#Fear submission and control

[uuuhshiny]

Vladimir Yaglych and Sergey Marin in Ekaterina. Rise

[faillen]

.

[queen-of-signs]

✦🌒The Moon in You: Where You Crave, Connect, and Collapse🫀🕳️

Note: These are all my personal observations and patterns I've noticed over the years. Take what resonates with you more and leave the rest. Lemme know in the comments if it hits home!

The Moon is where your body holds emotions, where your cravings reside, where safety and surrender blend into one. It rules instincts, erotic memory, the way you want to be held, touched, or simply understood. Locate where your Moon is in your Vedic chart!

Moon in 1st - needing skin-to-skin contact, impulsive sex, quickies for emotional reassurance, morning-after cuddles, exhibitionism in private settings, mirror sex (seeing yourself being loved), soft dom/sub with praise, being touched often, celebratory sex after emotional wins, birthday sex, body worship, needing emotional foreplay, deep kissing as regulation, sex that starts from eye contact, needy subspace, mood-driven sex, “make it about me” kink, being fucked with affection, crying from being seen, passion that shifts fast, chasing validation through touch, collapsing when ignored, needing to be reassured during sex, orgasm as emotional release, making love in shared spaces, craving emotional recognition during pleasure, emotional mirroring in bed, touching your own body while they watch, homebody kink, touch as grounding, sex tied to mood, clinging during climax, over-identifying with desire, disappearing when needs aren’t met.

Moon in 2nd - slow, intentional sex, deep kissing with weight behind it, giving oral as devotion, slow undressing, sensual bondage, earning trust before play, possession kink, needing consistency to feel aroused, sex in safe familiar spaces, “prove it” kink, craving reliability in lovers, staying in bed after, long foreplay, ritualistic touch, praise for patience, orgasm as reward, needing to be held after, emotional security kink, money kink (emotional currency), massage before penetration, feeling used when not seen, silent resentment during sex, investing in someone who won’t stay, hating casual touch, craving loyalty more than lust, earthy submission, kissing every inch slowly, being told they’re safe now, crying when sex feels one-sided, physical affection as proof of love, grinding slowly in rhythm, emotional shutdown when ignored, giving too much without return, needing to be wanted consistently, collapsing when love doesn’t grow.

Moon in 3rd - talking during sex, overstimulation kink, whispering dirty confessions, mental domination, love as obsession, brainy foreplay, being told exactly what to do, fear of saying the wrong thing during intimacy, orgasm with eye contact and words, needing verbal reassurance, feeling rejected when misunderstood, craving lovers who “get” your mind, humiliation kink, sex after arguments, spiraling after hookups, edging with intense internal pressure, guilt during arousal, emotional overexposure, anxious touch, need to narrate feelings during sex, craving mental control, fear of vulnerability through speech, overstimulation leading to shut down, submitting through logic, writing fantasies no one sees, begging for clarity, sex to quiet the mind, fear of being boring, emotional masochism, wanting to be unraveled mentally, crying from being misunderstood, needing to explain desires, shame kink, losing words mid-climax, craving someone who speaks your emotional language, touch that calms the panic.

Moon in 4th - spooning sex, slow touch under blankets, soft dom/sub with emotional care, sex at home only, needing emotional intimacy before arousal, breast/nipple worship, craving to be held more than fucked, hand-holding during climax, melancholic masturbation, emotional withdrawal during sex, kissing that feels like remembering, sex to feel close after distance, aftercare as foreplay, making love to sad music, crying silently during intimacy, being touched when you’re numb, emotional avoidance kink, needing reassurance mid-sex, longing for past lovers, hating casual sex but doing it anyway, silent longing, delayed arousal, playing hard to reach, giving affection quietly, memory-triggered arousal, clingy subspace, emotional shutdown mid-act, slow oral with eye contact, sex as emotional grounding, mood-dependent desire, nostalgic kink, fear of being too much, being held until you soften, pleasure that feels like safety, sadness when they pull away after sex.

Moon in 5th - performative sex, praise kink, being watched while touching yourself, riding for eye contact, fighting then fucking, bratty submission, needing applause in bed, striptease as emotional offering, orgasm as validation, hair pulling with affection, jealousy-driven sex, dramatic dirty talk, sex as show, needing to be chosen loudly, thigh grabbing, competitive teasing, passionate roleplay, sex as self-expression, giving head like a power move, being taken hard then held tight, push-pull dynamics, show-off kink, quick sex in risky places, craving to be admired naked, flirting as survival, fear of being boring in bed, collapsing when ignored, emotional highs and lows, climax as catharsis, rage sex, making love like it’s the last time, needing reassurance after dominance, deeply attached to who gives you pleasure, using sex to forget self-doubt, wanting to be someone’s favorite/ best.

Moon in 6th - needing to be needed, sex as care, slow touches, proving love through effort, devotion kink, tired but still giving, healing through hands, folding laundry as foreplay, feeding each other, craving consistency, emotional fatigue, love through labor, collapsing into touch, being good enough, invisible service, resentment kink, needing permission to rest, quiet submission, emotional routine, wanting to be useful, staying for duty, guilt-driven sex, loving through chores, overwhelmed but loyal, held in the kitchen, soft control, burnout lust, safe hands, waiting to be noticed, love as responsibility, craving structure, emotional routines as intimacy, building love brick by brick, care that aches.

Moon in 7th - needing to be met, quiet sex, stillness between bodies, emotional mirroring, craving closeness without noise, being held without fixing, collapsing into someone, sleeping skin to skin, sex as peace offering, unspoken need, love that doesn’t rush, fear of being misunderstood, freezing during intimacy, needing someone to stay, soft domination, being seen in silence, delayed touch, touch with meaning, avoiding conflict, love that feels like rest, sexual pause, absence kink, calm after crying, fear of being too much, emotional distance, shutdown moments, needing presence not passion, ache behind the eyes, sharing space without pressure, fear of not being chosen, wanting to be wanted gently, mirror sex, touch that asks nothing, tenderness under tension.

Moon in 8th - craving to be undone, obsessive desire, emotional possession, losing yourself in someone, sex as surrender, trauma bonding, needing to be consumed, grief kink, pain turned erotic, fantasy addiction, emotional shapeshifting, love that haunts, fear of abandonment, jealous lust, hidden affairs, craving what’s forbidden, deep eye contact, psychic sex, wanting to be broken open, emotional overwhelm, touch as power, guilt after pleasure, erotic control, sexual secrecy, drowning in options, yearning for one true bond, confusing love with escape, haunting memories, sex that feels like drowning, intense fantasies, trust as kink, emotional chaos, pleasure with consequences, devotion that hurts, wanting to be changed.

Moon in 9th - sex in unfamiliar places, long-distance obsession, love letters before sex, edging for hours, overstimulation, emotional masochism, tantric sex, deep-throating as offering, craving mind-opening sex, praise during penetration, needing to be worshipped, teacher-student kink, being talked through climax, wanting to feel "changed" by sex, holding eye contact while finishing, performance pressure, missionary with meaning, sex that feels like a quest, craving someone “wiser,” overstretched libido, emotional pain during orgasm, collapse after giving too much, begging to be understood, guilt after sex, carrying emotional weight during kink, crying mid-thrust, taking too much to prove love, rough sex with meaning, overstaying in hookups, submission as learning, needing to be “taught a lesson,” loving from afar, losing yourself to their philosophy, deep convos then deep sex, craving sacred kink, feeling broken after casual sex.

Moon in 10th - needing control, sex with rules, withholding touch, wanting to be wanted but hiding it, slow sex with full clothes on, fear of being messy, approval kink, being told “you’re enough,” sex as pressure release, mommy/daddy kink, boss/employee kink, teacher/student kink, needing structure to feel safe, silent dominance, staying composed during orgasm, slow undressing as foreplay, locked jaw during oral, craving recognition more than pleasure, holding back tears during sex, praise kink, sex to prove you're capable, public/private contrast, needing to be useful in bed, being taken care of but resisting it, routine sex as stability, fear of being exposed, letting someone see you lose control, being bossy but fragile, begging quietly, trying to be perfect, sex that feels like a job, staying in roles too long, reward-based intimacy, emotional detachment during climax, sex with one safe person only, touch as proof, clinging without showing it, breakdown behind the scenes.

Moon in 11th - sex with friends, watching others, voyeurism, secret affairs, emotional distance kink, quiet jealousy, friends with benefits, craving group acceptance, poly fantasies, exhibitionism with detachment, ghosting guilt, fucking with eye contact then disappearing, wanting to be the exception, soft manipulation, flirtation as currency, emotional withdrawal during climax, casual sex with deep hopes, dirty talk over text, group sex with one true focus, hiding arousal, lying about feelings, needing to feel chosen, anonymous hookup kink, trust issues in intimacy, being fucked while pretending not to care, avoiding attachment, guilt after pleasure, intimacy as rebellion, intellectual seduction, emotional betrayal kink, fear of being used, craving to be “in,” slow reveal fantasies, friendship-to-sex pipeline, rejection sensitivity, playing it cool while needing connection, sex to feel relevant, needing safe distance.

Moon in 12th - soft surrender, spiritual kink, sex in the dark, crying after orgasm, erotic aftercare, silent sex, losing yourself in them, needing emotional safety before touch, bath sex, craving to be saved, dreamy eye contact, being held more than fucked, merging kink, sex that feels like floating, loving unavailable people, healing sex, body worship, falling in love too fast, needy subspace, sex as escape, needing to feel chosen on a soul level, kissing until it hurts, devotion kink, self-sacrifice during sex, mistress, side chick/side guy, stealing other's partner, experienced/ inexperienced kink, erotic dissociation, deep cuddling after, emotional absorption, sex that feels like goodbye, writing poems about them after, shame around pleasure, craving emotional absolution, edging with music, wanting to disappear into moans, priest/priestess kink, being taken gently but completely, lost time during sex, being fucked like a prayer, orgasm as release from loneliness.

🌙💬 For readings, check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

[vinnyvamppp]

Lord almighty save me, my brain has been spiraling ever since I read Viltrumite Mark going into heat. 🩷🩷🩷 Now I’m picturing all the variants having a heat cycle (separately with reader ofc [unless— 👀 reader would break, I fear in the best way though]). Any chance I can request other versions of it, like with No Goggles, MoHawk, Sinister, Omni-Mark or Shiesty? 👀👀👀

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐓𝐨𝐨

A/N: Every main, side, and popular variant is in this bitch.

Warnings: Smut, Knotting, Overstimulation, Breeding Kink, Pheromone Play, Power Dynamics, Sub/Dom Dynamics, Heat Cycles, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex, Cum-Eating, Anal Sex, and etc.

Synopsis: Each version of Mark Grayson—bratty kings, calculating monsters, broken gods—crave the same thing: your body, your loyalty, your soul. You’re a cure and a weakness they crave to keep. Consume him.

⭐: Lensless, Sinister, Variant #17, Shiesty/Hooded, Mohawk, Masked, Main Mark, Omni-Mark (Teasers): Gangbang, Thragg, Nolan, Atom Eve, Rex, and Rae. (Viltrum Marks Ver: Here.)

Viltrumite Heat Cycles x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 17.1k

Sinister Mark

Sinister Mark didn’t fall apart. He broke others physically, mentally, and existentially. The idea of something breaking him was absurd. The usual cocky demeanor—full of false-promising smiles, had been replaced by something raw: an expression of strife.

So when the heat started... he ignored it. He thought he could power through it like a broken rib. Pain meant nothing to him. Weakness didn’t exist in his vocabulary. This couldn’t be happening to him. The Invincible, utterly devoid of humanity, felt his knees weaken.

Then he smelled you, and suddenly, he was falling.

It hit him right in the middle of a mission, screams drowned beneath the crackle of fire, blood coating his knuckles, a ruined building collapsing behind him as survivors scrambled to hide. He should have flown home. Instead—he flew to you.

Now you stood in front of him in your apartment, lips parted, wearing that thin tank top he had imagined ripping off in more than one intrusive fantasy.

"Mark?" you asked cautiously, eyes scanning his tense body. "You look... flushed." He didn’t respond at first. He just stepped inside, his eyes devouring every inch of you like a predator locking onto its prey after weeks of hunting.

"I told myself I wouldn’t do this," he muttered, the door clicking shut behind him. "That I could outlast it."

The red haze burning behind his eyes had only intensified. His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. His jaw clenched, muscles flexing as he fought against the last threads of restraint. He couldn't explain what was happening, only how it felt—the kind of arousal that outpaced even the blood pumping through his veins.

"But then I thought about you," he said slowly. "About how you'd feel under me. How you'd sound." His smile was humorless. "That's all it took to lose control."

He crossed the room in a blink. One hand slammed into the wall beside your head; the other gripped your waist hard enough to bruise. He inhaled deeply, his nose brushing your neck. You drove him insane in ways other women could only dream of.

"You smell unreal," he rasped—like temptation, like trouble, like a nuisance he wanted to carry.

"Mark, what is thi—" you started, but he cut you off with his mouth.

His lips crashed into yours with brutal desperation. There was no hesitation, just raw hunger and the urge to conquer. His tongue forced its way between your lips, teeth clashing clumsily against yours as he fought to taste every part of you. His hands roamed up your sides and under your shirt, gripping you tight, possessive, like you were the only thing anchoring him to reality.

He expected you to melt. To plead. Maybe to behave sweetly, submissively, the way you sometimes did. But no—you twisted your fingers into his hair and yanked, just enough to make him groan. The ichor from his bloodstained hands smeared across your waist.

"You already know how this ends," he growled, pulling back just long enough to rip the tank top from your body. "I'm not gentle. And right now? I’m not asking."

His mouth latched onto your throat, your collarbone, devouring the skin there with a feverish fervor. Your fingers tangled again in his hair as he groaned into your neck, grinding his hips against yours, caging you completely against the wall.

"This heat—it’s made me insane for you," he hissed. "I see you in my dreams. I wake up hard and furious that you’re not next to me." You shivered. "Then make it real."

He lifted you effortlessly, his lips claiming yours again, carrying you toward the bedroom like a man possessed. You could feel the heat radiating from him, burning into your skin, muscles twitching beneath the strained spandex of his suit.

Mark wasn’t the type to surrender to anything. But tonight, he surrendered to you.

He kissed you like an afterthought—like you were the inevitable conclusion to every version of his day. It was slow at first, almost mocking, daring you to push him away. But you didn’t and you wouldn't because you enjoyed the attention. The kiss deepened with a low growl caught in his throat—teeth grazing your bottom lip just enough to sting. His hand curled possessively around your jaw, guiding you, as if he already owned every inch of you.

His breath ghosted over your face, and then you were dropped onto the mattress. He dove in after you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could keep him alive.

It was slow, but not sweet. He peeled your clothes off like he was unwrapping a weapon. His hands slid beneath your shirt, brushing your ribs—his eyes flickering with dark amusement even as his touch trembled with lust. His fingers traced every curve that had haunted his dreams.

Your palms pressed against the mattress, knees spread just wide enough to hold your balance but not wide enough for him. You felt the bed dip behind you as he settled in—looming, warm, suffocating. His fingers dug into your flesh, leaving marks that would bloom into bruises.

His breath seared your neck—hot, hungry, trembling with restraint. His chest pressed flush against your back, his body vibrating with need. You shivered, not from cold, but from the way he gripped you, as if he needed to devour you to survive.

"You’re so wet I could drown in you," he growled into your ear, his voice curling around you like smoke. "Maybe I should."

His hand traced a deliberate path down your spine, dragging heat and chills alike until he reached your hips. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your pants, tugging them down just past your hips before letting them fall. He paused there, worshipful, possessive. One finger slipped beneath your panties, teasing—and with a hard tug, he tore them apart.

He left your underwear for last, dragging his thumbs over the soaked fabric before sliding it off, letting his eyes drink you in. "So worth the wait," he muttered. He didn’t break eye contact with your reflection in the mirror across the room. His nose twitched as he inhaled sharply. "You love this," he said, voice low. "Don’t lie to me. I can smell you."

Before you could even scoff, his teeth sank into your shoulder—a deep, burning mark that drew a startled cry from your throat. The pain melted fast into pleasure, flaring hot and low in your belly. His hips ground against your ass, cock pressed thick and heavy between your thighs. His whole body trembled, every shred of his usual composure slipping.

"You love this," he growled again. "Don’t lie. I can feel your body begging me to ruin it." You pushed back against him—grinding slow, deliberate, a smile tugging at your lips. "Go ahead," you whispered. "Show me how weak you really are." His groan was feral. "Still so mouthy," he hissed, voice ragged. "Fine."

There was no warning, no teasing. Just one brutal thrust—stretching you open, hot and unrelenting. A gasp tore from your throat, your hands scrabbling for the bed frame as your back arched into him. He held you there—chest pressed to your back—his whole body shaking from the effort not to lose control.

"Fuck, you feel perfect," he muttered, his voice splintering. "You always do."

You bit down on his shoulder until he hissed, dragging your nails down his side until his hips bucked into you, the bed shuddering beneath the force. He didn’t stop. His body was on autopilot now, pounding into you until your vision blurred and your body clamped around him like a vise.

The heat didn’t just fuel him—it destroyed him. It turned his pleasure into something darker, something he had no hope of resisting. He didn’t want to fuck you. He wanted to etch himself into your nervous system. "Fuck," he rasped, forehead pressed to the back of your neck. "You’re so tight, so warm... I could die inside you."

His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, the words so hoarse and broken they barely sounded like him anymore. He rolled his hips, grinding slow and deep, making you feel every desperate second he was buried inside you. His fingers slipped down between your thighs—stroking the swollen, soaked mess he had made of you. Your body shuddered at his touch, and a cry escaped your lips, only spurring him on.

"You’re dripping," he groaned. "All for me. Only for me."

He wanted every gasp to come from him. Every soft whimper to bear his name. He would fuck you slow and cruel just to see how long it would take before you started begging. And afterward—when you were wrecked and mindless—he would kiss you sweetly, because that was the worst part: how completely you unraveled him and how much he lived for it.

It was a craving so deep it rewired his instincts. Pain felt good. Pleasure felt like war. His eyes rolled into his skull at the sight of your ass bouncing back against him, the sheer force rocking you into his pelvis over and over. "Look at you—pathetic," he panted, the words filthy but breathless. "So easy once I start fucking you right."

The heat was overwhelming. His strangled whimpers filled the air around you, cracked and broken, raw with desperation. "Just squirming for me... so much for that sharp mouth."

There was no real bite behind the words now. Only the heaving rasp of a man on the edge of combustion. His body shuddered against yours, his hips stuttering. For a moment, you could feel his cock softening—but every dragging pull of your body around him yanked him back in like a magnet.

He pounded into you, hips moving erratically, his breaths ragged, sweat dripping down his temple. The orgasm building inside him sent violent twitches down his spine, his thrusts matching the rattling pace of his racing heart. He drove into you hard and deep, the swollen tip of his cock catching against your cervix each time, sending you reeling.

His hands were everywhere—greedy, rough, almost clumsy with need. You felt him rut against you like a man lost, desperate to get closer, closer still. The wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting filled the room, slick and loud, as your head dipped into the mattress from sheer sensory overload.

He made you wait for it. His tongue trailed your nape first, teasing along the curve of your neck, slow and lazy, like he was memorizing you. And when he finally bit, it wasn’t playful but rather purposeful and ragged. A deep—anchoring pressure that made you jolt under him. You felt the throb of it shoot down your whole body.

He wanted you marked, bruised, maybe even bleeding. He wanted proof that you belonged to him, proof that no matter what happened tomorrow, tonight you were his. You weren’t a weakness. You were a religion, and this was his new form of prayer.

He moved faster, harder, his hand clutching your hip so tight it was almost painful. You knew it wouldn’t take much more—the way you clenched around him, the way your body opened for him, made his mind blank.

When you came, screaming his name, your body convulsing so hard you thought you might shatter, he sobbed. Not loud—just a soft, wrecked sound against your ear, so broken it barely made it out of his throat.

Because you had won again. He was truly weak during these ruts—and though he'd never admit it—he secretly wanted it that way. The night was far from over. His balls were heavy with another load already, the ache undeniable, and you noticed. You always noticed.

As you turned, straddling him for another round, he stared up at you, eyes wild and almost feverish. His voice broke when he murmured, "Please. Please ride me. I’ll shut up. I’ll be so quiet."

The scent of scorched cedar clung to the air, thick and heady. It wrapped around you, seeped into your skin, and filled your lungs until it made your head spin. You breathed it in and felt hunted—and weirdly, wanted.

When you sank onto him again, it was a slow, brutal stretch. His cock filled you completely, locking into place as he groaned through gritted teeth, his hands trembling where they gripped your hips. His forehead dropped to your neck, his fingers curling under your jaw to guide you down harder onto him when the knot started swelling.

He didn’t panic, nor did he hesitate. He had planned this. And when you tried to move, he growled low in your throat and pinned you down harder, hips grinding deep to milk every ounce of sensation from both your bodies.

"I don’t want fast," he whispered roughly. "I want slow torture. Let me feel every single inch... again." You could only gasp as he rutted up into you, deep and slow, grinding your bodies together until it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began.

Omni Mark

He hadn’t planned to see you tonight. Omni-Mark had half the galaxy kneeling at his feet, another third begging for mercy, and the rest daring to defy him. That should’ve occupied his attention. But the heat came early.

It was unforgiving. He fought it at first, of course he did. Viltrumites were above their biology—or so they thought—but this wasn’t a subtle ache or dull need. This was a burning, a low snarl in his blood that turned every thought into you. Whether it was your voice, your body, or your scent.

Now, here he stood in your doorway, fists clenched so hard his gloves tore, sweat beading on his forehead despite the icy chill in the air. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned, his voice low, reverberating like thunder in a canyon. You raised an eyebrow, only half-dressed in a sleep shirt. “I never asked for anything. I want you to let go, Mark.”

That made something snap in him.

In an instant, he was on you, hands gripping your waist, slamming the door shut with the other. His mouth crashed into yours in a passionate, suctioning kiss that pulled the air from your lungs. His lips were soft, molding against yours as his tongue gently caressed yours. You barely registered the way your feet left the ground—his grip tightening possessively. He pulled away just long enough to nuzzle into the crook of your neck.

“You’re soft… too soft,” he breathed, eyelids fluttering like he was trying to snap himself out of the trance you had pulled him into. “You think I haven’t dreamed about this?” he growled against your ear. “You think I haven’t imagined burying myself in you while the universe burns around us?”

You clawed at the armor along his arms, gasping when he bit down on your neck—hard enough to leave a mark but not break skin. You felt the growl building in his chest, the way his whole body vibrated with restraint. “You’re my weakness,” he confessed between fevered kisses. “I should’ve destroyed you when I realized what you meant to me.”

“But you didn’t,” you whispered.

“I couldn’t,” he admitted.

He dropped you onto the bed like the princess you were. His costume peeled away in pieces, every inch of exposed skin rippling with tension—the kind of power that could level continents, yet somehow was gentle with you. You reached for him, but he caught your wrists and pinned them above your head.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice trembling. “If you touch me right now, I won’t be able to stop.”

“Maybe I want to be ruined,” you whispered, your words like honey blessing his ears.

He crashed down onto you, desperate, kissing you with reverence and fury at once. His mouth mapped every inch of your body like a man on borrowed time. His lips trembled slightly against your skin, and an unfamiliar greed lingered in his touch. His hands explored and gripped every valley and curve he could reach, leaving your skin warm with the imprint of his palms.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your mouth, over and over like a mantra. “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine.” His voice cracked, that calm, collected demeanor unraveling to reveal the boy he once was.

Omni-Mark didn’t believe in surrender. But with you beneath him, gasping his name, begging for more, he didn’t need to.

He kissed like an emotion given shape—like someone who was never taught softness, only possession, but craved it so. When his mouth met yours—it wasn’t tentative. There was no gentle testing of the waters. It was hunger and desperation, devouring you like he was terrified he’d never taste you again. His hands cupped your jaw, a little too tight, while his body caged you in with muscle and need, heat radiating off him in heavy, sweltering waves.

He watched the way your knees buckled when he finally pulled back, panting, red-eyed, drunk on the taste of you. “You call that a kiss?” he rasped, lips already slick with yours, pupils blown wide. “Try again. Put your back into it.”

You felt the shift instantly. His hand curled around the back of your neck, firm but not rough, holding you there as his tongue pushed deeper into your mouth. The kiss grew sloppy—fast, breathless, and messy—his breath catching every time your hips brushed. He walked you backward without breaking the connection, steps deliberate until your thighs met the edge of the bed frame. His hand dragged down your side—palming the curve of your ass like he was checking to make sure you were real.

When your fingernails scraped gently up the back of his neck, he moaned into your mouth—quiet, raw, almost ashamed of how much it affected him. His cock was already hard, pressing against the fabric of his pants, grinding into your hip like a need he couldn’t reason with anymore.

He unwrapped you like you were a relic unearthed in some war-ravaged city. Like something precious and divine that was buried beneath fabric. His fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, but he didn’t yank. He peeled it away, inch by slow inch, eyes locked onto you as your breath shuddered with every inch of exposed skin.

When he got to your underwear, his hand lingered—not out of hesitation, but because he was reeling. His thumb brushed over the fabric, memorizing you, before he diligently undressed you. His eyes glazed over like a man about to feast.

You were already seated in his lap when the snap beneath his skin finally broke open and all that restraint crumbled into dust. His scent grew sharp and sticky, like the smell of rain on dry earth. His arms came around you from behind—forearms like iron bars across your stomach as you rocked against him. You could feel every inch of him beneath you: his cock—heavy and flushed—already pressed between your slick folds. His head bowed low, lips dragging from your shoulder to the shell of your ear.

“You’re shaking,” he muttered darkly, his voice frayed with strain. “Is it the heat... or me?” You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you pressed your hips back deliberately, grinding into him slowly, cruelly. He shuddered, biting back a moan like it betrayed him.

He wasn’t ready to slide into you yet. He wanted you to feel it first. Wanted you gasping from the pressure of him nudging against your entrance. His teeth sank into your nape like he was starving, tongue dragging after to soothe the sting only to suck the skin back into his mouth.

“This isn’t about power—it’s about you letting me have it all,” he whispered against your neck, his voice wet and sick with hunger. He wanted to ruin you so gently you’d fall even deeper in love. “Tell me to stop. Just say it. Please.” His final warning, his final plea. He was never the most talkative, but he whispered murmurs against your skin like it was his coping mechanism.

Heeding his warning, you ignored him. Instead, you ground down harder, once, twice, teasing your entrance just enough to let him slip inside. It was over.

He groaned, the sound uncharacteristically high, and thrust up in one gripping, seamless motion. Your body gave with a lurch, your eyes fluttering shut as the air punched from your lungs. He bottomed out instantly—nudging every ridge, heavy, and throbbing deep inside you, but didn’t move.

“No?” he whispered. “Then take it. Take all of it.”

“I warned you.” He gritted his teeth, biting back broken whines. His forehead pressed against your neck, lips brushing over your skin as if to muffle his own groans.

“I’ll be gentle—then I’ll break you. And you’ll thank me." Your body pressed flush against his, the cool air in the room doing nothing to temper the heat radiating off his skin. Omni-Mark’s breath was steady at first—controlled, just like everything else he did. Even now, with you seated in his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, he held himself like a soldier at war. His palms smoothed over your waist, thumbs stroking reverently at the dip of your hips, almost as if he was trying to memorize how you felt beneath his hands.

"You don’t know what you do to me," he murmured against your shoulder. "You were supposed to make me stronger. Not... this."

His thrusts were slow, intentional, and deep. Every movement pressed you forward just enough for his pelvis to grind against your clit, the friction exquisite in its cruelty. He wasn’t rutting—he was studying you. Each drag of his cock was a question: Will this make you break first? But you didn’t.

Instead, you sank your hips back harder, rolling your spine as you moaned, letting him feel just how much you needed him. You caught his gaze over your shoulder, lips curling into a smile that wasn’t soft—it was sharp, daring. His fingers flexed hard enough around your hips to leave bruises, the illusion of his control slipping.

"Quiet?" you teased through heavy breaths, tilting your head back against his shoulder. "Is that focus... or fear?" He said nothing, almost smiling to himself as you mocked him. He just growled low in his throat, his hands clenching tighter as he jerked you back onto him, forcing you to take him even deeper. His breathing hitched violently.

His hand slipped between your thighs, two fingers pressing firmly against your clit, stroking tight, slow circles that made your whole body jerk. Your hands clutched at his knees for balance, pleasure spiking through you like electricity.

"You speak so boldly," he rasped against your ear, his voice almost tender despite the way his fingers worked you. "But I can feel it. How badly you need me."

His free hand moved to your breast, kneading and squeezing, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. His whole body was trembling now, his thighs shuddering beneath you as he thrust upward with brutal need. His hips stuttered. His breath caught ragged in his throat. The moan that escaped him was broken and rough, like it hurt to keep it inside.

He clamped his hands around your thighs, grinding you down onto him with force, pelvis slapping hard against your ass. The rhythm grew messy, erratic. You gasped as he spread your legs wider, one hand bracing you open, the other never relenting from your clit. You were shaking, spasming around him, nerves lighting up and snapping under the overwhelming pleasure.

He felt it—felt the way you clenched around him—and his groan turned desperate. That’s when it happened.

His breath hitched against your skin, hot and heavy, and he sank his teeth into the junction of your neck and shoulder—not sharp, but crushing. A deep, anchoring bite that made your knees buckle. There was no teasing graze. No playful nip. It was brutal and real, the final claim.

Your blood hummed beneath his tongue. His growl ripped through his chest like something primal and unhinged, all of his restraint gone in an instant. When he pulled back, your neck throbbed with the mark he left—a vow burned into flesh.

He stilled for a second, trembling, forehead pressed to your temple, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he could fuse you to him if he only squeezed hard enough.

And then he came. It wasn’t silent—it tore from him in a broken, gasping sound, raw and utterly human. His hips bucked forward once, twice, grinding himself as deep as he could go. You could feel the heat of him spilling inside you, thick and hot, flooding your cunt until it leaked out around the base of him.

The knot swelled suddenly, locking you both together with a sharp stretch that made you both gasp aloud. He stayed buried to the hilt, unmoving for a moment except for the erratic trembling in his thighs. His fingers curled around your jaw, forcing you to tilt your head back so he could kiss you—soft, almost reverent, as if he couldn't believe you were real.

He didn’t slow. He didn’t stop. "We’re not done," he murmured hoarsely against your lips. His voice was frayed and trembling, nothing like the god he was to everyone else. It was raw and human and yours.

"I've made you cum before," he panted. "Again. And again. Tonight’s no different."

You could already feel him swelling again, already twitching inside you, the knot keeping you right where he wanted. It was thick, full, and practically immovable as he rested his forehead against your cheek. His hips began to move again, slow and grinding, sending aftershocks of pleasure straight through your gut.

Omni-Mark wasn’t the type to give up. Not when it came to you. Especially not now. Not when he had all night and all of you.

Full Masked Mark

He didn’t knock. You found him in your room, standing in the dark—half-shadowed beneath the blue light leaking in from the city. He hadn’t removed the mask, just hovered there, tense, and breathing too hard.

“Mark?”

He didn’t respond. You took a step forward, and he flinched—his hand tightening into a fist so hard his knuckles cracked beneath the glove. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, cracking like old porcelain. “I—I can’t trust myself.” You stopped moving. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

He nodded once. “The heat. I felt it coming for days. Thought I could outrun it.” His head tilted, his voice almost breaking. “I ran here.” You didn’t question it. Not the fact that he trusted you with this—something he clearly didn’t understand, something that made him feel wrong. You stepped close enough for him to see the softness in your eyes.

“You’re not going to hurt me, Mark.” His brows furrowed, his body suddenly becoming tense. But the way his body ached for you, the way his strength spasmed as he imagined fucking you raw with the memory of countless nights fucking his fist in your bed… he couldn’t tell.

His breath hitched audibly behind the mask. “You don’t know that. I’m not like the others. I—I think about you too much. I dream about you. And in those dreams, I—” His voice cut off with a choked gasp.

“I miss her,” he whispered. “She’d know what to do.”

Your heart broke. He was burning up inside, trembling with unspent want, haunted by grief and biology and years of holding himself together with cracked pieces of identity. You stepped closer. “Let me help you,” you whispered, hands gently brushing the hem of his mask. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

He didn’t move as you slid it off. Underneath, his face was flushed, wet with tears he hadn’t realized he was crying. His jaw was clenched like he was fighting himself from the inside out. And then you touched his face—just a thumb across his cheek—and the dam burst.

He surged forward, mouth on yours in a desperate, needy kiss. There was no dominance, no force—just raw emotion and trembling urgency. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling completely.

“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you. But it never felt fair.”

“It’s not about fair, Mark,” you whispered, unzipping his suit slowly. “It’s about what we want.”

His lips found your throat, reverent and shaky, like he was worshipping every inch of you he touched. His fingers trembled against your skin as he helped you undress, his breath stuttering every time you made a sound. When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was with a gentleness that felt sacred. He was utterly devoted, his lips parting as unabashed whines and whimpers in your name spouted from his lips.

“You’re so warm,” he whispered, nuzzling your chest, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “You feel like home.” You pulled him in, let him bury himself in your arms and your body, and let him feel safe while the storm inside him raged and broke.

“Don’t let go,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “Even if I fall apart.”

You kissed him back, holding him through the fire. “I won’t.”

And he didn’t fall apart. He broke open, in the best possible way.

And then he kissed you like it's the only thing keeping him from falling apart. It’s wet and trembling, like he’s trying not to let his body take over too fast. His hands shake where they touch you, fingers curling into your shirt as if you might disappear if he lets go. “M-missed you,” he stammers into your mouth, kissing again before you can reply. He chases your lips, nose bumping clumsily against yours, and sighs when your hands pull him closer. “Let me stay... just a little longer.”

Like being wrapped in something wet and hot and too much. His scent is thick with desperation. It pulses with each pant from his lips. The longer he holds back and the heavier it becomes—need turned physical. A pheromone so raw it drips off him like sweat. It smells of molten amber and pine sap. The type that fogs up mirrors, clings to your sheets, and fills your mouth. It says, He’s not fucking for pleasure—he’s fucking to survive. And only you can keep him sane. His bones ache, every cell in his body screaming to break his restraints, but he can’t help but treat you gently.

You could tell his usual gentleness and restraint were bursting at the seams. Almost like he was still deciding if he should even be touching you at all. But then you made a sound—soft, breathy, inviting—and it destroyed whatever hesitation he had left.

The scent of you had soaked between your thighs—a dizzying blend of heat and arousal that made his chest rise with ragged restraint. His jaw clenched. His eyes devoured you, shoulders heaving, hands trembling with the effort of not lunging. The suit remained half on—his skin flushed and damp beneath the edges of his armor. But even while he stayed dressed, he made sure you weren’t.

Because in heat, Mark didn’t want just access to your body—he wanted your vulnerability. All of it. And before you knew it, your back was against the mattress.

His cock is thick, not monstrous, but unmistakable and it fits him perfectly. Hard, flushed, curved slightly upward, the tip already slick with need. It twitches when you look at it, eager, the kind of erection that speaks more of obsession than pride. And when he finally presses himself against you, it’s not just hunger—it’s worship in motion.

His body trembled as he positioned himself between your legs, jaw clenched so tight it ached. His skin burned under the mask, damp with sweat, heart pounding out of rhythm like it was trying to crawl from his chest. The heat coiled in his gut like a second heartbeat—violent, possessive, undeniable. His cock throbbed with every shallow breath he took, already leaking against your thigh, twitching with the need to bury itself deep.

He entered you slowly, almost reverently, but it was clear from the start: this wasn’t about control anymore. Not that he had any. Your folds are slick, swollen, already glistening with arousal; he's too far gone to pretend not to notice. His wildest instincts flared against his reddened skin. His breath hitched the moment you tightened around him, the heat inside him flaring like a wildfire fanned by gasoline.

“I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know you would feel like this,” he said, through a lump of saliva stuck in his throat. You two have had sex before, but this was a transcendence of normal sensations. Like an aphrodisiac had poisoned his every being—only craving to have you. Every inch he gave you sent a tremor through his spine. His hands gripped your thighs too hard, fingers digging into the plush of your skin as if anchoring himself to reality—to you. Choked gasps echoed from you as pain mingled with pleasure.

His hips rocked with shallow, fluid thrusts, but his body betrayed him. Sweat dripped down his temples. His thighs flexed beneath you. The very fat of his lips felt suffocating now, his groans catching behind it, as if he were trying to bite down every sound—but the whines slipped through. Small, needy, devastated.

When his mouth found your neck, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a branding. His teeth grazed your skin, his tongue darting out to soothe the sting—only to repeat the ritual again and again. You felt the tremor in his chest every time he breathed you in. With every nip, your body jolted against him, clamping down as you curled into him. He was trying to restrain himself, to stay present. To worship you. Your skin curved upward as shaky gasps left your fingers clawing at his shoulder blades before you barely grazed his shoulder with your fangs, and he gasps—a full-body jolt that ends with him moaning your name. “Ah—wha—fuck, do it again—please, I—I like that, I really like that—” His hips buck into yours without rhythm, lost in the sensation.

But his body pulsed with hunger, and your scent had soaked into his bones like poison. He was hard—too hard—the kind of painful pressure that fogged his brain and turned every thought into a raw, burning need to come. He didn’t last long before instinct buckled his knees.

Suddenly, he surged forward, hips snapping into yours with more force, more desperation. “Can you feel how deep I am? I need to be deeper.” His body moved on its own—sharp, ragged thrusts as if chasing relief he already knew wouldn’t come easy. He whimpered against your collarbone, low and broken, like it hurt to need you this much. Like, if he came, it wouldn’t be enough. He tried to slow down again, pulling his hips back to regain control, but the second your body clenched around him in reply—he lost it.

He flipped you onto him without thinking, your chest sliding against his sweat-slicked torso. His hands ghosted over your back like you were made of glass, but his eyes? Glazed. Wild. You sank down on him again, and he cried out—not loud, but breathless. Helpless. “It’s okay, Mark… I’ll take it from here.”

You started to ride him, each movement smooth and sensual, and it shattered what little composure he had left. Gooseflesh peppered across your skin as your vision blurred, moving absentmindedly through groans. His hands clawed at your hips—desperate for something to hold. His thighs trembled beneath you, every muscle pulled taut like a man bracing for impact. You were moving too good, too slow, too deep—and the look on your face drove him mad.

“Mark… oh, f—fuck, Mark.” His name on your lips was like a spell. “Say my name again… please, I need to hear it when you touch me, m—mommy.” His groan was so broke it borderlined slutty. You leaned down and nipped at his chest, your tongue tracing the contours of his body, and he arched into you so sharply it bordered on pain. The groan that left him was guttural and shameful—his cock twitching so hard inside you it made your stomach flip. He was trying to last. You could see it in how hard his jaw clenched, how his fingers trembled where they held you, and how his entire body was one breath away from breaking.

You rolled your hips faster, and his head fell back against the pillows, mouth parted in a gasp that never fully came. His release hit like a landslide, thighs spasming, chest heaving beneath you. He spilled inside you with a full-body jolt, his fingers digging into your skin like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. His hips kept moving—just barely—like his body hadn’t realized it was over. Like it didn’t want it to be.

His hips roughly buck upwards, the dominance within battling with his personality. He swells, his pelvis pressing into you as it forces every obsessive emotion out of him. And even as he lay there, breathless, unraveling beneath you, he didn’t let go. One hand slid up your back. The other held your hip still, his cock still twitching inside you. His body was still burning.

Because it wasn’t over. Not even close.

It wasn’t his choice; he tried to fight it. He wants to hold back. But when he finally gives in and marks you, the bite is sloppy—messy with saliva and a low, broken whine in your ear. He bites twice, just to feel it again. His knot slowly forms as he clings to you, speech slurring as he becomes barely coherent. You feel his whole body tense as his teeth graze, then dig in. The second bite is deeper, so sudden you yelp. His grip tightens. “I—I’m sorry, I just—I needed you to know you’re mine.”

Main Mark Grayson

You didn’t expect him to show up at your place at two in the morning—especially not looking like that. Hair wild, eyes glowing faintly gold, his shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his chest. His hands were shaking and his voice was frantic.

“Hey—hi—uh, this might be crazy, but I think I’m, like… dying?”

You blinked. “Mark… what?”

He paced your living room, tugging at his clothes, cheeks flushed. “Yeah, so, um—my dad kind of warned me this might happen one day? Something about Viltrumite biology and… a heat cycle?” Your heart stuttered. Oh. Oh. Suddenly, you were very intrigued.

He froze mid-ramble, turning to you, eyes wide and full of panic. “I smelled you, okay? On the way home. I was flying, and then boom—your scent hit me like a truck, and now I’m like—" He gestured down to his very obvious, very painful erection. “THIS.”

You bit your lip, trying to stay calm while your thighs absolutely clenched. “Mark, sit.”

He obeyed immediately, flopping onto your couch like a broken marionette, head falling into his hands. “I swear I’m not a creep. I just—God, you smell so good—”

You crossed the room slowly and sat next to him. He tensed like a live wire.

You touched his knee, and he whimpered. The poor boy almost looked embarrassed before his jaw clenched to bite back another sound. It was subtle, but his head tilted as his nose flexed—inhaling your scent like the sweetest dessert as heat broke his skin into a red flush.

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “It hurts. It aches, and all I can think about is you. How soft your skin is. How you taste when I kiss you—God, I’ve imagined it so many times—” You took his face gently in your hands, turning him to look at you. “Mark,” you said softly. “Do you want this? With me?”

He nodded so fast it almost looked painful. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ve wanted this—but not like this. I didn’t want to scare you. But now I’m losing it, and I need you. Please.”

You kissed him before he could spiral further. He gasped, then melted into it, grabbing your hips like they were the last stable thing in his universe. His mouth was hot, desperate, already starting to shake as the heat flared stronger.

You slid your hands under his shirt, feeling the sweat-slick heat of his skin. He shivered, grinding up against you with a needy groan. “I feel like I’m going to explode,” he whispered against your neck. “Like I could fly through the moon just from touching you.”

You tugged the cloth off, eyes roaming his flushed, muscular form. Within seconds, a familiar musk perspired from his pores. It was warm. An after-battle scent that's adrenaline-laced with sweat-slicked sandalwood and a subtle sweetness of red apple skin. The smell of his cologne clashed as if he had tried grounding himself before arriving. The kind of scent that clings to your sheets and drives you crazy when he’s gone. Suddenly, you felt vertiginous with a mixture of lust and reason clashing within your veins. It was so easy to relinquish control to whatever temptation awaited.

“…Are you mad? Or are you gonna kiss me before I combust?” He said nervously, brows furrowing upwards.

You blinked, surprised—then realized he’d mistaken your stunned silence, the way your breath caught, and your hands hesitated for doubt. Not awe. You straddled his lap, gently guiding his trembling hands to your hips, grounding him now.

“Mark,” you said softly, pulling his mouth back to yours, “I’m not scared. I want this. I want you.”

He groaned into your kiss—relieved, wrecked, like the words unraveled something in him. And when he kissed you back? It was like he was learning it all for the first time, like you’re teaching him with every sigh. But the moment his hips shift against yours, instinct takes over. He groans into your mouth, the kiss going from nervous to needy in seconds. His fingers curl into your thighs, pulling you closer with soft pants between kisses. Again and again—faster, deeper—like he's afraid of what happens if he pulls away. “You make it worse. Being this close—I just—please… let me have this.” And when you nod, he kisses you like it’s a thank you and a promise in one.

He didn’t hold anything back. His hands found your waist, your thighs, your chest, everywhere at once, guided by instinct and passion. His breath caught as you guided his hands, his hips, and his rhythm.

Mark Grayson didn’t know what he was doing, but he learned fast.

You barely got your shirt off before his mouth was on your throat again. Not kissing. Breathing, tasting even. He was fumbling at your clothes like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to take them off or just fuck you through them. He doesn’t mean to be messy—but his heat is driving him crazy.

Inhaling your scent like it soothed the ache in his chest. His hands trembled at your waist, thumbs brushing bare skin like he was trying to remember how to be gentle, how to be Mark—but the heat was too much.

He's been aching for hours. His cock started reacting before he even knew why—just the sound of your laugh, or the memory of how your hand felt the night before, was enough to make him twitch. Like a magnetic force building pressure in his chest and groin that no amount of willpower can settle. His heart beats faster when you’re close, but not because he’s nervous. But from burying his face in your skin and rutting like an animal.

The instinctive, all-consuming need to bury himself deep and never leave—to feel your cunt pulse around him until he doesn’t know where you end and he begins. He wants to merge with you in every way imaginable. Every inch of skin feels like it's starving to the point where sex might not be enough. His nervous system feels alight, all senses searching for yours, like that's their purpose.

His calloused fingers slid your panties down your thighs, soaked through, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His hips lifted, hand palmed at his soiled erection before yanking down the fabric. Veins ran the length of his cock—the usual pink tip was an irritated red—and it was heavy as it smacked against his abdomen. He jumped, bucking into the air as cold precum bubbled from his tip.

Too impatient to fully undress, he let you take the reins, legs wrapping around his waist. His breath hitched like you’d struck him. You settled into his cross-legged lap, chests pressed together, skin to skin, cockslick hot between your folds—and he froze.

Not from hesitation. But because his entire body short-circuited.

He entered you slowly, like he was trying to feel every second of it. Your walls stretched around him, wet and pulsing, and he moaned—deep, wrecked, like he hadn’t even meant to. You clutched around him, and his head dropped to your shoulder, arms wrapping tight around your back as your bodies fully sealed together. Every bulging vein was caressed, arousal threatening to erupt.

He rocked his hips, slow and intense. Grinding into you like it was the only thing keeping him conscious. Then came the whisper. Low. Ragged. Right against your throat. “Mine…” His hips rolled with it. You gasped. “Mine,” again, softer, needier, as his cock dragged in slow circles inside you, the pressure growing unbearable.

He buried his face in your neck like it would keep him grounded, hips moving with desperate rhythm—not pounding, but grinding, searching for friction, pleasure, and closeness. Like your body was his whole world. He shook. A full-body tremor that told you he was losing it. Your legs tightened around him, head tilted towards the ceiling as strobe lights clouded your vision from his thrusting.

Through hitching breaths, you stammered, “That’s it. Just like that. You feel it too, don’t you?” You gulped, his lips tracing over your bobbing throat. “I can’t think, I can’t—God, you feel so good.” He heaved, tongue running over your clavicle as he sought every drop of sweat. “You’re squeezing me so hard—are you trying to kill me?” His tongue tickling you sent shivers down your spine, causing his arms to wrap tighter, feeding off every vibration.

And then he fell forward. Not collapsing—just pressing you back onto the mattress, hips never leaving yours. Still buried inside you, still grinding as he held you like his anchor. His mouth found yours, kissing you hard, hand at your lower back dragging your hips forward—trying to keep you pressed to his cock even as his muscles gave out. “Harder. Please. I can take it,” you gasped, fingers clawing at the couch material. “God, you make me lose control. I can’t stop—not when you sound like that.” A whimper and deep groan rumbled in his chest as he nearly doubled over, his hips pushing forward as your head collided with the armrest.

When he finally came—deep, groaning, clinging—his thrusts didn’t stop. He just rode through it, fucked through it, face against your chest, body shaking. And when the wave passed? He shifted you both gently, his body still connected to yours, curling behind you like a second skin. You stared wide-eyed; his eyes were glazed over, and he whispered uncharacteristically in your ear. “I’m gonna keep going until your legs won’t close without me between them.” He’s not cruel. He’s possessed. He wants to wreck you because he loves you—and it terrifies him how much he needs it. “I just need you so bad,” he pants. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Your knees bent as he nudged closer, cock sliding back inside you from behind—spooning now, softer, deeper, but no less desperate.

He kissed your shoulder. His hand found your thigh and pulled it up. His cock dragged in slow, aching thrusts that felt like a secret. But the moment your hips shifted—even the slightest grind back against him—he whimpered. His hips rolled forward on reflex, just enough for you to feel how he was still thick, still twitching inside you, still needing.

He started moving. Small thrusts. Like he was trying to be good, to hold back. But every slow drag of his cock inside you made his breath catch, made his arm around your waist tighten. Your body was still so wet, so warm, so welcoming. It pulled the heat right back to the surface—he pummeled into you now, forehead pressed to the back of your shoulder, hips snapping forward in slow, aching rolls that never left you empty. Every inch of him throbbed with restraint. His body buzzed with heat and urgency, but you could feel the emotion under it.

He was fucking you like he meant it. Like your body answered a question he hadn’t realized he was asking. His hand slid over your thigh—palm dragging up your slick skin until he reached your chest. He gripped it, not hard, just possessively. Like if he held you tight enough, he could force the ache in his stomach to ease. Like the way your breath hitched made it bearable.

Your ass rocked back against him now, unconsciously meeting every rut of his hips, and he gasped quietly, but cracked open with it. His pace faltered, and then, he grinded.

A long, deep press of his cock, slow enough for you to feel every vein, every throb as he pulsed inside you. He whimpered again as you clenched, mouth open against your nape like he couldn’t breathe without you. “Oh, fuck, Mark.” Your voice cut through his thoughts like a knife; a deep groan vibrated in your throat as an impending orgasm washed over you.

He’s trying to be gentle—he swears he is. But the second you cry out his name, the dam breaks. He groans low in his throat, body trembling as he leans over you, breath hot against your skin. “Fuck—I need to…” He presses his lips to the base of your neck first, shaky and reverent—then you feel the slow pressure of his teeth. He bites down harder than he intended, and your back arches. His heat-maddened body needs you claimed. Mark shudders, lips wet as he pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’re mine. Sorry—I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop.” His hand flies over your mouth to quiet the pain and pleasured grunts. He couldn't handle it. Until you bit into the web between his thumb and pointer finger.

He yelps—then moans, breathless, like you just knocked all the air out of him. His face flushes red all the way to his ears, his hips stuttering against you. “D-don’t stop doing that,” he begs, voice cracking. You feel him start to swell, and he panics—eyes wide, voice stuttering, body tense. He tries to stop moving, but it only makes the pressure worse—and suddenly he’s knotting inside you with a choked groan.

“Can we do this again? And again? And—fuck, I’m not done.”

And he wasn’t pulling out. Not until you whispered that he was yours. And not even then.

Mohawk Mark

You didn’t move. He was already in your apartment when you walked in—standing dead center in the living room, like he owned the place.

Shoulders squared, jaw tight, fists flexing at his sides like he was trying to decide if he wanted to grab something or break it in half. His nostrils flared as he exhaled slowly through his nose, teeth catching his bottom lip. Not angry. Not quite.

Something worse. Something hungry.

“Fuck,” he muttered, running his tongue over his teeth like he could taste you in the air. “You always leave the door unlocked like that? Or just for me?” He almost sounded flattered. You cocked a brow. “You broke my window last time. I figured this was safer.” That almost made him grin. Almost.

Instead, he tilted his head and stared at you like he was trying to figure out how loud you'd scream if he pinned you to the wall right now. “You smell that?” He muttered, eyes narrowing. “That’s me. Going fucking crazy.”

“This what you wanted?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “Parading around like that, all soft and smug? You get off on teasing me while I’m like this?” You glanced down at yourself—shorts, tank top, nothing special—but his eyes were molten.

“Are you teased, Mark?”

He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Shit, you’re—mm…” He grimaced to himself.

His hands twitched again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to cross his arms or slam them on either side of your head. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch—just watched, jaw ticking, eyes following your every move like a predator holding himself back by a thread.

“I expected more restraint,” you murmured. “Didn’t think you'd lose control this fast.” He’s mentioned these heats before, almost braggadocious in an excessive way. He was a sexual deviant, skilled within his own right, and you knew that very well… but you don't recall him seeming so… lewd during these ruts.

He scoffed. “Restraint’s for people who aren’t boiling inside their own goddamn skin. You ever felt that? Like your bones are gonna split open if you don’t fuck something?” You inhaled slowly, thighs clenching. “Sounds intense.”

“It is.” His eyes flicked to your mouth. “You drive me fucking insane.”

“You sure you don’t like it?”

He finally moved—just a step, but it was heavy, purposeful, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold back a war. His voice dropped into a growl. “I like watching you squirm when you pretend you’re not dying for it too.” You smirked. “I’m not pretending.”

His pupils blew, and he heaved as if sick. He took another step. “You should’ve stayed away tonight,” he said. “You don’t know what I’ll do to you if you let me.” You closed the space, lifting your chin. “Then show me.” The moment cracked like lightning.

He grabbed your waist hard enough to bruise, spinning you, pressing you against the nearest table with his hips grinding into yours. One hand fisted in your hair, tilting your head back, the other sliding under your shirt with zero patience. You gasped, nails digging into his arms. “I’ll be gentle when you stop making it fun,” he hissed in your ear. “You want it rough?” His eyes peered into yours with an intensity that made your heart thrum. He could hear it.

“Good,” he growled. “Let me ruin that attitude while you still remember your name.”

He doesn’t ask for a kiss. He leans in like he’s about to win something—eyes sharp, mouth already curled in that half-smirk that makes you want to slap it off or bite it. There’s heat in his stare, but it’s not desperate. It’s deliberate. Like he’s letting you know what’s about to happen without saying a word. And when he finally does kiss you? It’s firm, demanding, but not cruel. The kind of kiss that says, “I see you. I respect you. Now shut up and let me in.”

His hand’s usually on your jaw, thumb under your chin, tilting your face just how he likes it. He likes a little resistance—loves when you kiss back with a bite, when your teeth graze his lip just enough to make him growl. Your hands wrap around the width of his shoulders, feet shuffling beneath you as his teeth attack your lips. You're barely able to reciprocate the usual energy.

He laughs into your mouth. A low, cocky rumble, like he’s already planning his next move. He kisses like a dare—like he wants to know how much you can take before you start pulling his hair and grinding back. But there’s tenderness under the heat. A kind of quiet reverence in the way he pulls back just slightly to breathe against your lips before diving in again, slower this time, almost careful. Like he doesn’t say the soft stuff out loud—but he lets you taste it. He’s panting, flushed, pupils blown wide. Smirking like he didn’t just almost lose his mind. His tongue flicks over his lips, the cold metal ball of his piercing just teasing you of what could be.

His teeth now bite at your bra strap just enough to make it snap. Your pants come off mid-makeout, fingers fumbling until he just rips them at the seams. “Oops,” he grins, not sorry at all. He doesn’t slow down, his hands linger on your thighs, his mouth hot against your neck. “Shit, you should see how wet you are for me. You feel that?”

He makes a mental note to “kidnap you.” It's about time you lived with him; having to travel so far ticks his gears. You’d assimilate perfectly, having been adorned with a matching mohawk. His thoughts are interrupted the second your nails scratched up his chest—just hard enough to leave a faint trail over the curve of his pecs. He stopped smiling. His jaw flexed. His hands slid down your waist. Then lower.

You hopped back onto the edge of the bed like you’d done it before and you had. With him. Because with Mark, it was always the same deal: you push, he pushes back harder. You spit fire; he kisses it into your throat.

Your legs were already bending when he grabbed them, hauling your thighs up until your ass slid into his lap and your weight tilted. You dropped forward to the floor, hands planting flat against it as your body stretched into that long, open line. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t supposed to be. You didn’t need to be told what he wanted. He didn’t need to say it.

His cock slid against your ass—thick, hot, already leaking—and your mouth curled into a smirk. You arched purposefully. A little taunt, a little “you can take it, right?” attitude radiating off you, even as your thighs trembled from the stretch. He grunted, lips quirking in response. And then he pressed into the sweet nectar that dripped from your cunt. It was dizzying each time, but today especially. The sight of it alone causes him to pant. His scent is overwhelming. Makes the air taste heavy. It forces submission from the inside out as you feel your stomach twisting. The smell sticks to your sweat, resembling charred sugarcane and gasoline.

You felt the give, the pressure blooming in your gut as his cock breached you, thick and unforgiving. He guided your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft skin just above your knees, using your legs to tilt your body into the angle he liked best—deep. He didn’t thrust. He carved. Mark grunted—low, restrained, shocked by how tight you were. You squeezed him hard, involuntarily, and he twitched so violently his hips nearly stuttered out of rhythm.

His hips pummeled forward, nearly knocking you off balance, your fingertips digging into wooden floors. The rocking presses him against every ridge inside of you. “Fuck, you’re tighter than I thought… knew you’d be trouble.” He was thick, his cock pulsing with heat and slick from his own need, and the sensation of being filled that way had your vision going white around the edges. Every thrust after that was short, deep, grinding. You were being taken. And he was barely holding himself together at the seams.

Your pelvic muscles tightened every time he reared back, his fingers gripping you with such vigor that his hands went numb. His gaze purely focused on your ass, the sight alone nearly busting his balls as he gritted. Peering over your shoulder, you watch as he whispers to himself—hand nudging himself deeper with every stroke. Planting your feet against the sheets, you began to bounce back against him; loud pops echo in the room in tandem with your moans.

“You’re gonna ride me like I’m nothing, huh? Fucking do it.” You almost make it look easy, his toes spreading from the pleasure, being your encouragement. “I'm gonna fill you til' it leaks out of your nose, babe. You ready for that kind of damage?” His hand against the small of your back, head lolling backwards as unfiltered groans left him. His voice cracking occasionally, fingers ripping at the sheets, the hairs of his mohawk becoming slick to his scalp.

One hand against his chest, the other gripping his jaw as his whole body convulsed under you, chest arching, hips jerking up in desperate, erratic thrusts even after he spilled inside you. And even when it was over, when he’d emptied himself with a full-body tremble and a cracked moan, he didn’t stop moving.

His hands slid weakly down your back, nails dragging across sweat-slick skin like he didn’t know how to stop touching. His breath came in short, broken gasps—mouth open, throat dry, eyes glassy with disbelief. “Still hard—how the fuck am I still hard?” His spine curved forward as he continued to bounce you against his cock, his jaw slack. “You feel so good, I’ll die here, I don’t care.”

His body twitched under yours, overwhelmed but addicted—his cock still twitching inside you, trying to stay hard even as overstimulation set in. He whined when you clenched. Actually whined. His thighs trembled, head turned to the side, face flushed and lips parted in a half-smile, half-wrecked expression that made it impossible to take him seriously—except he was so serious.

He slipped out of your pussy with a wet, audible drag, the sudden emptiness making you gasp. He was breathing heavily, shakily, even as he pulled you up like you weighed nothing. His hands framed your thighs, one arm cradling your back as he stood with you wrapped around him.

Your cunt was already dripping from being stretched—slick enough that when he used the arousal to lube your ass, it was an immediate, obscene slide. The angle—chest to chest, your back hitting the wall—meant he could slam up into you, balls smacking your ass with every thrust. The shift from vaginal to anal only made it more intense—your walls fluttered around him from sheer overstimulation, gripping his cock like your body didn’t want to let him go again.

It was instinct and control, primal and practiced, each movement slamming forward with just enough mercy to keep it beautiful. The sound of your skin meeting his hips echoed in the room—wet, filthy, rhythmic.

He reached down and grabbed the back of your neck, not to choke, just to feel your pulse as you took it. You barely had time to turn before he lifted you. One arm behind your back, the other under your thigh. His mouth slammed into yours again—sloppy, hot, teeth and spit and praise held between clenched teeth. He licks into your mouth like he’s chasing something—dominance, control, maybe a bit of sanity he left behind two cities ago.

You clawed at his shoulders. Bit his bottom lip. His cock was slick, messy from the first round, pressing against your slick folds as he walked you toward the wall like a man on a mission.

You clung to him, legs wrapping around his waist, and he fucked you standing—hard, deep, devastating. But still precise. Still so goddamn good it made your knees shake even while they were off the ground. He whispered something against your cheek, nothing coherent, just the sound of someone wrecked and reverent.

The stretch? Piercing and intense. His knot leaves you gasping, trying to squirm, but he holds you down, ramming his knot deeper with each thrust until it pops inside and locks you together. You can feel it throbbing, almost bruising, and he loves the way you twitch around him. He grinds through the swelling, making it worse for both of you—and better. “Too much? That’s the point.” There’s no warning. Just a cocky snarl, his hand locking in your hair and shoving your head to the side. “You ready, sweetheart?” You don’t get the chance to respond—he sinks in hard. Deep enough to bruise. You scream, and he laughs, moaning into the skin. “God, that’s hot. Fuck, keep squirming.”

Annoyance floods your veins as you crane your neck. You sink your teeth into his collarbone, and he shouts, hips snapping. “FUCK—oh, that’s what you’re on? You wanna bite now?” He’s panting, pale, flushed, eyes wild. “Bite harder. C’mon, make me bleed, I dare you.”

You clench around him, “Yeah, make me your little toy. I’m built for it.”

Lensless Invinicble

He hasn’t said a word for over an hour— which, for No Goggles Mark— is basically a war crime. He’s sprawled out on the couch like he’s been shot, one arm flung over his face, the other dangerously close to palming himself through his sweats, and you know he’s doing it on purpose. That self-sabotaging little shit. He’s so obviously in heat it’s comical. Sweat slicks his collarbone, his jaw is clenched tight, his shirt is lifted over his abs like a mating call, and a flush rises from his chest to the tips of his ears. And still, nothing, not a single word.

So you break first. “You good?”

His fingers twitch. His mouth moves like he might respond. Then, silence again. Of course.

You walk over, stand above him, arms crossed. “Mark.”

He groans, dragging his arm off his face to reveal bloodshot eyes and a crooked grin. “Dude,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to cave.”

“Cave?” you echo, raising a brow.

He smirks, shifting slightly, letting his hips roll just enough for you to see the outline of him pressing hard against his pants. “Yeah, cave. I mean, I’ve been lying here like a Victorian heroine in heat, and you didn’t even check my temperature. Rude.”

“You’re actually insane.”

“Little bit,” he chirps, breath catching as his thighs tense. “Dude, like, on a scale from 1 to melting down in your lap? I’m somewhere around… please slap me, choke me, tell me to shut the fuck up, and I’ll still get hard.”

Your face twitches, and that’s when he knows he’s got you.

“You like this, huh?” He taunts, grinning through a low, shaky breath. “Me all pathetic and wrecked. Just lying here, trying so hard not to hump the fucking couch. You gonna be a hero and save me, or… just watch me lose my mind?”

You kneel beside him, now he twitches.

“God, I love when you do that,” he mutters. “All serious and controlled while I’m three seconds away from grinding myself into a puddle.” You glance down at his flushed neck, already marked up from earlier in the week. Old hickeys, faint bruises—like trophies. Your trophies.

“You are so lucky I have bad taste in men.” You sigh, feigning annoyance as you two share knowing glances. “If I touch you, will you stop talking… or just moan louder?”

“Okay, rude again, but also… accurate. Now come here. Get on me,” he says, voice deepening on the last word. His breath hitches again, and for a moment, he shudders—hands fisting in the cushion, thighs shaking.

You lean close, your lips brushing his ear. “You could’ve said something.”

“No fun in that,” he pants, finally reaching for you. “Wanted to see how long I could suffer. I always ruin the fun too fast. Mark me. Scratch me. I’ll wear it like a fucking badge, babe.”

He rolls over, yanking you into his lap, lips ghosting along your jaw. “C’mon. Don’t make me beg.”

“You already are.”

“…Shit. That’s hot.”

His heat ruins him. He’s unhinged, usually pacing the walls of your shared home like a caged animal, trying not to wake you, but failing. His brain short-circuits with the memory of your mouth, your voice, and your bite. It's self-inflicted torture—he delays touching you just to feel the high of suffering. And when he finally breaks? It’s like watching a dam explode. You’re not just his girl—you’re his goddess, his favorite kind of punishment. And this need? It’s sacred, in the dirtiest way possible. For a loose cannon with unparalleled brutality, you’ve got him on a leash.

His hands hovered at the hem of your shirt, fingers twitching like he was trying not to break apart mid-touch. “Dude, I can’t—I need—fuck, just lemme, please—”

You didn’t even answer. Just raised your arms, and that was all it took. He yanked the shirt over your head, tearing it in the process, and shifted you beneath him with a groan, mouth already dragging over your stomach like he didn’t know where to start. Your bra went next—half-bitten, half-torn—and when your chest spilled free, he just stared. Wide-eyed. That smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, slow and sinful, but his eyes were already glassy—like he was drunk off the tension and starving for your skin. It was a smile like he knew a secret and you were the punchline. All teeth and dark promise.

His tongue found your sternum, teeth grazing as he mouthed down one side, up the other, breath shaking against your skin. “I’m gonna say the worst shit if you let me keep going. Like, really bad. I’m so fucking gone for you.”

Ten minutes passed, and he still hadn’t made it past your ribs—just kissing, licking, groaning, hands dragging up your thighs like a prayer with no end. You knew he was struggling, his sweat pebbling against your thighs. It was sudden, your fingers curling just below his jaw and yanking him upward. The sound he let out was between a groan and a chortle.

He looked at you like you were the final scene in a movie he’d watched a thousand times—obsessed, twitchy, reverent… and just a little off. It was unhealthy. He was in love. His smile didn’t match the heat in his eyes; it was crooked, teasing, like he was holding in something far worse than words. His fingers ghosted along your thigh, warm and slow, but there was nothing calm about the way they twitched—like he was barely holding back from sinking them in.

It was dangerous. Like if you stopped now, he wouldn’t ask you to stay. He’d make you. And still, you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch. You let him worship you like the pretty little problem you are.

And so, with shaking fingers, he shoved his slacks down like they offended him, groaning when his cock sprang free—already flushed, already wet at the tip. The air hit him, and he trembled, panting through his teeth as if just being exposed was enough to short-circuit his control.

Your hand snapped up to his throat—tight, deliberate—and the moan that tore from him was instant, filthy, a cracked whimper that vibrated against your palm. You pressed him back into the cushions, straddling him with one thigh slotted between his twitching legs. His hands found your hips, but they were too unsteady to hold you down—more like he was asking permission with every touch.

You kissed him mid-moan—sloppy, messy, mouths colliding with teeth and spit and breath you didn’t care to control. His lips chased yours like he needed them to stay grounded, like losing contact for even a second would break him. His tongue was desperate. Uncoordinated. He whimpered every time your hips rolled. You reached down between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and sank down.

He groaned. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a pathetic little sound trapped in the back of his throat as your warmth surrounded him—tight, slick, all-consuming. His head hit the back of the couch, and his mouth hung open in disbelief, fingers digging into your thighs before thrusting upward. A thick, wet sound of arousal coated flesh echoed between walls, his lip caught between his teeth. As you set the pace, his hand clasped the width of your ass as he forced you to swallow him whole.

That’s all it took for your fingers to tremble, for your grasp to slip. “You hear that? That slick sound when I push in? That’s what I do to you. That’s mine now. Say it.” Words refused to form, only a disgruntled sigh escaping in their place. “Shaking already? C’mon, baby, you like when I talk like this. Look at you—gripping me like you want me meaner.”

Finally, your gaze shifted towards him as your hand cracked across his face once more. Your body leaned forward as you pressed weight against his windpipe. Head bowing to catch him off guard, biting his shoulder, the muscle jumping beneath your teeth, as a stinging pain filled his side. He stops moving, his breath catching. He gasped for air, rasping beneath your palm. “Dude. Holy shit—okay, okay, that was—fuck.” He’s grinning like he’s about to explode. He was a whore. Your whore, and he loved every second of it.

Each roll of your hips dragged a strangled noise from his throat. His hands flew to your waist but didn’t guide—just held. Clung. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His cock twitched inside you every time your walls clenched, and his abdomen jumped with every bounce of your hips. “Oh my god, that’s not fair. That’s—you’re cheating; this isn’t normal. No one’s supposed to feel this good.” His toes curled into the couch foam, unable to tell if he was cumming or unprecedented amounts of precum were coating his cock.

You leaned down, lips ghosting his cheek, your chest brushing his as your breath fanned across his ear. And while staring him in the eyes, while he was mid-moan, you spit into his mouth before delivering a final slap.

And that was it. His grip faltered. His hips jerked. He started to move—just a little—shallow, instinctive thrusts as he gasped beneath you. His eyes widened between delight and surprise. You could feel the sweat pooling at his lower back, the way his thighs flexed beneath you with every slow grind of your core against his pelvis.

Then you pulled off—just to tease, but not before you were flipped around and impaled once more; your ass nuzzled against his pelvis.

He made a noise like he’d been stabbed, both hands flying to your hips as you sank back down onto him in reverse cowgirl. Shivers crawled down your skin as heat from an impending orgasm made your vision blotch. You took all of him at once, and his reaction was feral. His head rolled back, a curse strangled in his throat, and his legs shook like he was trying not to thrust up blindly.

Your ass smacked against his abdomen as you rode him—harder now, rougher—and you reached between his legs to cup his balls. They were already tight, already twitching, the heat and overstimulation building to an unbearable edge. You rolled them in your palm, gentle but precise, and he nearly screamed through his teeth, hips jerking up so hard it lifted you both. His hips unrelenting as he fucked up into you. “You ride me like that again and I’m gonna black out. I’m gonna fucking die. Keep going.”

“Shut the fuck up, Mark. Just take it. I don’t want soft.” And with that he just lunges, no warning, no restraint, sinking his teeth into the nape of your neck like it’s all that’s keeping him tethered to reality. He moans like biting you is better than cumming. He didn’t speak for a brief pause, and that's when it became sickly.

His scent is of bruised plum and metal. It's strongest when he’s holding it in—when he won’t speak, won’t beg, won’t stop. When his heartbeats migrated to his dick. Then he keeps biting. Little ones. Bruising ones. Like he’s chasing the high of your yelps. “Dude, it hurts so good. I don’t even know if I’m still hard or if I’m just that fucked up. Keep going. Keep going.” Your fingertips curl into his calf muscle.

His entire body convulsed beneath you. One hand fisted in the couch cushion. The other grabbed your ass like he was trying to ground himself—but failed. You felt his cock pulse inside you, hot and overwhelming, as he came hard, breath leaving him in broken, unbelieving bursts. He twitched beneath you, thighs quivering uncontrollably, soft curses tumbling between panting moans. He’s rutting even though he knows it makes it worse. He’s overstimulated and absolutely getting off on it. You reach back to touch him, and he moans, full-body shaking, begging you to keep going until he breaks again.

So, you don’t stop. Neither does he, because he’s having too much fun. “C’mon let's go again. Don’t start whining now—you’re the one who started this.”

His knot swells too fast, too hard, and he’s already trembling before it locks in. Hips stuttering as he tries to pull out and realizes—he can’t. And the look on his face? “Oh my god—dude—I’m stuck. I’m literally stuck in you. This is—holy shit—this is the best day of my life.”

Shiesty/Hooded Mark

You found him leaning against the counter in the kitchen— acting as if nothing was wrong, like he wasn’t in the middle of a full-blown heat spiral. He was shirtless, his hair matted with blood, and a bandage hung off one shoulder as if he had forgotten it existed. His hair was pushed back, and his veil hung low around his neck, revealing a face that was too calm for someone whose chest was visibly heaving.

“Stop staring,” he muttered without looking up, a crooked smirk playing at his lips. “Unless you’re planning to help.”

“You look like shit,” you deadpanned. He rolled his neck slowly, his eyes finally meeting yours. They glowed with that sick, golden hue, and he was sweaty and raw. “I look like someone who just took down three versions of himself and came home hard as fuck. Same thing.”

You squinted. “You’re such an asshole.”

“And you love that about me,” he replied, pushing off the counter and stalking toward you. His hands flexed at his sides as if he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pin you or put them through a wall. “You know what this is, don’t you? I can smell your damn skin, and it’s driving me crazy.”

You crossed your arms. “So suffer.”

“Oh, I am,” he breathed. “But not for long.”

He backed you against the fridge, slow and heavy, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. His mouth hovered at your neck, not kissing, just breathing in deeply as if he could swallow you through scent alone.

You shoved him, but it was pointless, really, more instinctual than anything else.

He grinned. “Still so fucking defiant,” he muttered, grabbing your wrists and slamming them up against the cold metal behind you. “God, I missed this mouth. Say something cruel.”

You stared him down. “You whine more than a virgin.”

“Fuck yes,” he groaned, his eyes fluttering as if you’d praised him. “Do that again. Be mean to me.”

“You’re a freak,” you said flatly.

“And yet you’re the one who’s been riding me for months,” he replied through a tight grin. “Guess that makes you my freak.” His voice came out in a rasp. He loved how cold you could be; it made it all the more fun to ruin you, to watch you fuck yourself on his cock until you went limp. Usually by now you’d be bent over before finishing your sentence—yet he couldn't bear to. Not with his body practically vibrating, completely feral for you.

You gritted your teeth. “You’re bleeding on me.”

“Guess you shouldn’t have waited so long to come home,” he said, burying his nose against your pulse. “Didn’t wanna admit I was in heat. You’d gloat.”

“Am gloating,” you replied with a smirk.

He growled low in his throat, his hips rutting into yours with zero finesse. “Yeah? Let’s see how smug you are when I’ve got you shaking.” You narrowed your eyes. “Is that a promise or another Mark-level bluff?”

He licked the corner of your jaw—slow and deliberate. “I’m starving and you’re wet. Bite me, babe.”

So you did. Your teeth sank into his throat, and he groaned, his head tipping back. “Oh, fuck yes, there’s my girl.” He was panting now, grinning. “Shit. You like hurting me, don’t you?” He grabbed your hips hard, pulling you closer. “Do it again. I want bruises.”

His adam’s apple bobbed. Usually, he wasn’t a masochist; if anything, he was overly dominant in bed, but his inhibitions were loosened. Breaking even, as his eyes held a different reality than his words. It was only to taunt, as when your tongue flicked over your lips, preparing for another taste.

His lips crashed into yours as if he had just lost a fight and this was his prize. His mouth dragged against yours with a growl in his chest—blood still on his tongue, and the weight of battle clinging to his skin. He was cocky even here—biting at your lips between each kiss as if testing how far he could push before you snapped. When your nails dug into his biceps—he laughed against your mouth.

You rolled your eyes as he smirked against your lips, already dragging his teeth across your bottom one just to be annoying. “Careful,” you murmured, gripping the front of his suit. “Do it,” he muttered, his voice low and gleeful. Oh, how he loved when you pretended to be in control.

His hand grabbed your thigh, lifting and pinning you to the wall without warning—your lips barely parted before he was back on you, kissing you like he had something to prove. You broke the kiss just long enough to breathe, panting against his mouth. “You really think this is working?”

“Oh, it’s working. You’re already grinding on my thigh,” he replied, his voice thick with desire.

“Because you put me there,” you shot back.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower, as if he wanted to make you forget what you were about to say. His tongue flicked against yours in a rhythm that was just a little too practiced. You pulled back, your eyes narrowed.

“You kiss all your enemies like this?” you asked.

“Only the hot ones,” he responded with a smirk.

He did it mid-banter, almost annoyed by your clothes. One second you were snarking back, the next—rip. The seam of your shirt tore in his hands. He chuckled when you glared at him, his lips grazing your ear. “Buy you another one,” he breathed before kissing down your spine. Pants? Gone in a blur. Underwear? Teased off with one finger and a smirk. “You always taste better when you’re pissed at me.”

He sat back on the bed with that infuriating grin still tugging at his lips, watching you crawl toward him with that glint in your eye—the one that said you were going to cause problems on purpose.

You slid to his right instead, your shoulder brushing his thigh, your eyes locked on his cock as it twitched between his legs. You placed one hand on his knee, your lips parted, and then slowly bent forward until your head rested just above his lap. His breath hitched.

And then your mouth wrapped around him.

He groaned, his head tipping back, but he didn’t get to stay passive for long. You shifted slightly, lifting your hips—giving him just enough of a view to see how wet you already were. Your legs bent at the knee as your back arched, your ass high and ready to be touched—and he got the message.

His hand slid down the curve of your spine, lingering just above your ass like a threat, before diving between your thighs. His fingers met slick heat, and his cock twitched inside your mouth.

Two fingers pushed in slowly—testing—before curling as if he already knew exactly what spot made you twitch. You gasped around him, and he moaned in reply, his free hand tangling in your hair as your hips rocked into his touch.

Every time he thrust his fingers deeper, you sucked harder, like a trade-off. Every time you moaned, he pressed deeper into you, his fingers soaked, knuckles dripping as your body clenched around him like it was begging.

Your thighs quivered against his ribs. Your spit dripped onto his lap. His abs tensed every time you swallowed. You were both losing it. His fingers caressed every ridge—pads searching for that gummy spot that made you keen. The strokes were long, ending at the tip of his fingers before plunging in once more—your own arousal coating your insides as it glued his fingers together. It took everything in him to not bring his digits to his tongue and swirl your arousal across it. His taste buds ached as his mouth swelled with saliva. He could imagine it now—the faint tang of sweat, sweet like molasses and burnt herbal.

Your mouth worked over him like you were daring him to come too fast—your lips swollen, your throat taking him deeper each time you sank down, your tongue dragging slow and purposeful. His cock twitched between your lips, and you felt it—every pulse, every subtle tremble of restraint breaking. “Fuck… that’s it,” he whispered, his head spinning.

And he felt you, too. The way your body clenched around his fingers, soaked and twitching as his hand pumped between your thighs with growing intensity. Your hips rocked against his wrist, your heels kicking air each time his fingertips curled just right.

You choked just slightly, his cock hitting the back of your throat as your body jerked—but he didn’t stop. His palm slapped wetly against your ass, the obscene sound of his fingers fucking into you barely audible over the slurp of your mouth and the low, guttural whimpers pouring from his chest.

His voice was tight, right on the edge. But your pussy was shaking, your thighs trying to close, your back arching in that telltale way—and he felt it coming. You moaned around his cock, a deep, muffled sound vibrating against his length, his legs jerking in response.

His fingers slammed deep, curling sharp. You gasped, mouth full, throat convulsing, and then everything snapped. You squirted all over his hand with a cry you couldn’t hold back, your legs shaking, your ass twitching in the air. Your arousal spilled down his fingers, soaked his wrist, dripped onto the sheets.

And the second you spasmed like that around him, his hips stuttered, his breath hitched, and a low, fucked-out growl rumbled in his chest as his cock throbbed inside your mouth. You felt the first warm spurt hit the back of your throat, followed by another—and another—as he came hard, one hand yanking your head down to bury himself deep, the other still stuffed inside you, his fingers riding out the pulses of your orgasm.

His thighs flexed. His stomach clenched. His voice cracked with a half-moan, half-laugh that sounded just a little too close to worship. You swallowed it all, deliberately.

Then let him slip from your lips with a slick pop, your breath ragged, sweat cooling on your back as his hand finally slid from between your thighs, his fingers shiny and trembling. He looked down at you like you were divine punishment, still twitching from overstimulation, breathing like he’d fought a war—but grinning like he’d die to do it again.

His chest heaved like he couldn’t get enough air, his jaw slack, lips parted around a breathless whine. You could still see the way his muscles jumped—little tremors of pleasure his brain had no control over.

Temptation overtook him as his hand shot up—twitchy and instinctual. He couldn’t speak. He just leaned forward, his lips brushing your fingertips, and licked your arousal clean. Each drag was shaky, his mouth hot and eager, licking the mess he'd made like it was sacred. His lashes fluttered as his tongue circled your knuckle, the sound of his breath catching every time your taste hit his tongue. He whimpered—soft, broken—like it hurt to keep going, but he couldn't stop.

Every noise he made was involuntary. Every twitch in his hips, every stutter in his breath, every faint jerk of his cock against his thigh—it was pure overstimulation. His body was wrung out, undone, and still begging. And when he pulled your fingers from his mouth, licking the corners of his lips like a man starved, you knew he wasn’t done.

To him, heat felt like madness dressed in power. Everything was louder—your heartbeat, your scent, the memory of your lips. He was a god in a cage, and you were the only key. You were the one thing he didn’t need to conquer—he wanted you willingly, but if you fought, he ached harder. Every roll of your hips, every defiant glare, only sharpened his focus. He would fuck you like he was trying to outrun the heat clawing at his brain—but the truth? He didn't want it to end. Mating with you wasn’t about reproduction. It was absolution.

“It’s consuming me,” he spit out, breathless. “I can feel it in every goddamn nerve.” You touched his shoulder. He grabbed your wrist instead, shoving it to his chest. It hit like tension in a dim room—quiet, deliberate, intoxicating. The kind of scent that makes your breath catch before your thoughts do. There’s intimacy in it. One that thickens as your taste is savored on his tongue. The smell was of black tea and a faint rosewood, perhaps ink-stained leather. He grabbed your chin—dragged his tongue along your neck, then bit down slowly. It was deep, controlled, like he was branding you. His chest rumbled, almost pridefully.

He didn’t need to speak—you felt it in the way his hands gripped your hips, steady and possessive. You pushed up onto your hands, your spine arched, your thighs trembling as your knees left the bed. The tension in your core burned as he slid his hands beneath your pelvis and lifted. Your body tipped forward, your thighs locking tight around his waist, your ankles crossed at his back as his cock pressed flush against your slick folds—heavy, aching, ready.

He adjusted his grip, one hand under each thigh, supporting the weight of your lower half as your toes dangled uselessly in the air, your legs trembling from the position. The angle was unnatural—perfect—your arms still grounded you, your pussy tilted toward him like an open mouth begging to be filled. Your thighs tightened with every breath he took, every twitch of his cock as he positioned himself. And he pushed in all at once. “I can feel your heartbeat around my cock,” he said, his voice a gritted rasp.

Your mouth dropped open in a soundless gasp, your head tilting back, your arms shaking beneath you as your cunt clenched around him from the sudden fullness. You could feel every inch of him—every throb, every twitch—so deep it felt like he’d never leave your body again.

Your legs locked tighter. Your arms strained to keep balance while your body pulsed around him, helpless to anything but the slow, punishing drag of his hips. And he moved. Just a steady, ruthless rhythm, rocking you forward with every thrust—forcing your body to take him in angles that made your stomach tremble. “Don’t pass out yet—I’m not done proving I’m stronger than you.”

“Oh, fuck off. You’re disgusting,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm.

His heart nearly swelled. Fuck off? He’s influenced you. “Call me disgusting again. Go on. I’ll moan your name while I keep ruining you,” he said, his voice thick with desire. It was sudden; the knot started swelling so fast it pulled a ragged sound out of him—a half-moan, half-growl, his teeth clenched like it hurt to feel this good. He was trembling—addicted— and pulsing around the knot that wouldn't let go. He was fighting for his life. You clenched down at his words, your heels nudging him deeper as his knee nearly buckled.

“You’re mine, mouth and all. So shut the fuck up, or I’ll make it worse. Just tell me I’m your bitch. I’ll wear it like a crown. I can take more. Sit on my face again, like last time—I’ll breathe later. Tie me down and fuck me dumb; make me useless. That’s what you want, right?” It all spilled out in broken fragments like a truth serum.

“We’ll see,” you responded.

Variant #17 (I wouldn't even keep you as a slave in my Empire!)

You come home to silence, which is odd. Because Variant 17 is never quiet. He likes to remind you he’s there—pacing, hovering, teasing, demanding attention even when he doesn’t need it, especially when he doesn’t need it. The apartment looks fine. There are no signs of a fight. But something buzzes under your skin the second you shut the door behind you. That strange, oppressive heat in the air… You round the corner to the bedroom and stop short.

He’s already there, sitting on the edge of the bed in just his boxers, elbows on his knees—breathing like he just ran a marathon. His skin is flushed, and his pupils are blown. The second he sees you, he grins.

“Finally,” he says, his voice low and gravelly with strain. “I was wondering how long you’d make me wait.” Your eyes flick to his throat, bitten and bruised from the last time he threw you against the wall. The marks still haven’t faded, just like yours. “Oh no,” you mutter. “Again?”

His smile sharpens. “You say that like I planned this.”

He stands slowly, almost lazily, despite the twitch in his jaw, and stalks toward you. His suit is on the floor, and his knuckles are bruised. He smells like sweat, ozone, and you. You backpedal, but he doesn’t chase. He just says, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You scoff. “Because you’ve been humping the couch like a damn dog in heat—”

“Because I am,” he snaps. “And you left me here suffering.”

You try to shove him, but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head. “Still so stubborn,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. “Fine. I’ll fuck the resistance out of you.”

He doesn’t kiss your mouth—not yet. Just watches you. That cool, calculated expression is gone now, burned out by the haze of his heat. He’s not just attempting to be dominant—he’s deranged with it, shaking slightly as he presses himself harder into you.

“You’re lucky,” he mutters, his voice strained. “Before you, I had an ex that resisted too. You know what I did?” His eyes narrow. “I fucked her until she cried and then begged me to make her a queen.”

“You’re disgusting,” you say flatly.

He just smirks. “You say that now.”

He knows you don’t mean it, and if you did, you're now stained by his very presence, defiled by his wants. The desperation takes over. His hips rut against yours shamelessly—his teeth dragging across your jaw—fingers digging into your thighs as he hoists you higher. You gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance, but it only makes him hungrier.

“I was gonna be patient. I was gonna convince you,” he growls. “But this—this is your fault. You made me wait. You let me suffer. And now you think I’m gonna stop before you’re begging me to stay?”

The slick from his precum smears against your bottoms. He is feral, utterly consumed by his desires. He doesn’t give you the opportunity to chide him. “How many orgasms does it take to turn a little rebel into a queen?” His authority is being questioned with every action. He walks like he owns you, talks like he’s already won. His words are sharp, cocky, laced with superiority and amusement, like he’s just entertaining you until you break. But his body tells the truth.

He kisses you like every second your lips aren't on his is a personal insult. The moment your mouths meet —his hands slide into your hair, tilting your head back with a quiet, commanding drawl. It's slow at first, but controlling. But when your hands fist in his shirt—tugging—he loses it. He bites your lip and moans into the kiss. His hips rock into you, and he groans like he hates how good you feel. He pants, licking into your mouth again like he's ready to devour the last of your resistance.

His fingers twitch at his sides when you don’t move fast enough toward the bed. The way he breathes through his nose to keep it even—calm, cold—while his pupils are already blown wide from scenting your skin. The clench in his jaw when you lean in close, and he doesn’t flinch, but he stops blinking. He says he’s in control. He says he’s patient. But his hands shake when they finally touch you.

Every article of clothing is gone. There’s no grace anymore, just hunger. He strips you like you’re the only cure, moaning when your thighs press together. You’re left as his equal, in lust and in the nude, as his damp cock presses against you within the confines of his boxers.

The second the fabric left your skin, he changed. What started as cocky hands pulling your underwear aside—slow, smug, practiced—now turned frantic. The moment your bodies were bare, he hesitated, just for a second. Like the sight of you finally being exposed knocked the breath clean out of his chest.

His cock twitched, and his jaw clenched. He groaned—low, guttural, like his body betrayed him by reacting before he had the chance to mock you for it. He didn't speak. Otherwise, the words would've come out shaken, and his pride couldn’t handle that.

Instead, he flipped you onto your back, hooked his arms under your knees, and folded you in half—knees tucked high to your chest, back arched off the mattress. Your hands instinctively gripped behind your thighs, holding them there, perfectly presented.

Then he moved over you. His toes dug into the sheets, his body hovering just enough to control the angle—forty degrees of domination, cock aligned with brutal precision as he pressed forward with an unsteady breath. The slide-in was deep. His composure crumbled almost immediately as he realized you held the very power he attempted to steal. Completely open and vulnerable to him, and yet his nerves felt alight.

You watched his expression twist, his eyebrows pinched, mouth parted, pupils dilated—as the sensation rocked through him. He moved hard from the first thrust, his hips slamming into yours with rhythmic force, his abs tightening with every movement. But for all his aggression, it wasn’t anger—it was panic masquerading as power. He was unraveling too fast. Your walls fluttered around him, and he twitched, his thrusts faltering.

He tried to hold it together. Tried to go faster, deeper, rougher—tried to dominate. But his face gave him away. “You’re not as untouchable as you pretend to be, Mark,” you mused, although through choked sobs. The air leaving your lungs came in short bursts, unable to breathe as he pummeled into you, your body curling into itself. You open your mouth to taunt, only for his face to close in, his breath fanning your face. “Say it. Say you’re not mine. I dare you.”

His brows knitted tighter. His mouth hung open. A trembling gasp escaped when your body clenched just right. His hands, once firm on your thighs, now gripped like he was afraid of being pushed out. And when your legs shook in his hands, when your slick dripped down to his balls with every brutal thrust? He lost it. “I’m supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.”

You felt him stutter—his hips stalling, jaw slack, and his body shaking from the effort to keep control. His cock throbbed deep inside you, his breath turned ragged, and still, he fucked into you like you were the only anchor he had left. Then suddenly… he remembered who the fuck he was. Sure, he could be a brat, even doing this for the sake of vengeance. He persevered regardless.

He pulled out in one slow, wet slide, watching the way your body clenched and twitched at the loss. His back arched inwards, and he looked down at you—ruined, smug, triumphant—and for a moment? He just stared. His hands were everywhere now—pushing your legs apart wider, guiding your hips into the perfect angle, dragging your ass back into place. You tried to shift. He didn’t let you. His grip was unyielding, fingers sinking into your flesh with possessive finality.

It was different, one fluid jerk. Buried to the hilt, grinding slowly, deliberately—just to feel your walls flutter. His body rolled against yours like a machine built for precision destruction. Each thrust carried weight and rhythm like a punishment laced with adoration. He felt it. Felt your legs twitch, your walls tighten, and your breath catch. Instead of slowing, he pistoned forward, chasing your peak like it was his right to feel you come around him again and again, until your moans weren't pretty anymore.

“You live with me. You sleep in my bed. And you still act like you’re not mine?” He was falling apart. And you never said a word. He could throw a fit if he wanted to, but your defiance is what drove him mad. Because this was his undoing—not the position, not the pleasure, but you. The way you let him think he was in charge… until he wasn't. And when your body clenched around him, slow and deliberate? He moaned, not cocky, not cruel, just ruined. His knee momentarily bent into the plush mattress as his thighs shook. It was like you’d stolen something from him. And he was grateful.

His hips continued to piston as if to punish you. But every word was backed by panic. Just this involuntary drive to make you stay, to make you need him back. Because underneath all that power, he was terrified that if he lets up—just once—you’ll walk away. And that thought derails him. So he fucks you like he’s proving something. And every time you moan his name, every time you whimper, or beg, or tease him? His heart races. He’s more addicted to you than he’ll ever admit. And that’s why he dominates. Because if he doesn’t stay on top, he’ll fall apart.

“You’re lucky I even let you touch me like this. You’d be a wreck if I left right now,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. Your cunt squeezes, causing him to slam deeper, earning a yelp to crawl from your throat. His ego and god complex nearly shattered upon hearing it. His dick was twitching, muscles jumping beneath his skin as he grimaced in pleasure.

Burned sugar, sandalwood, scorched velvet, and ash. That’s his scent. It’s infuriatingly addictive. Sweet in a toxic way, like cotton candy laced with smoke. It doesn’t feel like comfort—it feels like compulsion. You hate how much you like it. It clings to the back of your tongue, gets stuck in your hair, and when he’s inside you? It’s everywhere. He leans down, nose nuzzling into your scalp as he inhales it like a drug fix. He reeks of dominance slipping into madness.

Dipping his head slightly, he bites into your clavicle with no mercy. A sound between a snarl and a moan leaps from his throat. The unrelenting pounding of his hips caused his teeth to grind slightly. If he doesn't claim you now, he’d lose himself. Not like you two had a choice, as he came without warning—a strangled groan being the only indication as your insides spasmed around him. He murmured into your collarbone, “Tell me I’m yours. Say it. Even if you don’t mean it, lie to me.” You obliged, the words barely coherent but enough to make his ears ring. A pained and pleasured whine left you; no amount of tensing his abdomen withheld the flood he released, his dick bulging inside you as the knot formed. Your insides practically latched onto him.

With bated breath, he leaned back, staring proudly at his work before he sighed, frustrated. “I was winning, and then you made that noise—fuck.” A quiet whine echoed in his voice. “All that attitude and you still came first. Typical.” Your eyes finally focused, narrowing on his gaze.

“Don’t… don’t fucking look at me like that. I meant to last longer,” he says, his voice ragged. “I was supposed to be building an empire, and instead I’m here—drenched in you, shaking, because my body thinks I’ll die if I don’t fuck you.” His eyes scanned over the marking, almost like his name was carved into it. Suddenly leaning up, you clamp down on his chest with your teeth, and he freezes mid-thrust, then growls. “Ohhh, so that’s how you want it?” His breath is ragged now. “You little fucking traitor. You think biting me’s gonna save you?” But his hips rut harder. “Do it again. Prove you’re mine too. You’re coming into my empire anyway.” Truthfully, you didn’t mind. But he had finally earned you. TEASERSSSS (Part 3, if requested. Congratulations, reader!!)

@ploiigee

(Photo stitching made by me!)

[tsunaso]

hiii, I love ur writing, could u do a fic where Jason Todd is a mafia boss, and the male reader is his most loyal 'guard dog'? Jason literally treats him like one—giving him orders, rewarding him, keeping him close. Maybe there’s a moment where he calls male reader his 'dog,' and male reader just smirk and say, ‘Yeah? And who put the collar on me?’

thank u sm!

“BARK LIKE YOU WANT IT”

pairing. Sub!Mafia Boss!Jason Todd x Top!male reader

synopsis. In Gotham's underworld, Jason Todd holds the city by its throat. But every king has a dog at his heel—and M/n is loyal, brutal, and always watching. Jason calls him a mutt. But he forgets one thing—who put the collar on who? — 2.3k

warnings. Guard Dog AU, mdni, nsfw, amab reader, dubcon, possessive behavior, praise kink, degradation kink, minor physical restraint, mutual obsession, mafia politics, overstimulation, powerplay, collar kink, facefucking, blowjob, spitting, choking, humiliation, breeding kink, dirty talk, oral fixation, crying, subspace, manhandling, aftercare

Jason Todd ruled Gotham’s underground like it owed him blood. And in many ways—it did.

The Red Hood Syndicate didn’t move without his order. Rivals were ghosts before they made it to sunrise. Contracts vanished. Witnesses disappeared. And yet, for all the stories about Jason Todd’s brutality, his trigger temper, his high body count—

There was one man even the worst of the underworld feared more.

His shadow.

His guard dog.

You.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

"You’re late."

Jason’s voice was sharp, not raised, but biting all the same as you stepped into his office, the double doors clicking shut behind you. You didn’t answer him. You never did when he was in one of his moods—irritable, pacing, hands stuffed into his pockets, a fresh line of blood drying down the corner of his jaw like he forgot to clean it off.

Or didn’t care.

He looked you up and down once. His mouth twisted slightly.

"You smell like smoke."

You stared, unbothered. "I burned a man alive in his own Porsche tonight. You wanted it done quiet."

He laughed. Dry. A little sharp around the edges.

“Messy job for quiet work.”

“Your note said ‘make it hurt.’ So I did.”

Jason stopped pacing. The city light from the penthouse windows caught across his eyes—green-blue, sharp as broken glass. He licked his lips once, slow. Then, “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate.

Your boots echoed on the polished floor, each step solid. Intentional. Controlled. You moved like a weapon kept in a velvet box—danger tucked into civility, teeth beneath tailored suits.

Jason sat on the edge of his desk as you approached. Still calm. Still composed.

But his fingers twitched once where they gripped the edge of the wood. You saw it. You always did.

“You want to be praised?” he asked, tilting his head, voice half-daring.

"No." Your tone was even, flat, as you stopped in front of him. “I want you to stop testing me.”

Jason’s smile twitched. “But you’re so good when I do.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

It was like this. Always.

The tension. The push-pull.

He gave the orders. You obeyed. He treated you like property—his muscle, his executioner, his dog. And you let him.

But Jason, arrogant as he was, had always mistaken obedience for submission.

And that was going to cost him.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

His hand lifted to your collar, two fingers brushing the sharp seam of your dress shirt. His knuckles grazed your throat, casual. Thoughtless.

But that’s where his control ended.

Your hand closed around his wrist.

His eyes jumped to yours, sharp with surprise—but not fear. Never fear.

“You like to call me your dog,” you said, low and measured. Your grip tightened just slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to make him still. "Throw me scraps. Snap your fingers. Expect me to sit."

Jason’s breath hitched. Just a little.

Your voice dipped, threading a heat beneath the threat. "You like pretending I belong to you."

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His mouth was parted, his pupils wide, and every inch of him was screaming yes.

"So let me ask you something, Todd." You leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice dark with knowing.

"Who put the collar on me?"

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

Jason shivered.

It was subtle—but it was there.

The slow exhale. The twitch of his thigh muscles. The flush creeping into his neck that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with being caught.

Owned.

He swallowed thickly. His hands clenched into fists against the desk.

And you—still gripping his wrist—lowered your mouth to his throat and let your teeth drag just beneath his jaw. Not biting. Not yet.

Just reminding.

Of what?

Of everything.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He jolted slightly under your touch. A sharp inhale. A curse under his breath. Then his voice—thin, almost petulant:

“You’re supposed to take orders.”

Your smirk was razor-edged.

“I do. Because I want to.”

Your grip dropped. But you didn’t move back.

Instead, you leaned in closer.

Jason didn’t flinch. He never did. But his breathing was heavier now, pulse hammering against his throat—visible. Vulnerable.

"You bark all day, but when I get too close," you whispered, dragging your hand down his thigh with deliberate slowness, "you start to sound like a mutt that wants to be bred, not obeyed."

Jason made a sound in his throat. Half-growl, half-gasp.

"Fuck you."

You grinned.

“You’d beg.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He hated how much it was true.

He could sit on his throne all day—snapping orders, collecting blood money, running the city from his penthouse and dark alleys—but when you stepped into the room?

He was something smaller. Simmering. Waiting.

He wanted you to tear it out of him. To push him back onto the desk, force his legs open, make him say please.

You didn’t even need to touch him to get him there. He was already half hard just from your voice in his ear.

And you knew it.

You always fucking knew it.

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

“You don’t really want a guard dog,” you said, low against his throat. “You want a muzzle. You want a leash you can wrap around your own throat when no one’s looking.”

Jason’s fingers twitched again—this time reaching.

But not for a weapon.

For you.

And you let him. Just this once.

You let him grab your shirt, let him yank you in like he was desperate for something he couldn’t name. Your hand slid up the back of his neck, tangled in his hair, pulled his head back until he was looking up at you—eyes hooded, breathing uneven.

You watched his mouth part.

You watched the fight bleed out of his body.

And then, just loud enough to ruin him—

"Good boy."

　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

The leash comes first.

Black leather, clean and heavy, pulled from your coat pocket like you were always planning to use it.

Because you were.

You knew Jason would mouth off. You knew he’d call you his dog again.

So now you’re going to make sure he was your bitch instead.

You’re sitting on his desk, legs spread, Jason on his knees between them—cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. Still pretending to be angry. Still acting like he’s got pride left.

"Take your shirt off."

He hesitates. Barely. Then obeys. Peels it off like it’s armor, like maybe the fabric will hold him together.

It won’t.

You pull the collar tight around his throat and let the buckle snap into place. His breath catches.

"Doesn’t it suit you?" you murmur, thumb brushing the pulse at his neck. "No tie. No suit. Just a collar. That’s how I like you."

Jason mutters something low under his breath.

You grab his jaw. “What was that?”

His mouth twists, defiant. So pretty like this. “Fuck you.”

You smirk. “You’ll get there.”

You shove two fingers into his mouth before he can talk back. He chokes slightly, but glares up at you through his lashes. You drag them deeper, until his throat works around the intrusion and his spit starts to run down his chin.

"You wanted to talk back?" you murmur. "Then earn the right to use your mouth."

Jason moans around your fingers, eyes fluttering.

His knees shift. He’s already grinding down against the floor, trying to rub the ache building in his pants. You grab a fistful of his hair and yank—his eyes fly open.

"Are you hard just from choking on my fingers?" you whisper. "Are you going to cum from being used like a toy, Jay?"

He shakes his head. He wants to say no. But you curl your fingers around the collar, tug—not hard. Just enough.

He whimpers.

"That’s what I thought."

You unzip. Jason’s eyes drop, hungry. You slap your cock against his cheek, watching the weight of it sink in before gripping his hair again.

"Open."

He does. Mouth wide, eager.

You sink in slow—and he moans. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, ruined moan, like he’s been waiting for this all week.

"You love this, don’t you?" you growl, hips pushing forward until he gags. "Love being on your knees like some two dollar whore. Mouth wide open. Ready to be used."

Jason’s face is dripping. Spit down his chin, lips stretched wide, pupils blown. He nods. He nods.

You grab the leash.

Just the feel of it in your hand makes him shudder.

You wrap it around your fist and pull. Not hard. Just enough.

"Good boy," you murmur.

Then you start fucking his throat.

He chokes.

Of course he does.

You don’t stop.

You let him gag, let his shoulders shake, let his tears spill over—he loves it. He’s rutting against the floor now, desperate, whining around your dick like you’re the only thing he needs to breathe.

"You gonna cum just from getting facefcked like a bitch?" you hiss.

Jason nods—fast, frantic.

You laugh. Spit in his mouth. Slap his cheek. Pull the leash again and hold him there while your hips snap forward with brutal rhythm.

When you pull out, he’s wrecked. His jaw is hanging open, tongue out, spit dripping down his neck. And he looks gorgeous like this.

You grab his face. Make him look at you.

“Say it.”

He pants. "Wh-what?"

"Say who owns you."

Jason hesitates—just a second.

Then: "You."

"Say it louder."

"You fucking own me," he moans. "I’m yours. I’m your fucking dog."

You grin.

"Now beg to get fucked."

He doesn't even pause.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please use me. Please, I—I need it—I’ll be good, I swear, just—please.”

And just like that, Jason Todd—the Red Hood, the most feared boss in Gotham—is on all fours, begging for the dick you’re about to be giving him.

Face red. Lips swollen. Hair stuck to his forehead. He’s panting now, thighs trembling as he tries to hold himself together, cock hard and leaking with no relief. The collar glints under the light, tight around his throat, leash trailing from your fist like a reminder.

Jason Todd doesn’t look like a mafia boss anymore.

He looks like a dog.

And he’s about to get treated like one.

“Get up,” you say.

He moves. Clumsy. Obedient. You shove him over the desk, chest flat, ass up, back arching perfect for you. The position makes him groan.

His pants are already gone. You never gave them back.

His thighs part without being told.

Ready.

“You were begging so sweet a second ago,” you murmur, palming his ass. “What happened to all that pride, Boss?”

Jason bites his lip. Doesn’t answer.

So you slap his ass. Loud. Sharp.

He jolts. “F-fuck—!”

“You forget how to talk?” you growl, leaning in close, letting your weight press into him from behind. “You forget who owns this?”

Your fingers drag down to his entrance. Wet. Twitching.

Jason gasps. “N-No—no, I know—I know—”

“Then say it.”

You shove two fingers inside him without warning. He screams. His back arches off the desk, legs shaking instantly.

“Fucking say it.”

“You—y-you own me,” he moans. “Please, please—I'm your fucking toy—”

You laugh against his ear.

“Yeah, you are.”

You press your cock to his slicked-up hole, teasing, dragging the head against him until he’s shivering and whining, back arched beautifully. The moment you press in—

He sobs.

"F-fuck—you're big—slow, slow—"

You don't go slow.

You grip the leash and pull as you sink in, one sharp thrust that fills him to the hilt. Jason’s scream gets buried in the desk wood, his fists clutching the edges like he’s trying to ground himself.

"You’re taking it," you growl. "Every inch. Just like you begged for."

Jason moans—high, desperate.

You start fucking into him, pace unrelenting, cock pistoning in and out as his hole squeezes around you so tight it hurts. He’s already leaking onto the desk, leaving a wet spot beneath him.

“Gonna cum like this?” you hiss. “No hands, no touch—just getting bred like the good bitch you are?”

He nods frantically, words lost in sobs and moans.

You feel the tremble before you hear the whimper.

Jason’s voice cracks. His whole body shudders. And then—his cock twitches untouched, shooting over the desk as his body clamps down around you.

He’s crying now. Quiet, desperate.

“C-Came—fuck, I came—”

You don’t stop.

“You think we’re done?” you growl, voice filthy. “You begged for it. Now fucking take it.”

You grab the leash, twist it around your fist, and pull his head back as you thrust harder, pounding into his overstimulated, raw hole until he’s a sobbing wreck on the wood, dripping and broken. You feel it building. Heat low in your spine. Jason’s still twitching, every thrust making his legs shake, tongue hanging out as he begs for more, whimpers turning breathless.

“You want it?” you growl. “Want me to fill you up?”

Jason nods frantically, barely coherent.

“Fucking say it.”

“Please—please cum in me—want it—need your cum—breed me—!”

You snarl, bury yourself to the hilt, and let go.

Hot, thick, endless—you spill into him like you’re trying to mark him from the inside out. Jason gasps, back arching beautifully as he milks you, his hole clenching greedily with every spurt of release.

The air reeks of sweat, sex, and ownership.

And he loves it. 　　　　　　　　　　　　⋆ ✩₊˚ ʚ♡ɞ ˚₊✩⋆

He collapses the second you pull out, limp and twitching, cum leaking down his thighs in thick streaks. His face is flushed. His eyes are barely open.

You wipe him clean with your handkerchief. Gently.

You kiss his shoulder once. Then his temple.

He breathes slow. Even. Peaceful.

And the collar? You don’t take it off.

You brush your fingers over it softly, smirking.

“You looked better on your knees than you ever did behind a desk.”

Jason—wrecked, dazed, marked from the inside out—manages a breathy laugh.

“Then put my name on the fucking tag next time.”

[multific]

Blood and Honor

Yautja x Reader (Teen!Version)

Summary: Your half-Yautja son, now fourteen, has grown restless, his defiance turning to violence.

The tension in your home had been brewing for months, thick and stifling like the heat before a storm.

Your son, fourteen years old and strong beyond his years, had begun to reject your authority.

His Yautja blood demanded dominance, yet he was still so young, so lost between two worlds, too human for the clans, too Yautja for the human life.

And he took it out on you.

“Do not test me,” you warned, voice firm yet calm, as you stood between him and the entrance to your home. He had been pushing, lashing out, knocking things over when anger overtook him.

The child who once clung to you with gentle claws now stared at you with defiance burning in his golden eyes.

“You are weak,” he snarled, his mandibles twitching, muscles coiled with restrained rage. “You do not command me.”

The words cut deeper than you expected.

Your chest ached, not with fear, but with heartbreak.

He didn’t understand.

You weren’t trying to control him, you were trying to protect him. From himself, from the world that would not see him as either human or Yautja.

Before you could respond, his patience snapped.

With a roar, he lunged.

The impact sent you stumbling backwards. Clawed hands found your arms, squeezing too hard, too rough.

Pain seared up your side as you struck the stone wall, your breath knocked from your lungs. And then, before he could strike again, your mate was there.

With terrifying speed, the massive Yautja tore his son away from you, the sheer force of his grip making the boy yelp.

He slammed him against the ground, one knee pressing down hard against his chest, and his own mandibles flared in warning.

“You dare raise your hands against your mother?” his voice was a deep, rough growl, shaking with barely restrained fury. “You disgrace yourself.”

Your son thrashed, but he was no match for his father’s strength.

“She is weak,” the boy spat again, struggling beneath his father's weight. “She does not deserve my submission.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before your mate struck him, not in anger, but with the force of a teacher delivering a harsh lesson.

A sharp cuff to the side of the head, enough to disorient, enough to humble.

“Then you are not worthy of her.”

A stillness fell over the room, suffocating in its weight. Your mate remained crouched over your son, his claws pressing down against the boy’s heaving chest.

“She carried you,” he growled. “She bled for you. She has tended to your wounds, fed you when you were too weak to hunt. She has taught you more than your own kind would ever allow.”

The boy’s breath hitched.

His golden eyes darted to you, still pressed against the wall, a hand clutching your bruised side.

His hands trembled as if he were only now realising what he had done. The scent of your pain filled the air.

Your mate leaned in close near his son’s face, his voice dangerous and unwavering. “You are Yautja. You are human. But you are not a beast. And if you ever dishonour your mother again, you will know the true weight of my wrath.”

The boy stilled beneath him. His breathing came faster, uneven.

You could see the conflict in his young face. He was so much like his father, too much.

And then, he let out a choked sound.

He had never cried before. Not once. Even as a small child, he had held his pain close, refusing to cry as his Yautja blood demanded restraint.

But now, with his father towering above him, with you still clutching your bruised ribs, shame broke him.

“I-” His voice cracked. He turned his head, his claws digging into the floor. “I did not mean-”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

The hurt sat too heavy in your chest, not just from the bruises but from the knowledge that he had truly tried to harm you.

Your mate stood, towering over his son as he motioned toward you. “It is not me you must answer to.”

Slowly, painfully, the boy sat up.

He glanced at his father, then at you.

He was still just a child beneath all that defiance, beneath the fangs and claws.

He dragged himself forward on his knees, head bowed, a sign of submission, of shame.

“I hurt you.” His voice was quiet now, hoarse. “I did not mean it. I…” His hands clenched against his thighs. “I only wanted to prove myself. But that is no reason to hurt you.”

Your fingers twitched at your side. He looked so small then, despite his size.

Despite his strength.

Your mate did not interfere. This was between the two of you.

“I don’t like being hurt,” you said at last, voice softer now, but firm. “I don’t like when you look at me and see weakness instead of love.”

The boy flinched.

His claws scraped against the stone floor. “I do not think you are weak,” he admitted, eyes still lowered. “I think… I do not know what I am.”

Your chest tightened. You moved forward, ignoring the sharp sting in your ribs, and reached out. Your fingers cupped his cheek, pulling his gaze to yours. His golden eyes were wide, uncertain, still glassy with held-back tears.

“You are mine,” you whispered. “You always will be.”

A sound escaped him, raw and aching.

He surged forward before you could say anything else, arms wrapping around you, claws trembling against your back.

He buried his face into your shoulder, breathing you in like he used to when he was small.

Your mate let out a deep, approving hum from behind you, watching as his son desired your comfort. A lesson learned, a bond reforged.

As you stroked your son’s back, his body shaking from the weight of everything, you knew this moment had changed him.

For the better.

And for the first time in months, peace settled over your home once more.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[affableramen]

no nut november day 1. how to make them come for the really horny darlings who read my smol insignificant blog :)

crack, smut, established relationships mature themes, minors dni

Wriothesley:

he loves when you choke him really well. he goes crazy once your hands start squeezing his neck

grabbing or scratching his butt. Wriothesley loves when you touch his rounded ass, and if you do he will definitely lose it

Tartaglia:

when you moan loudly, tartaglia loses his mind. he loves when you vocalise your sensations and satisfaction

praising him. tartaglia is not very experienced in bed activities, so he’d be really grateful if you kept praising him while having sex cause it makes him feel encouraged to proceed.

Neuvillette:

being on your knees for him (he does not expect that from anyone because he is such a humble individual, and it turns him on almost instantly)

when you take charge and offer him to have sex by your initiative. do not get me wrong, neuvillette is anything but submissive man, however even he gets tired of being constantly the controlling one. he wants you to be bold and shameless too

Pantalone:

when you play with, pull or grip his hair, it makes pantalone go insane. he is very sensitive to your touch in general, and he especially loves it when you try to tease him by playing with his wavy locks. he will be turned on immensely

when you touch his nipples (his erogenous zone. rub them nice and well, he will cum hard, mumbling “have mercy on me” to you)

Ayato:

dirty talking to him (praising his cock mostly) he loves his sex a bit dirty and overstimulating

when you slightly dominate him. this man is fed and sick of people constantly servicing him and seeing his s/o showing responsibility and taking a bold action like riding him will make him nut wildly

Capitano:

squeezing him inside. his manhood is thick, and the tip is fat enough to make him feel things when you suddenly tense up. capitano will give in to his passion, you will hear loud impatient grunting escaping his mouth that you never knew you needed

when you call him by his real name. in most circumstances capitano hates it when someone mentions his true old name, but when you do it during intimate moments he simply goes nuts for you. the way his name falls from your lips when he thrusts into you fast and hard enough just gets him going

Alhaitham:

he adores when you scratch his back. you always fear hurting him, but alhaitham wears your marks proudly and insists on you to not hold your passion in. he needs more of those blooming red marks of lust on his body

when you assist his thrusts by forcing your hips closer to him. he enjoys when you participate in love making equally to him, and will definitely cum unexpectedly generously if you continue

Dottore:

when you play by his rules. dottore is a very old and assertive man who’s used to things happen his way. at first he will kindly ask you to follow his lead but later on he will be incredibly blunt and dominant with you

when you use his vibrator on himself. not to mention him liking impressing you with new toys, when you grab one and press it against his skin, he will squirt his release earlier and thicker than expected

Dainsleif:

when you moan or whisper sweet nothings into his ear. this makes him particularly horny, especially given how much your voice turns him on in a private setting

when you try to unnoticeably run your hands over his hips. there is something about your claws grazing over his strong legs that makes him go completely frenzied for you

Baizhu:

when you bite his ears and neck. baizhu has those very sensitive and he will come almost instantly if you tease the delicious earlobes and neck of his.

when you wear sexy outfits. he likes to take you when you’re wearing those naughty, revealing but incredibly gorgeous outfits. he practically loses control of his arousal and can come even prematurely simply because he is staring at your beautiful body

[the-most-humble-blog]

<!-- CTA BLOCK -->

They told me to wait for peak hours. I told them peak hours wait for me.

Reblog if your presence rewrites the metrics. Scroll if you’re still checking analytics for permission.

📜 Read the doctrine that doesn’t trend — it bends the curve: 👉 https://www.patreon.com/TheMostHumble

🛐 You don’t ride the wave. 💥 You cause the tidal shift. 📈 You are the metric.

This post made the algorithm flinch.

[xazse]

Wolf!HybridGojo who constantly has to be told not to tackle you: his PuppyGirl!Hybrid and try to play fight with you, that he can’t be that rough with you regarding your size difference, he hates being told what to do.

Wolf!HybridGojo who can’t help but wrap you in a tight embrace in his lap and lick you everywhere, your face and neck are covered in saliva, no matter how much you whine and try to get away from his rough tongue he won’t let you up until he deems you clean enough.

Wolf!HybridGojo who finds it so easy to pin you down and hump his throbbing cock against your party-clad ass. You could be laying on the couch relaxing until you feel the cough sink and Satoru putting his full body weight on you. He usually sports no underwear so it feels ten times better when he’s grinding against you, even before he finally cums his pants are soaked with his precum, he produces a weird amount of it.

Wolf!HybridGojo who hates when you want Suguru’s attention, he hates when you leave his lap to crawl into Suguru’s lap, he hates when Suguru indulges you and scratches your ears and your tail. He can be heard on the other side of the couch huffing in frustration, he’ll reach over and pinch your tail because he knows it hurts you, That’s only happened twice and each time Suguru scolds and punishes Satoru.

Wolf!HybridGojo who can’t handle his heats, they get too strong to the point where he has to be locked in a room with Suguru, he can’t be near you in fear of hurting or losing control of himself. He’s whining the entire time in the room, his pocket-pussy toys don’t last long before he destroys the thing, Suguru jerking him off can only do so much, he just wants to be buried deep inside you but knows he can’t :(

Wolf!HybridGojo who just wants to attempt at letting you take him, so he begs and begs Suguru to let him have you or at least try, with some stubbornness he agrees but only if he’s in the room too.

He’s so damn excited when you’re being guided into the hot room by Suguru, his tail can’t stop wagging at the mere thought of you naked and all for him. Suguru had spent half the day prepping your little hole just for him. There’s dried tears on your face probably from the overstimulation you endured but you’re beaming when you finally get to see Satoru, you hug him tightly.

Hes so quick to kiss you, already trying to shove his tongue down your throat. He’s sucking on your tongue loudly and obnoxiously. He was hard before you even walked into the room but now he’s throbbing. In the midst of the kiss he’s using one hand to shrug down his pants snuggly sitting them under his balls. He moves you body closer to him, till his cock rests right inbetween the both of you and on your stomach, he begins stroking his pretty pale cock, his thick precum leaking in droves.

He pushes you on your back rather harshly: “Satoru” Suguru says through clenched teeth. He apologizes in a submissive tone: it clearly was an accident.

He places his hands under the back of your knees and pushes them till they rest on your chest. Your pussy is so small compared to him, but he loves that difference: it makes everything so much more hot. Looking closer he sees your pretty cunt is wet and shiny with your cum. he rubs his tip inbetween your folds gathering the cum and smearing it everywhere.

He pulls you lips apart and takes a minute to admire your hole, though Suguru stretched it it’s still gonna be a tight squeeze. He sees no need to wait anymore and begins sliding himself in, the first word that comes to mind is hot, how just a little past his tip its already warm and how you’re already sucking him in. He groans rather loudly mixed with your soft whines he drives him to want to stuff his full length in one go but he knows Suguru will get a different type of angry.

Wolf!HybridGojo who doesn’t stop fucking your wet sloppy cunt after one round, he keeps digging his cock deeper and deeper. The wet slapping sounds bounce off the walls and right into your ears. You can feel every vein on his cock when he throbs inside you,

[omgkatherine01]

i neeeed a kraven smut where he’s warning the reader they can’t have sex because he won’t be able to control himself and he’ll hurt her. the reader is really submissive and innocent but he keeps smelling and sensing how turned on she is, the tension is too high and he gives in and they have really rough sex. i mean like him choking her, pinning her down, and maybe biting her. after he feels really bad for how rough he was, but he couldn’t help himself because it was all instincts from his animalistic side. i cannot stop thinking about it.

Kraven's Temptation

Pairing: Sergei Kravinoff x Fem!reader

Warning: Smut!, little bit of blood

Masterlist (requests are currently open for now)

Sergei's eyes flashed with a dangerous intensity as he growled, "We can't do this. I won't be able to control myself... I'll hurt you."

You trembled, a mix of fear and arousal coursing through your body. "I--I trust you," you whispered, your innocence only heightening his primal urges.

He inhaled sharply, catching your scent. "You have no idea what you're doing to me," he rasped, his control slipping.

Unable to resist any longer, Sergei pounced, pinning you beneath him. His strong hands gripped your wrists as he claimed your mouth in a bruising kiss. You gasped as he bit your lower lip, drawing blood.

Sergei's grip tightened as he trailed hungry kisses down your neck. You whimpered, both from pain and pleasure, as he bit down on your sensitive skin. His powerful body pressed you into the mattress, leaving you breathless.

"Mine," he growled possessively, one hand moving to encircle your throat. He applied just enough pressure to make you lightheaded as he roughly entered you. You cried out, overwhelmed by the intensity.

Sergei set a punishing pace, driven by pure animal instinct. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise as he took you relentlessly. You surrendered completely to his domination, lost in a haze of pain and ecstasy.

As the intensity built, Sergei's grip on your throat tightened. Your vision began to blur at the edges as he pounded into you mercilessly. Just when you thought you might pass out, he released your neck, allowing you to gasp for air. The rush of oxygen heightened every sensation.

"That's it, take all of me," he snarled, his voice rough with lust.

You cried out as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. Sergei growled in approval, angling his hips to strike it again and again. The coil of pleasure inside you wound impossibly tight.

"Sergei, please!" you begged, not even sure what you were asking for.

He leaned down, his teeth grazing your ear. "Come for me," he commanded.

With a strangled cry, you obeyed. Waves of intense pleasure crashed over you as your body convulsed beneath him. Sergei groaned deeply, your release triggering his own. He thrust into you a final time, holding you tightly as he spilled himself inside you.

For several long moments, the only sound was your shared ragged breathing. As the haze of passion faded, Sergei's eyes widened in horror at the marks covering your body. Bruises were already forming on your wrists and hips, and angry red bite marks dotted your neck and shoulders.

"Oh god," he choked out, scrambling off of you. "I'm so sorry. I... I couldn't control myself. I told you I would hurt you."

You winced slightly as you sat up, your body aching pleasantly. "Sergei, it's okay," you said softly, reaching for him. "I wanted it. All of it."

He shook his head, unable to meet your eyes. "No, it's not okay. I... I'm a monster. I should never have let this happen."

You reached out to gently touch Sergei's arm. "You're not a monster," you said softly. "Please don't say that."

He flinched away from your touch, his eyes filled with self-loathing. "Look at what I've done to you," he said hoarsely. "I could have seriously hurt you. I did hurt you."

"But you didn't seriously hurt me," you insisted. "I'm okay, Sergei. More than okay."

He finally met your gaze, searching your face. "How can you say that? After what I just did..."

You took his hand, placing it over your heart. "Feel that? My heart is racing, but not from fear. I've never felt more alive." You leaned in closer. "Or more wanted."

Sergei's expression softened slightly. "You truly aren't afraid of me?"

"Never," you breathed.

He pulled you into his arms, holding you as if you were made of glass. "I don't deserve you," he murmured into your hair.

You nestled against his chest, feeling safe and cherished. "Let me be the judge of that."

Sergei's arms tightened around you, his body still tense with lingering guilt. You nuzzled against his chest, breathing in his musky scent.

"I meant what I said," you murmured. "I trust you completely."

He sighed, running his fingers gently through your hair. "Your trust in me is misplaced. I lost control. My instincts took over and I..." he trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

You tilted your head up to meet his troubled gaze. "And you gave me exactly what I needed," you said softly. "What we both needed."

Sergei's brow furrowed. "How can you say that? I was far too rough. I could have seriously harmed you."

"But you didn't," you insisted. "You pushed me to my limits, yes. But you didn't go beyond them." You traced your fingers along his stubbled jaw. "That's the difference between you and a true monster, Sergei. Even in the throes of passion, some part of you was still aware. Still in control."

He caught your hand, pressing a tender kiss to your palm. "I wish I could believe that," he said quietly.

You shifted in his arms, wincing slightly as your sore muscles protested. Sergei immediately loosened his hold, concern etched on his features.

"See?" you said with a soft smile. "You're still being gentle with me now. Your instincts aren't solely about violence or domination."

Sergei's expression remained troubled, but some of the tension left his body. He carefully traced the marks he'd left on your skin, his touch feather-light.

"I never want to hurt you," he murmured.

You caught his hand, bringing it to your lips. "Then don't push me away," you said. "That's the only thing that could truly hurt me."

Sergei's eyes softened as he gazed at you. Slowly, hesitantly, he leaned in to press a tender kiss to your forehead.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he whispered.

You smiled, snuggling closer to him. "You were simply yourself," you replied. "That's all I ever wanted."

As Sergei held you close, his guilt began to fade. In its place, a fierce protectiveness took root. He may not fully trust himself, but he would do everything in his power to keep you safe - even from his own darker nature.

[elikajinnie]

P: Cult Leader!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (NSFW 18+) PART 2

Warnings: Apocalypse!AU, Manipulation, Religious Trauma, Gaslighting, Emotional Control, Stockholm Syndrome Themes, Power Imbalance, Obsession, Forced Isolation, Mental Deterioration, Fear-based Obedience, Noncon/Dubcon, Power Play Dynamics, Predator/Prey, Implied Malnourishment, Injuries, Bondage, Degradation, Overstimulation, Body Worship, Breeding Kink, Mean!Heeseung, Dom!Heeseung, Fear Play, Choking, Manhandling, Breathplay, Oral Sex, Mentioned Impregnation, Emotional Conflict, Physical Punishment, Forced Submission, Violence, Voyeurism, Angst, Smut, Clit Play, Sadistic!Heeseung, Unprotected Sex, Rough & Messy, Multiple Orgasms, Murder, Dumbification, Derogatory Names (Slut, Whore, Cocksleeve), Cockwarming, Hair Pulling.

Synopsis: You fled the compound, the chants, the man who called himself a prophet. You told yourself it wasn’t real, just another lie dressed as faith. But out in the wasteland, with nothing but hunger and silence, even doubt begins to sound like devotion. And Heeseung will find you again, because he won’t let his prized sheep get away.

a/n: bcs of tumblr stupid 1k per block rule i had to split the fic up, cause tbh its a looong one. commentary and reblogs are much appreciated!! MDNI!!

now playing; forbidden fruit by tommee profitt, bring me back to life by chris grey

READ PART 1 HERE

You weren’t prepared for the day Heeseung came himself. No more messengers. No more quiet, obedient followers dragging you back in chains.

No—this time, it was different.

Because after so many failed retrievals, after so many escape attempts, Heeseung had clearly decided...

If you wanted to run, then he would be the one to hunt.

It started slowly. A shift in the air.

Traps that used to work suddenly failed—triggered too early, or dismantled before you returned. Birds stopped singing near your hiding places. Bootprints larger than the Sanctum scouts’ appeared in the dirt behind you. Always one set. Always alone.

And then— the whispers.

Low. Familiar. Inevitable.

He didn’t shout like the others. He didn’t storm the forest like a soldier. He prowled.

You would wake in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, convinced you’d heard your name carried on the wind. Sometimes you’d find signs. A scrap of Sanctum cloth hung neatly on a branch. A piece of fruit left by a fire you didn’t start.

Then the leash.

That fucking leash.

Coiled like a snake near your bedroll one night. Waiting. You nearly vomited when you saw it. And that’s when it hit you. He wasn’t chasing you. He was playing with you. Because that’s what it was to him, wasn’t it? A game. A slow, careful hunt. And you’d been winning too often.

Too many bruised and broken sheep returned to Sanctum empty-handed. Rope frayed. Faces bloodied. Fingers trembling as they stammered apologies.

“She escaped—” “She bit me—” “She had a weapon—”

Heeseung didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He just watched. Silent. Still.

And then, slowly, he began to smile. You weren’t playing fair. So he wouldn’t either. He stopped sending others. No more disposable disciples. They had failed him too many times. You had defied him too many times.

If he wanted his precious sheep back, he’d get you himself. He had stopped pretending. And now he’d play the game by his rules.

You had been running from his flock.

But now the shepherd was coming.

So when you saw the figure at the edge of the treeline—tall, still, watching you froze, heartbeat stuttering violently against your ribs as your eyes locked with his.

Heeseung didn’t move. Neither did you.

The forest held its breath with you—no wind, no birdsong, no sound beyond the soft rasp of leaves and the quiet, heavy drag of his breathing. His shoulders rose and fell with it. Measured. Controlled. But not calm.

He was breathing like he’d been running. Like he'd been tracking you.

Your legs trembled beneath you, the weight of him—of this—crashing down all at once.

Heeseung was filthy. His cloak torn. Smudges of dirt across his jaw. The collar of his shirt hung loose, one side damp with sweat. And still, somehow… he looked composed. Like this wasn’t the end of a chase. Like this was the beginning of a reunion.

Your fingers twitched toward your weapon, but even that felt laughable now. Because his eyes were on you—dark, unreadable, burning. And the moment you even thought of moving, his jaw clenched, like he knew. Like he could already feel it. Like he could already feel the fear curdling in your gut.

And then—

He moved.

Not fast. Not charging. But calm—too calm—as he took a step and slid down the slope between you, feet silent against loose dirt and leaves.

That was all it took to snap you out of your shock.

You turned.

And ran.

Heart slamming. Breath hitching. The sound of your pulse roaring louder than your footfalls as you shoved through branches and brush, barely registering the thorns holding you back or the rocks beneath your soles.

Behind you—

A low thud. Another. A curse under breath. Then the rhythmic crash of footsteps gaining speed.

He was chasing you.

He was chasing you.

You didn’t dare look back. You knew what you’d see. That same steady, unrelenting presence. That hunger dressed in patience.

“Stop running,” he called— not yelling, not panicked—just loud enough to chase your spine. “I’ll be gentle if you stop.”

Liar.

You pushed harder, lungs burning. Trees blurred past you, the world narrowing into just movement, just escape. Branches whipped your face, but you didn’t stop. Not when you could still hear him behind you.

Not charging. Not shouting. Just moving—fluid, focused. Like a shadow with a heartbeat. He didn’t have to run like you did. He knew the terrain. Knew you. Knew how long you’d last.

You were prey.

Wounded. Tired. Slipping.

And he? He was the thing that waited for you to run out of strength.

“Keep going,” he called again, voice barely winded, almost amused. “Let’s see how far you get.”

Your legs screamed. Your side ached with each ragged inhale. But the sound of him—the casual command in it—kept you moving.

You stumbled. Caught yourself. Kept running.

But he was closer now.

You could hear the difference in his steps—closer together, faster, almost playful. The brush cracked louder behind you, as if he was letting you know on purpose. Letting you feel it. The inevitability.

“Little sheep,” he murmured—closer now, God, so much closer. “You ran so far, didn’t you?”

You nearly tripped again when he said it. The name. The pet name. The claim. You hated how it shot through you. How it dug under your ribs and made your legs slow just a little. Because you remembered how he said it when you were on your knees. When his hands were in your hair. When you were too broken to run.

The leash was gone. But the memory of it still hung at your throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said next—soft, soothing, dripping with that awful tenderness. “But if you make me…”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest, turning sharply into thicker brush, thorns tearing into your face. It hurt. It burned. But better the sting of leaves than the weight of his hands. You were panting now—barely keeping upright. The trees opened into a clearing. If you could just—

A hand caught your wrist. Steel grip. Sudden. Absolute. You screamed—reflex, terror—twisting, kicking, but he was already there, dragging you back into him like he owned your gravity. Your back hit his chest, his arm banded across your middle, holding you like a trapped animal. You thrashed. Clawed. Bit. And he laughed. Laughed. Low and breathy near your ear. Hot breath skating down your neck. “Still so wild,” he murmured, voice thick with something feral. “But I like the fight.”

You screamed again, raw and furious, and he just tightened his grip.

“Let it out,” he whispered. “Let it all out, baby. That fear. That fire.” His other hand rose slowly to your throat, fingers brushed your throat—light, ghosting over your skin like he wasn’t already holding you still with the rest of his body. And then they stopped. Right at the collar. The slim, black band you hadn’t been able to remove. The one that had burned against your skin every day since you ran.

Heeseung let out a quiet, amused hum behind you. Low. Pleased.

“Well,” he murmured, his breath skating warm along the shell of your ear. “Would you look at that.” His fingers traced the curve of it, slowly as if reacquainting himself with something precious. “You’re still wearing it.” A soft laugh. Darker this time. “You really ran all this time with my mark on you?”

You jerked in his grasp, a snarl caught in your throat, but he didn’t budge. He just leaned in closer, voice dropping like silk dragged over a blade. “That’s loyalty, sweetheart. Even if you didn’t mean it.”

You turned your head slightly—enough to catch the edge of his face. His eyes burned down at you, pupils blown wide, mouth twisted in something too pleased to be called a smile.

“You could’ve torn it off,” he whispered. “You would’ve bled, but you could’ve.” His grip on your waist tightened just enough to make your breath stutter. “Even when you were starving. Even when you were hiding. You never let anyone see your neck, did you?”

His voice was almost gentle now. A confession. A reward.

“Because deep down, you knew.”

His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze up to the stars above the treetops.

“You were still mine.”

He pressed a kiss to the collar. Right at the center. Right over the little heart-shaped jewel he’d chosen just for you. And you hated—hated—how your knees threatened to give out when he did.

“Let me go—” you gasped, your voice hoarse, cracking with raw panic as you kicked back into him, squirming hard against the iron grip caging your waist. “I don’t want this,” you choked. “I never wanted this! You’re sick—you’re all sick—”

Heeseung said nothing. Just stood behind you like stone, chest rising and falling against your back, the collar still warm under his fingers.

You thrashed harder.

“I’m not yours!” you spat, twisting, reaching, fingers desperately fumbling near your boot, where the little shiv stayed tucked, hidden, waiting. “This isn’t love! This isn’t salvation! It’s—it’s a lie!”

Your hand scraped the hilt.

Almost there.

Heeseung’s voice was quiet, so quiet you barely heard it above your ragged breaths.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You froze for a second—just a second—and he felt it. Smiled into your hair.

“I see you,” he whispered, lips brushing the side of your face. “You can scream all you want. Tell yourself it’s fear. Call me every name in the book.” His grip shifted, and suddenly your arm was wrenched up behind you, your back arched slightly into him as your knees faltered. “But your body knows,” he growled, breath hotter now, dangerous. “Your body remembers who it belongs to.”

You let out a furious cry, finally gripping the shiv—but before you could swing it—

He caught your wrist.

Fast. Effortless. Crushing.

The blade clattered to the ground with a dull thunk.

He chuckled softly. “There it is.” Then he leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear again. “The last spark.”

You squirmed, trembled, tears hot in your eyes, rage and despair coiling together into something sharp and breathless.

But he didn’t flinch. Instead, he spoke.

“You think this is about obedience?” he whispered against your ear. “About control?” His hand tightened around your arm again, anchoring you with impossible strength. “No, little sheep… This—” his voice darkened, roughened with something bruised and feral, “—this is devotion.” He inhaled slowly, like breathing you in. “These past weeks… do you know what it’s been like?” His voice was soft now, dangerously soft. “Waking up without you beside me. Walking past your empty chamber. Waiting for reports that never came back, again and again.”

You whimpered as he leaned in, his words wrapping around you like smoke.

“I was patient. I let you run. I let you think. But you… you never stopped aching for me, did you?” His grip flexed. “And I never stopped yearning.” He pulled you a little closer, voice breaking just slightly, but not from weakness, but from the weight of how much he believed it. “I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve kissed your bruises, licked your wounds, made you whole again.”

A pause.

“But now—” His tone sharpened, teeth behind velvet. “Now I think I’ll carve it into you instead.”

That voice—that quiet, controlled anger—it scared you more than shouting ever could.

So you did the first thing that came to your mind.

You bit him.

Hard.

Right on the inside of his wrist, where he held your arm so tight you thought it’d bruise.

He hissed—a guttural sound of pain and fury—as his grip faltered just enough.

Just enough.

You didn’t think.

You slashed.

The shiv you’d dropped now back in your hand, guided by pure instinct, a wild, sweeping motion that cut across his cheekbone, slicing flesh clean and red.

His head snapped to the side. Blood spilled down the elegant line of his jaw.

And you ran.

You didn’t scream words—just sound, primal and panicked, as you tore through the underbrush.

Your voice must’ve drawn them, cause suddenly a Hollowed creature stumbled from the trees, eyes fogged and mouth slick, reaching—

You braced for it—until BANG.

A single shot rang out.

The Hollowed dropped.

You barely had time to glance back.

Heeseung stood in the clearing, gun still smoking in one hand, the other pressed against his bleeding cheek.

His eyes—wild now, burning—locked on you.

His voice was a growl carried on the wind:

“Run, then.”

He dropped the empty clip. Loaded another.

“I want you to.”

And with terrifying calm, Heeseung started chasing you again. Faster this time. Bleeding. Smiling.

You ran like your life depended on it. Because it did.

Branches lashed your arms, tore at your legs. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and crumbling bones, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t dare.

Behind you, Heeseung’s footfalls were steady. Measured. No panic. No rush. He didn’t need to sprint. He just needed to follow. Because predators don’t chase in bursts. They wear you down.

You veered left, dodging a fallen tree trunk, then ducked low beneath a tangle of thorned vines. You scraped your palms bloody pulling yourself through a ravine of sharp stone and broken bark.

You heard him above you, moving along the ridge, tracking your path like a shadow sewn to your feet.

“Still running,” he called down, voice like velvet soaked in blood. “That’s good. Keep going.”

You didn’t respond. Your lungs burned. Your vision blurred. Sweat mixed with dirt and dried blood as you stumbled over a patch of loose ground and caught yourself on all fours, chest heaving, before you scrambled back to your feet and shoved through a dense patch of undergrowth. Your ankle turned sharply, but you pushed through the pain, the fear louder than your body’s protest.

Because you knew what it meant if he caught you again. No ropes this time. No gentle whispers or twisted sermons. He would break you. Properly. Finally.

“I missed this,” he called again. “You panting. Wild-eyed. Covered in filth.”

There was a sick sort of reverence in his voice, like he wasn’t chasing you—he was worshipping the chase itself.

You clambered up a mossy incline, grabbing at roots to hoist yourself higher. Behind you, his boots crunched louder.

So close now.

“You know what I love about you?” he said, voice distorted by distance and breath. “You never crawl. You run. Like a good little creature with something worth losing.”

Your foot slipped. You caught yourself. Kept going.

But he was gaining.

Every time you turned your head, you saw more of him. Closer. Quicker. Bleeding, yes, but moving with purpose. Like he had become the hunt.

And you—

You were just something he was waiting to drag back, limp and gasping, into the fold.

The air felt colder. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline.

Your body was screaming, your chest seizing with every breath, muscles locking in protest. You could feel the sting of old wounds tearing open. Could taste copper in the back of your throat.

But still, you ran.

Because that’s what prey does.

You crashed through a clearing, past the blackened remains of a house eaten by rot. An old picket fence stood crooked ahead—half-splintered, half-still standing—and you leapt it, barely clearing the top.

Heeseung didn’t slow. He vaulted it like it was nothing. Landing just yards behind you. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he called, almost kindly. “You’ll thank me later for that.”

You didn’t waste the breath to answer. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Because now the broken skyline of an old city loomed ahead—rusted steel bones jutting from collapsed concrete, windows shattered, streets long since swallowed by weeds and dust.

You ducked beneath a half-fallen sign, vaulted over an abandoned car. The stench of decay hit you instantly—stronger here. More rot. More ruin. And worse...

Hollowed.

They moved slow at first, twitching with jerks of recognition as your footsteps echoed through the street. But it didn’t take long.

The closest one—limping, throat torn and leaking black—snapped toward the sound of your footsteps and lunged.

You dodged left, fast and instinctive, and drove your knife into the side of its skull with a guttural yell, yanking it free before sprinting forward again. Two more stumbled into the open, groaning with that awful gargled hunger. You slipped between them, barely avoiding their grasping hands.

Then you heard it again—

Bang.

A Hollowed’s head exploded behind you. Then another. Then another.

The cracks of gunfire echoed down the broken streets, fast and controlled.

Heeseung.

You didn’t need to look. You felt it. Felt him behind you like heat, like a shadow with teeth.

Another creature lunged from a half-sunk stairwell—too fast. You turned to stab, but—

Bang bang bang.

It dropped mid-leap, torn open by bullets. The spray of rot and bone misted the air beside your cheek. You stumbled forward, heart slamming, throat tight with a scream you didn’t release.

“You’re welcome,” Heeseung’s voice called out through the carnage which distracted him enough to create distance.

Perfect.

Your breath tore ragged through your chest as you ducked through the crumbling doorway of an old storefront, shoes slapping the tiled floor slick with grime. You vaulted the counter and crouched, knife shaking in your grip, heart pounding like a war drum in your ears.

Silence followed.

Too long.

You dared a breath—shallow, slow.

Crunch.

You pressed yourself against the wall, eyes wide. Dust drifted through a single shaft of dying sunlight. The knife felt too small in your hand now. Too useless.

He was inside.

“Hiding?” His voice echoed off the ruined walls, smooth and cold and so close.

“You’ve never been good at that.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. Please, you thought, just let me—

“I killed five for you back there,” he said. Calm. Measured. “Ripped them apart before they touched you.” His tone dropped—something quieter. More intimate. “I protected you. And you still ran.”

A pause.

“Ungrateful.”

That one word hit harder than a slap. Your pulse stuttered. You knew what was coming next. You always knew.

His footsteps moved again. Slower now. Careful. Like a hunter in the dark.

“Come out,” he said. “Or I’ll start pulling this place apart. You know I will.”

You clenched your jaw, wiped your nose with the back of your trembling hand, and gripped the knife tighter.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he continued, voice drifting closer. “You can crawl out, and I’ll forgive you. I’ll even kiss you for it.”

He paused, just on the other side of the counter now. You could hear him breathing. Low. Steady.

“But if you make me reach for you,” he whispered, “you won’t walk for days.”

Your stomach turned. Your fingers tensed.

Silence.

Then—

You moved.

You sprang up before he could grab you, swinging the blade wildly.

It sliced through air, inches from his face—close enough that he flinched, but not enough to stop him. He caught your wrist again, but you twisted fast, using your momentum to knee him in the ribs. The air left his lungs in a sharp grunt, grip slipping just enough for you to yank yourself free.

You didn’t look back, bursting out of the broken shop and back into the crumbling street, lungs burning, body screaming. Your legs barely felt real anymore, but they kept moving. Kept carrying you through the skeletal maze of the dead city.

Behind you— footsteps.

Fast. Determined. No longer teasing. No longer playing.

You’d drawn blood. You’d bitten.

And now he was angry.

You darted through an alley, nearly slipping on old rainwater pooled across cracked cement. A low, guttural sound followed behind you—Heeseung, breathing heavy now, feral.

“You want to act like a animal?” he shouted. “Then I’ll hunt you like one.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The knife trembled in your grip. You could still feel the way his fingers had bruised your wrist, the weight of his body behind every threat he hadn’t said yet. You turned sharply and ducked into another building, an old stairwell swallowed by rot. You bolted up two flights, turned a corner, slammed into a rusted door and shoved it open.

Rooftop.

Wide. Empty. Exposed.

Shit.

But there was no time. You turned to shut the door, only to see him right there, hand catching it, shoving it back open with brutal force.

You staggered backward as Heeseung stepped onto the rooftop, blood dried on his cheek, his dark eyes locked on yours.

Silent.

Seething.

His hand curled into a fist at his side. The other held the leash—clasp open, dangling like a promise.

Your chest heaved as you raised the blade again, shaking but firm. “I will kill you,” you spat. “If you touch me again, I’ll—”

“You won’t,” he said, cutting you off.

And he charged.

You swung.

He blocked.

And suddenly you were on the ground, wrists pinned, knife skidding across the concrete out of reach.

His face hovered above yours, eyes wild, hair a little messy from the chase, and when he spoke—his voice was low. Raw.

“Do it again,” he dared. “Fight. Bite. Bleed.” His fingers slid slowly down to the collar, still tight around your neck. “But next time,” he whispered, “you won’t get this far.”

You thrashed beneath him, limbs jerking, teeth gritted in panic as you twisted your wrists against his hold. You kicked, shifted, spat curses through clenched teeth—but he didn’t even flinch. Not a muscle.

Heeseung stared down at you with terrifying calm, his face unreadable. Like he’d already seen this a thousand times in his head. Like this wasn’t a fight—just a ritual.

His hand moved slowly, purposefully, reaching toward your neck.

You shook your head, twisting away—but it was too late.

Click.

The leash slid back into place.

The familiar weight yanked forward as he gave it a sharp tug, and you gasped, back arching slightly as the collar bit into your throat. The breath caught in your lungs, the sudden pressure making your eyes sting.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and cruelly fond, as if soothing a wild animal finally caught in its cage. “I knew you missed it.”

You thrashed harder, but your movements only made it worse, your struggling gave him every excuse to keep pulling, guiding, correcting you with that damn leash like you were nothing more than something disobedient that needed to be handled.

And still—his expression didn’t change.

Not smug. Not angry. Just patient. Like a shepherd dragging back his favorite stray.

You screamed—hoarse, furious—but the sound barely echoed before he had your wrists pinned again, rope sliding tight and practiced around your arms.

Tied. Bound.

You writhed in the bindings, chest heaving, but it was no use.

“You should’ve stayed,” he said quietly. “You had everything. Shelter. Safety. Me.” He crouched in front of you, hand curling around the leash again, pulling until you met his eyes. “I won’t ask you why you ran.” He tilted his head. “Because it doesn’t matter.” Another tug. “You’re back now.”

The words echoed louder than they should have. Like a door slamming shut behind you.

You shook your head, still squirming in the ropes, wrists aching from how tightly they were bound. Your knees scraped against the rooftop, gravel digging into skin, breath catching in your throat again as the collar tugged you forward another inch.

Heeseung didn’t move. Just watched.

And then, slowly, he crouched down again—closer this time. Eye-level. The city’s twisted skyline behind him, smoke rising in the distance like dying signals.

“You made me bleed,” he said, voice soft. His fingers traced the cut along his cheek—your cut. The blood had dried now, a rusty red line across sharp bone. But there was no anger in his face. Only something worse.

Appreciation.

“You fought harder than I thought you would.” He smiled faintly. “I liked it.”

You looked away.

He grabbed your jaw firmly and turned your face back to his. “But I like this more.”

Your lips trembled. You didn’t speak. Because there was nothing left to say that he hadn’t already turned against you.

He stood again, gaze flicking over you—disheveled, dirt-streaked, breathing ragged.

Then he tugged on the leash once more, and this time you stumbled forward on your knees, catching yourself with a soft grunt, ropes digging into your spine as you struggled to stay upright.

Heeseung didn’t even look back as he started walking. “You know the way,” he said simply.

The leash tugged once, twice—enough to remind you he still held it, and still could pull harder if he wanted to. You didn’t move at first. Knees raw against gravel, ropes biting into your wrists, your heart a mess of rage and exhaustion and something far more dangerous: surrender.

He stopped after a few steps. Tilted his head just slightly. “I won’t drag you,” he said, tone almost bored. “But I will carry you.”

You flinched. Because you knew what that meant. He had once before.

So, you moved. Because even now—after everything—there were worse things than walking.

Your legs trembled as you rose shakily to your feet, balance thrown from the bindings and the ache that lived in your bones. You could feel blood drying on your hands, the cold wind biting at torn skin, but none of that compared to the humiliation of stumbling after him like some shadow tethered by a thread.

Each step back toward Sanctum felt heavier. Familiar. Wrong. Inevitable.

You tried not to meet his gaze when he finally glanced over his shoulder, but he still smiled—just a little. Not smug. Not victorious.

Satisfied.

The city’s ruins faded behind you. The road ahead was dark, broken, silent. But he walked it like he’d known all along that you would follow.

And you did.

Step after step, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, your balance thrown by the tight bindings and the leash that jerked if you hesitated too long. The leash didn’t just tug you forward, it reminded you of who was in front. Who was in control. Who had won.

When the first Hollowed lurched from the roadside shadows—ribs split open, mouth slack and dripping—Heeseung didn’t slow.

He raised his gun without missing a step and fired.

One shot.

Right between the eyes.

Thump.

Another came from the treeline moments later. Heeseung didn’t blink. Another shot rang out. Another body hit the dirt.

You tried not to look. But you heard them. The sick sound of bone cracking, of groans choked off mid-howl.

And still he walked. Like a shepherd clearing the road.

If you slowed—if your knees buckled or your pace dragged even slightly, he gave a sharp tug on the leash. Not enough to pull you off your feet, but enough to steal the air from your lungs. Enough to make your body flinch forward like it had learned.

Like it was beginning to know its place.

You gritted your teeth, eyes burning. You told yourself not to cry again. Not in front of him. Not after everything.

And then you saw them.

People.

A small group—maybe five—half-hidden behind an overturned vehicle and the carcass of a collapsed roadside shack. Survivors. Not Hollowed. Not Sanctum.

Their eyes widened when they saw you, when they saw the leash, the collar, the ropes around your wrists, your dirtied, trembling form trailing just behind him like you were some pet dragged from a war.

They didn’t run. They didn’t call out. They just stared.

Shock first. Then something colder.

Pity.

And fear.

Not of you.

Of him.

Because Heeseung turned his head slightly, just enough to see them, and whatever they saw in his eyes made all of them freeze.

One of them—young, maybe seventeen—took a single step forward.

Heeseung didn’t raise his gun.

He smiled.

And that was enough.

The boy stumbled back, and the group retreated, eyes still locked on you until they vanished into the treeline like ghosts too afraid to even speak.

No one came for you. No one helped.

Heeseung didn’t say a word.

He just kept walking. Leash in hand. You behind him.

And the road stretched on—long, cracked, and unkind. But not nearly as cruel as the one you’d walked trying to escape him.

Eventually, you saw it.

Through the trees—half-choked by overgrowth and mist—Sanctum emerged from the darkness like something half-remembered from a fever dream.

The tall barricades. The watchtowers. The dull glint of floodlights casting pale rings across the dirt path. The thick scent of burning wood and damp earth. The faint murmur of people just inside.

Home, some would say.

But your stomach turned.

You tried not to slow, but your body faltered when the main gate came into full view—looming and heavy, manned by armed followers in long coats and black wraps. Your legs buckled slightly, knees weakened by exhaustion and dread.

Heeseung noticed, but he didn’t mock you. He just tugged the leash once, firmly. Steadying you.

The guards didn’t ask questions. They saw your face, your condition, your wrists still bound. And most importantly—they saw him.

Their gazes dropped in reverence as they unlocked the gates without a word. As if they’d been waiting. As if they already knew how this story would end.

The doors opened slowly, groaning under their own weight.

And beyond them—flickering torches, clean paths, rows of tents and shelters. People pausing to look up as you passed.

Some gasped quietly. Others smiled like prophecy had been fulfilled.

You couldn’t meet their eyes. You didn’t want to see what they saw when they looked at you.

A few even knelt as Heeseung walked by, silent and composed, dragging you behind him as if he’d simply gone out to retrieve a lost artifact.

No one asked where you’d been. No one asked what you’d done. Because it didn’t matter. Heeseung was back. And he had you.

You passed the fire pits, the mess area, the quiet groups clustered in prayer.

And then the stairs.

Down into the earth. Into the bunker.

The leash stayed taut. Your feet moved because they had no choice.

And when you reached the heavy door—the one you’d once seen sealed shut so many nights before he turned to you, eyes unreadable in the dim light.

“Welcome home,” he said softly.

And the door creaked open.

Swallowing you whole.

You stumbled when he pulled you down the final step, and your knees hit cold stone. You hissed, cursing under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You son of a—get your hands off me!”

But he didn’t flinch.

Not when you struggled, not when you dug your heels into the ground, not when you spat every insult you could think of like venom behind your teeth. He just held the leash tighter.

Like he’d expected this. Like he wanted it.

In the soft light of the bunker, he stopped walking—finally—and turned to face you. For one heartbeat, you thought maybe he’d snap. Shout. Do something loud.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached for your gear—the jacket stiff with blood, the torn shirt, the military vest still smeared with ash. You tried to slap his hands away. You shoved. You kicked.

Nothing worked.

“Don’t touch me—” you growled.

But he was calm. Mechanical. Efficient.

He stripped the dirt and chaos from you with quiet focus, as if peeling back layers of a broken thing he’d always planned to fix. When he wiped away dried blood from your shoulder, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel either. It was something colder. Detached. Like he was cleaning up a mess.

Your scraped knees. The bruises on your ribs. The cuts across your palm. All were examined, wiped, wrapped with bandages pulled from a small cabinet in the corner.

Still, you cursed. Still, you twisted against the binds. Still, you fought.

And he remained maddeningly silent.

You didn’t even realize when the dress appeared—light, soft white lace, simple and ghostlike in his hands. You tried to turn away, but you couldn’t stop him from slipping it over your head. You were too tired. Too sore. Your wrists ached from the struggle. Your body didn’t respond like it used to.

“This isn’t real,” you muttered. “This isn’t real. I’m not staying here.”

But he didn’t answer.

Not until he guided you back to the bed in the corner. The same one you’d seen in flickers of memory and dreams that left you sweating.

The chain clinked softly as it was locked to the bedpost, connected to your collar again.

Only then did he speak.

“You’ll rest now,” Heeseung murmured, voice low. “You need it.”

And with that, he stepped back. Out of reach. Out of sight.

But never out of control.

You laid in that bed for what felt like forever.

Time stretched thin, impossible to measure in the dark. The only light came from the faint crack beneath the heavy door—too dim to track the hours, too pale to give any comfort.

No footsteps.

No voices.

At first, you screamed. You pulled at the chain until your wrists burned. You kicked the bedframe until your heel throbbed and your throat went raw from shouting his name, any name—just to hear a voice. Just to hear yourself echo off the stone.

But no one answered.

Not even Heeseung.

Eventually… you stopped.

Not because you gave up.

Because your body started to.

The hunger curled in your gut like a fist. Tight. Angry. It came in waves, rising and falling until it became a part of you. Like the chain. Like the collar.

Your mouth felt dry, your lips cracked. Your tongue ached against the roof of your mouth with how little moisture was left. And still—nothing.

You stared at the ceiling, the walls, the bedpost where the chain looped and clinked when you shifted even slightly. That soft metallic noise became your only companion. You listened to it like it might sing. Like it might break the silence.

It didn’t.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the thirst.

It was the quiet.

The aching, bone-deep silence that wrapped around you like a second skin. No sermons. No chants. No breath but your own. It filled your head, loud and oppressive. Until your thoughts blurred, until memory lost its shape, until the only constant you had left was the sound of your own heartbeat—soft, slowing.

You hated it. You hated him. But more than that, you hated how a part of you waited. Waited for the sound of footsteps. Waited for the door to creak open. Waited for the only thing worse than silence...

Him.

Because at least when Heeseung came… you knew you still existed.

The door creaked open hours—maybe days—later. You weren’t sure anymore.

You didn’t lift your head.

You knew who it was.

Boots crossed the threshold with steady, deliberate steps. No hurry. No rush. The air shifted with his presence, like the entire room inhaled and held its breath.

You finally looked up when the silence became too sharp to ignore.

Heeseung stood at the foot of the bed, eyes unreadable, shadowed beneath the soft bunker light. There was no smile this time. No gentleness. Just cold deliberation—like a judge returning to the courtroom.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly.

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked. Dry. Weak. Nothing came out.

He stepped closer.

“You spat on it. Ran. Lied. Hid.”

He circled the bed slowly, like a predator surveying damage.

“Do you think that makes you brave?” His tone dipped—low, dangerous. “It makes you ungrateful.”

You tensed when his hand reached for the chain, the familiar tug jerking your body upright. You tried to twist away, but you were too weak. Too sore. Too empty.

He crouched down in front of you, expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. “But you’ve asked for it.” His fingers gripped your chin, firm and unforgiving. You flinched.

“You don’t get to run,” he whispered. “Not from me. Not after everything I’ve given.” Heeseung's fingers tightened on your chin, his grip bordering on painful. You could see the cold calculation in his eyes, the flicker of something darker, more sinister. "You thought you could escape me?" he murmured. "You thought you could deny me?"

He released your chin abruptly, and you fell back, your body aching. Heeseung stood, towering over you, his presence overwhelming. "You made me chase you," he said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "And now, you'll pay for it." He reached for the chain again, yanking it hard enough to make you cry out. With a swift, brutal motion, he pulled you to your feet, your body colliding with his. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I'm going to teach you a lesson," he whispered. "One you won't forget."

A hand, firm and steady pressed to the small of your back.

He guided you forward with no resistance, no hesitation, like your path had already been chosen for you long ago.

“Go on,” Heeseung murmured, voice soft but laced with steel. “To the center.”

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. The floor stretched out beneath you like an altar. Smooth, polished stone, worn down by time and footsteps that had come before you.

You reached the center. You stopped. You waited.

Then his voice again—closer this time. A command.

“Kneel.”

It cut through the stillness like a blade. Not shouted. Not harsh.

Just final.

You dropped.

The cold floor bit into your knees, but you didn’t flinch. Not when the silence had grown so sharp it could pierce skin.

Behind you, Heeseung began to circle.

Each step echoed. Measured. Heavy with purpose. He didn’t speak at first. Just moved. Watched. Made sure you felt him without even needing to look. Like a lion studying its meal before the first bite.

Finally, his voice broke the silence—low, dark, and laced with restrained fury.

“You should have known better.”

A pause. You could feel his gaze on your bowed head, hot and unwavering.

“You should have known that you belong to me.”

His words hit like the crack of a whip.

You felt your stomach twist, your spine pull straighter—part defiance, part instinctual fear. Your fingers curled into fists against the stone as you bit back the storm rising in your throat.

“You thought distance would change that?” he asked quietly, voice curling around you like smoke. “That running would make me forget?” A hand ghosted over your shoulder—gentle, and then it closed.

Tight.

“Foolish.”

He bent slightly, so his lips were just above your ear.

“There is no before me anymore.”

You didn’t breathe.

Because in that moment—under his touch, his voice, his control—you felt it again. That awful, trembling truth.

You hadn’t been free the moment you left him.

You’d only been out of reach.

Now, with the air stretched taut between you and Heeseung standing above you like a shadow cast by something far older than rage, you could feel the truth in your bones.

His eyes didn’t burn—they froze. Piercing. Patient. Like he was dissecting your soul in real time.

The quiet metallic click of his belt unfastening sliced through the silence like a warning shot. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, sharp and clinical, echoing over your skin like a chill you couldn’t shake.

Heeseung let the belt slip from his hands with a whisper of leather against cloth, letting it hang loose at his side—not as a weapon, not yet, but as a symbol.

Of control.

Of authority.

Of ownership.

He stepped closer, the heels of his boots loud against the stone. Your eyes lifted despite yourself, chest tight with too many things at once—fear, defiance, longing, shame. It coiled in you like static before a storm.

And when he knelt in front of you, crouching to your eye level, it felt like the room itself tilted in his direction. “You always make it so difficult,” he murmured, his voice low, unreadable. “But maybe… you just wanted to be reminded.”

In the stillness, something cracked open inside you. Because this wasn’t punishment in the way most would understand it.

This was ceremony.

A moment designed not to hurt you—but to humble you.

“You don’t listen,” Heeseung said, softer now. “But you remember. And that’s all I need.” He rose again, tall and quiet and endless, and with a rough tug on the chain, he pulled you forward, causing you to fall onto your hands.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze. He reached down, his hands moving to his pants and boxers, pushing them down slowly.

His erection sprang free, hard and ready, a stark reminder of his power and your submission. You stared, your eyes wide as your body responded to the sight of him, your thighs clenching in recognition. You could feel your pussy starting to get wet, your body betraying you.

He stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You see what you do to me?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You're going to take this," he murmered. "And you're going to thank me for it."

Heeseung's hand moved to the chain around your neck, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal with a cruel, possessive grip. With a swift, brutal tug, he pulled you up, forcing you to your knees, your mouth now level with his erection. He hummed, a low, satisfied sound.

"You know what to do." He slapped the tip of his cock against your lips, the wet, warm flesh a stark contrast to the cold, hard metal of the chain. "Suck it."

You hesitated for a moment, your mind rebelling against the command, but your mouth betrayed you, your lips parting involuntarily. Heeseung took advantage of your hesitation, his hand fisting your hair, pulling your head back as he pushed his hips forward, his cock sliding into your mouth.

"Good girl," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now, suck."

You obeyed, your mouth working him with reluctance. Heeseung's hips began to move, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a relentless, punishing rhythm. He used the chain to control your movements, pulling you closer when he wanted more depth, pushing you back when he wanted to tease you.

"Feel that?" he moaned, "that's what happens when you run. That's what happens when you try to escape."

Your mouth was full of his cock, your eyes watering as you struggled to take his impressive length. Heeseung's hands were fisted in your hair, his grip tight and punishing, controlling your movements, your breaths, your very existence.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, as he looked down at you. "You like being used. You like being a good little slut for me."

You tried to respond, but no words came out, your throat constricted around his length, your body trembling. Heeseung chuckled as he pushed his hips forward again, his cock sliding back into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with a force that left you gasping and choking.

"Suck it," he commanded as he began to move his hips, fucking your mouth. "Suck it like a good little whore."

He pulled your hair, causing your head to tilt back, revealing the bulge in your throat from his cock, a rather obscene sight. Precum leaked from his tip, filling your mouth, coating your tongue, a salty, intoxicating taste that left you dizzy and wanting more. You whimpered, the sound a desperate, pleading moan, as you continued to suck, your mouth and throat working in tandem, your tongue swirling around his length, your lips creating a tight, wet seal around his base.

Heeseung's grip on your hair tightened, his fingers digging into your scalp, holding you in place. You could feel his cock swelling, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, a sign that he was close, that he was on the edge.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and tear-streaked, your lips swollen and red, your throat sore and raw.

"Fuck, yes..."

"Choke on it. Take every inch."

Tears streamed down your face as you gagged around his cock, your body betraying you with each desperate gasp for air.

"Look at you," he mumbled as he looked down at you, his eyes gleaming. "So pathetic. So fucking helpless."

WIth a few more thrusts Heeseung's cock swelled in your mouth, and with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his body shuddering with the force of his climax as he released his load down your throat.

You swallowed, your body betraying you even as your mind rebelled, your throat working to take every drop. Heeseung pulled out of your mouth, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and coughing, your throat raw and aching.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Now, let's see if you've learned your lesson."

He released your hair, his hand moving to your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You met his gaze, your eyes filled with tears, your body shaking with exhaustion and fear, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear. Desire. Submission. Defiance. You weren't sure what you felt, what you wanted, what you needed.

Suddenly, with a brutal jerk, Heeseung pulled you to your feet, his other hand gripping your arm with a punishing force.

You stumbled, your body still weak and aching from the earlier ordeal, but Heeseung's grip was unyielding. He dragged you across the room, his steps purposeful and dominant, until you reached the edge of the bed. With a swift, almost casual motion, he threw you onto your stomach, your face pressing into the cool mattress.

Before you could react, he was on you, his body pressing down on yours, his weight pinning you in place. You could feel his hardness against your ass. His hands quickly moved to your dress, his fingers gripping the fabric with a savage intensity.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice muffled by the mattress, as you felt the fabric tear, the sound of ripping cloth filling the air. "Please, don't..."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, cutting you off mid-sentence. "You don't get to talk. You just get to take it."

Heeseung's hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you back, positioning you on your knees, your ass exposed and vulnerable. You tried to squirm away, but his grip was like iron, holding you in place.

"So beautiful.. all for me."

You tensed as you felt his cock press against your entrance, the head sliding through your folds, coating itself in your arousal. Heeseung chuckled, as he positioned himself at your entrance.

"Ready for this?" he asked, "ready to take what's yours?"

Before you could respond, he was pushing in, his cock sliding into you with a swift, brutal thrust. You cried out, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure, as Heeseung began to move, giving you no time to adjust.

Heeseung's breath was hot and ragged against your ear. His right hand moved to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck with a possessive grip. He pressed and twisted your head, forcing you to look at him, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze.

"All mine."

You moaned and gasped, your body betraying you with each desperate breath, your lungs struggling for air as his hand tightened. His lips crashed down on yours, his tongue invading your mouth, swallowing your moans and gasps.

His left hand moved to your clit, his fingers finding the sensitive nub with a cruel, teasing touch. He rubbed it in slow, deliberate circles, a stark contrast to the brutal, punishing rhythm of his hips.

"Feel that?" he murmured against your lips. "Feel how your body betrays you? How it wants me? How it needs me?"

You whimpered, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving of their own accord, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. Heeseung chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, as he increased the pressure on your clit, his fingers moving faster, his touch more insistent.

"Such a good little slut."

You could feel your pleasure building, your body coiling tight, your mind reeling from the overwhelming sensations.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl, as he increased the pressure on your throat, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Come for me like the good little whore you are."

Your body obeyed, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, all-consuming force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing with the intensity of the pleasure.

"Good girl," he gasped as he felt your body clench around him, your inner walls pulsing with the force of your release. "That's it... so good for me."

But even as your orgasm subsided, Heeseung showed no sign of stopping. His hips continued to snap forward, his cock plunging deep into your pussy with each punishing thrust. You sobbed and cried, your body wrecked and broken, overstimulated and raw.

"Please," you begged, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. "Please, I can't... I can't take anymore..."

Heeseung chuckled as he continued to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a wet, obscene sound. "You say you want me to stop," he hissed. "Yet you keep clenching around me so deliciously. You don't want me to stop. You never want me to stop."

You realized with a shock of horror and arousal that you were grinding back at him, your hips meeting his thrusts, matching his pace. You whimpered as you tried to pull away, to escape, to deny the truth of your body's response.

"But look at you," he continued, as he gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you back onto him. "You're so wet. So ready."

You tried to respond, to argue, to plead, but no words came out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you, you were lost in the sensation, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze, your body betraying you as it welcomed him in, accepted him, craved him.

"Please," you whimpered again, your voice a desperate, pleading moan, as you gripped the sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric, your body trembling. "Please, Heeseung. Please, make it stop. Please, make it end."

Heeseung pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling.

"Make it stop?" he asked as he looked down at you, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I do that? You're mine, and I'm going to remind you of that. Over and over again. Until you never forget it. Until you never want to escape it. Until you never want anything else."

He slipped his cock back in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel everything, the stretch, the burn, the pleasure, the pain. You could hear the wet squelches from your pussy, the obscene, lewd sounds. They mixed with Heeseung's whines, and your own whimpers.

"Oh baby... you feel so good.."

Heeseung's thrusts quickly sped up, becoming more erratic, his hips snapping forward in a sloppy way. You could feel his body trembling against yours, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

"Fuck, I missed you," he mumbled, his voice a low, slurred growl, as he leaned over you. "I missed being inside you. I missed feeling you wrap around my cock like this."

You could feel his saliva dripping down your back, warm and wet, as he continued to mumble, "you're so perfect. So fucking perfect. My good little angel..."

His hips moved faster, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Fuck, I'm close," he whined out loudly. "I'm so fucking close.."

His body tensed, and with a final, brutal thrust, he released himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. You gasped and shook, your body convulsing with the force of his climax, your inner walls milking him for every drop.

"Shit," he groaned, as he collapsed on top of you, his body pressing you down into the mattress. "Fuck, that was good."

He remained inside you for a moment, his breath ragged against your ear, before he slowly pulled out.

You lay there, your body shaking and your mind reeling, the aftermath of his brutal claiming leaving you in a daze. The room spun around you, and your breaths came in short gasps, your lungs still burning from the lack of air. You felt raw, broken, and utterly spent, your body aching from the relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain.

Suddenly, you felt his fingers, warm and wet, slipping inside your puffy, sensitive walls. You jumped at the intrusion, a sob escaping your lips as you felt him push deeper, his fingers curling inside you, claiming every inch of your being.

"Keep every drop inside you," he commanded. "You're going to keep it all. Every fucking drop... keeping my seed where it belongs."

Without warning, Heeseung flipped you onto your back, his hands gripping your thighs with a punishing force. He pushed your legs up to your chest, exposing you to his gaze, your pussy open and vulnerable to his inspection. You watched, dazed and disoriented, as he stared down at you, his eyes gleaming with arousal.

He brought his hand gently to his mouth, his fingers slipping between his lips as he coated them fully in saliva, before pulling his fingers free, the tips glistening with his spit.

"Want more?" he asked as he positioned his fingers back at your entrance, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could respond, he pushed his fingers inside you again, his movements slow, each thrust a teasing claim.

You tried to squirm away, your body instinctively rebelling against the invasive touch. Your hips bucked, and your legs kicked, a desperate attempt to escape his fingers.

"And where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with a cruel, mocking amusement.

He pushed you down, his body pressing against yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You could feel his hardness against your thigh, as his fingers continued to move while he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "You're going to take my fingers. You're going to take my cock. You're going to take everything I give you. And you're going to like it."

His fingers curled inside you, finding that sensitive spot that made you clench around his fingers, your hips moving, despite your pleas and your tears. You could feel your arousal coating his fingers, a wet, slick proof of your want.

With that Heeseung pulled his fingers free, leaving you feeing empty and aching, your body craving more. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around the digits. "Mmm," he hummed out. "You still taste so fucking good. So sweet..." He licked his lips. "You've tortured me, you know. Running away, keeping me from this sweet pussy for weeks."

With that, Heeseung crawled down your body, his movements swift and purposeful. He positioned himself between your legs, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his tongue swiping through your folds. You gasped, the shock of his sudden touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

He groaned, a low, feral sound, as he began to lick and suck, his tongue exploring every inch of you. You could feel his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted on you.

In all your shock, you found yourself grabbing his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you threw your head back, your eyes rolling upwards, your mouth wide open as you screamed his name. "Heeseung! Oh my god, Heeseung!"

His tongue and fingers worked in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths stuttering.

As Heeseung's nose bumped into your clit with each vigorous lick, you could feel the intense, electric jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. His tongue delved deep inside you, fucking you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as each inhale you took sounded like a ragged, desperate plea for air.

You risked a glance down at Heeseung, and what you saw sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were locked on you, studying every reaction, every twitch, every gasp, with an intensity that bordered on feral. Yet, there was a dazed, almost trance-like quality to his gaze, as if he were completely consumed by the act, by the taste and the feel of you.

His mouth moved vigorously, his lips and tongue working in a frenzied rhythm. His eyebrows were scrunched in concentration, his forehead glistening with sweat, strands of hair clinging to his skin, damp and disheveled. The sight of him, so utterly focused, so completely absorbed in pleasuring you, was almost overwhelming.

But what struck you most was the way he was grinding into the bed, his hips moving in a rough rhythm, as if he were fucking the very mattress beneath you. You could hear the soft, wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh, the occasional muffled groan as he breathed you in, straight from the core, his nostrils flaring with each desperate inhalation.

His hands gripped your thighs with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving moon-shaped marks where his nails bit into the meat. You could feel the sting, the sharp, almost painful sensation, but it only served to heighten your pleasure, to push you closer to the edge.

As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel that familiar, tingling sensation building in your core, a sure sign that your orgasm was imminent. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as you gripped the sheets with a punishing force, your knuckles white and your fingers trembling.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come!"

Heeseung pulled back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Oh, you are, are you?" he murmured, and with a renewed vigor, he dove back in, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

And then, with a final, brutal lick, you were pushed over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking. Your scream was a choked, desperate sound, your whines mashed together as you rode out the overwhelming sensations.

Heeseung, ever the worshipper, licked and sucked, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy, lapping up every drop of your cum.

As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel your body becoming increasingly sensitive, every touch, every lick, every suck sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. You reached a point where the sensations were almost too much to bear, your nerves raw and exposed.

With a desperate, almost pleading push, you placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to create some space between you. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I can't... I can't take any more."

To your surprise, Heeseung pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his chin was dripping with a mix of your cum and his saliva, a rather primal sight. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

"You can't take any more?" he questioned, "or you don't want to take any more?" He gripped your hips with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you closer to him. You could feel his hardness pressing against your folds, the head of his cock sliding through your sensitive flesh with a teasing, almost torturous touch.

"Beg for it," he ordered. "Beg for me to put it in. Beg for me to fuck you."

You tensed, your body betraying you as it responded to his touch, his words, his command. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, put it in. Please, fuck me. I need you. I need this."

Heeseung hummed while he continued to tease your folds with his cock, the head sliding through your wetness. "Need what?" he asked, "need my cock? Need me to fill you up? Need me to remind you who you belong to?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, please. I need your cock. I need you to fill me up. I need you to remind me. I need you to own me."

With a brutal thrust, Heeseung plunged his cock into you, his hips snapping forward. You cried out, your body easily welcoming him in.

Heeseung remained still, his muscles straining, his jaw clenched tight as he cursed under his breath. "Shit, you're still so tight," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

You whined, your eyes meeting his, your gaze pleading. The low lamp hanging from the roof cast a warm, golden glow over his face, highlighting the sharp angles and the intense, almost feral expression in his eyes. His eyes twitched, a telltale sign of his barely restrained control, as he pulled back slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you.

And then, he plunged back in, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you arching your back, your body bowing off the bed as you cried out loudly.

Wet sounds filled the room, the slick, obscene noises a reminder of the intimacy and the degradation of the act. The sound of chains rattling echoed through the space, a haunting, almost ominous accompaniment to your combined moans and gasps.

Neither of you realized you had an audience.

Not until a sharp knock—too sudden, too real—cracked through the heady silence of the room like lightning. You froze. Heeseung stilled deep inside you, a full-body tension radiating through him as if the air itself had turned hostile.

His head turned, slow and dangerous, toward the now open door.

You followed his gaze, pulse hammering in your throat, only for your heart to seize entirely. Two of Heeseung’s followers stood in the doorway, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and dawning horror. Their expressions shifted rapidly—shock, embarrassment, guilt. They were statues, breathless and pale.

You felt your skin prickle in mortified realization, heat rushing up your chest and neck, and despite everything—despite how used you were to the rituals, the possession, the worship—you still wanted to disappear.

Heeseung reacted instantly.

He shifted, his arms pulled you against him with a protectiveness that felt more like a claim. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other coiled around your waist with bruising precision.

The room that had once been warm with candlelight now crackled with something darker.

His voice, when it came, was low and wrathful.

“What the fuck?”

The two disciples flinched.

“I told the guards I wasn’t to be interrupted. Not for any fucking reason.” His words dripped with fury—controlled, but barely. Like he was using every ounce of his restraint not to destroy something. You could feel it in his body—how tightly he held you. How hard his jaw clenched. The storm in his breath.

“S-sorry, Heeseung…” one of them stammered. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “We—we wouldn’t have come, but something’s… wrong. Up top. Near the wall. A group. Armed. They're getting too close—”

Heeseung didn’t blink.

His grip on you tightened. Not out of anger at you—but at the world, it seemed. At the insolence of it daring to interrupt what he considered his.

“The only thing wrong here,” he said quietly, dangerously, “is your interruption.”

You felt his chest rise and fall against your back, each inhale more ragged than the last. The candlelight threw violent shadows across the floor, stretching long and wild.

“Get out,” he snapped.

Neither of them moved.

“I said get out.”

The guards scrambled then—shoulders tight with shame, fear heavy in their footsteps. They backed out, heads down, disappearing behind the heavy wooden door which thudded shut moments later, echoing like judgment through the room.

Silence fell again. But it was no longer the same.

Heeseung didn’t move right away. His hands were still on you. His breathing sharp and body tense above you, his muscles coiled tight as he processed the intrusion. You looked up at him—uncertain, raw.

His jaw ticked once.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Fucking hell."

He pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling. Heeseung stood up, his movements abrupt and jerky as he adjusted his pants, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice low. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

You nodded, your body still trembling as you pulled the sheets around you, a futile attempt to cover your nakedness and your shame. Heeseung strode to the door, his steps purposeful and angry, and slipped out into the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your humiliation.

The room felt empty without him, the silence almost oppressive. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the memory of the intrusion, the shock of being caught, the raw, exposed feeling of your body and your desires laid bare. But the images and the sounds lingered, a haunting reminder of the reality you now faced.

Eventually, the door creaked open, and Heeseung stepped back into the room. You gasped when you saw him, your eyes widening in shock as you took in the sight of him. He was bloodied, his skin stained with crimson, and he was wiping away the evidence with a random cloth.

"Wh-what happened?" you asked shakily, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes fixed on the blood.

He looked up at you and grinned. "I took care of the of the problem," he answered simply, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth away, the stained fabric landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Before you could react, he was on the bed, crawling over you with a predatory grace. His hands moved to the sheets, pulling them away from your body with a swift motion. You lay exposed before him, your body trembling. He pulled you carefully with him, sitting against the bed frame, his back leaning against the headboard. You found yourself straddling him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body positioned perfectly as he positioned you above his cock.

With a soft sigh, he pulled you down, impaling you on his length. You gasped and arched your back, the sudden intrusion sending a wave of pleasure through your body. Your breasts pushed forward, offering themselves to his hungry mouth.

Heeseung accepted the invitation greedily, his lips and tongue sucking and biting, his teeth leaving marks on your sensitive skin, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, his moans vibrating against your flesh.

His hands occupied themselves by gripping your ass, fingers digging into your cheeks, slapping them with a sharp, stinging force. Your hands gripped his shoulders in shock, your nails digging into his flesh as you moaned and whined his name. "Heeseung," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Please. Please, don't stop."

He continued to suck and bite, his mouth leaving a trail of marks across your breasts and your collarbone. "Don't worry," he muttered. "I'm not going to stop. Ever."

You trembled in his hold as Heeseung ravished you, his mouth leaving a trail of hickeys and marks across anywhere his lips could reach. His grip on your ass was punishing, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving red marks where he slapped and squeezed.

"Fuck, you're so responsive." With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pulled you towards him, his lips crashing down on yours in a harsh, messy kiss.

When you pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips, which Heeseung licked up, his tongue swirling, his eyes never leaving yours, a possessive glint in his gaze. And then, with a steady motion, he began to lift you up and down, impaling you on his cock.

You gasped, your body arching, hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as you held on for dear life, your body moving in time with his, your hips meeting his thrusts with an almost hungry need.

You kept whining as Heeseung continued to lift and lower you on his cock, the sensation of being stretched overwhelming your senses, leaving you whining and clinging to him.

Eventually, Heeseung manhandled you onto your back, his strength overpowering as he positioned you beneath him. He towered over you, his body a wall of muscle and power.

With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pushed your legs back, spreading you open, exposing you as he began to fuck you deeper, his hips snapping forward. Your mind numbed, your senses overwhelmed, leaving you in a state of a mindnumbing sensation. The room buzzed around you, the sounds of your combined moans and gasps, the wet, obscene noises of your bodies moving together, the sharp, stinging slaps of his hips against your ass, all blending together.

You came suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you whining, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you. In that moment, you swore you felt like your soul left your body, your mind shattering into a million pieces, your reality fragmenting and reforming around the overwhelming sensations.

Heeseung rambled on, his words a low, and slurred but you couldn't make out what he was saying. Your ears rang, the sound a high-pitched, almost painful whine, a result of being fucked senseless, your body and mind pushed to their limits. You felt cock drunk, your body craving more, needing more, desperate for the feeling of him inside you, filling you, possessing you. Your body was a limp and boneless mess, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze.

"You're going to take every drop of my cum," Heeseung murmured, his hips continuing to move. "You're going to look so fucking good with your stomach bulging... I'm going to fill you up so good, so much that you'll be leaking for days."

You could only whine in response.

"I'm going to breed you so good, fill you up with so much cum that you'll be carrying my child..."

Your mind reeled at his words, the promise of his seed, of his claim, of his possession. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, breed me. Please, fill me up. Please, make me yours."

"Don't worry," he mumbled. "I'm going to give you everything I have. Every drop of my cum. Every inch of my cock. Every part of me. You're going to be so full of me, so complete with me."

You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come for me like the good little cocksleeve you are. Come for me and take my cum."

And with a final, brutal thrust, you were pushed over the edge for the millionth time, your body convulsing, each sensation more intense than the last.

Heeseung followed soon after, his hips snapping forward with a few more thrusts before he released himself deep inside you. You could feel the warmth of his cum filling you, his seed spilling into your depths, a claiming so intense it left you breathless. He remained inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied every last drop, ensuring that you were completely and utterly filled.

As the intensity of the moment began to fade, Heeseung stayed inside you, his body pressing against yours as he moved you closer to him. He adjusted his position, pulling you into his arms, your bodies entwined as you both lay on the bed. You were so tired, so spent, that as he started kissing your face tenderly, his lips soft against your skin, and playing with your hair, your eyes fluttered closed, and you drifted off into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft, rhythmic breaths of your slumber and the occasional shift of Heeseung's body as he held you close. You were safe in his arms, protected and possessed, your body and mind finally at peace after the overwhelming sensations.

As you slept, Heeseung's hand gently stroked your back, murmuring soft, almost affectionate words, his voice soothing, ensuring that you knew, even in your dreams, that you were his. 

You didn’t run again.

Whether it was exhaustion, fear, or something deeper—something Heeseung had carved into your mind with quiet, patient cruelty—you stayed by his side. Loyal. Prized. His.

The compound called you many things now.

The saved. The chosen. The miracle that came back.

But Heeseung called you something else.

Mine.

No one touched you.

That was sacred.

He made it clear—once, violently, when a follower brushed too close while offering water. The poor man didn’t even see it coming, the punishment swift, public, and brutal. After that, no one dared. You could feel their eyes on you when you walked—soft, curious, reverent—but no one ever reached out again.

Because that was Heeseung’s right. Only Heeseung’s.

He sat on his throne like a king who’d bled the world dry to earn it, and you—his crown, his queen—sat on his lap like you belonged there. Because you did. That’s what he told you. Over and over.

In the dim light of the bunker, followers knelt in rows before you both, murmuring prayers. Praising salvation. Begging for mercy.

And Heeseung?

He kissed your neck gently. One arm locked around your waist, the other tracing shapes over your thigh, possessive and idle.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered in your ear, voice soft as silk. “So obedient now. So perfect.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “But not too perfect,” he added with a smirk. “You still cry when I ruin you..”

You clenched your fists, breath catching as his hand squeezed your hip beneath the fabric of your dress. His touch was gentle now—but it never stayed that way for long. And you’d learned: pleasure and punishment were two sides of the same coin in his hands. Twisted rewards. Earned devotion.

You were a queen in his eyes, but you were also his possession, his property, his to command and control.

Around the compound, you rarely walked alone. Mostly because… you couldn’t. Your legs still ached most mornings. From the things he’d done. The things he’d proven. So his arm stayed tight around your waist when he led you through Sanctum. Not support. Not comfort. But control.

You were a symbol now. And symbols didn’t get to stumble.

He fed you the finest preserved rations—lavish by apocalypse standards. Fresh fruit, warm broth, spiced rice. He always made sure you ate. Made sure you smiled. Tucked hair behind your ear like he hadn’t broken you just the night before.

“You deserve to feel full,” he said once, pressing a spoon to your lips. “You deserve everything.”

And in his eyes, you were everything.

Not just because he loved you. But because he needed you.

You were his altar, his proof, his possession.

And without you, Heeseung didn’t breathe.

So you stayed.

And he worshipped. And devoured. And whispered, always:

“You’re mine, little lamb. My last holy thing.”

Even in moments of quiet—when the compound basked in sunlight, when the fires weren’t burning and no one was chanting—Heeseung would remind you.

Remind you who held the leash, even when it wasn’t in his hand.

It didn’t take much. A glance. A certain tone in his voice. A question that wasn’t really a question at all.

“You wouldn’t leave again,” he’d murmur, brushing a stray leaf from your shoulder after a walk through the courtyard. “Would you?”

You’d pause—just for a breath too long—and he’d smile.

Not wide. Not kind.

Slow. Sharp.

Like he’d caught the rabbit still twitching under his paw.

Sometimes, he didn’t even need words. Just a touch. A hand on the back of your neck when you passed through the halls, light but final. Fingers tracing the collar still locked around your throat. You’d flinch, sometimes—but he always noticed. And he’d lean in close, lips at your ear. “I like when you remember,” he’d whisper. “What it felt like to run.”

The worst part was how he made you feel it. Still.

That instinct.

That prey-deep shiver under your skin.

Even when you were full and dressed in white, draped in luxury. Even when you were safe.

Because safety was a lie he whispered while baring his teeth.

When others approached—offering prayer, gifts, loyalty—he would keep you close, his hand always low on your waist. Not just claiming you. Daring them.

You learned, over time, that his gentleness was layered like silk over steel. A mask for something far older. Deeper.

Predatory.

Heeseung didn’t need to growl or snarl. He studied you. Waited. Learned every reaction, every sound you made when you were nervous, ashamed, afraid. And then—he’d trigger it.

With purpose.

With precision.

Because to him, power wasn’t shown through violence. It was shown in how easily he could make you remember.

The woods. The leash. The desperate, bloody ache of your escape.

All of it, at the mercy of his voice.

“I don’t keep you because you can’t run,” he said one night, eyes gleaming in the low candlelight. “I keep you because you know what happens when you try.”

You said nothing.

Because the truth was this:

He didn’t have to chase you anymore.

Heeseung already had you. Right where he wanted. Tamed. Trembling. And his.

Heeseung was cruel, but fair.

And he loved toying with you.

Not with violence—no, that was too easy. Too loud. He preferred the slow unraveling. The game. The quiet dissection of your will, one string at a time. He’d give you softness just long enough to make you ache for it—then take it away. He’d hold you in his lap during prayers, thumb stroking circles over your thigh, murmuring praises under his breath… then later, he wouldn’t touch you at all. Wouldn’t even look at you. Would leave you pacing in silence, caged in your own skin, wondering what you’d done wrong.

(You hadn’t. That was the point.)

He made you earn him.

And when you reached for him—when you finally broke, voice hoarse with need, trembling under the weight of his absence—he’d smile.

“That’s better,” he’d whisper, tilting your chin up. “See what happens when you remember your place?”

And you hated that it worked. That part of you needed him to remind you.

He didn’t punish with rage. He punished with control. Silence. Restraint. Precision.

And when he did give you what you craved—his attention, his hands, his voice curling around your name like a prayer—he made sure you remembered.

“You only exist because I let you,” he murmured once, teeth brushing your throat. “You breathe because I allow it. And you stay, little lamb…” His smile darkened. “Because you want to.”

That was the cruelest part.

The part where he was right.

Because by now, you’d stopped counting how many times you could’ve run.

And started counting how many ways he could pull you back.

There had been a day—two, actually—where Heeseung was gone.

Not far. Not abandoned.

Just busy.

A breach had nearly occurred. A horde of Hollowed had shambled too close to the western wall of the compound. Alarms sounded, smoke rose, steel rang against bone. The Sanctum’s guards had fought them off just in time, but the damage to the barricade was enough to send the entire compound into a state of tension.

Heeseung, of course, had gone straight to the perimeter.

He didn’t take you with him.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even relieved. You simply… waited.

And in his absence, they turned to you.

Because when Heeseung was gone, the throne did not stay empty.

You sat in it—his throne—at the very center of the bunker, high-backed and curved around you like it had been built for this moment. The seat still held his warmth, the scent of worn leather and incense clinging to its edges.

No one questioned it. Because you were the only other living being on earth allowed to sit there.

And oh, how they moved around you.

The moment you shifted, someone was there. You asked for juice—it was in your hand before you could blink. A bowl of fruits? Rested at your side before you even finished the sentence.

They watched your every breath like it held meaning.

Kneeling. Bowing. Smiling with a reverence that made your skin crawl, even as your lips curled in indulgence.

You didn’t need to lift a finger.

When the sun streamed in through the cracks of the compound roof, it kissed your shoulders like even nature obeyed. You reclined into the throne, sipping sweet juice from a silver cup, and the world bent around you.

But still—something in your chest pulsed uneasily. Because even dressed like a queen, even praised and waited on like a goddess… you were still wearing the collar. Still tethered by something unseen. Still waiting for the shadow who never let you out of his grip for long.

And when Heeseung returned—dust on his coat, jaw tense—you saw it in his eyes the second they landed on you.

Pride. Possessiveness. And a flicker of something else. Jealousy, maybe.

Not at the followers. At the throne. Because for two days, you sat in it.

Heeseung stood there a moment, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the sight of you reclining on his throne, dressed in regal attire. The sunlight streaming through the cracks in the roof cast a warm, golden glow on your shoulders, as if nature itself bowed to your presence. The world seemed to bend around you, acknowledging your power and your grace.

With a swift, authoritative gesture, Heeseung dismissed his followers. "Leave us," he commanded. "And do not return until I call for you."

The followers, seated around you, rose silently and filed out of the room, leaving you alone on the throne, confused and uncertain. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind them, sealing you in with Heeseung.

He began to walk towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. As he approached, he gripped the armrests of the throne, leaning over you, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Like a queen. Like my queen."

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through your veins. "Heeseung," you said, your voice a soft, tentative whisper. "What are you going to do?"

His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he asked. "I'm going to remind you who you belong to. I'm going to remind you who this throne belongs to."

Before you could respond, Heeseung's hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into your flesh with a punishing force. He pulled you up from the throne, his movements swift and authoritative.

With a fluid motion, Heeseung turned and sat down on the throne, his eyes never leaving yours. He patted his lap, a silent command for you to join him. You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity of his gaze left you no choice. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your body pressed against his, your heart pounding in your chest.

Heeseung's arms wrapped around you, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back while his lips crashed down on yours in a harsh, demanding kiss, his tongue invading your mouth.

As he kissed you, his hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming, possessing. He gripped your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer to him, grinding you against his growing hardness. You could feel his cock pressing against your core.

You both ground against each other, the friction sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and gasps.

until Heeseung suddenly pulled back, his breath ragged. "Stand up," he ordered. "And strip for me."

You exhaled slowly, pushing yourself to your feet, your eyes never leaving his. With a fluid motion, you slipped your dress off, the fabric pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your lacy panties.

Heeseung's gaze ate you up, his eyes roaming over your body with a possessive intensity. You could feel his hunger and it left you trembling, your body responding to his silent command.

With a swift, almost brutal motion, Heeseung unzipped his pants, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to slip out. He began to jerk himself off, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense. The sight of him, so completely in control, left you breathless, your body aching for him.

You stood there, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, your eyes locked on his, unable to look away, unable to break the intense, almost hypnotic connection between you.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you slipped your hands down to your thighs, your fingers brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You could feel the heat of his gaze that emanated from him, and it left you trembling.

Heeseung leans back on the throne, his legs wide, his body taking up space, commanding attention, demanding submission. He bit his lower lip, eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed flesh, every curve, every line, every mark.

And then, with a swift, almost brutal motion, he lashed out, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you towards him, guiding you back onto his lap, your body pressing against his, your thighs straddling his, your core pressing against his hardness.

"You want this, don't you?" he asked as he began to move his hips, grinding his cock against your clit.

You only whimpered, your voice a pleading moan, as you moved with him, your hips grinding against his.

He took his time, his movements as he pulled your panties to the side, exposing your most intimate place to his hungry gaze. "Sit on it," he commanded.

You hesitated for a moment, before you hovered above him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body poised and ready.

Heeseung positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your folds, then you lowered yourself onto him, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You could feel every ridge, every vein, every inch.

As you took him inch by inch, both of you moaned, Heeseung's was a deep, guttural rumble, while yours was a high, desperate plea.

"Feels like heaven baby," he whined as he leaned in close. "You were made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to please me."

You moaned in response, a sound of pure, unfiltered ecstasy, as you took him deeper, your body adjusting to his size.

"Shit," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you took the final inch, your body pressing against his, your clit grinding against his pelvis, a sensation that left you dizzy and wanting more. "So big..."

Your words boosted Heeseung's ego, a huge smile stretching across his lips as he grabbed your waist and began to use you, lifting you up and down.

"Mmm, you like that, don't you? You love my big cock, don't you?" he snickered. "You love having a boyfriend who's big, who keeps spoiling you, fucking you so good that you can't walk. You're so lucky, you know that? So fucking lucky."

You could only hold onto his shirt, screaming out, your fingers gripping the fabric with a punishing force, your body convulsing with each deep thrust, your thighs sore from the relentless movement.

"Please," you shouted, your voice raspy as you continued to ride him.

"Love being my good little slut, don't you?" he growled, "you love choking on it. You love getting fucked on it. You're so pathetic. So fucking helpless."

You whimpered, the sensation of him, hard and insistent, filling you completely, leaving you breathless, your body aching, your mind reeling. "Yes," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Yes, I love it. I love you. I love your cock. I love everything about you!"

Heeseung's hands moved to your ass, his fingers spreading your cheeks, exposing you to his hungry gaze. "Thought so."

As you continued to ride him, you realized you had become accustomed to his size, his length, his girth. It felt like hell and heaven, a cruel limbo of two realms. And there was no escaping that reality.

You lost track of time after that.

You had turned into something shaped by his hands. By his voice. By the way he looked at you like you were the final holy thing left in a world already damned.

Heeseung sat with you often—on the throne, in his bed, in the quiet gardens behind the bunker, where the last flowers bloomed under poisoned skies. His hand always rested on your thigh. His voice always found your ear.

“My perfect little lamb,” he would murmur, brushing his lips over your temple. “They’d all die for you now, you know. Every last one of them.”

You didn’t ask if that included him. You already knew the answer.

Because he wouldn’t die for you.

He’d burn the world for you.

And make you watch.

There was no freedom. There was no before.

Just this: soft silk robes and blood-washed stones, candlelit prayers, your name whispered like it meant salvation. You were loved. You were feared.

You were his.

And one night, as he held you close with your back to his chest, voice low and sleep-heavy, you heard it again:

“You saved them. You saved me.”

He kissed the base of your neck, just beneath the collar.

“And I’ll never let you go.”

And you—warm, quiet, and no longer trembling—closed your eyes.

Because maybe that was the ending.

Not an escape. Not a rescue. But a throne you could never leave.

And a god who never stopped worshipping you. Even as he broke you into something divine.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

Perm taglist: @ilyunjina @nshmrarki @laylasbunbunny @dollyyun

@wensurr @immelissaaa @simj4k3 @vegahrid @03sunoos @yenienha

@hollxe1 @moonpri @cherriesfine @badtzsan @anushkaaaiaiiaiaia

@heeseungbabydoll @wondash @renjiishot @demigodmahash

@strawberrieswithchocolateo3o @honeybunnee @jjongstar111

@enhaprettystars @zorange13 @jiminie-08 @gyuuberriess @yingelics

@enhamonsterghoul @mrsjjongstby @bussolares @kiripimaspillow

@sumsumtingz @norucking @tunafishyfishylike @txnwvc

@jakeluvrrs @firstclassjaylee @xnatqq @arclviie @prk-hoon

@vvenusoncasual @bamguetismee @cristy-101 @lynreiii

@fancypeacepersona @numberoneheeslut @miauumin @sofiafromvenus

[sacred3ugene]

gf!dani who is more submissive when you give her a blowjob.

"That's it. Take it." She moans, tilting her head as her mouth falls open, gasping for air as you take her cock in your mouth.

Her eyes are glued to your figure, she can't look away. The way drool slides down the corner of your mouth has her hyptonize. Her cock throbs inside your cavity, her tip twitching as it leaks more pre-cum everytime you bob your head.

"Such a good—Hah!" Your nose grazes her pelvis, Dani's breath hitched and her hand instantly went to grab your hair, tugging your scalp, pleasure too much to bare.

Her body involuntarily twitches, her hips jerking upwards, the head of her cock touching the back of your throat, more spit leaking down your chin.

The way she's grasping your hair, gasping for air, trying to find something to hold onto, letting herself be at your mercy. She lost all control she had, she belongs to you now, a puppet to destroy if you want.

"Don't stop— Please!—" She begs, now pulling your head down, making you choke on her cock. By the strength of her grip you know she fears that if she lets go, all the pleasure she's been given would disappear.

You take her hand off your hair, looking at her with narrow eyes, slowly taking her cock out of your mouth, you torture her, you let her know she's losing the warmth your mouth gives her. "I'm in control." Your voice's firm, showing the power you have over her now. It's all enough to drive her insane.

gf!dani who is more dominant when it comes to fucking you.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" A gutteral groan abandons her chest, her hips slamming against you with strength. "Answer me." Her hand meets your ass in a furious slap.

"Yes!" You whine out at the impact.

Your head keeps getting shoved into the pillow underneath, tears staining the whiteness. Her hands are placed on your hips, gripping the flesh strong enough to mark bruises.

She throws her head back, letting out a trail of moans when you clench tightly around her, milking her cock with ease.

And yet, with the overwhelming pleasure you're giving her, her hand meets your already reddish skin, slapping your ass once again.

"Such a good slut." She breathes out, railing you, the head reaching your sweet spot almost instantly. "Oh, that's it, right there, baby."

All you can do is cry and whine while you take her deeper inside you, letting her ruin you, break you.

gf!dani who will fuck you in the bathroom mid live because your outfit made her hard.

Your lips is now bleeding thanks to how strongly your biting it, trying to repress your moans, the impulse of screaming her name as her cock pumps deep inside you.

You can faintly hear the girls talk with the chat, the live still active. You were supposed to be there with Dani, but the moment she tugged your shirt, her eyes demanding you to leave, you knew you were going to be away for at least a couple of minutes.

"Goddammit—" She whispers between teeth, pulling her shirt up to see her dick disappear inside you. "Fuck, yeah—" You clench around her, forcing her to bite her knuckles, swallowing the loud groan that was threatening to get out.

Her excuse to leave wasn't the most genius. The group was talking about current trends in fashion, you remembered some little keychains that were currently trending, keychains that you had somewhere in your room, you mentioned it and that was—for Dani—the perfect excuse to leave.

"We should bring them." Lara said.

"I can bring them." Dani offered, jumping from her seat, too enthusiastic. "Wanna come with me?" She extends her arm, standing now in front of you, her eyes begging you to accept.

It wasn't genius because Dani could easily bring all of them, without help.

"You're so tight—" She moans in your ear, her steamy breath hitting a sweet spot, making you squirm under her. Her hips play a rhythmic melodie, slamming herself inside you everytime with more strength.

The sounds of skin slapping against skin it's too loud for your liking, but you can't help it, matter of fact, it makes you wetter. The thought of people hearing you get railed by Dani—wet, the thought of the girls listening to you get railed by Dani—wet, the slight humiliation you feel because of those thoughts—instantly wet.

gf!dani who would praise you in spanish during sex.

As her fingers get deeper inside you, her words are the ones who get you the most wet.

"You're doing good, mami." She coos, accelerating the pace of her thrusts, squeaky noises filling the room. "Tan bien."

You can't hold back the moan building in your chest, her words hitting you like a truck, fogging your mind. Her accent makes you forget about everything, her words the only thing floating around your mind.

"Así es, princesa." Her voice drops, her eyes dark as she stares at you, trying not to cum so fast, her words tempting you, challenging you to hold back.

Your knuckles turn white as you grasp the bedsheets, her tongue furiously circling around your clit, sending electrifying waves of pleasure across your body. You muscles tense and you feel your abdomen contracting with strength.

"Are you gonna cum, amor?" You moan at her words. "Te gusta?" She asks. "Te gusta que te hable en español?" She teases you.

The air is now filled with Spanish words you can't really understand, but they turn you on no matter the language barrier. Is driving you insane, driving you closer to the edge, your body threatening to orgasm.

gf!dani who gets distracted by your ass when in rehearsal [Manon calls her out]

Your hips sway smoothly, vividly dancing to the rhythm of the song, Gabriela loud on the speakers.

You feel it burn you. Daniela's eyes are stuckon your back—lower back. She can't look away, she doesn't want to look away. The songs continues and so do you, already knowing that if you turn around, you'll be greeted with a massive bulge in Dani's pants.

You weren't alone though. Manon was humming to the songs, tapping the rhythm with her fingers. Megan was drinking water, taking a rest before continuing. And Dani, she was supposed to be dancing with you, but her moves stopped abruptly once your hips were moving to aggressively, your ass jiggling along.

"Daniela." Manon playfully calls her out, giving her a teasing look.

"What?" She shrugs, instantly getting defensive.

You laugh internally, hearing Dani throw something in Manon's way. Manon answers back, throwing her bottle water to her.

"Why you looking at my girlfriend's ass?" She barks back.

"Who said I was looking? You were looking." Manon doesn't hold back.

"I can't blame her." Megan adds, taking a last sip of water.

You stop moving, trying to hold laughter back when a loud "Bitch" rings across the room.

"Okay, okay!" You turn around, facing the three of them. "Enough!"

Dani rolls her eyes, Manon accompanying her. Megan just stares at you with lust eyes, gaining a shove from Dani. "That's my girl."

She walks towards you, her steps cautious. Her hand runs down you back once she reaches you, sticking it inside your pants and squeezing the flesh underneath her fingers. She smiles innocently.

"Get a room, for dear god!" Manon throws her hand in the air, turning around indignant.

[redvexillum]

SAJA BOYS "AFTER DARK" PREFERENCES 🔞

જ⁀➴ JINU

Dom/Sub: Dominant. Controlled. Dangerous when possessive.

Bedroom Vibe: Calm, calculated power that slowly breaks you down, then holds you after.

Dirty Talk Level: Low voice. Grunts and soft-spoken filth. “You're mine. Say it again.”

Aftercare: Cleans you up gently, rubs your thighs, murmurs sweet praise in your ear

Kinks: Power play, spanking, handcuffs, voice kink, possessiveness

Most Likely To: Edge himself just to make you cum first...again and again and again

જ⁀➴ BABY

Dom/Sub: Cute on the outside. Sadistic Dom on the inside.

Bedroom Vibe: Torturously slow. Smiles while you sob. Makes it feel like love.

Dirty Talk Level: Teasingly cruel. “You’re drooling already? And I haven’t even touched you.”

Aftercare: Only after he’s teased you for every noise you made, then spoils you silly

Kinks: Knife play, orgasm control, collaring, fear play

Most Likely To: Coax you into begging without raising his voice

જ⁀➴ ABBY

Dom/Sub: Full submissive. Begs prettily. Lives to serve.

Bedroom Vibe: Quiet gasps, shaking hands, eyes begging for approval

Dirty Talk Level: Moans, whimpers, and soft “please”s. Can’t form full sentences.

Aftercare: Melts in your arms. Asks softly if he was good. Would let you ruin him again.

Kinks: Obedience, pet play, impact play, degradation + praise mix

Most Likely To: Fall apart from being told he’s doing well

જ⁀➴ ROMANCE

Dom/Sub: Switch, but prefers being in control

Bedroom Vibe: Lavish, sensual, and overwhelming like he's choreographing your ruin

Dirty Talk Level: High and poetic. “Your body sings for me. Should I let it scream?”

Aftercare: Wine, silk robes, smug kisses, and a reminder he’ll be back for more

Kinks: Mirror sex, sensation play, public teasing, edging

Most Likely To: Make you cry from overstimulation while holding eye contact

જ⁀➴ MYSTERY

Dom/Sub: Unknown. Untamed. Not playing roles...he devours

Bedroom Vibe: Primal. Growling, biting, grabs you like prey and uses you like a claim

Dirty Talk Level: Growls, low laughter, breathless moans. “Still think you can handle me?”

Aftercare: Licks sweat off your skin. Drops you on the bed like a chew toy and curls around you

Kinks: Biting, hair pulling, scent marking, possessive rutting, scratching

Most Likely To: Fuck you in a dark alley like he'll die if he stops

Read More? 👀

[theclassiccosmic]

Ways to Please the Venus Signs 🔥All the Way to the Bedroom🔥

🛑 Disclaimer: 18+ only 🛑

Aries Venus or Venus in the 1st House - Be bold. Be forward as hell, then pull back. Tease to the point of edging until they seize it. If they truly want you, they will. Impulse control is not in their vocabulary.

Taurus Venus or Venus in the 2nd House - Linger on your touches or kisses. Play the long game by texting them sensual messages/photos. Something for them to admire before they can actually ravish you.

Gemini Venus or Venus in the 3rd House - Switch it up! Geminis love variety, so if you can be both submissive and dominating they'll eat that sh*t up. Also be up for trying new positions and/or toys. Oh and phone sex, they love that!

Cancer Venus or Venus in the 4th House - Might love to be babied or will be more giving to you in the bedroom. Romance is key here, they want the grand gestures almost every time. Not a fan of a quickie. Foreplay, foreplay, foreplay.

Leo Venus or Venus in the 5th House - if you haven't made it to the bedroom yet, then your Leo hasn't felt special enough to gift themselves to you. Lay on the praise. Leos love gifts and I wouldn't be wrong in saying, if you gifted them lingerie then they may "gift" you with a sexy little fashion show!

Virgo Venus or Venus in the 6th House - shower sex might be their thing. Getting dirty while getting clean. Or your Virgo Venus partner may truly appreciate you getting an STD test before y'all are intimate. Turn them on with sexy playlists while you lead them to the bedroom. Let them know they're safe to lose all control with you.

Libra Venus or Venus in the 7th House - can be a giver vs. receiver in the bedroom, but don't let that fool you. It's in your best interest to cater to them in the bedroom, too, for fear of resentment later. They are the sign of harmony, after all. Massages as foreplay might win you big points here!

Scorpio Venus or Venus in the 8th House - Before the bedroom, they'll want to feel that the sexual undercurrent is already there, so make sure there's lots of lusty eye contact while flirting. Maybe a nice playful butt grab before the deed. But once it's ON, get ready for a marathon! Scorpio Venus stay hor*y even after 1 orgasm (read: 2, 3, 4...). 🥵

Sagittarius Venus or Venus in the 9th House - Oral 😋 it's giving, "what that mouth do though?" Or how about a makeout sesh in the car that leads to a quickie in the backseat? Yes, please! Whatever it is always be direct and honest with them about what you like and don't like in the bedroom. You'll both find more pleasure that way.

Capricorn Venus or Venus in the 10th House - Show your "traditional" dominant side. Lead her to a room with your hand on the small of her back 🤤 Brush the hair away from their face before you kiss them orrrrr *gently* push their back against a wall as you initiate a kiss or intimacy. Think sex "scenes" from a book. They want you to lead (most of the time, at least 😉)

Aquarius Venus or Venus in the 11th House - you're going to have to be different to grab their attention and actually stimulate them mentally to the point of turn on. Let them teach you the ways they like to be touched, kissed or 👅-ed 🫠

Pisces Venus or Venus in the 12th House - do not, I repeat do not coax a Pisces Venus into the bed with you unless you plan to cuff up this sweet angel. After sleeping together (hell, probably during it too) a Pisces Venus will already be manifesting and visualizing your futures together, married and old and gray. Do not hit it and quit it with these babies. They'll make sure karma repays you. But if you are lucky enough to be coupled up with one, you can turn them on by letting them know that you aren't ever leaving their side. Pisces and Scorpio love that "merging into 1" kinda love 💞

[kooscripted]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄?

© kooscripted

SUMMARY: You and Jungkook fought—again. Harsh words, cold silences, slammed doors. Neither of you are great at talking things through, but when he corners you in the kitchen, the tension erupts in a different form. It’s not an apology. It’s not forgiveness. It’s just rough, messy sex that blurs the line between anger and need. You’ll feel him the next morning—but the silence might still be there.

PAIRING: dominant!jungkook x submissive!reader

WARNINGS: 18+ only— This fic contains emotionally unhealthy dynamics. Established relationship, Poor communication / unresolved conflict, Fight → sex with no proper resolution, Dubious emotional consent (NOT physical noncon, but power imbalance is blurred), Sex as emotional outlet, Degradation kink (mild – “brat,” “good girl,” etc.), Rough handling, spanking (light), Orgasm control / command, Cream pie, Aftercare is minimal, no verbal check-in, no resolution of fight, Possessiveness and territorial behavior, Toxic dynamic hints (impulsive sex, avoidance, lack of softness).

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction written for fantasy exploration purposes only. Please note: the relationship dynamic in this piece is intentionally emotionally tense and somewhat toxic. The characters engage in sex as a way to cope with conflict instead of resolving it through communication or softness. While the physical consent is clear and mutual, the emotional consent is murky, and there's no real aftercare or resolution. This is not intended as a model for healthy intimacy. If you’re in a vulnerable emotional space or sensitive to unresolved conflict in romantic relationships, please read with care—or skip it entirely.

You slam the fridge shut harder than necessary.

The sound echoes through the kitchen like a threat, your silence even louder than the steel thud. You hear his footsteps behind you, slow and deliberate—like he’s choosing not to say anything just yet. That’s the problem. He always waits until you speak first. Always pushes, never bends.

You grab a glass, fill it with water. You don’t look at him.

“I said I didn’t fucking like it,” you mutter.

Jungkook’s voice is calm—too calm. “You’re being dramatic.”

You freeze, the glass halfway to your lips. “Oh, right. I forgot. Every time I express how something makes me feel, I’m being dramatic.”

He scoffs behind you, bitter and low. “Because it was nothing. I didn’t even do anything.”

You spin around now, blood heating, jaw clenched. “You lied, Jungkook. You said you were home, but you were out with your friends—again. And then you just casually forget to text me for six hours?”

“I didn’t lie. I said I’d be home soon. You assumed that meant immediately.” His tone is edged now, cutting. “And I didn’t text because I was busy. Sorry I’m not glued to my phone.”

You stare at him, heart pounding. Not from fear. From rage. From that aching disappointment you’re too proud to say aloud.

“I didn’t need constant updates,” you say coldly. “I needed consideration. But you never get that, do you?”

He licks his lips, jaw working, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m not gonna beg for forgiveness over something that wasn’t a big deal.”

You laugh—sharp and hollow. “Of course you’re not.”

You turn away. The moment snaps like a rubber band. The stretch of it, the sting. You’re walking past him—about to disappear into the bedroom, because if you stay here, you’re going to cry or scream or break something—

But his hand shoots out. Grabs your wrist. Not harsh. Just final.

“Don’t walk away.”

You yank your arm, eyes flashing. “Or what?”

That’s when it happens.

He doesn’t answer.

He pushes you back, not gently, not sweet—just frustrated—until your lower back hits the edge of the counter. His body crowds yours, all heat and tension and restraint held by a thread. His hands are on your waist, tight, breath harsh.

“You really wanna fight like this?” he growls. “Fine. But don’t act like you didn’t want me all night.”

Your breath catches. You hate that he's right. Hate that your thighs are clenching together just from how he’s looking at you now—like he’s about to ruin you on purpose.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you bite out.

That smirk you hate twists on his lips. “Oh, baby. I don’t need to. You’re already dripping through those shorts, aren’t you?”

You suck in a sharp breath—denial on your tongue, but he’s already grabbing your chin, forcing your eyes to his.

“You think I didn’t notice the way you clenched your thighs every time I raised my voice?” he hisses, nose brushing yours. “You like being put in your place, don’t you? You like when I don’t let you win.”

Your heart’s pounding. Your lips part—but no words come.

“You need this,” he growls. “You need me to fuck that bratty attitude out of you. Need to be reminded who you belong to.”

His hands are on your ass now, dragging you flush against him. You feel him—hard, thick, ready—and your whole body reacts. Heat floods your belly. Pride wars with want.

And want wins.

You glare at him anyway. “Then do it, Jungkook. Prove it.”

His eyes darken. “Oh, sweetheart… I was hoping you’d say that.”

In one brutal motion, he spins you around and bends you over the counter, your cheek pressing to the cold marble. Your breath hitches at the speed of it all—your body alight with adrenaline and arousal.

He yanks your shorts down without finesse, panties torn halfway in his rush.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters behind you. “Look at this cunt. Messy and hot and mine.”

He runs two fingers through your folds, teasing, spreading you open just to watch.

“You fight so pretty,” he murmurs, voice thick. “But you beg even prettier.”

You gasp when he slips two fingers into you, deep and unforgiving. They curl instantly, dragging along your sweet spot like he knows exactly where to strike. He does. He always does.

“Fuck—Jungkook—”

“You like that, yeah? My fingers stuffing this tight pussy?” he pants. “So wet for me. You’ll drip down my cock when I fuck you.”

And then he’s gone. Fingers pulled out, sweatpants shoved down, the blunt tip of his cock pressed against your entrance.

He doesn’t tease. He drives into you with a groan, a brutal thrust that steals the breath from your lungs.

You moan—loud, shameless—gripping the edge of the counter like a lifeline.

“Fuck, yes—” he growls. “This what you needed, baby? My cock splitting you open? Making you remember exactly who owns this pussy?”

Your only answer is a broken whimper.

He sets a savage pace—each thrust sending you forward, the sound of skin against skin filling the kitchen. His hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Like he has to anchor himself in you.

“Fucking tight,” he hisses. “You’re choking my cock. So fucking perfect—always so good for me once I fuck the attitude out of you.”

You feel your orgasm creeping up fast—your body overwhelmed, overstimulated, owned.

“J-Jungkook, I’m—fuck—gonna—”

“Oh, no you’re not.” He reaches around and slaps your clit lightly, then rubs it in tight, fast circles. “You’re not cumming until I say. You wanna cum? Earn it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook, please—please—”

“Good girl.” He thrusts harder. “Now cum. All over my cock. Let me feel you lose it.”

You break.

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like fire and thunder, your walls spasming around him as you scream into the marble. He fucks you through it—merciless, panting your name, and then finally, finally—

With a grunt and a curse, he buries himself deep and cums with a low, guttural groan. You feel the warmth of it fill you, pulse after pulse, his breath shaky as he slumps over you.

Silence.

Only his panting.

Only your limp limbs, twitching and aching and wrecked.

After a moment, he presses a soft kiss between your shoulder blades.

“Still mad at me?” he whispers, voice rough.

You breathe out a laugh. “Ask me after you clean up this mess.”

[lovelyzzzz777]

AstroRevelations: Zodiac After Dark – Vol. XXIV 💫🔮

Kinks, Fantasies & Desires (18+) Based on Your Chart, read at your own discretion

Lilith in the Signs – Your Taboo Craving

Lilith in Aries: Dominance, being chased, power play. You crave intensity and want to conquer or be conquered.

Lilith in Taurus: Sensory overload. Silk sheets, slow teasing, luxurious control, touch is sacred.

Lilith in Gemini: Dirty talk, sexting, stimulation through words. Minds make you melt.

Lilith in Cancer: Emotional submission, soft dom dynamics, being nurtured or nurturing in taboo ways.

Lilith in Leo: Exhibitionism, praise, being worshipped in every sense. You want eyes on you.

Lilith in Virgo: Control, ritual, maybe even purity kink. You like the idea of being unraveled slowly.

Lilith in Libra: Aesthetic domination, mutual teasing, pretty power play. You crave harmony and heat.

Lilith in Scorpio: Deep kink. Obsession, emotional manipulation, energetic bondage. You want to be devoured.

Lilith in Sagittarius: Public danger, teacher/student fantasies, freedom kink. You seduce with chaos.

Lilith in Capricorn: Structure, discipline, power dynamics. Cold skin, hot control.

Lilith in Aquarius: Voyeurism, role-play, taboo scenarios. You like what others won’t admit they like.

Lilith in Pisces: Subspace, dreamlike sex, spiritual merging. You're the ultimate fantasy.

♂ Mars Aspects – Your Drive & Erotic Style

Mars conjunct Pluto: Intense desire. Sex is transformative, obsessive, sometimes destructive.

Mars square Uranus: Sudden urges, quick hookups, spontaneous role-switching.

Mars trine Neptune: You crave mystical intimacy, sex must be felt, not just done.

Mars opposite Saturn: Tension build-up. You either delay sex or crave someone in control.

Mars sextile Venus: Passion with ease. You’re magnetic, and romance always turns physical.

8th House Influences – What You Secretly Want to Explore

Venus in 8th: You want to lose yourself in someone. Possessiveness turns you on.

Mars in 8th: Obsession, power dynamics, even pain. You want intensity that hurts good.

Moon in 8th: Emotional sex. You crave soul-deep connection and dark comfort.

Mercury in 8th: Kinky communication. Fantasies shared through voice, letters, or silence.

Saturn in 8th: Fear and desire are intertwined. You like being restrained, mentally or physically.