used it.

“you look like hell,” he muttered when you arrived, giving you one bored glance.

you shrugged with a massive yawn. “mosquito in my room. i haven’t slept.”

he didn’t respond right away. just rolled the lollipop in his mouth with a click of his teeth.

“you literally punch grown men in the throat,” he finally said, “but you can’t handle a bug.”

“mosquitos cheat. I fight fair.”

kaji didn’t say anything, but he was definitely judging you in silence.

that’s when a group of three guys turned the corner, loud and smug, clearly looking for trouble. they recognized kaji. big mistake.

“yo, this bofurin guy?” one of them sneered. “didn’t think you’d bring backup.”

his buddy pointed at you, laughing. “that’s his backup? bet she’s prob just here to carry your bag!”

kaji didn’t even blink. “keep talking.”

“you always bring your little henchgirl to—?”

crack.

you decked one of them straight in the jaw. the next swung at you, you ducked, grabbed his shirt, and kneed him.

and then…

you walked away from the last guy, sat down against the alley wall, and curled up like a gremlin in hibernation.

“…what,” the last punk said, confused.

“give me five-minute break please,” you said seriously, already lowering yourself to the pavement like a dying phone. “resume fight after nap.”

“she just—laid down,” the guy muttered. “did she pass out?”

“she’s saving energy,” he deadpanned. “unlike you.”

the guy laughed. “what kind of joke are you running here? i’m not scared of your sleepy little hench girl—”

crunch!

kaji cracked the lollipop in his teeth and spit out the stick.

“you touched her while she was sleeping,” he muttered, voice low.

the guy blinked. “no i didn’t—"

“you thought about it.”

and that was the last thing he saw before kaji buried him into the concrete with a knee to the chest and zero hesitation.

fifteen minutes later, you woke up with a candy bar on your chest and kaji sitting next to you like nothing happened.

you blinked. “did i miss anything?”

he shrugged. “nah. took care of it.” then he looked away, ears a little pink.

“shut up stop looking like that. i just didn’t want you waking up next to trash.”

“…aww.”

“don’t make it weird.”

you snuggled into his hoodie anyway, he didn’t stop you.

but he did mutter, “at least finish the fight next time before you nap, you absolute gremlin.”

MITSUKI KIRYU were supposed to be on patrol along with you. keyword: supposed.

“...y/n,” he said quietly, tilting his head as he glanced at you, “why are you dressed like a shrub.”

you gave him a slow blink. “camouflage. so if i lay down, people think i’m a sad pile of leaves.”

he paused. “you are a sad pile of leaves.”

you nodded proudly. “thank you.”

then, without warning, you dropped to the sidewalk, curled up in your oversized hoodie, bucket hat low over your eyes, and mumbled, “wake me if someone starts dying.”

kiryu blinked. “you can’t sleep in the middle of a patrol.”

“don’t worry. i set a mental alarm. if someone breathes too aggressively, i’ll sense it.”

“that’s not how that works.”

“i’m already dreaming of violence.”

kiryu gave the sky a long, exhausted look and muttered, “...this is my life now.”

and of course, right on cue, a group of punks showed up. loud, annoying, reeking of body spray and bad decisions.

“oi, furin’s little fashion model,” one shouted. “you patrolling alone?”

kiryu smiled politely. “yes. unfortunately.”

they didn’t notice you at all. you were perfectly camouflaged next to a pile of construction cones.

“no backup? no gang? no one to save your pretty face?” one guy sneered.

kiryu rolled his sleeves with a sigh. “i tried being nice.”

he took the first three down smoothly: with fluid dodges, sharp strikes, barely breaking a sweat. but there were more. too many. eventually, he started slipping, backing up, jaw clenched.

“y/n,” he called out calmly, “i would very much appreciate your help now.”

and then BAM!

a camo-covered blur flew out from the sidewalk and uppercut one of the guys so hard he hit a trash bin with a sound that did not suggest recovery.

kiryu blinked. “...you finally woke up.”

“he breathed too loud,” you muttered, rubbing your eye. “now my nap time is interrupted.”

when the last guy was finally running for his life, one poor soul was still groaning on the ground nearby.

“my... my spine...”

then later on, you and kiryu were cuddling. on top of him.

“your hair’s really soft,” you murmured.

“you drooled on my sleeve,” he said fondly.

“worth it.”

underneath you both, the guy screamed.

“ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW? I’M BLEEDING. SOMETHING IN ME IS BROKEN. YOU TWO GET A F*CKING ROOM!”

kiryu blinked. “oh. he’s awake.”

“NO SH*T I’M AWAKE. YOU MADE OUT ON MY SPLEEN!”

you slowly sat up.

“…he’s getting loud,” you muttered.

and with zero hesitation, you punched him unconscious again.

“he was ruining the mood.”

kiryu sighed too. “you are absolutely insane.”

you leaned in and kissed his cheek. “but i’m your problem now.”

SUO HAYATO stood at the mouth of the alley, arms folded neatly behind his back, gazing out with that polite, unreadable smile he always wore.

above him, was you.

your hair hung long and limp over your face. you weren’t sitting. you weren’t lying down. you were just dangling, neck tilted, completely still.

you were sleeping. but the moment broke when five delinquents rounded the corner.

���yo, is that furin’s tactician?” one barked. “what, you out here alone, one-eyed willy?”

another snorted. “yeah! who let this discount pirate out the nursing home?”

suo blinked slowly. “i’d be more concerned about what’s above you.”

they looked up. you twitched.

your hand snapped sideways, elbow bending wrong. your neck rotated too far. and then, you started crawling down the wall backwards, long hair trailing behind you, limbs jerky and stiff.

the laughter died.

“OH MY GOD—”

“THAT’S SADAKO. THAT’S SADAKO. WHY IS SHE OUTSIDE?!”

“WE DIDN’T EVEN WATCH THE TAPE—WHY ARE WE STILL GONNA DIE?!”

one guy screamed and slapped himself in the face. “WAKE UP. WAKE UP. THIS IS A NIGHTMARE. I HAVEN’T APOLOGIZED TO MY MOM YET—”

another dropped his pipe and immediately fell on his knees like a man being smote by god. “I’M SORRY FOR EVERYTHING. I DIDN’T MEAN TO CALL HIM A PIRATE. I WAS JOKING. OH MY GOD—”

they screamed. one tripped over his friend. another dropped his pipe and ran in circles. they scattered before you even touched the ground.

you stood beside suo, blinking slowly.

“i dreamed i was a koi fish,” you mumbled.

he offered you a handkerchief. “damn, you really scared them into another dimension.”

“yeah…” then you grinned. “but you know… you’d actually make a pretty cute pirate.”

he blinked, amused. “oh?”

“mmm. i’d join your crew. steal treasure. plunder hearts.” you squinted dramatically at his face.

he laughed under his breath, so quiet only you could hear it.

“i’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured.

you kissed his cheek again, hair falling into his face this time. “arrrr.”

SAKURA HARUKA was walking with you along the streets of makochi, who was already getting annoyed by your constant yawning.

“can you not fall asleep right now?” he muttered, crossing his arms, trying to sound tough but failing because, honestly, he cared way more than he wanted to admit.

“five more minutes,” you whined, wobbling like a sleepy kitten.

just then, a group of thugs appeared, loud and looking for trouble.

you jumped into the fight, fists flying… but also blinking slowly, yawning mid-punch like you were battling sleep more than them.

sakura stood frozen, watching you like you were the most mesmerizing thing he’d ever seen. every move slowed down in his mind, the way your hair fell over your half-closed eyes, the effortless precision of your punches despite your obvious exhaustion. his heart thundered so loudly in his chest that he was certain the thugs could hear it, his breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief.

in his head:

HOW IS SHE THIS COOL WHEN SHE’S BASICALLY SLEEPWALKING? NO, WAIT, THIS CAN’T BE REAL. I’M JUST IMAGINING THINGS. FOCUS, SAKURA! DID SHE JUST YAWN MID-PUNCH? THAT WASN’T A YAWN, IT WAS PROBABLY A SMILE. NO, STOP. WHY AM I BLUSHING? I CAN’T BREATHE. I’M NOT SITTING HERE STARING AT HER LIKE THIS. I’M NOT.

you stumbled, nearly falling, but recovered with a sleepy grin.

“you’re kinda cute when you’re mad,” you teased.

sakura’s face exploded red. his voice cracked, “d-don’t say dumb stuff! i’m not mad!”

he then shouted at the thugs, “GET LOST BEFORE I BEAT YOU TO A PULP!”

he looked like a furious little guard dog, but inside he was a blushing mess. then, when the fight was over, the thugs were down, and you were perched on a crate, barely awake.

you glanced at sakura with a sleepy smirk and said,

“don’t mess with me and my boyfriend.”

sakura froze, cheeks flaming, eyes wide like he’d just seen a ghost.

inside, his heart was doing backflips: DID SHE JUST SAY THAT? IS THIS REALLY HAPPENING?

he stammered, “w-what? n-no way, i-i’m not your—”

but you just yawned and stretched, totally unfazed.

sakura’s face stayed red, and he muttered,

“you’re impossible…”

but no one doubted he was utterly, hopelessly smitten.

જ⁀➴ © sevarchive ✦ masterlist ; like/reblogs are appreciated ꣑ৎ

[sadboyeddie]

𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐀𝐭 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐥 𝐑𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥𝐞

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞: 𝐃𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫 & 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐭

Summary: It's time to taste Miles' pies.

Warnings: There's some implied stuff and the tension gets a little heavy but nothing yet.

A/N: I'm on a roll so might as well keep going. I'm thinking about putting some smut in the next chapter idk. Please let me know if you're reading and enjoying this. I'm desperate for praise and feedback.

WC: 2.8K

A small curse leaves your lips as you struggle to open the door, the key fit in the lock fine but the handle is jammed. You knock your shoulder against the hard wood a few times and to your relief the door begrudgingly pushes open. 

You can't help the grimace that covers your face as you take in the colour of the room; it's a lot. You don't let that deter you though as you fully enter, kicking the door closed behind you, and drop your bag on the floor. 

You sit on the side of the bed facing the large mirror on the wall, fingers gliding over the material of the comforter; a little stiff but not the worst you've had to endure this trip. The mattress itself is a bit springy but it's also kind of firm which you like. 

You allow yourself to sit for a moment and just take a breath. 

Falling back against the bed you decide to close your eyes for a few minutes, unaware of the man staring at you from only a few feet away.

-- 

Miles knows this is wrong.

Knows he should be in his little closet sized room doing something else wrong but he just couldn't help himself. Your smile, your laugh, your genuine interest in what he was saying was just too captivating.

It's not like he's filming you, not that the dark thought hadn't crossed his mind, he's only watching. He tries to convince himself what he's doing is not that bad.

It could be worse.

Your soft demeanor seems to have a calming effect on his soul, something he hasn't felt since before he left for war.

He leans down and flicks the switch, the small crackle of the machine adds sound to the quiet hall before your voice fills the space. 

You're humming a tune and it takes him all but a second to realise it's the song that was playing in the lobby. He cant see your face, unfortunately, from the angle that you're laying in but he watches as you bring your hand to your chest and start playing with something; your necklace most likely. 

Although a dirtier more darker part of him wishes it was something else.

Miles takes a step back until he hits the cold concrete wall behind him, bringing his hands to his face to press the heels of his palms into his eyes, he doesn't stop until he starts to see stars behind the lids.

He's never done this before, he's only every come down to observe and watch when he's been told to. When he gets that call. He's normally very respectful of regular guests but there's something about you. Something sweet and alluring. Something the darker part of him wants. Craves

He takes one last look at you before flicking the switch off, your soft voice being cut out, as he quickly leaves the dark hallway. 

When he locks the door behind him he can hear the shrill alarm of the oven going off. 

His pies. He completely forgot.

-- 

After dragging yourself from the bed you had made your way to the shower, relieved to feel the hot water pulsing from the head. You admittedly had spent far longer in there then you intended but it felt far too good to get out, the images of the handsome concierge didn't at all help your situation. Maybe you should've had a cold shower instead? 

Here you sit on your bed now, lacing up your shoes as you finish getting ready to go out and find something to eat. You're still starving, the small bag of peanuts you had before your shower did nothing to help your hunger but you chose the comfort of the warm spray of water over food and now you're slightly regretting the long shower. 

Double checking to make sure you have your room key and purse you head down the covered walkway back to the lobby, a little surprised to see that it's already dark out. You hadn't noticed the time get away from you.

When you enter the lobby the first thing to hit you is the warmth, followed by how dark it is. There's light coming from the dessert display cases, a light behind the bar some small lamps on the tables in the booths here but not much other then that. 

You intend to ask Miles if there's a place around here to eat but just like check-in the man is nowhere to be seen.

As you make your way over to the counter you hear the faint grumblings of President Nixon going on about some such garbage that you don't really care to listen to coming from the small TV set, so you turn and head over to the display case of food on the opposite side of the room. 

You bite your bottom lip in contemplation, there's a few sandwiches; looking a little stale, some sad looking fruit and finally some slices of pie, there's a little paper note on the bottom of each plate labeling each selection in a messy scrawl; apple, strawberry, cherry or mix. 

Interesting.

While you were engrossed in the cases you didn't happen to notice or hear Miles entering, not until he stands several feet behind you and clears his throat. 

You swear you jump several feet in the air as you quickly spin to face the noise, hand tightly clutching your chest, "my god!" your breathing is a little fast as you take in the apologetic smile of Miles, "you're a quiet little thing when you want to be." 

He has the audacity to look sheepish but a little pleased as he once again apologises, "I'm really sorry, I tried to be a bit louder so I wouldn't scare you."

After taking several seconds for your heart to stop racing you let out a small chuckle, "didn't work."

You notice how he's a little more put together then he was this afternoon, not twitching as much and able to actually look you in the eye. 

It's actually a little intense.

"So.." you slightly trail off as you turn back towards the display case, "what would you suggest?"

He walks a bit closer to get a better look at the options and you take the opportunity to be a little creepy and smell him a bit. 

He smells like fruit and washing powder, an odd combination but not at all unpleasant. 

"Well, uh, I baked the pies this afternoon," he looks over at you with a proud grin and you can't help but smile back. He's so cute.

"A concierge and a cook?" You ask, impressed, "a man of many talents."

"I don't know about that," he chuckles a bit, "I never said the pies were good."

"I guess I'll be the judge of that," you turn fully to the case and take your purse from your pocket before you're stopped by Miles. 

"If you're going to rate my desserts you shouldn't have to pay," his smile is small but still there as he makes his way towards the case; ignoring your protest with his key in hand he unlocks the glass door. 

"Trying to butter up the judge?" you playfully ask as he grabs two small plates of sliced pie.

"If I was going to do that I would go and get the ice cream," he grins and makes his way over to a booth, you obediently following behind him. 

"Well now I'm definitely taking a point off for no ice cream," you grumble with a smile as you take a seat.

Miles breathes out a laugh through his nose, an easy smile on his face and heads back over to the display case to get the other two flavours of pie and two forks. 

"So, which is which?" you ask, gently turning the slices of pies to get a better look at their fillings as he sits down and places the forks on the table.

"Apple, strawberry, cherry, mixed," he points to each one as he names it, he takes note of the small confusion as he points to the fourth, "I had extra filling left over so I made a smaller pie," he shrugs.

"Ah, very smart," you praise as you pick up a fork and pull the strawberry pie a little closer to you, "have you tried any yet?" you nod towards the desserts.

"I had some of the cherry before putting it into the oven," he picks up his fork and waits for you to start, "it was good." 

"I'll decide that," you smile, and he laughs a bit, as you cut the tip of the pie off with the side of your fork, making sure to get a decent amount of crust and filling before scooping it into your mouth. 

Miles watches you with baited breath, trying to gauge your reaction. To your credit you try very hard to keep a neutral expression but your facade falls and you let out a small groan.

If you hadn't gone to fork another piece you would have seen the tips of Miles' ears go red and his face flush a deep crimson.

"This is so good!" you praise before taking another bite. Your hunger make itself more evident now that you've had a taste of food.

Your praise snaps him out of his trance and he gives you a warm smile, "yeah?"

"Yes!" you nod, "try some," pushing the plate with little force in his direction, stopping when it's in the middle of the table between you. 

"Okay," it's soft and a little shy but he eagerly digs his fork into the pie, a small thrill runs through you as you watch him share the dessert. The whole thing feeling entirely too intimate but you can't find it in yourself to stop.

You admit that if Miles was a different person, perhaps loud and brash you might not want to spent much time in his presence but he's completely the opposite of that. Gentle and shy, mysterious and intriguing. A soft riddle you want to solve.

You can tell the moment the pie hits his tongue because his eyes widen and light up a bit, "huh," he nods, trying his hardest to stay modest, "not bad."

"'Not bad'," you scoff and playfully roll your eyes, "such a humble chef." 

You go to break off another peace and he follows your lead smiling as he does. 

"Where'd you learn to bake?" you ask the question casually but you notice his shoulders stiffen a bit.

He takes his time chewing the mouthful of pastry before finally answering your question, "my Grandma taught me."

You take in his hesitancy before replying, "I think she'd be proud of this," you point the fork at the crumbs now lingering the empty plate, feeling slightly guilty you ate much more then Miles.

If he cares, he doesn't show it.

"Oh, this wouldn't even compare to hers," his laugh is a tad depreciating, "hers tasted like home," the last part was said much quieter and a with a little sadness.

The look on his face makes you want to climb across the table and hold him; instead you gently place your hand on his, to your relief he doesn't shake it off or remove it. The urge to sooth him is overwhelming and you have to take a second to mentally pull yourself back.

You met this guy this afternoon and have barely been around him for an hour and yet you're ready to risk it all for him. How desperate are you?

He clears his throat and puts on a small smile before pushing the apple pie in your direction, "ready for more?"

Okay, yeah, you're very desperate. 

"Mhm," you hum, not really trusting your voice at the moment. You take note of how cold your hand feels now that it's no longer touching his warm one.

Pull it together!

"Apple," your voice comes out a little rougher then you'd hope, "a classic," you bite your bottom lip as you cut off a piece and bring it up for a taste. 

Your hand stutters slightly as you notice Miles' burning eyes focused solely on your lips. You quickly place the for in your mouth but you're so distracted by Miles you don't really taste it before chewing and swallowing. 

"It's, um, it's very good," you nervously laugh avoiding Miles' gaze as you go in for more. 

He's once again snapped from his trance, letting out a heavy breath as he takes a scoop of the apple and quickly pushes it into his mouth. 

"Your verdict?" you ask, feeling your cheeks heat up watching him swallow. 

What is going on with you?

"You're the judge," his shy smile is back, like it never left, "you tell me."

You playfully laugh as you take another bite, fully intending to actually taste the pie this time. You take a minute after swallowing to answer him.

"Apple isn't my favourite type of pie," you start, "but the cinnamon really brings out the flavour," you complement, "would be nicer with cream though," you joke.

It was meant as a jest but Miles answers like his mouth was faster then his brain. 

"Cream pies are the best," your eyes go wide as he tries to stutter out a response, "cream w-with pies, cream is good on pies," you can see the horror in his eyes as he talks.

The room goes still, awkward tension fills the air but you can't help but add to that. 

"I like cream pies," you wink as you reach over and grab the cherry pie, feeling pretty satisfied when you hear Miles let out a choked cough, "I'll admit cherries are my favourite so you better not have messed this up," you add playfully, like you didn't just send his mind spiraling.

"Mine too," is all he can manage to say after a long pause, his voice is soft but the grip he has on the fork looks like it's enough to bend the metal. 

This time the groan you let out is not all for the taste of the pie, its exaggerated and you close your eyes just for show, "So good, Miles." 

He quickly scoops up what was left of the apple pie into his mouth, something to distract him from the problem he's now facing. 

"I don't know if I want to share this," you open your eyes and give him your most innocent smile, "it's the best one."

After a beat and a small breath he replies.

"There's more in the case," it's his turn for his voice to be rough, "you can have as much as you like."

"Don't tease me," you laugh, "I might just take you up that." 

The pie really is the best of the three, you haven't tried the fourth one yet but you've already picked a clear winner. 

"Here," you cut off a generous portion of the pastry and filling and hold it up, "taste it."

Miles can no longer hold back the small groan that's been lingering at the back of his throat as he eagerly leans forward and wraps his lips around your fork, all the while keeping eye contact. 

All the control you thought you had and all the confidence suddenly vanishes as you watch him slowly eat the pie from your fork. Your breathing is once again coming out heavy as you watch him slowly chew, eyes burning into yours before swallowing.

A small bit of juice has gathered on his bottom lip and before you can lean over and do something about it his tongue darts out, swiping over the sweet liquid, there really isn't that much but just to be sure he make a show of bringing his thumb up and swiping over his lip before sucking the tip into his mouth.

You harshly push the plates to the side and lean up in your seat to kiss him, he follows your lead as you grab handfuls of his white button-up shirt but just before you can crash your lips to his the front door to the lobby opens and a man and woman walk in, loudly chatting between themselves.

You hear Miles let out a small sound, something between a whimper and a groan, which if you weren't annoyed at being interrupted would have definitely done something to you. 

You can't help but pout when he stands up, taking a second to straighten up his now crumpled shirt before heading over to attend the couple that are now ringing the bell at the front desk. 

With the tension gone and the mood ruined you grab the last piece of pie and head back to your room, you would have maybe stayed but you can over hear the man talking about having a few drinks at the bar, and you doubt there's a bartender other the Miles here. 

You briefly make eye contact with Miles as you open the door, his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are straight, you let out a humourless chuckle at the look he sends the woman when she asks for the introductory tour. 

At least he's feeling similarly to you.

[whopraysforsatan]

request from @thatid0it666 Maybe Lucifer helps reader out with a hunt. And him seeing reader covered in blood from killing the monster kinda turns him on. And so on. Or something like that.

Pairing: Lucifer! x F!Hunter

Rating: M/18+

The abandoned warehouse reeked of copper and rot. Moonlight sliced through broken windows, casting long shadows across concrete floors stained with decades of industrial grime. She moved silently, machete gripped loosely in her right hand, her boots barely making a sound despite the debris scattered across the floor.

Lucifer followed a few paces behind, watching with undisguised fascination. He could have simply snapped his fingers, reduced every vampire in the building to ash. But where was the fun in that?

Besides, watching her hunt was... entertaining.

A rustling sound from the left had her pivoting smoothly, her body coiled with predatory tension. Lucifer leaned against a rusted support beam, crossing his arms.

"Behind the shipping crates," he said, just loud enough to hear. "Two of them. Thinking they're being clever."

Her eyes flicked to him, then back to the crates. She gave a single nod and adjusted her grip on the machete.

"You could help," she said, voice flat.

Lucifer's mouth curled into a lazy smile. "I am helping. I'm your supernatural radar, remember?"

She didn't bother responding, just moved toward the crates with efficient purpose. No hesitation, no fear. His little hunter was a machine built for killing.

The first vampire lunged as soon as she rounded the corner. Young, stupid, probably turned within the last month. It telegraphed its attack with a hiss. She ducked under its outstretched arms and brought the machete up in a clean arc. The head separated from the body with a wet sound.

Blood sprayed across her face and chest in a fine mist. She didn't flinch, didn't even blink.

The second vampire was smarter, keeping its distance, circling. Its eyes darted between her and Lucifer.

"You're with... him?" it asked, voice trembling slightly. At least this one was old enough to recognize what Lucifer was.

She tilted her head. "Yes."

"Then why - "

"Because my little hunter likes killing things," Lucifer interjected cheerfully. "And I like watching her do it."

The vampire made a desperate lunge toward a side door. She was faster, cutting it off with three quick strides. The machete flashed once, twice. The vampire's head hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by its body.

Blood splattered across her face and neck, dripping down her throat to stain her already soaked shirt. She straightened, turning to face Lucifer. Her expression hadn't changed, but her breath came slightly faster, her pupils dilated.

Something hot and electric shot through Lucifer's body at the sight. His little hunter, standing in a pool of blood with intense eyes and not a shred of remorse.

"There are four more," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "Three in the back office area. One by the loading bay."

A nod, then a glance downward. "Messy."

"Very," he agreed, pushing himself off the support beam and walking closer. The blood wasn't cooling yet, still gleaming wet in the moonlight.

He reached out, dragged a finger down her cheek through the blood. She watched him, unblinking, as he brought the finger to his mouth and tasted it.

"Not bad," he murmured. "Young. Probably ate clean."

Something flickered in those eyes. That strange intensity that was becoming familiar. It wasn't just determination. More like... interest.

"The others?" she asked, her voice still steady, but with a subtle edge to it that hadn't been there before.

"Can wait," Lucifer decided, stepping closer.

No backing away. Of course not. Fear wasn't part of his little hunter's vocabulary these days.

"Efficient," he said, gesturing to the bodies around them. "Clean kills. No wasted motion."

"I've been hunting since before I learned to drive," came the reply.

Lucifer smirked, reaching out again. This time, his hand found a throat, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse. "But never quite like this, I bet. Never so... free."

Her pulse jumped beneath his touch, the only indication that she was affected at all.

"The blood turns you on," she observed, detached even as her body responded to his touch.

Lucifer laughed, a sound that echoed in the cavernous space. "Look who's talking."

He backed her against the nearest wall, hand still on her throat. His touch wasn't gentle, but it wasn't meant to hurt either. Just to control. To possess.

"You didn't exactly object when I suggested this hunt," he reminded her, leaning in to speak against her ear. "Didn't bat an eye when I mentioned this nest had a thing for college girls."

"They needed to be put down," she said simply. "I'm a hunter. It's practical."

"Practical," he repeated, amused. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

He pressed closer, inhaling the scent of blood and sweat and something uniquely her beneath it all. His free hand slid beneath her jacket, finding the warm skin of her waist.

"You know what I think?" he whispered, lips brushing her ear. "I think you like this almost as much as I do."

Her hand came up suddenly, fisting in his hair and yanking his head back. Her eyes, when they met his, were intense and focused. Her breathing had quickened, pupils blown wide.

"Stop analyzing me," she said. Then she kissed him.

There was nothing gentle in the way her mouth claimed his. Just hunger and need and the metallic taste of vampire blood. Lucifer growled against her lips, pressing her harder against the wall. His hand moved from her throat to her hair, pulling sharply.

She bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood and he laughed into her mouth, the taste of his own blood mingling with that of the vampires.

"Right here?" she asked when they broke apart, voice slightly breathless but still steady. "With four more vamps in the building?"

"Adds to the thrill, don't you think?" Lucifer tugged at a belt, working it loose with practiced fingers. "Besides, they're scared. They can feel me. They won't come near us."

Her hand closed around his wrist, stopping him. For a second, he thought she might actually refuse. But then she reached for her machete, dropped in their initial embrace.

"Lock the door," she said, pointing with the blade to the loading bay entrance.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow, amused by such practicality even now. With a casual flick of his wrist, he sent a surge of power that slammed all the doors in the vicinity shut, deadbolts engaging with metallic clicks.

"Better?" he asked.

Her only answer was to shove him back against a stack of crates, machete still in one hand. The blade came to rest against his throat, its edge cold and sharp against his skin.

"You act like that scares me," he said, not bothering to hide his arousal at the aggression.

"I know it doesn't." She lowered the blade, using its flat side to push his jacket open. "But you like it anyway."

He did. Satan himself, the Morning Star, allowing a human to press steel to his throat. Allowing her to draw his blood. He should have killed her for the presumption alone.

Instead, he grabbed her hips and lifted her onto a nearby table, knocking aside rusted tools and debris. Her legs wrapped around his waist, the machete clattering to the floor as her hands found better purchase on his shoulders.

Moonlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the blood drying on her skin. Vampire corpses lay not ten feet away. And all Lucifer could think about was how badly he wanted to claim his little hunter right here in the filth and death.

"The things you do to me," he muttered against warm throat, tasting salt and copper.

Her pulse thrummed beneath his lips, a steady rhythm that belied the chaos around them.

Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting, and he let out a delighted laugh. The pain was nothing - less than nothing - but the audacity of it, the sheer gall of this human woman yanking the Devil around like he was hers to command? That was intoxicating.

He shifted his grip, hands sliding under her thighs to hoist her higher against him. The table creaked under their combined weight, a flimsy relic of human industry that wouldn’t last much longer. “Careful, sweetheart,” he teased, drawing out the word with exaggerated flair. “You break it, you buy it.”

Her only response was to grind herself against him, a move that made his breath catch despite himself. 

He kissed her, hard and possessive, tasting the blood still lingering on her mouth. She met him with equal ferocity, hands clawing at his back, nails leaving marks that would heal in seconds but felt glorious in the moment.

The sound of movement - a faint shuffle from the back of the warehouse - cut through the haze. Four vampires left, he’d said. Three in the office, one by the loading bay. They were still out there, cowering, probably sensing the archangel in their midst and the slaughter he’d allowed to unfold. Lucifer didn’t care. Let them wait. Let them tremble.

She broke the kiss, head tilting toward the noise, her hunter’s instincts kicking in even now. “They’re moving,” she said, voice rough but focused.

“Let them,” he replied, casual as ever, his hand sliding up her side to rest just beneath her ribs. “They’re not stupid enough to come closer. Not with me here.” He leaned in again, lips brushing her jaw. “And I’m not done with you.”

Her eyes flicked back to him, that intensity flaring again. “You’re reckless,” she said, but she didn’t pull away. If anything, she pressed closer, her body a contradiction of tension and surrender.

“Reckless?” He laughed, the sound echoing off the warehouse walls. “You’re just lucky I’m in a sharing mood tonight.” His fingers tightened on her waist, possessive and unyielding. “Now, where were we?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she yanked his shirt up and over his head in one swift motion, tossing it aside to land somewhere among the debris.

The table groaned again, louder this time, and Lucifer decided he didn’t care if it held. He shoved her jacket off her shoulders, exposing more of that blood-streaked skin, and pressed himself closer, the heat of her body seeping into him. Her legs tightened around his waist, urging him on, and he obliged, hands roaming with a purpose that was anything but gentle.

Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked - probably the loading bay vamp making a break for it. He could feel its fear, a faint pulse of panic that amused him almost as much as her defiance did. “One’s running,” he murmured against her throat, not bothering to lift his head.

“Let it,” she said, echoing his earlier dismissal. Her voice was breathy now, but still firm. “I’ll get it later.”

“We’ll get it later,” he corrected, nipping at her skin just hard enough to make her gasp. “This is a team effort, after all.”

She didn’t argue, just tilted her head back to give him better access, her hands gripping his shoulders like she could hold him in place. As if he’d go anywhere else right now. The warehouse, the vampires, the blood - it all faded to background noise, drowned out by the sound of her breathing, the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her on his tongue.

She shifted suddenly, hands planting firmly on his chest as she shoved him backward with a force that caught even him off guard. He hit the concrete floor with a solid thud, the blood-slick ground cold against his back, and she was on him in an instant, straddling his hips. Her hands stayed on his shoulders, pressing him into the grit and grime, her eyes burning with that fierce intensity he’d come to crave. Lucifer grinned up at her, wild and unhinged, his chest heaving with a laugh that vibrated against her palms.

“Well, hello there,” he purred, voice thick with mock surprise, though his hands were already clawing at her hips, fingers digging into flesh with bruising force. “Someone’s feeling bold.”

She didn’t respond, just shifted her weight, grinding down against him in a way that made his breath catch and his grip tighten. The concrete was cold and rough against his back, gritty with decades of filth, but he barely noticed. All he could feel was her - hot and alive and unrelenting, her thighs clamping around him like a vice. Blood still clung to her skin, drying in streaks across her throat and chest, and the scent of it mingled with sweat and the faint tang of her arousal. It drove him mad.

He surged up, flipping them in one fluid motion so she was sprawled beneath him, her back scraping against the floor. She hissed at the sting, but her legs hooked around his waist again, pulling him closer, daring him to stop. Her shirt was half-torn already, soaked with vampire blood, and he ripped it the rest of the way off, fabric shredding under his hands. Her skin was a map of scars and fresh bruises, a testament to a life spent fighting, and he traced one jagged line across her ribs with his tongue, tasting salt and copper.

“Fuck,” she muttered, voice raw, her head tipping back as his teeth grazed her collarbone. Her hands scrabbled at his back, nails raking red lines that healed almost instantly, but the sting lingered just long enough to make him growl. She was marking him, claiming him in her own brutal way, and he reveled in it.

He yanked at her jeans, the button popping free and the zipper tearing under his impatience. She lifted her hips, helping him shove the denim down just far enough, and then his hand was between her legs, fingers sliding through slick heat. She was soaked, and the realization hit him like a punch - his little hunter, so composed and deadly, unraveling for him in the middle of a slaughterhouse. He pressed two fingers inside her without warning, rough and deep, and her whole body arched, a choked sound escaping her throat.

“Like that, do you?” he purred, his voice a menacing sing-song as he curled his fingers, watching her face twist with pleasure and pain. Her eyes fluttered shut, but he grabbed her chin with his free hand, forcing her to look at him. “No, no, little hunter. Eyes on me.”

She obeyed, her gaze locking onto his, fierce and unyielding even as her breath came in ragged gasps. Her hand shot down, fumbling with his belt, then his pants, and she didn’t bother with finesse - just shoved them down and wrapped her fingers around him, stroking hard and fast. He groaned, low and guttural, his control fraying as she worked him with the same ruthless efficiency she’d used to behead those vamps.

The concrete bit into his knees as he shifted, positioning himself between her thighs. He didn’t ask, didn’t wait - just thrust into her in one brutal motion, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out, a sharp, visceral sound that echoed off the warehouse walls, her body clenching around him like she could trap him there. He didn’t give her time to adjust, pulling back and slamming in again, setting a pace that was punishing and relentless.

Blood and sweat slicked their skin, making every movement slippery and raw. Her hands clawed at his shoulders, his neck, his hair - anywhere she could reach - leaving welts that faded too fast for his liking. He wanted them to stay, wanted her to scar him the way she scarred everything else she touched. He bit down on her shoulder, hard enough to break skin, and she moaned, her hips bucking up to meet his thrusts. The taste of her blood flooded his mouth - human, warm, alive - and he licked it clean, savoring the way it mixed with the vampire gore still smeared across her.

“Harder,” she demanded, voice hoarse, her legs tightening around him until he could feel the strain in her muscles. He obliged, driving into her with enough force to shove her up the floor, her back scraping against the concrete. She didn’t care - didn’t even flinch - just dug her heels into his lower back and pulled him deeper, her nails drawing blood from his scalp this time.

He laughed against her throat, a dark, jagged sound, and slid a hand under her, lifting her hips to change the angle. The new position made her gasp, her body shuddering as he hit something deep inside her, and he kept going, relentless, chasing that reaction. “There it is,” he murmured, mocking and triumphant. “My little hunter’s breaking.”

“Not yet,” she snarled, and then she twisted, using her legs to flip him onto his back again. The move caught him off guard - just for a second - but it was enough. She straddled him, sinking down onto him with a force that made them both groan, and started riding him like she was trying to break him instead. Her hands braced on his chest, nails digging in, and her eyes never left his, burning with that same intensity that had hooked him from the start.

The warehouse floor was a mess beneath them - blood pooling from the vampire corpses, mixing with the dirt and grime, staining her knees and his back. He didn’t care. She was a vision above him, hair wild and matted with sweat, blood crusting on her skin, her body moving with a ferocity that matched his own. He gripped her hips, guiding her rhythm, thrusting up to meet her until the sound of flesh against flesh drowned out everything else.

She came first, sudden and violent, her whole body seizing as a cry tore from her throat. Her walls clenched around him, tight and pulsing, and it was enough to drag him over the edge with her. He spilled inside her with a growl, his fingers bruising her hips, his vision blurring for a split second as pleasure ripped through him.

They collapsed together, her weight slumping against his chest, both of them panting in the aftermath. The air reeked of sex and death, the moonlight casting harsh shadows over their tangled bodies. Somewhere in the distance, the remaining vampires were still hiding, their fear a faint hum in the back of his mind. He’d deal with them later. Or she would. Right now, he didn’t give a damn.

She shifted, rolling off him to lie on her back beside him, staring up at the rusted ceiling. Blood streaked her face, her chest, her thighs - hers and theirs - and she didn’t bother wiping it away. “Three left,” she said, voice steady again, like they hadn’t just fucked each other senseless in a pool of gore.

He turned his head to look at her, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face. “Eager to get back to work, are we?”

She didn’t smile back, just sat up, reaching for her machete where it lay a few feet away. “They’re not going to kill themselves.”

Lucifer laughed, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the walls. “Oh, I do love you,” he said, and for once, it didn’t sound entirely like a joke. He pushed himself up, brushing dirt and blood from his skin, and watched as she stood, already pulling her jeans back into place. His little hunter, practical to the end.

“Let’s go hunting, then,” he said, stepping closer to drape an arm around her shoulders, possessive and casual all at once. “I’ll even let you take the next one. I’m feeling generous.”

She glanced at him, that flicker of interest back in her eyes, and nodded. “Deal.” Then she turned, machete in hand, and started toward the back office, leaving him to follow. As always.

[decayingearf]

𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗄𝗌

𝘀𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀; you were red room’s top assassin. currently you were working with bucky barnes. the winter soldier. 𝙬𝙘; 717

✗ warnings: suggestive, pent-up tension

you hadn’t anticipated to be paired with anyone let alone, the winter soldier.

nothing wrong with him in particular but you come from different backgrounds entirely. you, raised to be a killing machine—they point, you shoot.

bucky, raised in a loving home surrounded by friends and family. not as if you were one upping him though, even if you were, he’d win. you can’t downplay his sob story as anything else.

still, how you were raised taught you to never rely on anyone else to help you. ever.

“you’re bucky” you stated as you waltzed into the vacant building eyeing the man with every step you took. “ fury already told me everything-“ he responded not even bothering to hide his uninterested tone before rising to his feet and walking towards the door, stopping just short of it. “we need to be going, the drop is happening soon” the man finished while walking the rest of the way out.

“what a dick” you mumble for turning around and following his path.

23:00 hours (11:00 pm)

gunfire erupted behind you as you and bucky sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, boots slamming against the concrete. the mercenaries were fast—but you and bucky were faster.

“this is why I said not to blow our cover,” you huffed, dodging a spray of bullets as bucky yanked you around a corner.

“i didn’t blow anything,” he shot back, metal arm flexing as he shoved a crate down behind you to slow your pursuers. “they were already onto us.”

another round of shots cracked through the air. you barely had time to react before bucky grabbed your wrist and yanked you into a narrow passageway between two buildings. the space was tight—so tight that you had to press up against him as you squeezed through the dark gap.

“move,” you whispered urgently, feeling the heat of his body against yours.

“i am moving,” bucky muttered, his breath warm against your ear as he shifted, trying to fit his broad frame through the space. “maybe if you weren’t taking up so much room—”

you jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “shut up and squeeze through.”

footsteps thundered past the entrance of the alley, and both of you went still, bodies pressed together in the confined space. you held your breath, waiting, listening.

after a tense moment, the mercenaries’ voices faded into the distance.

bucky exhaled. “tight spaces. new favorite hiding spot.”

you glared at him. “move before I decide to leave you stuck here.”

with a smirk, he finally maneuvered his way through, and as soon as you were free, you shot him a look.

“next time,” you said, brushing dust off your jacket, “i’m leading.”

bucky just chuckled, rolling his shoulders. “sure, sweetheart. whatever makes you feel better.”

24:00 hours (12:00 pm)

your back hit the cold brick wall of the alley as you caught your breath, heart still hammering from the chase. bucky stood in front of you, just as breathless, his body close—too close.

“you good?” he asked, voice lower than usual, thick with adrenaline.

you swallowed hard, nodding. “yeah. you?”

instead of answering, he smirked, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. his fingers, cool from the night air, lingered a second too long against your skin.

“you were slow back there,” he murmured.

your brows shot up. “slow?”

“mhm.” he shifted closer, his chest nearly brushing yours. “maybe i should start training you. get you used to… tight spaces.”

you scoffed, even as heat curled low in your stomach. “pretty sure i handled myself just fine.”

bucky tilted his head, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “i don’t know… looked like you needed my help more than once.”

your pulse jumped, and you weren’t sure if it was still the adrenaline or something else entirely.

slowly, deliberately, you leaned up—just enough to let your breath ghost against his lips. “keep talking, barnes, and i’ll show you exactly how well I handle myself.”

his smirk deepened. “i might just take you up on that, sweetheart.”

just as you look up to respond you see nick fury speed up. “get in” he demanded nodding towards the back of the car.

damn you and your shitty timing, fury.

[dw-flagler]

How about this?

Where there any instances on canon (or in a midlly divergent timeline) you could see a character second triggering who didn't canonically, and what do you think the resulting altered power would be like?

really interesting idea!

Very obvious answer though. Single most likely character to second trigger who didn't is lisa. I wouldn't go as far as to say she should have triggered, because I think that's too far and kind of accusatory but she absolutely could have second triggered during Speck and not for a second would I think it was out of character or unfitting. I mean it would have shattered the pacing but it would fit her character.

There is literally nothing anyone can do to lisa more truly agonizingly torturous than what happened to her in canon. Except for some dead dove fics by figures like Alotoaxolotls and even then it's still close.

The parahumans series is basically about lisa wilbourn triggering from watching her brother die and knowing she could have saved him and didn't and then watching that happen again. Twice.

I think the line "you couldn't have made it easy?" is maybe the single most heartbreaking line in the entire parahumans series for me. The whole pepper spray thing genuinely crushes me every time.

Close second is "this makes me feel really sorry for your dad, because I’m starting to get a sense of what you put him through." Not very pithy, though.

If lisa triggered during speck it probably would have been late, when lisa realizes that she can't be the one to translate for khepri. This is a fucking crushing moment for smugbug fans (platonic or otherwise) because it's truly the moment where lisa had nothing left of taylor (and her facade as the smartest one in the room fully shattered).

If you wanted to put it somewhere else for some reason, maybe you could put it at the point where taylor leaves the undersiders to join the protectorate, but gold morning is just better. Or worse? If both of those are out for some reason then you could look at my fanfic where taylor dies post-leviathan, but that's distinctly divergent from canon, where these other two would just be completely canon until lisa second triggers.

For her second-trigger powers, this I always had trouble with. I'm not sure, cause the problem is that a second trigger has to be powerful compared to a non-second trigger, but still at least a little limited, and if you take like any limits at all away from lisa she basically becomes a god in purple spandex. Practically omnipotent. And that's not very interesting to write, except as a "lisa stomps all of canon" thing I guess.

My first and most comprehensive idea is basically that you increase her capacity for power use, making it way less of a debate whether it's worth it to use her power (it almost always because the tradeoffs are far less significant) but you make it far more prone to misfires or unhelpful tangents, especially about how people around her are lying-to or betraying her! This basically shifts the debate lisa has from "should I use my power?" to "should I trust my power?" The idea being that her power is less reliable but she's necessarily more reliant on it.

The opposite is also a possibility, where her power basically becomes way more reliable and accurate, but she has way less capacity. So it's basically always reliable but she really has to consider whether or not it'd be worth it because she gets very little power use per day. So it's more reliable but she can't rely on it. This one is probably a more concrete upgrade compared to tattletale 1.0 than the machine gun approach to thinker powers.

Since lisa's first trigger is mainly about regret, I guess her second trigger would be mainly about what she regretted. Did she more regret not knowing more or not knowing better? Something like that.

The problem with these is that they're kind of conceptually boring.

A third idea some others have floated around is if she gets an ability to control who suffers the migraine, so she could make others around her suffer the brunt of the migraine instead of her. However, my main gripe with this is that it makes her even more comically powerful than the other two options. Not only is it a lisa without migraines, it's a lisa with a shaker effect to induce migraines in others!

I'm not actually sure which of these (or maybe a fourth option i had not even considered) is the best option.

tl;dr: ask a lisa expert. I dunno. get silvianorton on the horn

[monosanimegenericzone]

Hunter x Hunter: Double Machine Gun

some faq about franklin's hatsu that i keep asking myself and don't have enough data points to draw concrete conclusions on.

can the bullets do piercing damage (eg, hit a collat on lined up targets).

in the anime it was a prolonged scene to give the characters dialogue time. but in the manga? this shit was brutal.

LIKE BRO.

THAT DUDE'S HEAD??? IT'S GONE.

do you have any ibuprofen i have a headache

HEADASS

in the anime the bullets disappear as soon as they make contact. in the manga it's hard to tell because. there aren't any bullet trackers. just a "heres where they start, here's what they did"

based on what we see, i'm going to assume the bullets disappear on contact but pack just as much punch as if they followed through. i cant find the shot im looking for (im lazy) on youtube so trust when i say thats what happened in the 2011 anime.

can franklin concentrate his fire to one or two fingers like a sniper rifle or a shotgun?

....

... i answered my own question in the one above.

HE DONT EVEN NEED TWO FINGERS FOR A SHOTGUN. DUDE A SINGLE BULLET. FROM ONE OF HIS FINGERS. CAN HAVE YOU LOOKIN LIKE YOU JUST GOT THE BITE OF 87.

SNIPER RIFLE POWER TOO- LIKE BRO HE DONT NEED ITTTTTT.

for the sniper i think we just have to ask the question of "how good that eyesight." which. idfk. we just assume that every hxh character that can fight has 20/20 vision except shizuku and wing. mayyybe knov.

side note though. it would be cool if he could toggle a piercing mode if he's trying to wallbang someone for whatever reason. maybe has to only be one hand or some other set of conditions.

i just want to give him some flavor after we see him just spray and pray- and, admittedly, get the highest on-screen kill count of anyone in the troupe...

his nen ability is very simple. but it is very strong and i want to see him put that square shaped noggin to use uwu

this is a certified nen nerd post.

[creepypastabilities]

Only the moon saw us.

Pairing— Brian Thomas x Tim Wright (Marble Hornets)

CWs— None

I. Static Between Stations

Tim was always smoke first, answers later. He leaned against the busted soda machine outside the old 76 off Route Nowhere, hoodie sleeves pulled down to his knuckles, a Marlboro ghosting between his fingers like it was part of him. The red glow of the neon “OPEN” sign flickered like a dying heartbeat. Brian watched it flash over Tim’s cheekbones — ON / OFF / ON / OFF — until it looked like the kind of cinema you’d watch with the volume turned all the way down.

They’d been driving for hours. No destination, just a shared urge to leave. Brian didn’t ask what Tim was running from. He already knew.

The gas station bathroom smelled like bleach and despair. A cockroach scuttled under the sink and Brian caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror — cracked, distorted, a hundred pieces that didn’t fit anymore. He splashed cold water on his face, like that would wash off everything: the Operator, the tapes, the lies. But all it did was wake up the ache in his chest.

Outside, Tim flicked ash into the wind. He looked like a Polaroid — overexposed, fading at the edges. A boy caught halfway between still here and long gone.

“You ever think about just… not going back?” Tim asked, not looking at him.

Brian lit a cigarette and leaned beside him, hip brushing his. “Back to what?”

That earned him a smile. A real one. Tim had the kind of smile that made you feel like you just found something valuable in a junkyard. Rusted, yes. But still worth saving.

II. Ghost Radio

They spent the night in a drained-out pool behind the abandoned bowling alley. Their breath fogged in the cold, but neither of them cared. They passed a flask back and forth like a secret and listened to the radio that didn’t work — just static and the occasional warbled whisper of a country song caught in the air like a memory too stubborn to die.

Tim laid flat on his back, staring at the stars like he was daring them to look away first.

“Do you think we’re haunted?” he asked.

Brian let the question hang. Swallowed it like battery acid.

“We’re not haunted,” he said eventually. “We are the ghosts.”

Tim laughed like it hurt. “That’s so fucking emo.”

Brian turned to him. “We are fucking emo. Look at us. We’re the last track on a My Chemical Romance album.”

Tim rolled onto his side, face close now, eyes catching the moonlight like he’d stolen it. “You ever wish it had all gone different?”

Brian didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Tim’s mouth — soft, like apology; slow, like a dare.

III. American Decay

By morning, the Converse soles of their shoes were black with road grime and regret. They stole diner coffee from a place with a “closed forever” sign and ate melted Twinkies on the hood of a rusted-out Camaro buried halfway in kudzu.

Tim took photos on a disposable camera, saying they were making a scrapbook for the end of the world. He took one of Brian lighting a cigarette with shaky hands. Another of their shadows holding hands.

“I don’t want to forget,” he said.

“You won’t,” Brian replied. “Things this fucked up tend to stick.”

They spray-painted their names on the side of the gas station in letters that dripped like blood. BRIAN + TIM = NEVER AGAIN / NEVER ENOUGH.

Brian looked at it for a long time, wondering which one of them would be the first to disappear.

IV. Moonlight Doesn’t Lie

It ended — or maybe began — in the parking lot of an old drive-in where the screen had been torn down years ago. Nothing left but broken speakers and that kind of silence that sounds like someone watching you from behind.

Tim lit two cigarettes, passed one to Brian without a word. They smoked like lifelines.

The wind picked up. Dust devils danced across the cracked concrete. Somewhere, a cassette tape rewound itself in a forgotten car stereo. Maybe it was theirs. Maybe it wasn’t.

“I think I love you,” Tim said, like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the world.

Brian didn’t say it back. He just kissed him again, rough this time — like graffiti, like fury, like clawing their way out of every ruined place they’d ever been.

Only the moon saw them. And the moon doesn’t lie.

[seobloggerforwork]

Tunnel Concrete Spraying Machine

This isn't your average concrete mixer. The tunnel concrete spraying machine is a high-pressure warrior, taking a wet or dry concrete mix and launching it at high velocity onto tunnel walls. Imagine a skilled archer, except the target is a tunnel surface and the arrow is a sticky, fortifying concrete spray. But the magic lies not just in the power, but in the versatility:

Wet Mix Wizardry: Wet mix machines create their concrete concoction on-site, offering precise control over the mix's consistency and properties. This is ideal for applications requiring specific strength or water resistance.

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Choosing Your Tunnel Tamer:

Selecting the right machine hinges on your specific project needs:

Project Requirements: Assess the spraying capacity (cubic meters per hour), aggregate size needed (rock particle size in the mix), spraying distance requirements, and pump type (electric or diesel).

Budget Considerations: Tunnel concrete spraying machines range from budget-friendly to feature-packed. Choose the one that aligns with your financial resources and project complexity.

Brand Reputation and User-Friendliness: Research different brands and models, considering features, user-friendliness, and the reputation of the manufacturer.

Spare Parts and Service: Ensure easy access to spare parts and reliable service to minimize downtime and keep your project running smoothly.

Safety First: Always prioritize safety! Verify that the machine adheres to the highest safety standards.

Beyond the Tunnels: A Versatile Champion

The tunnel concrete spraying machine's prowess extends beyond the depths:

Slope Savior: This machine can be deployed on slopes and excavations, spraying concrete like a protective armor to prevent landslides and ensure stability.

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Structural Surgeon: Time and wear can take their toll on concrete structures. But fear not! The shotcrete machine, with its restorative powers, can mend cracks, reinforce weakened areas, and breathe new life into aging structures.

A Glimpse into the Future:

Advancements in automation, remote control operations, and even self-healing concrete mixes are on the horizon, promising to make the tunnel concrete spraying machine even more efficient, versatile, and a true master of concrete application.

So, the next time you see a tunnel under construction, remember the silent hero behind the scenes – the tunnel concrete spraying machine, tirelessly spraying concrete and ensuring the safety and stability of the structures that connect us all.

[dustedmagazine]

The 2025 Dusted Mid-Year Switch: Part 2

Sharp Pins

Today, we present the second part of the Mid-Year Switch, covering artists from Boldy James and Antt Beatz through the War & Treaty.  We’ll have lists tomorrow.  If you missed yesterday’s post, catch up here. 

Boldy James & Antt Beatz — Hommage (Empire)

Who nominated it? Ray Garraty

Did we review it? Yes, Ray wrote, “Hommage is one of the six albums Boldy James put out in 2025. It’s much better than the rest of them.”

Jennifer Kelly’s take:

Ray’s the expert on Michigan rap, but I was taken with the slow-moving menace of these cuts. James drawls sharp cultural references and lurid crime narratives over his producer’s slurring, back-slipping beats, many of them lush with florid piano runs but bounded, on the low-end, with resounding, pounding bass. James’ delivery is bleary, exhausted, but knotted up with quick bursts of machine gun sprayed imagery (for instance, in “Concrete Connie” “Now I spin a zip of flake for a pair of sneakers/Nigga still running base like I'm Derek Jeter/Pull up something Dilla play with the foreign features/Now a nigga charging $10.08 for a feature.” ). James brings in fellow Detroiters like Baby Money and BandGang Lonnie Bands for guest appearances, the latter turning up in “Met Me” with an unexpected hockey reference (“like a jetski/I sold so much ice they call me Wayne Gretsky”). Oh right, Canada’s right over the bridge, isn’t it?

Damon Locks — List of Demands (International Anthem)

Who nominated it? Bill Meyer

Did we review it? No (but Bill did here)

Jonathan Shaw’s take:

During “Distance,” the second song on List of Demands, Damon Locks intones, “Urban renewal, redlining and block busting / That’s distance / Disinvestment, destabilization, murder and disenfranchisement are the stories, nonfiction.” Locks effectively grounds his array of concerns in material terms, in concrete and embodied phenomena that change space and drive black and brown people out of neighborhoods, out of nations, out of their very lives. That provides a provocative contrast with Locks’ musicianship, which digitally layers and links jazz and soul music, field recordings, voices of ghosts from the archive of sound he has at his disposal. The complexity of the sampling and arrangements can verge on chaos (check out “Everything’s under Control,” an ironical gesture) or a sort of icy tension (“Click” is redolent of it, full of dread). Locks demonstrates a sharp understanding of how to evoke feeling from all the digitized information he assembles, incisively responding to the rage and despair that has flowed through anyone paying attention to how race operates as a discourse of oppression and of community in the US. Is race a material experience, something in the flesh? Is it socio-cultural construction, something in the language and many, many other symbol systems? A political wedge or an identity? List of Demands has no answers, just more imperatives.

Walt McClements — On A Painted Ocean (Western Vinyl)

Who recommended it? Ian Mathers

Did we review it? Yes, Ian wrote, “The album title’s evocation of a massive body of water, captured at one particular moment (taken from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”) is played out over its whole length.”

Bill Meyer’s take:

Walt McClements gravitated to the accordion after experiencing a crisis of relevance while performing song-based music. His approach can be summed up with the equation, minimal gestures + maximal effects = tidal drama. McClements’ intention to treat his instrument like a synthesizer steers him towards undulating waves of sound that radiate the sort of shininess I associate with 1970s vintage string synthesizers. The moments when the music feels most understated and ecclesiastical work best for me; those where he induces guest saxophonist Aurora Nealand to wax melodramatic are a bit too corny.

Mess Esque — Jay Marie, Comfort Me (Drag City)

Who picked it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? Yes. Tim Clarke wrote, “being unafraid to let things fall apart is part of the band’s charm and allows their most satisfying moments to feel all the more transcendent.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

For the first time, Helen Franzmann and Mick Turner were able to record as Mess Esque in one room. Following two remote collaborations in 2021’s Dream #12 and eponymous Mess Esque, Franzmann and Turner have given it another go four years later with Jay Marie, Comfort Me. In a way, the removal of that barrier makes this slightly less of an achievement than what was accomplished for the first two albums, but that’s a minor barb reserved for serious nitpickers; ultimately, this is more enjoyable on a whole than its predecessors. I seem to be on the same page as everyone else in agreeing “Take Me to Your Infinite Garden” is the natural single here given its killer riff and fantastical lyrical leaps, but I’m also with Tim’s review in two other ways: First, the real highlight is without a doubt “That Chair,” a lush, bluesy bummer of a song I could’ve kept listening to for double the length; second, “Let Me Know You” is a cabinet curiosity at best and its removal from the tracklist would’ve done no harm to the overall experience. That it’s the shortest track here is just mercy, the comfort of the remaining songs more than enough to mask its inadequacy. Another fulfilling album from an entity that feels like it could keep doing this forever.

Mogwai — The Bad Fire (Rock Action / Temporary Residence)

Who nominated it? Patrick Masterson

Did we review it? Yes, Christian Carey said, “Mogwai continues to expand its palette while still bringing the noise.”

Tim Clarke’s take:

Over the last 20-odd years, Mogwai’s music has meant a great deal to me at various points. When the band first emerged in the late 1990s, while I was at university, I was really taken by their early compilation, Ten Rapid. Then, in 2003, soon after a close friend of mine died in a car accident, Happy Songs for Happy People offered deep solace. Beyond that, The Hawk Is Howling (2008) also hit the spot, and when I saw them live around the time of 2011’s Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will, they were excellent. Since then, I can’t say much of Mogwai’s output has registered beyond the surface level. On The Bad Fire, the band seems to focus on their methodology of layering instruments and building a mood, patiently shifting upwards through the gears until your hair’s blown back and the density of sound is chewy and widescreen. This approach works pretty well during the first half of the album, when the band hits cruising altitude and keeps on roaring. I’m especially drawn to two of the songs during the album’s central stretch, “Pale Vegan Hip Pain” and “If You Find This World Bad, You Should See Some of the Others,” where the emotional heft of the music feels a bit more weighty. The Bad Fire is cause enough for me to reevaluate Mogwai’s last few releases to see if there’s more there to appreciate.

Moreish Idols — All in the Game (Speedy Wunderground/PIAS)

Who nominated it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes, Tim wrote, “On the back of two buzz-building EPs, English quintet Moreish Idols bring sharp songwriting and dynamic band-in-a-room energy to bear on their excellent debut album, All in the Game.”

Christian Carey’s take:

Cornish band Moreish Idols bring a number of different musical styles into play on All in the Game, their debut full length recording. These include psychedelia, post-rock, Brit-pop, and even a splash of laconic speech-song on “Railway.” The title track combines double-tracked lead vocals, falsetto harmonies, undulating rhythm guitar, and post-bop saxophone riffs, including some sheets of sound á la early John Coltrane. On “ACID,” a heady dance and yawping vocals are balanced by heavy rock guitar strums and harmonic minor scales that flirt with being non-Western insertions. One might not be sure on which continent the ardent narrator has dropped a tab, but we know that the result is fervidly unbridled.

The major to minor ying-yang of the chords on “Slouch” are steadily reiterated to dizzying effect. The album closer, “Time’s Wasting,” is a bit shy of two minutes, but its multi-part vocal hook, thrumming bass line, forceful guitar solo, and hazy ambience recall a plethora of past artists. They are blended into a singular concoction, or, as the case may be, tablet.

David Ivan Neil — I Hope Yer OK (Perpetual Doom)

Who picked it? Joshua Moss

Did we review it? Yes. Joshua wrote, “Rising to the occasion, it is the best produced work in his lengthy catalog, boasting the barest studio sheen and a tight, stripped-back honky-stoner band, the A-OK Players, who lend urgency and back-beat movement to DIN’s emotionally zoomed-in half-slurred confessionals.”

Patrick Masterson’s take:

I went into I Hope Yer OK about as blind as one can go. I knew nothing of David Ivan Neil before this; I didn’t recall a shred of Joshua’s (albeit convincingly argued) mid-March review; hell, I didn’t even look at the tracklist before I pressed play. I just figured I’d wheel it and find my own footing before I dug into the details. It took exactly 40 seconds of opener “Drums” to get me wondering how much Silver Jews this David’s listened to, but over the course of the ensuing three-and-a-half minutes (and nine songs including, sure enough, a cover of “K-Hole”), I Hope Yer OK reveals itself to be more than a mere homage to that David. The approachable, nakedly vulnerable lyrics, as sincere as they are sarcastic, offer an arm around the shoulder the way the album title suggests. This is a friend telling you in a darker moment of perpetual doom that yeah, actually, it’s exactly as bad out there as you think — but you wanna hear something funny? And so you laugh through a wicked hangover and the only instance of mandolin you’ve been able to tolerate in 2025 and you joke about jumping in front of city buses for the payout and you swoon to paeans of broken bird dreams and somehow, when it’s all over, you go to bed sober and acutely aware of the noble futility of the human endeavor, willing (if not eager) to wake up and take another crack at it come morning. Aware, alert, alive: This is what music can make us feel at its most potent, no matter the year or condition. Maybe you’ll feel as much, too, after a quick spin of the DIN.

RETIREMENT – ATTENTION ECONOMY (Iron Lung Records)

Who nominated it? Jonathan Shaw

Did we review it? Yes, Jonathan wrote, “It’s unrelenting — the band’s sonic abuse, and the punishment visited on us all by capital’s latest, ever more vicious version of the mode of production.”

Josh Moss’ take

Portland, Oregon hardcore band RETIREMENT (stylization theirs) doesn’t pull even one tiny punch on ATTENTION ECONOMY, their latest tape for Iron Lung Records. This is music explicitly about living in the “zone of interest” to quote the title of a recent film — the queasy surreal discomfort of knowing, being constantly reminded in jarring, discordant ways, that your comfort and joy is paid for in the brutally extracted blood of other innocent people. RETIREMENT’s crusted over musical assault does a good job of keeping your ~attention~, but this blackened, filthy, metal inflected punk is not 100% blitzkrieg. RETIREMENT makes space in these short songs for eerie atmospheric passages, ambience that oozes out from between the cracks of thrashed out riffs and plodding, pit-moving beats. This is music to put a nitrous boost in your indignation at the state and capital. It demands you open your eyes, like Alex at the end of A Clockwork Orange, and look at the prices everyone is paying for western hegemony.

Sharp Pins — Radio DDR (K/Perennial)

Who picked it? Tim Clarke

Did we review it? Yes, Jennifer Kelly described it as “conjuring the bittersweet baroque pop magic of icons like the Hollies, the Byrds and Tom Petty.”

Ian Mathers’ take:

The opening “Every Time I Hear” immediately makes me think ‘Guided by Voices if they were [even?] more interested in sounding like they were actually from the 1960s,' and while that’s a bit reductive for Radio DDR overall, it’s not a bad start. The Dusted review is correct, I think, in calling this “garage pop” as opposed to rock; any distortion or muddiness feels cozy rather than confronting, and not in a bad way (honestly the more balladic material like “Sycophant” makes for some of the best songs here). More upbeat, jangling material like “If I Was Ever Lonely” manages to walk the line of sounding period appropriate without feeling like mere mimicry; there’s some je ne sais quoi that keeps my “wait, is this just from one of the Nuggets compilations that I never listened to?” alarm from going off. It takes a certain self-confidence as a young band to plant yourself so firmly in such an established lineage (and even less specifically throwback-y songs like the raucous “When You Know” still exist in conversation with that lineage, just more with acts between then and now that also pay homage), but Sharp Pins pay it off. For those with divisive feelings about that legacy of 1960s garage pop (in either direction), you can probably apply those directly here.

Sadie Siskin — Sadie Siskin (Friends of the Road)

Who picked it? Joshua Moss

Did we review it? No

Ray Garraty’s take:

A lot of people get into music-making because you don’t need much to get started, maybe a banjo. But you need to learn how to play banjo first, which is not something many of us will be ready to master. The banjo is not the only element of Sadie Siskin’s self-titled tape’s appeal, which sounds as if it were recorded in pre-recording era, like somebody just sneaked in and recorded it anyway to later release it for a wide public (or not so wide). Its free flowing sound streams bring you back into a forgotten past. When Sadie sings (as on “Rolly Trudum” and “Yea! Wheels Turning At High Heaven”), the music moves towards more traditional ground and gets a bit poppish. Nonetheless, it’s a beautifully made tape.

Steven R. Smith — Triecade (Worstward)

Who nominated it? Bryon Hayes

Did we review it? No

Ian Mathers’ take:

Steven R. Smith (under various monikers) is practically an institution at this point, and one that Dusted has shown plenty of love to over the years. So why is this the first time I’m actually sitting down with one of his records? Sadly, pretty predictable, mundane reasons: too much music in the world to listen to, time is finite and ever passing, his discography is more than a little daunting. I’d just never hit that magic combination of opportunity and motivation on any particular release. Until now! And I’m glad it did, because while I can’t speak to how Triecade compares to the rest of his work, I can say coming to it with very little in the way of expectations I think it’s great. One of the joys of the midyear exchange, then; being “forced” to pay attention in a particular direction and finding the result so richly rewarding. If the credits on Bandcamp didn’t indicate that it’s just Smith himself playing the guitar, bass, drums, and keyboards here I might have thought this was a quartet honed by years of playing live together (and I guess in a sense that’s not inaccurate), so satisfying and seamless is ‘their’ interplay. The whole thing ebbs and flows so smoothly I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to pick out track titles without looking at the player, but who needs to when the whole 36 minutes comes together this well?

The War and Treaty — Plus One (Mercury Nashville)

Who nominated it? Justin Cober-Lake

Did we review it? Yes, Justin said, “With Plus One, they maximize both their personal traits and their broader opportunities for exciting new sounds that still (and happily) sound like where they came from.”

Tim Clarke’s take:

If you like your music bold and brassy, The War and Treaty may be for you. Their super-sized amalgam of country, soul and R’n’B is slickly produced, the performances water-tight and in-your-face. Opener “Love Like Whiskey” is over the top in all respects, and “Skyscraper” had me laughing out loud at the band’s audacious move to squeeze in not one but two key changes. Thankfully, after this opening stretch the band does settle into some less intense country numbers with pedal steel and banjo to allow you to catch your breath. However, at 18 songs and nearly 70 minutes, Plus One is way too much in all respects.

[horriblengrossstories]

Birdie,

I've sent in a few asks to this page and the Derek one as well, and I just wanted to let you know I appreciate and admire your work. The time you put into each response and story can't be denied, and it's definitely something I look forward to.

I used to have a sizeable platform on social media, and I'm familiar with the pitfalls and naysayers that come with having one. I'll just say, if the trolls are harassing you, then it means you made something worth reading.

I don't know what kind of person you are IRL. For all I know, you could be a monster who catcalls construction workers and runs over old folks' toes with a Razor scooter. But one thing cannot be denied: you create something that people want to pay attention to. You presumably do this not because of any compensation or fame but because your soul compels... nay, DEMANDS it of you. As a creative person, that drive cannot be denied, and the more it is, the worse you will feel.

I'm not trying to tell you to 'just get over it,' but it is heartbreaking when someone who does good work lets the opinion of one malefactor drown out all the support I've seen you get. Regardless, I hope you feel better soon, and I look forward to reading more of your work. 🙂

No, I don’t do any of that. I only throw bricks at bigots and pepper spray Nazis, thank you very much.

I made this blog to help me cope with a very bad, very real abusive situation. It’s helped a lot alongside therapy and meds. I have boundaries, and those come with rules. I’ve bent them a few times, especially around topics like pregnancy, because the horror didn’t go full Rosemary’s Baby. But when it comes to being called a TERF? That’s a hard boundary. I’ve said this before: don’t ask me if I’m a TERF. The answer is no. Always has been.

That word gets thrown around like it means something specific, but at this point it’s a sexist MRA-tier dog whistle used to shut down nuance and punish women online. Fandom spaces, especially this one, have shown they’re not immune to knee-jerk slander campaigns. You all drove GatoBob off here because someone decided she “seemed” like a Nazi. That wasn’t justice. That was paranoia with a pitchfork.

I have my reasons for being upset. I will cool down, eventually, or if the anon just apologizes. But I meant what I said. Respect my rules, or don’t engage.

Honestly, I started this blog as a vent blog. It just accidentally became Derek Goffard Central. People love that man for reasons I both understand and question every day.

Of course, I’ll always have people going:

“Uhhh actually he wouldn’t kill her because of that,”

or “Uhhh you write him too edgy,”

or “How dare you say he has hemorrhoids.”

And I just laugh. Like, y’all expect him to be Desert Derek™ 24/7, but the man also has to go live his weird little heir life in the big concrete house.He’s not always stomping around in boots and bleeding on the sand. Sometimes he’s just in an uncomfortable button-down, hating his family, pretending to be functional.

I’ll say this once and only once:

Read the rules.

Own up when you mess up.

Actually engage in the fandom.

Leave comments. Reblog posts. If you just like and scroll, it genuinely messes with my head. I put time and heart into this space when I only get likes, it gets depressing. I’m not a content machine. I’m a person who survived some real shit and built this blog as both a lifeline and a playground.

Maybe people don’t like me because this is a horror blog, not a fetish blog.

Believe it or not, I’m not even into kink, I just love horror. I love the dread, the power plays, the weird psychology of it all. Not everything here is meant to be hot. Sometimes it’s meant to make you flinch a little.

If you came here expecting endless thirst traps and perfectly packaged fantasy, sorry. This is a blog where people bleed, cry, scream, and sometimes catch feelings they absolutely shouldn’t.

Anyway, I'll come back when either the anon apologizes or I cool off. I'm still talking to people in my DMs and reblogging art, but as for writing Derek:

I'll answer questions, sure, but they’re staying in the drafts until I decide I’ve cooled down enough to post again.

I got hit with a weird hate campaign calling me a TERF back when I first started this blog, and I’m putting my foot down this time. I’m not doing this cycle again.

I’m here to create, not to defend myself from labels. Respect that, or get out of my lane.

-Birdie

[caelyn08]

What's left of kindness

Summary: He saved your life, but keeping him close means risking your heart. He’s broken, you’re soft—and in a world that demands hardness, love might be the most dangerous thing you have left.

It started with the sound of boots on broken pavement. You barely turned your head to look—your neck stiff, your jaw aching—but you knew what was coming. Another traveler, another trap. You were the bait. Not by choice. Hands bound behind your back, your cheek pressed to cold concrete, you looked small, helpless, and just injured enough to spark sympathy. That was how the bastards liked it. Let the strays come running, and then ambush from the shadows. Worked nearly every time. But this one was different. You saw him first—tall, broad, hard around the eyes. He moved with a silence that didn’t match the weight of his footsteps. Beside him, a girl barely in her teens glanced around, her hand near her pistol. Joel and Ellie. You didn’t know their names then. Just that the man had the air of someone who'd kill first and bury second. You tried to speak. Tried to warn them. But your voice came out dry, cracked. “Don’t—” Too late. The ambush began. It was fast. Brutal. Gunfire split the air like thunder. One of your captors lunged out from behind a truck—dropped instantly by a bullet to the throat. Another came from the rooftop and crumpled before he hit the ground. The man—Joel—was a damn machine. You flinched as a body landed beside you, blood spraying your boots. You didn’t scream. You hadn’t in days. When the last raider dropped, you lay frozen, breathing shallow, sure you’d be left behind again. But the man didn’t leave. He stood over you, breathing hard, sweat on his brow and blood on his shirt. He studied your face like a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve. Then he said, “She warned us.” The girl—Ellie—cocked her head. “Yeah. She did.” Joel hesitated, then knelt beside you. “You hurt?” You nodded, too stunned to speak. “Can you walk?” “…I think so.” He didn’t offer his hand, just cut your bindings and stood, waiting. You pulled yourself up slowly, every muscle aching. When you stumbled, his hand steadied your arm just long enough to stop you from falling. That was all. But it was the first time in a long time someone touched you without cruelty. ---

The sun had barely dipped beneath the skyline by the time you reached an abandoned gas station. Joel checked the perimeter while Ellie scavenged for unopened cans. You stayed on the curb, cradling your ankle. You didn’t dare ask to stay. But he didn’t kick you out. That night, the three of you sat around a crackling fire built from rotting shelves and plastic signs. Joel didn’t speak much, but his eyes kept drifting to you. Watching. Assessing. You were used to being watched like prey. This felt different. Not quite safe, but not threatening, either. Ellie fell asleep first, curled up on an old jacket, muttering something about “dreaming of soup.” You huddled near the fire, arms wrapped around your knees. “You didn’t have to come back,” you murmured. Joel didn’t look at you. Just stared into the flames. “You didn’t have to warn us.” You shrugged. “Didn’t want to see the kid hurt.” “She’s tougher than she looks.” You glanced at him. “So are you.” That earned you a long, unreadable look. “You got a name?” he asked after a pause. You gave it. And then he gave you his. Joel. It suited him. That was the moment something shifted. Just barely. Like a window cracked open in a locked room. --- Three nights later, you were still with them. Joel hadn’t said anything about you staying. You figured that was his way of saying yes. It was late when the storm hit. Rain crashed against the roof of the convenience store you'd taken shelter in, the wind howling through shattered glass. The fire had gone out. You shivered, teeth chattering beneath your damp hoodie. Joel sat against the opposite wall, rifle close, eyes alert. You tried not to look too long. His presence was grounding in a way you weren’t ready to admit. Then he noticed. “C’mere,” he said quietly. You blinked. “What?” “You’re shaking. You’ll freeze.” You hesitated. “I’m fine.” He didn’t move. Just patted the empty space beside him on the mattress someone had dragged in years ago and never used since. You looked away from him. Then the cold bit deeper, and pride wasn't worth pneumonia. When you finally settled beside him—close, but not too close—you half expected him to flinch. He didn’t. “Get under,” he said, lifting a moth-eaten blanket he’d scrounged earlier. “Won’t do much good if you’re not in it.” You slipped beneath the blanket. Your shoulders brushed. The silence was thick for a moment. Then Joel exhaled. “You really think people can still be good?” he asked, voice low. You turned your head slightly, trying to read his face in the dark. “I have to.” He didn’t respond. But his hand, rough and warm, settled beside yours beneath the blanket. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t need to. The closeness was enough to thaw something inside you. Something buried deep. You closed your eyes, heart racing, and for the first time in months, you slept through the night. ---

You wake before dawn, unsure if you even slept. Joel’s still beside you, but something’s shifted—he’s on his back now, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other just barely brushing yours. He’s still awake. You know it. You pretend not to notice the way his fingers curl when yours twitch near them. When you finally stand, he follows. No words. Just that quiet understanding you've both gotten good at. The day is colder. The road longer. But something soft clings to the edges of you both, like the silence has started to mean something else entirely. --- You stop to rest near a dried-up creek bed. Joel crouches to check a twisted ankle trap and says, without looking at you, “Back there. You sleep okay?” You blink. “Thought you were asleep.” He doesn’t answer that. Just says, “Didn’t mean to crowd you.” You shake your head, the words barely a breath: “You didn’t.” His eyes meet yours then—just for a second. Long enough to say everything neither of you will. --- That night, another safe house. Small room. One mattress. Neither of you suggests sleeping separately. This time, when he lies down beside you, he doesn’t turn away. You both face each other. Close. Too close. “You keep looking at me,” you whisper. He swallows. “You keep lettin’ me.” You don’t say anything. But you don’t look away either. Not when his hand finds yours between you. Not when your fingers lace together. Not when you fall asleep with his breath brushing your cheek like a promise he hasn’t spoken yet. --- You don’t talk about the hand-holding. Or the way he lingers now—when brushing past you, when patching your arm, when standing just a little too close by the fire. But then he gets hurt. Not bad. A gash on his side. You’re the one who stitches it. He winces, but he lets you. You’re kneeling between his legs, hands slick with blood, your breath shaking. “You’re gonna get yourself killed,” you whisper. Joel looks at you like he wants to say something. Then, softer: “I’m tryin’ not to.” You pause. “For me?” He doesn’t blink. “Yeah. For you.” Your hands stop trembling. But your heart doesn’t. --- The kiss isn’t planned. Of course it isn’t. It happens during a snowstorm, after a too-close call with raiders. You’re both breathless, angry, alive. “You shouldn’t care,” you tell him, fists clenched. “I don’t want to,” he says. Then he kisses you like he’s angry about it. Like it hurts. Like he’s forgotten how to be gentle and wants to relearn it on your lips. And you let him. Because the world doesn’t give much, but it gave you this. --- You make it to Jackson. It’s quiet here. Safe. Safer than you’ve ever been. Joel walks behind you at first, always one step back. Like he’s still waiting for the world to rip this away. But it doesn’t. Ellie rolls her eyes when Joel stands too close, when he checks the perimeter twice. “She’s not gonna vanish, old man,” she teases. But Joel just mutters, “She might,” and doesn’t stop checking. You don’t mind. --- Spring comes fast. You find a routine. Chores. Shared meals. Nights spent pressed together beneath soft sheets. He doesn’t say “I love you.” Not with words. But he says it when he leaves hot coffee on the table before you wake. When he pulls your chair out without thinking. When he touches your back, gently, like he’s reminding himself you’re still here. One night, while you’re lying tangled in each other, you whisper, “You still think you’re not worth loving?” He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly: “You make me think maybe I am.” You press your forehead to his, eyes full. “There’s still kindness in you, Joel.” And this time, he believes you.