#Male reader

[unini]

I've been waiting for two fanfics to be updated for 7 months, I think I'm going to go insane lol

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[miange1]

PITBULL , TERRIER

serving. . . : puppy/golden retriever bf x male reader

servings side dishes. . . : pet play, use of good boy, begging, service topping, power bottom reader, collars, acting like a dog, ass eating, face sitting/riding, obsession, wanting validation, big dih, foot kinks/foot jobs, ass fixations, slight sir kink

owners note. . . : ughhhhhahhahahaha. i never proofread

your boyfriend was something anyone could ever ask for. he would get you gifts, make sure you were well comforted, take care of you, big beautiful heart, even bigger dick too. the man worshipped the ground you walked on, would kiss the underside of your shoe if you kicked him in the face. he did what he was told the moment it reached his ears.

"please.." his whimpers cut through, his bent knees aching from kneeling on the hard floor. no carpet, no blanket, no nothing. your foot was positioned in between his legs, the bottom sole pressed harshly on the hard pulsing length. his neck seemed to burn with the possession of the collar, the leash being pulled by you so you made sure he knew who was in control.

"i'm being good– im being so so good, please.." he was desperate for some kind of friction other than you pressing your heel to his cock. it hurt how bad he needed you, he was craving you. "please, i'll..i'll do whatever just let me feel inside." he could only think of the warmth of your ass squeezing him tight, think of every squeezing feeling hitting each vein that throbbed.

you tilted your head, a mocking pout on your lips as if to patronize him. "oh, have you?" your foot moved up and down, a sloppy form of a handjob being done, the slushing squelching noises so audible from his own lubricant. his hips bucked, jumped into that touch god anything from you was perfect. you pulled on that leash again, his yelp quick as his pace went faster. "i have, i have! promise.."

your body on top of his was glorious. his lips latched to your hole, tongue thrusting on and out of the salty musked taste. your hips rolled and thrust into the wet muscle, moans muffled to his ears by your thighs squeezing around his head. "oh fuck me— that's a good boy, keep it like that.."

your fingers gripped at his hair, his own hands keeping your moving hips steady. your mouth fell open in pleasure movements faster as he ate your ass like he was trying to suck the soul from you.

he would constantly ask in between rounds, always hoping he was doing good for you. "its like this right? or this?" the bed rocked and the headboard slammed against the wall. your nails clawed at his back, his whimpers and pathetic moans louder than the small groans you let out.

he was gonna cum, wanted to cum so badly but he hadn't had your permission yet.."can i? 'm so close, so close, so so close.." your fingers curled, nails digging into his flesh even harder. "i haven't cum yet, have i?" he stopped for a moment, shaking his head sadly. "after me. understand?" he bit his lil, nodding. "yes sir.."

[bloodyboi]

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩'𝔰 𝔤𝔯𝔬𝔬𝔪 Remmick x male reader

Summary: The village called it sacrifice. You called it betrayal. Bound in blood, abandoned in the woods, you were meant to die.

Instead, you were claimed. Now the monster they feared is on your lips, in your veins and between your trembling thighs and he’s not letting go.

Tags: Dark Remmick. Dub-con. Deeply devoted and religious village. Forced marriage. Vampire x human. Possessive Remmick. Stalking. Obsessive behavior. Protective Remmick. Manipulation. Corruption. Blood path. You are sent as a martyr and come back as a villain. Minor characters death. Vampire x human sex. Monster fucking. Blood drinking, blood kink, blood play (Our boy needs to be kept hydrated). Rough sex. Dominant Remmick. Submissive male reader. Size difference. Rimming. Anal sex. Breeding kink. Overstimulation.

Based on this idea from a dear friend of mine, hope you’ll like this.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000

The village of Rensford sat half-forgotten in a dead end of the world, boxed in by thick, clawing woods and jagged hills that never seemed to let the sun rise fully.

There were perhaps two dozen families, and they shared everything: the narrow well, the worn grazing fields, the crumbling schoolhouse that had never known more than ten children at once. They prayed each morning for health, a mild season, a neighbor’s child to be born strong and not soft in the head. Every evening, before the cold set in, everyone gathered at the church. No matter how tired they were, they always came.

You lived in the far end of the village, past the drying sheds and the old abandoned mill, alone in a squat stone house that hadn’t seen a fresh coat of whitewash since your parents passed. They had been taken by fever one spring, buried out in the weeping field and after that no one asked questions. You were quiet, hardworking, helped with bread-making and tool repair.

The church was the pride of Rensford: a huge, lopsided thing of grey bricks that didn’t match, three wide iron bells, a crooked steeple that cast a long shadow at noon. It always smelled of candlewax and cold stone and no matter how fiercely the wind howled outside, it stayed still inside. The altar was plain oak, but behind it hung an immense iron crucifix flanked by dozens of dried herbs.

Father Ilan had hands like bark and a voice that never rose above a mutter. He spoke of keeping the dark at bay and sin that lurked in idleness.

The night everything changed was in early autumn. You’d helped shear the sheep that morning, your hands raw from the lanolin and your back aching. When sunset came, no bells rang.

The crops disappeared first and by dusk, the church was packed, clutching candles and holy tokens, some crying. You stood near the back, next to the door. Father Ilan was speaking, saying prayers, Latin laced with old speech you didn’t understand.

Someone screamed when the door slammed open against the wind, followed by laughter.

He stood in the frame like something ripped out of a nightmare, soaked from scalp to boot in blood. It streamed from his fingers and stained the corners of his crooked smile. Fangs glistened behind lips that parted too slowly, like he was savoring the way the whole church screamed as one.

You saw the red in his eyes, not bloodshot but glowing molten red.

“Evenin’,” he said, in a voice low and amused, like he was entertained by the scent of your terror. “Awful rude of ye lot. I was hopin’ for a warm welcome. Bit of supper…”

The floor dripped beneath him, blood ran down the aisle in lines.

“Father,” he drawled, tilting his head, “ye wound me. Been ages since I was in a house o’ God. You’d think ye’d be nicer.”

“What do you want?” Ilan barked, voice trembling but hidden well.

The thing paused. He licked his lips, eyes passed over the room, children sobbing and old folk collapsed in prayer.

He sniffed once. Twice.

Then he saw you and froze, a wolf that’s finally found the one door left unlocked.

Like a beast catching the scent of prey, his grin widened slowly. The candlelight caught on the wet curves of his fangs. Your blood turned to ice as something in your belly curled and twisted like a snake.

He didn’t look at anyone else, as if he could sense something in you that caught his attention.

“Me?” he said, slow, soft and teasing, giving a wide, bloodied smile. “I just wanna be let in. Proper manners an’ all, y’know. Knock. Wait. Be welcomed.”

Then, in a voice softer than breath, but loud enough to ring in your ears, he stole another glance at you before adding, “But reckon I could make myself at home either way.”

The nights did not return to normal after that first one. He came again the next evening. And the next. And the next.

Sometimes it was the livestock: shredded open in their pens, blood sprayed so far up the barn walls it stained the rafters. Other times people who were caught off guard by the sun disappear faster than expected.

They came back different. Eyes too bright, sharp teeth and an insatiable hunger for blood.

The worst part came with dawn. They would stand outside controlled by their new owner, sobbing, eyes pleading while mothers wept to see their sons hissing in the daylight, skin burning.

The people of Rensford stopped praying for deliverance, they prayed for quickness. For Remmick to pass over them, to take a neighbor instead, but it didn’t stop.

Through every night, every horrible wail and brutal tearing, you felt his presence on your skin.

He left you things. Once, a dead rabbit on your doorstep. The second time, a bouquet of beautiful wildflowers, ones that only grew deep in the cursed parts of the woods.

One morning, as you were feeding the hens, hands gentle on the wooden scoop, trying to focus on the clucking and not the ash smear across the far field, a voice called out.

It was Joran, the tanner’s son. He looked shaken, eyes red.

“Father Ilan wants to see you. At once.”

The hens kept pecking, you wiped your hands on your apron.

The scent of incense never faded as you entered the imposing structure, clinging to your tongue like old breath. The doors opened with a groan, thick oak that never quite shut all the way.

There he was, tall despite his stoop, his beard gray and wiry, robes dark as soot. His face seemed carved from old bark, creased and weathered.

His eyes, pale and sharp, flicked to you.

“Come, my child.” His voice was too soft.

You moved in, steps echoing between the pews. The place never looked smaller. The wooden benches were worn smooth by generations of knees and elbows. The stained glass above the altar was mostly opaque with grime but still, there was a glory here, terrible and vast.

You sat near him at the last bench before the altar. His hand rested lightly on your shoulder. You could smell the oil on his skin, the wax clinging to the folds of his tunic.

“I hear you’ve been tending the animals better than ever,” he said, smiling faintly. “Mara and Doff must be fat as pigs by now.”

Your lips twitched upward. He’d remembered their names. That did something strange to your chest, a kind of pang. You hadn’t heard them spoken aloud in weeks.

“You’ve done so much for us,” he went on. “Even after all you’ve lost. You’ve never stopped serving. You’re a light in this dark world. A blessing.”

You wanted to feel proud but all you could think about was blood. Blood in the hay, on your doorstep, on teeth that smiled too wide.

Your gratitude dimmed behind memories that swam up like rot in water.

Then, without a word, the old man stood too quick for his age.

His robe dragged behind him like shadow made cloth as he approached the altar where, beside the cracked old Bible, stood a silver goblet.

He lifted it and brought it to you.

“Drink this, my child,” he said gently. “You’ve earned it.”

A father’s tone in his voice that you craved when the cold wouldn’t go and when the fields were quiet.

It was warm in your hands, the rim was etched with faded prayer, worn down from generations.

You lifted it, excepting the sharp yet sweet taste.

What you got was thick and viscous, butter in a way. You blinked but didn’t say anything.

He sat beside you again, speaking gently.

“We are plagued by a monster. A mockery of God’s creation. A demon with the face of a man.”

Your vision blurred a little. The pew beneath you felt…too far away. Your heartbeat climbed into your throat.

“He has set his sights on someone,” Ilan continued.

You blinked, tried to speak. Your mouth moved but made no sound.

“And it is you.” Something hot flooded your cheeks. Fear, confusion, denial.

“Only those burdened with sin call the devil’s eye,” he said, no longer gentle. “He senses and feeds from it. There is something in you, child. Something… inviting.”

You tried to speak again and this time you choked on it. Your limbs tingled, blood roared in your ears. You gripped the edge of the bench but your fingers felt like wax.

“What…?” you managed to croak.

Your breath hitched. You stumbled up from the bench, knees buckling.

“What are you… talking about…?”

He didn’t answer as you backed away, mind swimming, the walls too tall now, the light too bright.

He caught your shoulder and held you close, pressed to his chest.

“Sleep, child,” he whispered. “We’ll sing for you in the morning.”

You shook your head. Weakly and uselessly, his hand stroked your hair.

“They’ll remember you as a savior. Not… corrupted.”

His breath was warm near your ear, your knees gave out, head slumping forward on his chest.

You woke with a start that never quite reached your limbs. Your eyes blinked open, then fought to stay that way. Everything ached starting from the dull, pressing soreness of limbs held in place too long, like something had wrung you out and left you on stone to dry.

The sky above you was bruised purple, the last remnants of sunlight filtered through a heavy canopy of ancient trees. They leaned in like watchers, bark split and knotted. The light barely reached this far in and already the shadows were thickening, bleeding across the underbrush, pooling in the hollows of gnarled roots and sunken stone.

It was colder than it should have been, breath puffing slow, uneven and barely visible.

You tried to move but nothing gave. Your wrists were bound in twine so tight it bit into the skin. Ankles too, secured with rough cord that rasped against the bone. You were splayed on a wide, flat stone, its surface cold against your spine, ribs and bare thighs. You could only lift your head a little, feel the pull of the thin reed tied at your waist like a belt, nothing but a symbol to be broken.

Just like you.

The cloth over your face was rough wool, darkened at the edges with sweat and tears. It draped over your eyes, not blinding you completely but shadowing everything, like seeing through a veil of mourning. It shifted with every breath, rasping gently over your cheeks, letting only filtered light in.

You could smell iron and crushed herbs, sap and blood all over yourself, astringent and sharp.

Your chest rose shallow beneath the linen clothes they’d dressed you in, humble, ceremonial and sacrificial. Crude garments: coarse, undyed, threadbare from intent. They clung to you in places, hitched high over one thigh where the fabric had bunched from movement or from the ropes pulling tight.

They barely covered anything. Mid-thigh, no sleeves, sides cut wide and low. One hip completely exposed to the cold air, ribs visible beneath the opening, one nipple half-hidden by the threadbare drape, the thin cloth sheer soaked in sweat and blood that offered no true protection from the wind.

It moved along with the wind.

It slithered cold fingers up the exposed sides of your ribs, into the thin shift, making it flap and press in turns. When it blew from the north, the cloth lifted high enough that the stone beneath you kissed bare skin. You clenched your teeth, there was nothing you could do.

The cuts burned.

Tiny, deliberate lacerations lined your exposed skin along your thighs, your sides, even low on your neck where the collar hung loose. Thin slices that bled and they kept going, they’d used some foul herb that kept the blood wet, slick and resisting clotting.

It soaked the linen in patches, at your side under your navel, a red streak down your thigh like a line traced by a lover’s finger.

They were never meant to cleanse, but a bait for who you were meant to.

The ritual wasn’t to save you, but to offer you for the wellbeing of those that sent you.

The air was thick, damp with the coming night, pressing down like a second skin. You could hardly move, limbs splayed out and bound to the cold altar stone with cords so tight your hands throbbed. The raw scrape of rope on flesh pulsed in waves, burning and biting as you shifted your weight again, desperately twisting your wrists only for the twine to dig deeper, grooves forming beneath your skin.

The hood over your head was a mourner’s cowl, coarse and scratchy, hung low over your brow and cheeks, the itchy fibers clinging to your mouth when you tried to breathe. Every exhale fluttered the wool and every inhale dragged it back against your lips. Warm, wet fabric pressed to your tongue like a gag. You could taste your own panic.

The sky beyond the veil was bruising darker by the second from violet to black. You saw flickers of it through the frayed edge of the hood, just slivers of dying light snared in the branches high above.

A leaf cracked.

Your breath hitched, chest barely moving. You were nothing but ears and heartbeat, deaf to anything but your own blood.

Then came a violent rush of air and the stone beneath you shifted as something fast landed on it. One moment you were alone in the woods, the next his weight was upon you, towering over your restrained body.

Lips crashed down on the cuts, tongue dragged wetly down your jawline and landed at your neck.

“Ah… fuuuuck,” he groaned low, a thick rumble that passed through his chest into yours. “Yer sweet. It’s makin’ me high, darlin’.”

You arched what little you could and that mouth latched onto your inner thigh, beneath the slit of the shift. He sank his mouth to the open cut there, tongue thick and textured, pressing into the wound with slow, savoring swirls. He licked you like you were melting sugar on his tongue, the wet heat of his breath pumping fast, moans slipping up through his nose with every pass.

A graze of teeth came, something sharp dragged over the open flesh.

You jerked and it didn’t stop.

The tongue vanished. Then it was on your chest, your ribs—everywhere. He lapped from one wound to the next, following the red trails down your belly like a feast line. Your shift was useless now, soaked and half-peeled back, exposing you to the air and to him. You could feel the heat radiating off him, a body lit from within with need.

The tongue found your right pectoral and paused, a hot exhale before he opened his mouth wide and devoured it.

His mouth closed over your nipple and sucked hard, tongue working fast, swirling in sharp, maddened spirals while his teeth scraped faintly. All of it sent a shock through your spine. Your thighs twitched, bound ankles scraping against the stone.

His name wasn’t on your lips but a noise, choked, helpless and very wrong.

He pulled off with a wet pop, a thin strand of saliva stretching between your nipple and his blood-smeared mouth.

Panting fast and shallow.

Could feel as he clenched his hands, claws dragging across the stone beside your head, then one of them slammed onto your cowl.

The claws caught the fabric and sank into it and they came close to gouge out your eyes. The cowl was yanked up and off, and you were met not with the sky but him.

Up close, there was nothing human left.

A red so deep in his eyes, blood coated his chin, chest, throat—your blood still dripping down his tank top in sluggish, gleaming trails. The fabric clung to his chest, tight and soaked, showing every ripple of muscle. The stench of sweat and gore clung to him like perfume, overwhelming and choking.

His lips were parted, thick and bitten red, tongue darting out to catch what slid from the corner of his mouth, teeth too sharp. Droplets hit your face, warm, slow, staining your cheek.

“Didn’t even need to see yer face,” he murmured, voice thick with heat and something darker, almost shaking with restraint. His accent hung heavy like molasses dripping from a blade. “Knew it was ye. I’d know this scent if I were blind. I been thinkin’ ‘bout ye f’ so long…”

His hand hovered near your face and then he leaned down to press his forehead to yours.

“Name’s Remmick. Tell me yer name, now, pretty thing,” he whispered, voice like gravel dragged through silk. “I wanna hear it. Been wonderin’ it ever since I saw ye standin’ ‘round all those fools. Knew right then ye didn’t belong to ‘em. Ye were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years and I seen wars, sweetheart.”

Your heartbeat was screaming in your ears, every throb thundered beneath your skin, drowning out the rest of the world in that chaotic pulse. Those obscene fangs glinting beneath a grin that spoke of appetite. Death was straddling your hips and breathing through blood-slick teeth.

Somehow, you spoke first, voice cracked, dry and shivering with disbelief and pain, the knot in your throat catching every word.

“Why… why do you care…?”

That grin widened.

He liked the fear in your voice.

You could ser how it ignited something behind his crimson eyes, how the corners of his lips curled higher, how his chest began to rise and fall faster, hungrier, almost panting.

“You don’t get it, do ye?” he murmured, voice slow and damp. His gaze dropped lower to your throat, staring like a wolf eyeing the trembling of a rabbit’s muscles beneath its fur. His head tilted, entranced by the flicker of your artery pumping just beneath the surface and a thick line of drool spilled from the edge of his mouth, mingling with the blood that still glistened on his chin and lips.

He leaned in.

“Won’t kill ye,” he whispered. Hissed. “Could never waste somethin’ this perfect. Yer mine now darlin’, an’ I ain’t lettin’ ye go.”

Then he descended down into the crook of your neck where your shoulder met the column of flesh he’d been fixated on and he smothered you in blood and wetness. His mouth dragged across clean skin, leaving slick trails of spit and iron-red behind, breath steaming in the cooling air. His tongue shot out, hot and heavy as it lapped where his fangs had grazed, licking up the slow-dripping dots of blood he’d caused to spill.

You stiffened, gasped, breath catching hard as you tried again to pull away but the cords bit deeper. He could feel your pulse jump beneath his mouth, and he moaned, the vibration traveling straight into your skin like a deep tremor, making your back twitch involuntarily.

“Ye ain’t scared,” he whispered, voice husky and reverent. “Ye want it. Been wantin’ it.”

You didn’t. You did. You didn’t—God, what was happening?

Then his hips rolled down hard, forcing your bound thighs wider, despite the cords keeping them flush together, as his clothed erection dragged against yours, massive and heavy. Even through the thin, bloodied fabric of his ruined pants and your torn shift, you felt every inch of it slide against your own straining length and your body responded before your mind could protest.

You arched your back, hips lifting into him by instinct and a choked, broken sound fell out of your throat. He growled at that, deep and possessive.

He snapped his hips forward again, grinding and rubbing your cocks together, smearing your shared arousal through the filthy linen. His mouth didn’t stop either, attacking your throat with hot, messy kisses, pressing lips and fangs and tongue into your skin with no rhythm, just need, moans rough and low between every wet smack of his mouth.

“I knew it,” he breathed, “knew you were diff’rent. Them other folks… they looked down their noses ‘cause they couldn’t understand ye.”

His lips trailed sloppily along your jawline, over your cheekbone, peppering your skin with red-stained kisses. The blood on his mouth smeared hot over your skin, clinging in streaks and warm smudges as he kissed harder, more frantic.

“Ye know what it’s like, don’t ye? Bein’ the one they cast out. Left to rot.”

He pulled back enough to hover right above your mouth. Iron, sweat and earth were the scents emanated from him.

His breath fanned over your lips, heavy, hot and metallic, chest heaving, a soft groan curling from the back of his throat.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked, voice low, rough and almost kind.

Your breath caught, staring up at him, wide-eyed, the trembling of your lips betraying the war in your chest. You didn’t understand why he gave you a choice. Why was he asking? Why hadn’t he torn your throat out, ripped you open like the others?

Why this?

Like he heard your thoughts. “I could hear yer heart, f’r hours,” he murmured, gaze still locked on your mouth. “When ye were all alone, prayin’ to a God who ain’t never answered ye… never loved ye.”

You didn’t even realize you’d said your name aloud. It slipped out, breathless, trembling, but real and he froze.

The wolfish grin was gone but not the hunger. One clawed finger lifted—drenched in blood—and pressed against your cheek.

It slid down gently and cradled.

Then your jaw was in his palm, his thumb barely grazing your bottom lip.

“I like yer name,” he whispered and smiled again, a dreadful smile with red-stained fangs out, shaking with restraint.

“Can I kiss ye?” he asked again, voice husky and sweet, but beneath it, something cracked in desperation.

You nodded once, lips still pressed together in a blood-slick line but he didn’t move.

“Need t’hear it,” he whispered, voice breaking like a prayer. “Need t’hear it from that beautiful mouth.”

Your lips parted. “Please,” you whispered, the word trembling, wet with something half-sob, half-lust.

The sound he made wasn’t human as his mouth crashed down with feral hunger, lips too wide and hot, soaked in blood and spit. Those fangs dragged along your inner lips. You felt slices, sharp and wet, his top canine cutting lightly the skin of your lips and you gasped, stupidly, into him.

A mistake.

His tongue shoved deep at that, lapping at your gums, your teeth, under your tongue, searching for where the blood was pooling, sucking it in hungry slurps. He pressed and scraped every inch of your mouth, a nick bloomed under your tongue, light cuts decorated the inside of your mouth invaded by his sharp one.

Your cry vanished into his throat and he moaned low in response, not sweet but hoarse, the noise vibrating down through your locked jaws into your lungs. The sound is all hunger and possession, a desperate, throaty groan that trembled down your spine and coiled around your heart.

With every swirl of his tongue, you felt the blood being pulled from your small wounds, collected at the edges of his lips, drawn to the corners of his throat. His cheeks hollowed when he slurped at the cut beneath your tongue, lapping thick and greedy, every gulp obscene.

Your face twisted in shock and breathless heat, tasting copper, spit and the ghost of his earlier kills.

He kept your lips locked tight, sealing you in, mouth still grinding against yours, tongue flicking quick now, almost angry, twitching left and right like he couldn’t decide where to drink from next. You felt a sting as his fangs scraped again, carving a new slit and he—God help you— was purring. A sound that made your stomach twist with confusion and the faintest lick of fire. He sucked the blood down and his hips jerked against your side like he could taste your arousal underneath the pain.

He pressed harder, chest crushing yours, ribs grinding raw where your wounds bled again, the pressure making you see stars. You groaned into him, eyes squeezed shut and that seemed to spur him deeper, head tilted, jaw working, tongue thrusting in again, again, dragging the wet length of himself across your teeth.

When he finally pulled away, red spit snapped between your mouths, thick and glossy. It clung in ropes from your chin to his, dripping down your throat as you gasped in fresh air, chest hitching, breath ragged with lungs that screamed in relief.

Then his lips jumped down at your neck.

The wound there, half-clotted now, stood no chance, his tongue found it and jammed in. He moaned, the sound buzzed through your skin.

The warmth flooded again and he drank, mouth pressed so deep against your throat it made your pulse skip. His fingers dug into your hips, claws creating shallow arcs into your side between slurps and grunts he emanates low and thick in his throat.

His mouth never left your skin, tongue swirling through the gashes he’d opened along your ribs, teeth occasionally grinding against your wound like he didn’t care whether he made more blood, only that it was fresh and yours. Your pulse still raced, pumping that warmth up for him, feeding him like he was bred for it.

But under that satisfied hum, the words came not sweet. Not tender.

“I should tear ‘em all apart.” he rasped against your abdomen, voice muffled by flesh and blood.

His mouth pulled back, leaving a long smear of spit and gore over your abdomen. He bared his fangs at your skin like he wanted to laugh at it.

“fed ‘em their own teeth for what they did to ye.”

A lunge. He dove back to your hipbone, licking along the curve with a long, wet stroke of his tongue, then dragging his lower fangs lightly along the flesh until a thin new slit bloomed, beading red.

Around a mouthful of your blood, he snarled:

“I’ll peel that priest open. want t’see what sound he makes when his lungs start fillin’.”

You twitched under the calm finality in his tone. Remmick’s hands clenched around your thighs, fingers bruising, claws pressing divots into your muscle like he was resisting something worse, his lips just brushing your inner thigh, tongue dipping between the notch of your hip and thigh, slick and slow, licking at a thin trail of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

He followed it upward with his mouth, small kisses, wet and hot, fangs tapping gently along your trembling skin.

A ripping noise broke that intimate silence that grew, soon after pain blossomed at your side. His claws tore the shift from your body, shredding a piece of it in one huge swipe.

Three deep gashes carved from chest to hip, sharp and perfect, blood gushing.

He didn’t let it spill, immediately lunged, mouth first, onto the wounds, suckling at them like open fruit, catching every stream with frantic laps of his tongue. His fangs tickled your skin with every drag, mouth painting you redder than you already were.

His tongue trailed down again, lapping between your thighs, that blood-drenched grin already forming on his face before his claws even moved.

Two swipes and the cords at your ankles burst, fibers twanging apart under the weight of his strength. Another flash of motion and the tattered hem of your shift was gone, torn straight through, shredded into nothing.

Hot breath, soaked in the stink of blood and spit, hit the curve of your bare ass. You jolted, not even thinking and your thighs parted automatically.

“Ohhh,” Remmick rasped, already leaning in, voice sticky with amusement, “they tied ye up ‘cause they knew, didn’t they? Knew those legs’d open up for me the second I looked at ye…”

His claws gripped your thighs, fingers spanning the thickest parts with ease and locked them around his shoulders, digging in hard enough to bruise as he spread them wider, forcing your knees up and out.

Your toes curled as his mouth descended, tongue dragging from your perineum up until it lapped a hot, wet line right over your hole. You made a sound you didn’t recognize, head tipped back and mouth parted in a gasp that never quite left your lungs.

He sucked in a breath, grip on your thighs tightening, claws pricking now, holding you open before his tongue dove.

A thick, forceful push, hot muscle breaching your hole in one wet plunge. “Aaahh—!” you cried, body jolting as your hips bucked instinctively upward. He didn’t stop, just grunted and shoved his face deeper, tongue spearing into you with greedy force.

The breath was punched out of you.

Each lick dragged a moan out of you. Each curl of his tongue sent sparks racing up your spine, coiling in your gut. Your cock throbbed untouched, pressed against your stomach, dripping pre-cum in slow, hot trails down your abdomen as he devoured you, tongue flattening to lap, then curling to thrust.

His fangs grazed the sensitive skin of your hole with a slow drag, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch. Blood beaded instantly, warm and wet, trickling down toward your thighs in thin red lines.

He licked the blood with long, luxurious strokes, tongue dragging through the slick mess like it was honey, moaning with every swallow.

His stubble scratched your thighs raw as he mouthed at you, tongue plunging back inside, curling and writhing, fucking you open while he sucked the blood.

A white-hot bolt of something unbearable ripped through your gut like lightning, your whole body convulsed, back arching, head snapping back as your untouched cock pulsed and jerked, spilling hard and hot over your chest in thick, white stripes, mouth open in a raw, cracked sob, fingers clenching at the stone beneath you as every nerve lit up.

He kept going and didn’t stop.

Remmick’s tongue worked faster, sloppier, his moans loud and unashamed as he devoured you through it.

The world tilted as arms wrapped under your waist, hauling your hips off the altar, your torso pinned by the ropes but everything below now suspended, thighs hooked tight around his head.

“R-Remmick—please—!” But he didn’t answer.

He buried his face between your cheeks again, tongue spearing deeper, licking blood and whatever else he could find with desperate hunger. His fangs scraped again, more blood and heat while his arms flexed, holding you aloft like you weighed nothing at all.

Your cock was already hard again, bobbing in the air, twitching with every suck. You could feel his breath through your entire spine, every rumble in his throat vibrating against your guts, hole raw and leaking, tongue fucking you so deep it felt like he was trying to reshape you from the inside out.

You lost count of how long it lasted, every sound he made was desperate. Worshipful. Terrifying.

His fangs dripped, breath trembling as he lifted his head and lowered your thighs, face absolutely soaked in red.

He hovered there, frame hunched and twitching like something trying to decide whether to worship or devour, biceps flexing as he reached for you again.

New red streaks were drawn with his tongue across your chest and ribs, no longer from fresh wounds, just messy strokes through blood already spilled, the warmth of it mixing with saliva and sweat as he mouthed sloppily at your skin.

“M’sorry,” he whispered into your side, “fer goin’ so hard. Ain’t had anyone t’hold in so long. The things ye do t’me…”

Your breath hitched again as his hips pressed harder down, the rigid length of him grinding against your slick hole, lips parting with a weak moan as the heat of him lit your nerves like dry tinder.

Remmick’s eyes rolled slightly at the feel of it—your body soft and twitching under him, your legs wrapping tighter, your hole flexing against the hard line of his cock. His lips parted, tongue dragging slowly along his fangs.

“Fuck,” he hissed, low and strangled, a sound torn from the back of his throat. “Need ye. Need t’be inside ye, now. Wantcha to feel me so deep ye can’t even fuckin’ pray unless it’s t’me.”

His clawed hand traced your neck, then slid down to your chest and pressed sharp, piercing the skin and blood welled instantly.

He was already on it, mouth slamming down, slurping and sucking with animal fervor the sound echoed like wet meat in a slaughterhouse, one claw dragging blood down your chest as he fed. The muscles in his jaw twitched with every swallow, throat moving visibly as he gulped.

You observed how it all occurred, dazed and half-wrecked, but for some reason still alive, unlike how those who betrayed you wanted it to be.

Here he was, monstrous, blood-drenched and cruel, but the only one who hadn’t lied to you.

The only one who shared the ache of abandonment and loneliness. Who even now, somehow, was holding back from ruining you too soon.

Your legs locked tighter around his waist and pulled hard. He growled low in response, mouth still latched to your bleeding chest. The sudden pull made him jolt closer, rock-hard cock pressing deep into the slick of your hole and his mouth left your shoulder with a wet, bloody gasp.

Forehead touching yours, droplets of blood slid down from his chin and landed on your parted lips. Your tongue caught one and shallowed.

His lips twitched before he leaned in and you met him halfway there, mouth opened over yours and tongue pushing deep. His fangs clinked against your teeth, a reminder that this could end in a single bite.

One clawed hand cradled your neck now, a deadly grip held in perfect check. The other dragged down between your bodies, across your abdomen, down to the base of his cock to free it.

The weight of it pressed down, tip slick from precum and blood he’d collected with his claws. You felt it glide along your entrance as he growled low at the contact.

“Tell me,” he whispered, lips brushing your cheek and the fat head of his cock nudging your entrance. “M’I invited?”

“Pleas—“ small and shaky, immediately interrupted by him pressing forward.

The stretch hit first. A slow, dragging pressure that pushed past your rim with that first devastating thrust, the head thick and already soaked with blood and slick, forcing itself deep into the slick mess he’d made with his tongue and spit.

Your eyes rolled back, jaw slack and lips wet, unable to even form words, body jolted inch by inch as the thick drag of his cock sank into your guts. It kept going, forcing your legs further apart as they twitched around his waist, hole clenching helplessly around the length that shouldn’t have fit that made your brain hum with warped, searing need.

“Hhhhhnn—‘s good,” he breathed into your ear, voice hoarse and breaking apart. Your hands clawed the altar beneath you, fingers digging at the cold stone as your hips bucked and your cock jerked where it lay against your stomach, every inch deeper made your vision blur.

When his hips met your ass, cock hilted to the root, he stilled.

Your hole stretched wide around the base of him, pulsing with raw soreness and slick heat while your whole frame shaked.

“Can’t tell if them tears’re from pain or pleasure,” he muttered, breath sticky against your lips, the taste of your blood sharp between you. “Not that it matters.” A crooked grin pulled at his mouth.

“Long as you keep makin’ those sounds f’ me.” He pulled out only a few inches and drove back in hard. His claws dug into your waist to hold you still as his cock rammed back inside, filling you deeper than before.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each thrust hit like a punch, wet slaps echoing in the woods, your hole making slick, messy sounds as it stretched to take him. Blood smeared across your thighs where his skin met yours.

He angled his hips and hit something inside you that made your back arch like a bow.

“Ahh—nnh, Remmick—!”

“There,” he growled. “There is it.”

He slammed into it again, claws now wrapped tight around your cock and making you cry out as your hole fluttered around the thick intrusion, milking him.

His thrusts grew messier, harder, blood and slick smearing between your thighs and down your ass.

You came hard, spraying up your own chest, your stomach, onto his wrist and claws, sobbing brokenly as your hole clenched down around him.

With a final slam his whole body shuddered. He came with a guttural grunt muffled by the skin of your neck, hot ropes flooded into your gut, cock pulsing again and again as he filled you. Your hole stretched around the base, unable to stop the spill, his seed leaking out already, mixing with blood and slick as he collapsed half on top of you, panting, groaning into your throat.

He lifted his head to look at you, warm and coppery breath that came slow. He didn’t move, not one inch. His face hovered inches from yours, looming over your crumpled, used body as you trembled beneath him. Trails of red streaked down the curve of his cheek, along the ridge of his snarled jaw, catching at the corner of his mouth where his fangs still gleamed, coated in streaks of drying gore.

There was no name for what was behind those crimson pupils fixed on you, wide and unblinking. Unmoving and terrifying in that stillness. .

The claws rose, glistening with your blood and hovered beside your face, three fingers curled, two half-extended.

You knew what was coming, your eyes closed to embrace the last seconds of life you had, tilting your neck as an offering just like how you were meant to be right from the start, a sacrifice for the well being of everyone else.

A cool breeze brushed your skin and the pressure on your arms disappeared when the rops were cut clean.

A single beam, golden and sudden, lanced through the branches high above when you opened your eyes. You squinted, eyes stinging from the brightness, pupils shrinking as the canopy above shifted and spilled morning across the stone.

He was gone.

The altar beneath you felt colder now without his weight. The stone rasped against your skin as you stirred, every nerve screaming in protest, your muscles sore and trembling from use. Your spine creaked, your knees shaking as you pushed up with an elbow and slowly, painfully, sat upright.

The shift that clung to your body wasn’t even clothing anymore.

What had once been white was now a shredded ruin, barely covering anything. Slashes ran down both sides—some clean cuts, others torn by fang or claw—stained entirely through with smears of deep maroon. Your chest was bare, one side of the fabric having slipped down entirely, revealing a trail of blood and bite marks from neck to sternum.

You looked lower.

The hem barely covered your hips, and the back was shredded. Blood had dried there in dark, rusted patches, crusted into the cotton, while other stains still shimmered faintly under the new sunlight. Between your thighs, soreness pulsed steadily, a heat that lingered more from what had been taken than any wound. You shifted slightly on the altar stone.

You winced.

Then, against your better judgment, your hand lifted.

You pressed your fingers to your own throat. Felt the tacky edge of a new bruise. Then you dragged your palm slowly—slowly—across your chest.

Your skin was a mess of scratches and welts. Some are shallow, some are deep. Your fingers caught at one of the gashes near your ribs—three claw marks carved in parallel, dried blood crusting at the edges. You traced them.

Your breath hitched.

It hurts.

But beneath the sting, your skin prickled with something warmer. Your hand moved down, across your belly where more scratches fanned out across your hips, painted like strokes from a mad brush, some with teeth marks sunk between. You found the bruises on your thighs next, purple and red where his hands had held you down.

You rose slowly and a burst of pain tore down your ribs where his hand had marked you, pressed there, each step sent new flares of agony through your gut and chest. Still, you pushed upright again, leaning on trees, yanking free thick ropes of liana that hung from the forest canopy and twisted them around your frame to bind the shredded remains of the shift back into something wearable.

Hours passed like wounds: slow, bleeding and hard to count.

By the time you reached the edge of the village, the sky had turned black.

You stood in the tall grass on the hill overlooking the main clearing, hidden in the shadow of the trees and watched.

They were dancing.

Every family, every face you’d known since you were a child. They laughed around a roaring bonfire at the center of the square, the glow painting their skin gold, shadows flickering long and tall, celebrating their freedom.

Assholes.

You stood there, one hand pressed tight to your ribs where your body still throbbed from what had been done to you—no, what they had done to you. A lamb tied in white and left in the woods.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the trees, you heard a rustle. You didn’t need to turn.

You dragged yourself forward, moving along the edge, behind houses with thatched roofs and crooked beams until you made it to the church.

One of the great wooden doors stood half-open and, gritting your teeth, you staggered to it and shoved with your shoulder.

The hinges groaned and the sound echoed inside like a bell tolling doom.

Three heads turned.

Father Ilan stood at the altar, tall and rigid in his soot-dark robes, two younger men flanked the pews, holding firewood and altar cloths, frozen mid-task. They stared.

The priest’s mouth opened slowly and his face was everything you needed to see.

Horror, recognition and best of all, fear.

You staggered forward two steps, holding your ribs, and let your voice come low. “That’s the face I made,” you said hoarsely. “When I woke up… tied down and threw away like garbage.”

He flinched but not enough, his hands folded before him, as if in prayer.

“You shouldn’t have returned. Not as you are. Not as that devil’s… plaything.”

You blinked, the words didn’t even sting, they felt expected.

Ilan turned slightly, eyes hard, lips thin.

“You brought him here. He’s taken root in your blood. You reek of him.”

You didn’t speak and he raised his voice. “This place is sanctified. He cannot touch it. But you—” he pointed now, eyes blazing—“you are the vessel for our freedom.”

To the men behind him: “End the ritual. Before the rot spreads and all suffer.”

They dropped their tasks and advanced.

Your knees trembled, but you didn’t back away. You clutched your side, pain radiating sharp and hot as one of the claw marks pulled.

“The devil,” you whispered, “ain’t in the woods.”

The men hesitated. One slowed.

You met the priest’s eyes.

“He’s in this village. In this church.”

That did it, broad hands caught your arms from behind before you could step back. Pain tore through your exhausted body as they dragged you toward the altar, feet skidding on cold stone, knees buckling.

With that last bit of breath you had, you cried out “Remmick, come in!”

The words hung in the air like sacrilege and the church doors groaned as they were pulled open, moonlit rushing in.

Remmick stood there soaked from crown to sole, he was dripping fresh crimson. It clung everywhere in his face, his throat gleamed red, boots squelched as he stepped forward, leaving sticky prints across the stone.

He grinned, fangs out, stained scarlet.

“evenin’, Father.” he drawled, raiaing one clawed hand in mock greeting, blood flinging from the tips as he gave a lazy wave.

Then his gaze shifted to you and that grin softened, something warm bloomed beneath the madness.

“Sweetheart,” he breathed.

The two men holding your arms froze for only a breath.

One second he was across the room, the next he was behind the man on your right.

The claws sank deep before the man could even scream and sank his fangs deep in his neck.

The second man had turned to run but it didn’t matter as Remmick levitated towards him and fangs sank into the throat before the poor bastard could draw breath, ripping a full chunk out, the artery split wide open, blood spraying in a crimson arc across the air.

The priest was already scrambling, standing by the side door, eyes wild, robes flaring around his feet while holding a wooden stake ready to use to purify your corrupted body.

He gripped it with both hands, ready to complete his divine mission…

… A single clawed hand caught his arm and twisted.

The crunch was wet and loud, the elbow snapping backward, tendons unspooling. The stake fell with a clatter, useless.

“Y’oughta know,” Remmick whispered low into the priest’s ear, voice thick with smoke, “I don’t like sharin’ what’s mine.”

His other hand raked across Ilan’s face, four slashes bloomed deep and vertical from scalp to chin and blood poured down his beard, into his eyes.

Remmick caught him by the throat and lifted.

“I hope yer god’s watchin’ now,” Remmick said softly before throwing him outside.

The old man flew like straw, hitting the grounf outside with a sickening thud, bones cracking under the weight.

The firelight outside revealed everything, all of the villagers were standing in a wide circle, backlit by the flames.

Eyes gold, mouth slack with fangs bared.

Each one of them turned and moved together as one mind as they pounced. Teeth met throat, claws met ribs, screams choked in blood as the man’s body disappeared under their hunger, hands flailing once before they vanished beneath the swarm.

Inside the church, your body gave out, too weak and in too much pain.

Remmick’s arms caught you instantly and lifted you to your feet, claws anchoring around your waist like he’d never let you fall again. You sagged against him, breath hitching. His chest heaved with breath, his body soaked in blood both his and not, muscles flexed and quivering with residual fury.

He leaned forward, pressed his forehead to the crook of your neck.

His breath was still ragged, wet with blood, panting. More blood smeared across your throat, fresh and hot, his mouth now streaking your skin with red over the already dried layers.

He buried those blood-caked claws into your hair, cradling your skull with terrifying gentleness, thumb brushing against your temple.

“I told ya, didn’t I?” he murmured. “Told ya I’d come for ya.”

He pulled back slightly and you saw it, beneath the gore and the fangs, something horrible and tender bloomed.

Devotion.

Claws against your palm as he cut just a line.

You hissed as warm blood beaded along your lifeline. Remmick bit his own hand, fangs punctured the base of his palm and thick blood poured from it in lazy rivulets.

He pressed the wounds together.

Palm to palm in a bloody path.

How marriages were made back when he was still a lad.

“Yer my kin now,” he breathed, that blood-slick smile returning, fang-bared, panting and waiting.

Your lips met his as you leaned forward, fangs brushing your tongue but you didn’t flinch.

The blood between you smeared across both chins, dripping down your joined hands. His growl melted into a moan as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss, one clawed hand sliding up your back to hold you close, the other still wrapped with yours.

The honeymoon was gonna hurt in all the right places.

[robinismywifesworld]

Why are all the 'x reader' fics I see mostly smuts? Don't get me wrong, they're great and all but I barely see any fluff or angst around here. I literally just want to feel things without the character lusting over the reader 😭

[starboye]

im all yours

it was just so hard to fuck you without wanting to sink his teeth into your delicious looking neck, with the way he was fucking into you he was practically to distracted to focus "just one bite please darling" he begged nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck.

he was pistoning his hips into you so hard it had your mind elsewhere so far you couldn't even respond only letting out high pitched moans over and over "could i take that as a yes" he was basically trying to find any reason and any way to turn you into a vampire, on of his hands rubbing up and down your body while his other hand was wrapped around your neck.

he slowly turned your head to the side, revealing the numerous hickeys he had already put there from hours before, just as he was contemplating you choked out a few words "im all yours" his eyes lit up with a mix of love and lust, diving right in to bite into your neck.

the blood pouring out while he slurped up every drop, he knows it probably wasn't right hut he was getting so hard from this, the way your hands clawed at his back as he fucked you deeper, your blood rushing through his mouth just until he was satisfied enough and pulled off.

he could see the transformation happening right under him, the way your eyes lit red, and you felt a surge of energy go through your body "mhm how good does that feel" he asked and all you responded with was a sloppy kiss, tongue diving into his mouth and your legs wrapping around his waist.

he took that as a good sign to keep going, squeezing his hand around your neck while fucking you into the bed until he dumped his thick load into you, but that wouldn't be right to stop when the fun just began, his hips continuing fucking into you, his multiple loads working as lube to keep you nice and slick for his cock.

taglist: @mailmango @boypied @ghostking4m @gayaristocrat @addictedtomalepits @staarb0y @crispysoup318 @its-ares @gargoylesworld09 @znerac @r0mcom-8ngel @bbibbiiu @tqrgaryenfilms

[carnalcrows]

SAY PLEASE

pairing: abby saja x top male reader

synopsis: Abby’s been throwing hints left and right—flirty touches, cocky smirks, lingering glances that scream take the damn bait already. But his manager just keeps smiling at him like nothing’s going on. Sweet. Harmless. So when Abby finally snaps after a brutal night and drags him into a supply closet, desperate to blow off steam, he figures he knows how this ends. A quick hookup. A little control. Easy.

He doesn’t expect the guy he’s been teasing for weeks to turn around and beg for something filthier. Something softer. Something that leaves Abby shaking by the end of it.

And the worst part? He kind of loves it.

content warnings: 18+, smut, brat Abby, top male reader, power dynamics, closet scene, manager x idol, begging, dom/sub elements, praise kink (good boy, prince), manhandling, ass eating, overstimulation, [smut], post-scenario emotional softness, mild internalized shame, possessive behavior, freaky obsession (hidden under a sweet exterior)

word count: 1.2k

"You gonna help me or not?" Abby asked, breath short, jaw tight.

You blinked up at him from where he dropped you. “...What kind of help are we talking about?”

He exhaled like he was about to throw something. “Are you serious right now?”

"I mean—" You sat up slowly. "You’ve been kinda vague."

Abby crouched in front of you, both hands planted on either side of your thighs. His eyes were glassy with frustration. "I dragged you into a closet. What do you think I want?"

You tilted your head, all soft lashes and fake innocence. “Hug?”

His face twitched. “You are such a fucking menace.”

"Then why do you keep flirting with me?"

“I—what—?” He paused, short-circuited.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” you asked, voice dropping a little, just enough to make his breath catch. “You think I haven’t been waiting for you to finally do something about it?”

His mouth opened, but no sound came out. You were already rising to your knees, closing the space between you, until you could hear the way his breath stuttered when you leaned in.

Abby blinked, startled. “Wait—so you knew?”

“Oh, baby,” you breathed, brushing your fingers under his chin, “I’ve been starving for you.”

His whole body tensed, heat crawling up his neck.

You smiled. “So. How do you want me?”

Abby licked his lips, fast. “I thought you’d maybe wanna… I dunno. Suck me off. Or let me—”

“Nope.”

You kissed the corner of his jaw. “Wanna eat you out.”

He jerked back like you slapped him. “You what?”

“I said—”

“No, no, I heard you. I just. What the fuck.”

You shrugged. “You dragged me in here. You said you were stressed. Let me help.”

“That’s not—Guys don’t usually—I’m not—” He looked like he was glitching out. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

You gave him that look. Soft. Puppyish. Lips parted, a little pouty. Not even putting it on.

“Please?” you whispered. “Want you so bad, Abby. Been thinking about it forever.”

His throat bobbed.

"You're not gonna tell anyone, right?"

"Course not."

You kissed him.

That shut him up fast.

Abby stiffened, caught off guard, but he didn’t pull away. His hands twitched at your sides like he couldn’t decide whether to push you off or pull you in. And then—slowly—he kissed you back. Tentative at first. Almost shy, like the fire he’d come in with was starting to burn inward now.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed, breath catching like he’d just realized what he was agreeing to.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, smiling gently. “You don’t have to.”

He hesitated. Really hesitated this time. You could see it—pride and desire wrestling under his skin, chewing at the edge of his mouth. His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt like he needed to hold something while he decided.

Then finally, he let out a breath and nodded.

“Okay,” he said softly. “But if I tell you to stop, you have to stop. No matter what.”

You beamed up at him, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Deal,” you agreed easily. “Now turn around and brace yourself against the wall.”

Abby did as you asked, hands splaying against the shelves as you positioned yourself behind him—before pushing his pants down, along with his boxers. You could see the way his body trembled with anticipation, hear the shaky inhale of his breath.

"Tell me if you need me to slow down or stop," you reminded him gently, hands coming to rest on his hips. "I'll check in with you throughout."

With that, you leaned forward and dragged the flat of your tongue over his entrance. Abby jerked, a gasp leaving his lips at the sudden contact. You hummed encouragingly, licking again before sealing your mouth around him and sucking lightly.

"Oh fuck," Abby breathed, fingers scrabbling at the shelves. "That feels... holy shit."

You just continued your ministrations, varying your technique to figure out what he liked best. It didn't take long before he was pushing back against your face, breath coming in short pants as you worked him open with lips and tongue.

"Please," he whined after a few minutes, hips rolling desperately against the wall. "I need more. Need your fingers or something."

You pulled back just long enough to slick up two fingers before pressing them inside him, curling them just so to hit his prostate. Abby cried out, back arching as he struggled to take the new stretch.

"Right there," he gasped, head thrashing from side to side. "Fuck yes, just like that. Don't stop."

You didn't, doubling down on your efforts until he was babbling incoherently, thighs shaking with the force of his pleasure. Only then did you pull your fingers free, sealing your lips back around him and sucking hard as you pushed three fingers inside this time.

"Shit," Abby panted, eyes rolling back as he struggled to take the new stretch. "So fucking full. Can't... can't take much more."

You just stayed there behind him, gaze locked on every twitch, every shiver, working him over with your mouth and hands like you were starving for it. Abby’s fingers scrabbled against the wall of the closet, breath hitching. His head dropped forward with a soft, choked sound—he couldn’t see you, but he didn’t need to. Every nerve in his body was screaming for you.

"Gonna come," he warned shakily, hips starting to stutter. "Fuck, I'm gonna come."

You just hummed around him, continuing to work on his prostate until he was screaming your name, spilling a hot and sticky mess from his cock, that dribbled down to his hole and across your tongue. You swallowed it down greedily, continuing to work him through his orgasm with lips and tongue until he was spent and shaking.

Only then did you pull away, licking your lips clean as you rose to your feet. Abby looked up at you with glassy, satisfied eyes, a dopey grin on his face— reaching up to pull you down for a proper kiss. You went willingly, letting him taste himself on your tongue as he clung to you.

You were both still on the floor ten minutes later.

Well. You were on the floor. Abby was draped across your chest like a dramatic little prince, sweat cooling along his collarbone, your jacket half-tucked beneath him like a makeshift pillow.

He hadn’t spoken in a while. Just kept exhaling soft and shaky, like he didn’t quite know how to be alive again yet.

Finally, he muttered, “...Fuck.”

You laughed quietly, one hand stroking up his back.

“Never speak of this again,” he said.

You hummed. “You said that already.”

“I mean it.”

You kissed the top of his head. “Sure, baby.”

He didn’t argue. Just curled in closer, fingers fisting the fabric of your shirt.

"...You were really good,” he mumbled, voice too quiet for how bratty he usually was. “Like. Stupid good.”

You smiled. “I know.”

"Ugh." He shoved at your chest half-heartedly. "Don’t get cocky."

"Too late. Got you crying in a closet."

He groaned into your neck. “I hate you.”

You laughed. “You will. Until the next time you’re stressed.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @belovedengie @jrxkar @yippee-yippee8 @faggotboulevard @bleedingbl0ssom @green-turtle3 @mazettns @laynnetteii1 (comment to be added)

[finsplurtz]

Imagine hawks cheating on his gf by getting fucked by his dom ex and she calls him mid sex

•cheater hawks woo

Your hips slam into him like you own him. Keigo’s moaning like a whore into the sheets, sweating non stop, he flinches at the sound of his phone ringing. You slow down and glance at his phone.

He whines when you stop completely and place the phone next to his face. “Answer it kei’.”

His breath hitches, “w..what..?” you huff leaning down to run your hand over his face jaw and neck. “C’mon answer it… let your girlfriend hear how well your ex fucks you…”

He whimpers, his trembling hands hover over the phone as he picks up. “Hey..babe..—“ he bites back a moan when you bury your dick deeper into him.

“I’m uh…on patrol..” He lies, voice shaky and unsure. He’s grinding back into you, biting his lip at every wave of pleasure. You fuck into him harder, rougher, whispering into his ear, “tell her you love her.”

He pants into the phone, “I—I love you…” shame painting his cheeks, yet his body’s begging for more, twitching at every throb of your cock, tears brimming his eyes, mini sobs as he cums over the sheets, you pull the prettiest sounds from him it drives you nuts.

A kiss to the back of his neck, “good ?” You say loud enough.

“Feels.. so good..~” He moans before you hang up the call.

[reallyromealone]

Hi, since you already did the first fic with Bobby, I want to ask for another one with Bobby introducing his husband to the Huntrix, and when he was introduced to the Huntrix, he took some sweets that he made himself, I don't know if it's vague in information, but I couldn't think of anything better

Title: book signing

Chapter: -

Fandom: Kpop demon hunters

Genre: omegaverse

Warnings: tall reader, omegaverse, fluff, cute, good husband bobby

Notes: I like tall Omega reader rn

Summary: HUNTR/X has a book signing at (name)s bookstore and he's married to Bobby

🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛🌜🌛

Bobby sighed with love in his eyes as he watched his omega putter around his little book store, the tall Omega recently getting the HUNTR/X Memoires and it wouldn't be long before there was a line up outside the store for the book signing. Bobby came to make sure everything was perfect for the girls and he wanted to see his beautiful mate "Bobby darling, could you grab me the tape?" (Name) Asked while on a small step stool and the Alpha immediately looked away from his phone, check-in numbers and sending off emails "of course my beloved!" He said happily and handed the Omega tape, smiling softly when (name) leaned to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you my dear"

"Oh! I was wondering if you wanted to leave the store in the trusting hands of your managers and join me for a couple's retreat, the girls are going on a break starting next week" he gently held his mates waist while (name) went on his toes to get something off the top shelf, a box of decorations no doubt "that sounds nice, we haven't had much time to ourselves" (name) stepped down and let Bobby hold him close, the apha wrapping his arms around him and resting his chin on the omegas chest "no we have not! My skins been so dry with all this stress!"

"Well we can't have that, can we?" (Name) Smooshed his alphas cheeks playfully and Bobby just smiled at him like he hung the moon.

When it was time for the book signing, (name) and a few other employees sold book after book to be signed by HUNTR/X who happily signed each copy and before (name) knew it, it was five pm and he was out of books, the signing slowly coming to an end.

"You're (name)!" Zoey beamed, the Omega girl holding onto (name)s hands tightly and (name) gave a soft smile "a pleasure" he was always so calm and collected, a classic elegance to Bobby's flamboyance and excitability, if one didn't know they would have thought Bobby was the Omega not (name).

"You're the girls Bobby always talks about, you're practically his pups" (name) teased his alpha who looked proud of himself "he's been a father figure for us, that's for sure" Rumi said softly "he's come through for us when no one else was"

"Would you girls like something to eat?"

It was odd, not having popstars in their penthouse but how natural it felt feeding the two alphas and Omega and watching Rumi and Mira preen under the attention from the omega who treated them like his own pups "here, have some treats to take home" he gave the girls a large food container of treats and snacks, Bobby smiling at the girls excited expressions "now get home safe and enjoy your break!" Bobby lovingly booted them out while they made kissy noises.

"They're good girls, you did well" (name) said softly and Bobby led him to their bedroom where they fell on the bed, Bobby putting his face in the omegas neck and breathed in his scent "I think I want a kid" Bobby said softly and (name) looked down at him with wide eyes " you too?"

"Well I guess we know what we're practicing for during our couples retreat"

"Definitely"

[shinylipglosss]

Leon S. Kennedy x M!Reader

╰ ➤ this post is superrrr laid back (not that smutty) compared to my other stuff but i wanted to create a longer storyline so if this gets a good reception i rlly want to make another part!!

“Wait here, k?” Leon’s soothing voice managed to take your mind off the hell you two were being put through. You were grateful he was trying his damnedest to keep you safe. But at the same time you were even frightened without his familiar blanket of heat near you.

Moments—minutes—passed and there was no sign of Leon in the cramped, dark room he had left you in. Just as you were starting to accept that he left you, a bang rang out on the other side of the door. These freaks are smart, he had told you, they’ll imitate human movements. With those words in mind you didn’t dare even move—shock giving you no choice in the matter.

“It’s me.” It was both a blessing and a curse to hear Leon’s voice. A blessing because something had loosened inside you at the intimate sound, but a curse due to the thick pain easy to find in it. You clambered over yourself to get to the locked door; when you did Leon instantly collapsed into your arms. It was odd feeling: to protect your protector. Despite the oddness it warmed you all the same.

“Easy,” You lowered the grunting man to the spot you were sat waiting for him earlier. He thumped on the chair with a resignation that scared you more than you’d like to admit. “take your shirt off.” The reason Leon brought you to this god-forsaken place was for your medical skills.

“Here i thought we were only just getting to know each other.” Leon chuckled softly—the motion causing an equal amount of coughing. You found his normal humour calming. Well at least he’s not at the point where he can’t make jokes, you thought in an effort to assure yourself.

Luckily, with the lantern Leon had kept on him, you inspected the wound. This wasn’t exactly the first time you saw him shirtless. Of course, you never saw his body in all its glory, especially not illuminated with the ivory glow of the light. Your heart raced in your chest at the sight. His body rose and fell with the immense pain he was in. It made a terrible feeling wedge itself into you; you berated yourself for your feelings about him.

“Just a sec,” You looked up at his fluttering eyes. “it’s deep.” You pushed into the dark red gash just to the right of his naval. Leon’s back arched, in what you could only assume was all-consuming pain. How one of those freaks managed to get this close to a man with his skills, you had yet to figure out. That comes later, you swore at yourself, first save the man’s life who’s saved yours more than once.

Hours passed and, having finished stitching him up, you slept quieter knowing that he was starting to get better.

The next morning, Leon woke before you, beckoning you awake. “We’ve got to go.” He said with a sudden urgency.

You practically laughed in his face. “If you try to run, your stitches will rip and you will die. With my efforts or not. He regarded what you said; your cheeks flushing when you saw that he had his shirt back on, but hanging loosely with the buttons undone.

He nodded tersely, “One more day. After that, we have to keep going.” That you could live with. Though you couldn’t guarantee your needs would be able to contain themselves. Leon made a move to cross the room and groaned.

“Let me see.” You snapped, pointing to the chair he had sat in the night before. He, slowly, made his way to where he was asked to be. This time he lowered himself with a new found masculine energy that was impossible to ignore. With legs manspread, he lost his shirt and began to feel his body. You knew he was trying to put his wound on display but you warmed at the sight. It didn’t help that you were on your knees trying to see.

“D’know what’d help me?” His voice darkened with the same sudden realisation you also had. Between his spread legs was a hard length. “Get rid of this mornin’ wood for me.” He was commanding and simple with his request. So you didn’t have any room to argue, pulling his clothes off with a pent up feeling you clearly both had.

“Will this hurt?” You asked him whilst simultaneously pumping his cock. You couldn’t tear your eyes off him.

“You’re the doctor, you tell me.” You shrugged then, simply not caring anymore. It had been months without any action. The two of you would be stuck in here for another day, so why not enjoy it?

[miange1]

Alpha husband(maybe before readers pregnancy) where he's absolutely feral over reader and won't let him leave the house because of how bad he needs him?

Basically 24/7 fucking and hella attachment issues

Male Reader please.

HOT AND BOTHERED.

customers order. . . : alpha husband x male omega reader. pt. 1 here.

side dishes. . . : ruts, possessiveness, scents, accidental marking, breeding kink, knotting, lowkey written with choso in mind, humping and fucking things you shouldn't, ass eating, dumbification(on both sides), genuine pregnancy kink

owners note. . . : i never proofread

your husband was never usually like this. he was so sweet, caring, by your side in loving ways always making sure your okay. but unfortunately his rut changed that as quick as eyes could blink. you had to take time off of work because of him, because he wouldn't let you leave. and god forbid you left the room he was in, his claw marks would be deep and visible on the doorway.

god, he couldn't help himself. he could barely think or remember, he was fucking warm holes of pillows each second you didn't give him attention. he would whine and curse at you, his emotions going through the roof. any smell that wasn't his? he would fuck it out of you. his nose would sniff along your body, balls slapping against your ass and his teeth bared as he grunted and growled. your slick ran down your thighs like a fountain, his arms flexed around you to keep you from running.

shit, you couldn't even give him his medicine because he never wanted it. medicine wasn't a warm home to fuck and use. his cock was getting thicker by the minute, engulfing your insides and stretching you out. you couldnt even speak yourself, only cries and loud moans was all you could let out.

sometimes, only sometimes he was soft in his own way. like when his tongue was shoved and plunging in and out of your ass like it was candy. his eyes would be looking right at you and all you could do was kick your legs and tremble. "agh..like that..jus like that.." his teeth nipped, thumb spreading you open some more and the tip of it rimming along with his sliding wet muscle. his lower half humped the nest of clothing underneath the two of you, as if the nest was you.

other times, he was completely out of it. he would sputter absolute nonsense while he fucked you with no rhythm. his mind would constantly repeat 'breed breed breed breed', mouth open in incoherent sentences. "o— 'mega, gu'na fuck— get you preg–" he could barely finish his sentence, your sweet spicy scent filtering his nose, his own musk clouding over your senses as well. the last flesh scratch marks littered his back as the muscles twitched and flexed. he could still feel that scraping burn from before when your nails raked harshly along his flesh and skin.

when he would knot, he would attempt to keep going as if he wasn't stuck inside. he was squished inside, bulbous ridged dick pushing and keeping his large load inside. ensuring you would be filled with his children. your tummy was already bulging and full. it would be bigger and swollen with his kin..wondered how many you would have. a whole litter? fuck, he'd hoped.

the embarrassment he felt after his rut was the worst. he would clean it all up, take care of you, hence back to normal. sometimes you missed his mindlessness, missed his animalistic behavior. but this..this man was your husband. he was cooking dinner as is. who were you to say no?

[dex0s]

PART FOUR OF WELCOME BACK AUTHOR

YAN! KPDH x GN reader

Chapter 1, <<<< back Chapter 2

(A/N) I forgot to mention that the reason behind the lateness is one vacation (I got sunburned and no longer look a light skin) and two I have been finishing the other parts which are come very soon. Antways enjoy.

WARNINGS: (NONE) for now PS: reader looks/singer like miku but doesn't act like her.

WORD COUNT: 2K+

Walking out of the plane, you stretch your arms high above your head, feeling the satisfying pop of your joints after sitting cramped for two hours straight. A loud yawn escapes your mouth before you even try to suppress it. The airport is busy, the air buzzing with the chatter of travelers, the squeaking of suitcase wheels, and the distant calls over the intercom.

"I'm so hungry," you mutter, rubbing your stomach dramatically. "Who was the genius that decided not to pack snacks for the flight?"

You turn around as you walk, scanning the line of disembarking passengers/your co-workers until you spot him. Rual, slowly making his way down the plane's narrow aisle. He's still glued to his tablet, eyes flicking across the screen as if whatever he's reading is way more important than basic human needs.

Finally stepping off the plane, he looks up, locking eyes with you. His expression is flat, one eyebrow raised, mouth set in a line so straight it might as well be drawn with a ruler. The look he gives you is filled with judgment and disbelief, as if you've just asked whether the Earth is flat.

"(Y/N)... You," he says with deliberate emphasis, "and I quote, said: 'I don't need snacks. It's only a two-hour flight.'"

You blink at him, your lips parting as if you're about to argue. But then your brain replays that memory, and, unfortunately for your pride, it's accurate. You close your mouth again with a quiet click, feeling the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

"...Can we just go to a café..." you mumble, looking anywhere but directly at Rual. You avoid eye contact like it's a trap, pretending the floor tiles are the most fascinating thing you've ever seen.

He exhales sharply, a mix between a sigh and a tired chuckle, then slides his tablet into his backpack.

"Come on, let's go get you fed before you start blaming me for global warming too."

Maybe next time, you'll bring the snacks. Maybe.

TIME SKIP

You and Rual step out of the café, the warm scent of roasted coffee beans and sugary pastries still lingering in the air behind you. The midday sun casts a soft golden glow over the sidewalk, and a gentle breeze plays with the edge of your jacket as you walk. You're smiling. No, grinning—like a kid who just got away with something mischievous. There's a light bounce in your step, clearly fueled by the sweet treat still settling in your stomach.

Beside you, Rual is less than amused.

His arms are crossed, his jaw tight, and his eyes locked on you with a mixture of mild betrayal and intense irritation. You can feel the glare without even turning to look. A scowl tugs at the corner of his mouth as his pace quickens just slightly, like if he walks fast enough, maybe he can escape both the situation and your good mood.

"We are late to the studio now," he says, voice clipped and precise. "And now we're also going to be late for the meeting with Huntr/x."

You spin around to face him, walking backward a few steps just to make sure he sees the full extent of your unapologetic joy. Your smile doesn't fade and in fact, it widens, if that's even possible. You know him too well. Despite the cold tone and deadpan delivery, you saw the flicker in his eyes when he took the first bite of that caramel-drizzled waffle. You heard the low hum of satisfaction he let slip before quickly composing himself again.

Deep down, buried beneath layers of logic, deadlines, and his whole 'no-nonsense' persona. You know Rual enjoyed that sugary detour. Probably more than he'd admit even under torture. After all, the man has a massive sweet tooth and absolutely zero time to indulge it. Not with the constant workload, back-to-back meetings, and a personal schedule so tight it could probably strangle someone.

"They won't mind," you say casually, shrugging. "Not everyone can be on time all the time."

Rual stops walking and glares at you harder if that's even possible while you continue strolling ahead, as if this were all part of your grand plan. You're unfazed, basking in the brief chaos of defiance and sugar-fueled satisfaction.

"You're insufferable," he mutters under his breath, finally catching up to you.

You glance over, catching a faint glimmer in his eyes, a ghost of a smile he's trying to suppress but failing just a little.

"And yet," you say, tossing him a smug look, "here you are. Still walking besides, me."

Turning back around, walking with all the carefree energy in the world, you barely get two steps before something smacks you square in the face.

"Pfft—!" you stumble slightly, hands flailing up to peel the mysterious object off your face. It's paper. Thin, glossy, and slightly crumpled at the edges. A flyer, probably blown into the wind by some chaotic force of fate or marketing.

You smooth it out, curiosity tugging at your fingertips. Bright, bold letters jump off the page:

"SAJA BOYS FREE CONCERT! LIVE @ XXXXX – Show starts at XX:XX PM!"

You blink. Once. Twice.

Your heart skips in surprise. Saja Boys? The name doesn't ring a bell. You squint at the flyer, trying to jog your memory. Judging by the bold fonts, the flashy design, and the fact that it's a concert announcement, they're probably some idol group. Must be popular if they're getting a crowd for a free show. You've definitely heard people mention that name in while walking around or through random conversations in the cafe, but you've never really paid attention. To focus on getting to the cafe or the sweet treats they have.

Still... free is free. And music is music.

You tilt your head, eyes darting back to the bold time stamp.

Five minutes.

Your eyes widen.

Peering behind you, you spot Rual across the street, sliding into the driver's seat of the rental car you both picked up earlier. He tosses his bag in the passenger seat with a heavy thud, completely unaware that you've fallen behind. He thinks you're right behind him, like a responsible, punctual person would be. Like someone who doesn't get distracted by loud signs and the vague promise of free entertainment.

Which, let's be honest, is not you.

You glance up at the nearest street sign, and realization hits you like the flyer did

you're already here.

This is exactly where the show is being held.

You pull out your phone. Four minutes left.

An idea forms. Quick, dangerous, and absolutely not good. The kind of idea that would make Rual's left eye twitch.

You glance once at the car, then slowly, carefully begin to walk in the opposite direction. Faster now. Stealth mode activated. Your pace quickens into a low-key power walk as the sound of a crowd in the distance begins to grow louder.

"I'll be so fast that Rual won't even notice I'm gone... I hope," you tell yourself, not entirely convinced. Still, your feet carry you forward, heart pounding with a mix of adrenaline, mischief, and curiosity.

Meanwhile, back in the car, Rual buckles his seatbelt and glances into the rearview mirror out of habit. He expects to see you there, probably making some joke or texting memes to the group chat, but instead. emptiness.

No chatter. No rustling. No over-caffeinated idol bouncing in the back seat.

Just silence.

His gaze narrows. A long, heavy sigh escapes his lips as he rests his forehead against the steering wheel. After a moment of internal screaming, he sits up, expression flat as concrete.

He doesn't even have to guess what happened.

With a cold stare and a tone that could kill a cactus, he mutters to no one in particular, "I swear, I am going to figure out how to get away with murder someday."

A pause.

Another sigh.

"I hate my job."

He exits out the car anyway, already preparing the lecture he's going to give you. Then, with a practiced sigh, he pulls out his phone, taps through a few screens, and brings up your location.

Of course you forgot to disable sharing.

"There you are," he mutters, watching your little dot move suspiciously closer to a crowd on the map.

He doesn't even flinch.

"Unbelievable."

But deep down, he's not even surprised.

AT THE AREA OF THE CONCERT

"I'm so happy Rual had me disguise myself," you murmur, tugging your hoodie low and adjusting your mask as the faint sound of music echoes through the air. "Otherwise, this concert would've turned into a signing event..."

You say it lightly, but the disguise is doing its job. So far.

The walkway ahead has transformed into something surreal. Instead of a typical stage setup, the crowd has formed a wide circle, tightly packed but leaving the center completely empty as if something, or someone, is supposed to be there.

It's unspoken but understood this is the stage.

No risers, no lighting rigs, no velvet ropes. Just a raw, open space surrounded by people buzzing with curiosity. Phones are already up. Some fans are whispering excitedly. Others look as confused as you feel.

Is this even the right concert?

You push your way closer, muttering polite apologies as you weave through the growing mass of bodies. The atmosphere is electric—expectant, as if the whole space is holding its breath. You reach the inner edge of the circle, finally getting a full view.

Then—

PSSHHH!

Pink smoke erupts from both ends of the walkway, shooting into the air with a sharp hiss. Glittering particles catch in the golden sunset light, swirling like cotton candy clouds. The crowd gasps, half from surprise and half from delight.

Five silhouettes step through the haze, one by one, emerging from the smoke like something out of a dream. Each boy is dressed in their own soft pastels/street wear style, and all of them look completely unshaken by the sea of strangers watching them.

The music hits without warning.

A pulsing beat drops, and in perfect timing, one of them throws a fist in the air as his voice breaks through the sound.

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!"

The chant is electric, simple, bold, and alive. The crowd responds instantly, shouting the "Hey!"s back with rising energy. Some people start dancing in place. Others clap. It's contagious.

"Don't want you, need you, yeah, I need you to fill me up"

The five boys jump into formation, synchronized and sharp, their movements clean and effortless even without a stage. You're no expert, but you can tell, they've practiced this. They're good. Really good.

"마시고마셔봐도,성에차지않아"

And suddenly, you forget how new they are.

"Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah), You could be everything that"

Because in this moment, with pink smoke drifting behind them and the beat shaking through your chest, the Saja Boys don't feel new or feel real.

"That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet). Every sip makes me want more, yeah"

They feel like a group that's already arrived and has been here for a long time. And yet...

There's something about them that makes your skin prickle.

Not fear. Not danger. Just—unease.

A strange tension underneath the perfect execution. Like something's off, but too subtle to name. Maybe it's the way their eyes occasionally flick past the crowd—like they're watching for something else. Or someone.

There's something about them that makes your skin prickle.

"Lookin' like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo). Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah"

Okay... this might actually be good.

You catch yourself smiling behind your mask, nodding a little to the rhythm. But then—

Then you glance left, and your stomach drops.

Three girls stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their box-forgotten in their hands. Their expressions have gone from anger to frozen.

Huntr/x.

You blink rapidly, pretending you don't see them. But it's too late.

One of them, Mira, pulls her glasses down just enough to see past your hood.

She squints.

Then recognition hits her like a truck.

"Miku?" she hisses in disbelief, eyes wide. "Are you serious?!"

You shrink half an inch, giving a guilty little wave. "Hey... fancy seeing you guys here..."

"You're supposed to be with Rual!" another one whispers, Zoey, trying not to raise her voice and cause a scene. "You're so not supposed to be here."

You chuckle nervously, glancing toward the smoke-drenched walkway as the music continues. One of the Saja Boys begins singing—his voice smooth, velvety, and oddly calming.

You nod toward the performance. "Technically, I'm doing research. For... talent scouting?"

Their stares say they're not buying it.

Then, your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You don't want to look. You know who it is.

You do anyway.

Rual: "Your GPS dot is in the middle of a concert. Tell me that's a glitch."

You swallow hard, slowly putting your phone away without replying.

The music kicks up, and the pink smoke begins to thin as the song is near its end, and boom!, a huge ass soda pop appears and all five boys dance in sync, the lead vocal belting a high note that earns a few cheers from the crowd.

Enjoying the show until—

A hand grabs your wrist.

You flinch, only to realize it's Rumi, the leader of Huntr/x. She's suddenly in front of you, gently pulling you back behind her as her gaze locks onto the boys.

Her stance is still, but you can feel the tension radiating off her. Her voice is low, steady.

"You shouldn't be here," she says, still watching the performance.

You blink. "Wait—what?"

Without looking back, she mutters, "It's not safe... especially with those demons here."

You freeze.

Demons?

"Wait—what did you just say?" you ask, but she doesn't repeat herself.

You glance at the other two Huntr/x members. They're no longer casual or curious. Their smiles are gone, replaced with unreadable expressions. Eyes locked on the boys. Shoulders squared.

Something's wrong.

You look back toward the Saja Boys, still performing with impossible energy—spinning in perfect unison on top of the soda can, one of them belting a final chorus while the other dance in sync like robots.

They feel like they belong here.

But your instincts whisper otherwise.

Are Huntr/x... jealous?

The thought throws you. These girls are the top, international fame, sold-out stadiums, exclusive endorsements. These boys? Barely known. Barely debuted. And yet...

Their presence is undeniable.

And unnerving.

The music shifts, building toward a climax.

"They're not what they look like," Rumi mutters under her breath. "And trust me, this isn't just a show."

You glance back up, just in time to see one of the Saja Boys staring directly at you. (Guess who?)

His head is tilted ever so slightly.

He's smiling.

Not the fanservice kind of smile.

Not the idol kind.

But the kind of smile someone gives when they've found exactly what they were looking for.

And you?

You suddenly don't feel like a fan.

You feel like bait.

"That's it for now," the black-haired boy from the Saja Boys called out with a confident grin, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd. "See you tonight on everyone's favorite variety show, the Saja Boys. Love you, my little soda pop."

The crowd cheered loudly, but before the applause could swell any further, the boys suddenly stepped back toward the edges of the soda can.

Pink smoke burst out again, swallowing them whole.

You blink and, in that moment, you feel it.

All five of them are staring straight at you.

Their smirks don't fade.

Then—

A sudden flash of yellow lights up their eyes.

And purple cracks ripple across their skin like fractured glass, glowing faintly in the smoky haze.

A chill rushes down your spine.

In your mind, a voice soft, but ice-cold whispers

"이따 봐, 내 사랑, 항상 ���켜보고 있어"

Your heart pounds.

The crowd is still cheering.

But you know something else entirely has just begun.

A hand suddenly tugs at your shoulder, spinning you around.

There stands Rual, his expression sharp—definitely not happy. "Why did you run off? Your luck—"

But you barely hear the rest. Your mind is still reeling from what just happened. The glowing eyes, the purple cracks, that chilling whisper echoing in your head. Your breath comes out shaky.

Rual's eyes catch the scared look in yours. His tense posture softens immediately. Without a word, he pulls you into a firm, reassuring hug.

"Come on," he murmurs gently. "Let's get you back to the car."

You let yourself lean into him, feeling a tiny bit safer in his grip.

He leads you away from the crowd, and just before you reach the car, he pauses and turns to the three girls from Huntr/x who've been watching quietly.

"You guys need a ride?" he asks, voice steady and calm.

Their eyes flicker with surprise, but after a moment, they nod.

Rual's protective side is already kicking in.

[nalgotica]

mean boyfriend toji who doesn't even fuck you. sometimes, he'll just sit on a chair placed at the end of your bed, fist his cock, and watch you pathetically moan his name while you hump a toy that could barely reach as deep as he could.

your mewls of "please fuck me!" and "i need your dick!" almost reach his heart. it mostly goes down to his cock—which is leaking pre-cum and glistening in the dim orange light from the lamp on the nightstand—watching you rock back and forth on the toy and the cum that drips down your tummy and thighs from your previous releases.

but your pleas finally reach him. toji stops fucking his hand, standing up from the chair and heading towards you. one hand pins you down on your back while the other drags the toy teasingly slow, making sure the cheap silicone drags just right against your throbbing prostate.

"atta boy," he'll coo, sickly sweet as he lines his cock up right to your rim, experimentally nudging your puffy hole with the tip, "now, it's time for the real thing."

[lalo0]

You're under arrest

Male reader x Ningning

Word Count: 6.5k

Tags: handcuffs, dom/sub, rough sex, dirty talk, teasing, squirting

The late summer heat is dense, pressing against your back as you walk the side streets of Gangnam, hoodie clinging to your skin, bag heavy from whatever errands you didn’t finish. You’re not really paying attention. It’s one of those days — too hot, too quiet, and your brain’s half-fogged with sweat and leftover thoughts.

You’re almost past the alley when a voice cuts through the still air.

"You. Stop."

Firm. Clear. Female.

You freeze.

There’s a moment — not even a second — where you think no way, and then she steps into your line of sight.

Boots first. Then toned legs wrapped in fitted navy pants, a matching belt, a black walkie dangling at her side, and a crisp short-sleeved shirt tucked in tight. Shiny badge at her chest. Cap tilted just enough to shadow her face.

And sunglasses. Of course.

She’s in full uniform. Not sloppy. Not casual. It looks official. Too official.

She lifts a brow. “You’re ignoring a direct order from law enforcement?”

You glance around. No one else in the alley. You look back at her.

She doesn’t flinch.

You swallow. “Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” she echoes. And there’s something dangerous in how she says it. Something entertained. Like she’s waiting for you to fuck up further.

“I mean—officer.”

Her mouth quirks. Not quite a smile.

She steps closer. Not fast. Measured. You feel yourself stiffen, posture going awkwardly straight, like some old muscle memory from high school kicking in.

“Empty your pockets,” she says.

You blink. “Seriously?”

“You've been drinking?”

“No.”

“Drugs?”

“What? No.”

She stares. Too calm.

“Then you’ve got nothing to hide. Empty your pockets.”

You hesitate. Then sigh and start digging. Wallet. Keys. Phone. A stick of gum.

You hold them out like a student showing a teacher clean hands.

She glances down, barely even registering them. Then her gaze flicks back to yours.

She lifts her shades — slow — and it finally hits you. That face. That mouth. The curve of her cheek, the shape of her brow. Familiar in a way that tugs somewhere deep in your chest.

But it doesn’t land. Not yet. Like a dream you forgot the second you woke up.

She clicks her tongue. “And what were you doing loitering back there?”

“Just walking. Not loitering.”

She steps forward.

Close.

Her presence is heat and authority, and it’s ridiculous how your pulse reacts. There’s nothing playful in her posture — just calm control.

“Turn around,” she says.

You hesitate. “Are you actually—”

“Do you want to be detained?”

The back of your throat goes dry.

You turn.

Your bag slides off one shoulder. You hear the soft click of cuffs.

Cold metal. Real weight. Around your wrists.

Your heart kicks up.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, trying not to panic. “Seriously, what is this—”

She steps in close behind you. You can feel her body at your back. Not pressed, but there. Solid. Present.

Her breath brushes your neck. “You really don’t remember me?”

You freeze.

“What?”

She hums. Low. Like a private joke.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she whispers. “We used to build blanket forts. You always made me the bad guy.”

Your breath hitches. You turn your head slightly, but she doesn’t let you see her.

Too late.

Your brain scrambles, reaching — old memories, old summers, a girl with scraped knees and a laugh that made your chest ache even when you were fifteen.

But it doesn’t make sense.

She presses the cuffs tighter.

“Still nothing?” she says, almost pouting.

And then she bites your ear. Not hard. Just enough.

You jolt.

She lets out a breathy laugh and finally circles back around you, face full in the light now, shades gone. Hair a mess, smile wicked.

And goddamn — the recognition finally punches through.

But before you can say her name, she tilts her head and says, “Don’t say it. Not yet.”

Then, while you’re still stunned, she tugs you by the front of your hoodie and pulls you deeper into the alley — out of sight, out of breath, out of time.

The alley stretches longer than it should, or maybe you’re just too stunned to track distance. You’re half-walking, half-dragged, wrists still cuffed behind your back, tripping a little over your own feet. Her grip is firm on your hoodie, knuckles brushing the bare skin at your throat as she holds you close, like you’re some idiot who might run.

But you’re not running. You can’t. You wouldn’t even know where.

She stops suddenly and turns. The back wall of the alley is just brick and shadow, and your chest brushes hers with how close she’s pulled you.

You look down at her. She hasn’t said another word.

Just staring.

There’s a flicker in her eyes—something waiting to see what you'll do now that you’ve had a second to catch up.

“I—” you start, but your voice cracks.

She raises a brow. “You?”

You look away, chest tight. She doesn’t give you time to regroup.

“Still confused?” she asks softly. There’s no mockery this time. Only heat.

Your breath catches. The realization of who she is still hasn’t settled. She’s older now. Sharper. Everything that used to be soft has been carved into something dangerous. Something magnetic. But that smile, that lilt in her voice—it’s still there underneath, like a ghost.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. I mean... yeah.”

She leans in just enough to brush your cheek with hers, the cap brim skimming your temple. “I didn’t think you’d actually forget me,” she murmurs. “That’s the part that stings.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

She exhales sharply and pulls back—less playful now. Her hand slides down your chest, fingers skimming the hem of your hoodie like she’s testing it for weak spots.

“You always used to stare when I wore your clothes,” she says. “I used to wonder if you knew.”

“I didn’t—”

“But now?” Her fingers curl at your waistband. “Now you’re doing more than staring.”

You flinch at the contact. Not because it hurts. Because it doesn’t.

And that scares the hell out of you.

She tugs your hoodie up with both hands, exposing your stomach. Her eyes drop there. You’re breathing too fast. Your arms are still behind you, and she hasn’t even loosened the cuffs.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” she asks, voice quieter, throatier now.

“I’m trying to figure out if I’m hallucinating,” you admit.

She lets out a small laugh. “You’re not. You’re just in trouble.”

Then she drops to her knees.

Your brain lurches.

“Wait—” you start, but she’s already unbuttoning your jeans, slow, fingers confident. Not rushed. Not uncertain.

You look down at her. Her expression is pure mischief, tempered by something hotter. Hungrier.

She doesn’t break eye contact as she pulls your zipper down.

“Ning,” you say her name like it slipped out without permission.

She stills. Just for a second.

Her eyes flash.

“You weren’t supposed to say it yet,” she whispers.

And then her hand is inside your waistband.

Everything in you goes tight.

You stagger slightly, cuffed hands straining against the metal behind you. “Shit—”

She hushes you with a single glance.

“You’re not in control right now,” she says, fingers wrapping around your cock. “So don’t act like you are.”

You groan as she strokes you once, slow. Then again, firmer.

The heat in your stomach is immediate.

You feel fucking helpless—cornered, locked up, twisted in place by memory and need and whatever this is becoming.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” she says, almost to herself. “I didn’t plan to. I just... saw you. And you didn’t recognize me. And I thought, fuck it.”

Her thumb swipes across the head of your cock and you nearly choke on a moan.

“And now,” she adds, voice like a promise, “I’m not stopping until I’ve made sure you never forget me again.”

She’s still got you cuffed. Wrists locked tight behind your back. Chest heaving. Jeans half-off. And she’s looking up at you like this is the first time she’s ever seen something worth worshiping.

And for a second—one long, blistering second—you feel powerful.

But then she tilts her head, and you realize she’s in control of everything. Even that. Especially that.

She gives your cock a slow stroke, base to tip. Her thumb presses down against the vein with maddening pressure before circling the head with just enough slick to make your knees almost buckle.

You hiss, breath jerking out of you like she punched the air from your lungs. “Fuck…”

She hums like it’s a satisfied answer.

Then leans in, just close enough for her breath to graze the tip of your cock without letting her mouth touch.

You twitch in her hand. Your whole body feels strung up, wired. She’s barely done anything and already you’re starting to break apart.

“You’re quieter than I expected,” she murmurs, voice low and sweet and unbothered. “I figured you’d talk more.”

You try. You really do. But the words catch on your tongue.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, thumb brushing lazily under the head. “Too much?” Her tone is soft mockery, but there’s something beneath it. Warm. Intimate. A little cruel.

“You’re fucking insane,” you manage.

“I’m thorough,” she corrects, still smiling, still not letting up.

She tightens her grip for a moment—not to hurt, just enough to command your attention—and then strokes you again, slower. Like she’s savoring it. Like she’s tasting the reaction before even taking you in.

You press your back to the wall, legs shaking. “You’re seriously just gonna… do this? In an alley?”

“You want me to stop?”

You hesitate.

She waits, gaze never leaving your face.

“…No,” you admit.

There it is. That wicked little grin spreads like wildfire. “Good boy.”

The phrase lands harder than it should.

You don’t even like being called that.

But when she says it—

God.

You don’t get to dwell. Because she shifts forward on her knees and finally puts her mouth on you.

No warning. No build-up. Just heat and pressure and wet, perfect suction. Her lips seal around the head and she sinks down slow—inch by agonizing inch—until her nose is pressed against your skin and your knees are fucking shaking.

You grunt, hips twitching despite yourself, and she lets out a low hum like she’s encouraging it.

Her tongue works you like she remembers every sensitive spot you never told anyone about. She bobs once, twice—then pulls off with a wet pop that makes your head thunk against the wall.

You’re gasping now. Hard.

“I said don’t act like you’re in control,” she murmurs, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “That means no thrusting.”

“I didn’t—”

She cuts you off by wrapping her mouth around you again, this time faster. Her hands settle on your thighs, fingers splayed like anchors, and you get the message: stay still.

And you try.

But she’s relentless. She sucks like she’s proving something. Like she’s been thinking about this. Like she needs to know what sounds you’ll make when she finally pushes you past the edge.

Your cuffs bite into your wrists with every shaky breath. Your spine’s bowed tight. Vision blurring. You moan—loud this time—and her eyes flick up to watch your face while she does it again.

It’s unbearable.

And fucking perfect.

“Ning—” you breathe, but she doesn’t let you finish.

Instead, she pulls off and rises to her feet in one fluid motion, grabbing your jaw with one hand as she leans in, lips just brushing yours.

“I want you to remember something,” she whispers.

You nod, dazed. “Anything.”

She bites your lower lip. Not gentle. Not cruel. Just enough.

“You don’t come,” she says. “Not until I say.”

You groan, hips jerking forward. She slaps your stomach lightly with the back of her hand.

“Don’t test me,” she says.

You believe her.

She shoves your jeans the rest of the way down and kicks your ankles apart. Her hands are rougher now—impatient, greedy—and you can’t stop the shiver that runs through you when she grabs your cock again and gives it a possessive pump.

You’re leaking. Desperate. Your brain’s not working.

And she knows it.

“Didn’t think I’d come back looking like this, did you?” she mutters as her hand works you with firm, punishing strokes. “Thought I’d stay small and sweet forever, huh?”

You pant, shaking your head. “I didn’t think—I wasn’t—”

She cuts you off by squeezing right under the head until your legs nearly give out.

“Quiet,” she says. “Let me enjoy you.”

You fall silent. What else can you do?

Your breath comes in shallow bursts. Her hand is merciless. She jerks you off with all the control in the world, letting your tip brush her stomach every time your hips jerk forward like you’re chasing friction.

And then, right when your abs start to tighten and the pressure starts to crest, she stops.

Lets go.

Steps back.

You choke.

“No, no, don’t—”

She tuts. “I said don’t come. You were getting close.”

You nod furiously. Too fast. “I didn’t. I swear.”

“Good.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, she sinks to the ground again and opens her mouth, tongue out, eyes gleaming.

You make a sound that’s not even human.

But before she lets you in, she says one more thing:

“If you so much as twitch without permission…” She drags her tongue up the underside of your cock. “I’ll stop. And you’ll walk home like this.”

You nod.

She smirks.

And then she starts again—faster this time.

No teasing.

No mercy.

And you realize you’re going to die in this alley.

Or worse—survive, and never stop thinking about this moment for the rest of your fucking life.

You don't know how long she keeps you there.

It could be seconds. Minutes. Your sense of time’s completely shredded—dissolved somewhere between the way her mouth moves and the way your arms are still cuffed, tension building in your spine like a snapped wire just waiting to recoil.

She’s working you like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

Because you can’t remember ever being this hard, this desperate, this fucked up over someone with nothing but a mouth and a voice and a memory she’s dangling just out of reach.

You try not to move. You try not to breathe wrong. But it’s getting harder every time her tongue slides under the head and she sucks, cheeks hollowing like she’s draining the resistance right out of your body.

You whimper—actually whimper—and she pulls off again, lips wet, spit stringing from her mouth to your tip. She grins like she’s proud of the mess she’s making.

“Still holding it in?” she asks, breathless.

You nod, too frantic to speak.

“Good boy,” she murmurs again. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

She rises without warning and pulls your hoodie the rest of the way off, the fabric catching at your elbows while your wrists are still cuffed. You stumble slightly, exposed, vulnerable, the damp heat of the alley clinging to your skin. Your cock’s still out, still leaking, pulsing with every heartbeat.

You’re fucking ruined, and she hasn’t even taken off her uniform yet.

She shoves you back against the wall, hard enough that it knocks the wind out of you for a second. Her hand lands flat on your chest to keep you there.

“You always thought you were the careful one,” she says. “But look at you.”

You meet her eyes. There’s something in them—wild, electric—but under that, something else. Something that flickers the moment your gaze softens.

She sees it too. And it pisses her off.

“Don’t,” she snaps, voice dropping. “Don’t give me that look like I’m still the girl you remember. I’m not. I’m the one you forgot.”

“I didn’t—”

“Shut up.”

Her mouth is on yours before you can argue. Hot. Messy. Nothing delicate about it. Her teeth drag against your bottom lip. Her tongue pushes in like it belongs there. You kiss back like you’re drowning.

Because you are.

You lean into it, as much as your cuffs will allow, and she moans—actual sound this time, full and guttural—and fuck, it does something to you. The way she grinds against your thigh, still in those tight navy pants, breath catching, like she’s the one coming undone now.

You chase that.

She breaks the kiss with a gasp and shoves her fingers into your hair, gripping hard. “You think you can turn this on me?”

You nod. Then shake your head. You don’t even know what you’re agreeing to anymore.

She laughs. “Pathetic.”

But she doesn’t sound mad. Not really.

She steps back, grabs your jaw, turns your face to the side. You feel her mouth on your neck, teeth scraping skin like she’s trying to mark you. And she might be. You wouldn’t stop her.

You’d let her do anything right now.

She palms your cock again. Just once. Just enough to remind you how fucking close you are.

“Don’t beg,” she whispers. “It won’t work.”

You almost laugh. But then her other hand snakes between your legs and cups your balls—gentle at first, then not—and the sound you make isn’t laughter at all.

“Sensitive,” she murmurs, almost admiring. “God, you always were.”

You want to say something. Anything.

But then she reaches behind herself and undoes her belt with one smooth pull. It clinks to the pavement, loud in the quiet. Your mouth goes dry.

She keeps her eyes on yours as she tugs her pants down—just enough to sit low on her hips. Her underwear’s black, soft cotton. No lace. No drama.

But you can already see the damp patch spreading across it.

Your breath stutters.

She notices.

“Touch me and I’ll break your fingers,” she says.

Your wrists are still cuffed.

You couldn’t even if you tried.

And that makes it worse.

She presses against you, crotch to thigh, grinding slowly, her slick soaking through. She grabs your jaw again and kisses you hard, biting at your tongue this time like she’s daring you to flinch.

You don’t.

She pulls back.

“You’re shaking.”

You are.

“So close it hurts?” she whispers, hand sliding between your bodies, brushing over your cock again with maddening care.

You nod, jaw tight.

She strokes you twice—firm, slow, cruel.

Then stops again.

You groan. Actually groan.

“Ning…”

She smirks. “Say that again.”

You hesitate.

“Say it.”

“…Ning.”

She kisses your throat. “Louder.”

“Ning.”

She strokes again. You thrust helplessly into her grip.

“Tell me how much you missed me.”

“I—”

She squeezes. Your breath catches.

“Tell me.”

“I missed you,” you gasp. “Fuck, I missed you.”

She hums, pleased. “Good boy.”

She doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Instead, she turns you around again—slow, intentional—and presses your chest to the wall.

You feel her unzip her own pants fully behind you, hear the shift of fabric.

Her hand reaches between your legs, lifts your cock from behind, jerking it with ruthless control while she ruts herself against your ass, panting, soaking, still half-clothed, the two of you hidden in this goddamn alley like feral animals.

And when you twitch again—when your body starts to seize from the edge—

She stops.

Again.

“Still not yet,” she whispers in your ear.

You let out a broken noise. Barely a word. Barely human.

She licks the shell of your ear, lips brushing the curve with something almost tender.

And just when you think she’s done—

She unlocks the cuffs.

Letting your arms fall forward. Numb. Shaking.

And then, stepping back into your line of sight, she says:

“Your turn.”

She’s in front of you now. Pants undone. Shirt still tucked in, badge still gleaming, like this is still her scene.

But the second the cuffs click open, something shifts.

Not in the air. Not in her stance.

In you.

And she knows it. You see it flicker in her eyes the moment your arms fall forward, wrists red from where she held you. She straightens, but doesn’t move back. Doesn’t run. Just watches.

You step forward.

Slow.

Measured.

You reach for her face — not rough, not sweet — just certain. Fingers curling under her jaw, thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth, still wet from everything she just did to you.

“You don’t get to start something like that,” you murmur, “and walk away when it turns.”

She smiles like she doesn’t believe you.

But she doesn’t stop you either.

You kiss her.

And this time it’s yours.

She makes a sound — a small surprised breath against your lips — and you don’t let up. You grab her wrist with your free hand and shove it above her head, pinning it to the brick behind her. She gasps, and that’s when you use the moment to step between her legs, pressing into the wet heat of her core.

Her hips twitch.

"Already soaked," you whisper against her lips. "And you’ve barely even been touched."

She grins like she’s still the one in control. “You’re not that scary.”

“Good,” you say. “I’m not trying to scare you.”

Your mouth dips to her neck. You bite her there — just hard enough to make her flinch, make her gasp — and she grabs at your shoulders, nails digging in.

She pushes back, but not to escape. It’s the kind of resistance that’s begging to be overpowered.

So you do.

You hike her leg up around your waist and push her hard against the wall. Your cock’s still out, still slick, and she’s right there, heat and wetness pressed to the length of you, still caged behind her underwear.

She pants in your ear.

“I thought you weren’t gonna beg,” you murmur.

She huffs, laughing into your shoulder. “I won’t.”

“Liar.”

You drag your hand between her legs and rub her through the soaked fabric, the friction making her tremble.

She tries to stay quiet.

You don’t let her.

You find the edge of her underwear and tug it aside — slowly, deliberately — baring her to the humid air and your fingers. She’s drenched. Swollen. Pulsing.

You slide two fingers inside without warning.

She bites your neck to keep from crying out.

“Still want to pretend you’re in charge?” you breathe against her hair, curling your fingers inside her just right.

She grabs your shirt like she might rip it.

But she doesn’t answer.

You pull your fingers out and shove them into her mouth.

“Suck.”

She does.

God, she does.

Her tongue swirls over them, lips tight, and you almost lose it right there. Her eyes flick up to yours, dark and defiant, and the sight of her like that — uniform half-undone, panting around your fingers, still pretending not to need you — it shatters something in you.

You yank her panties down with one hand and line yourself up.

She pulls off your fingers just long enough to mutter, “Don’t make me wait.”

You don’t.

You thrust into her in one deep, sharp motion — and she gasps, back arching hard against the wall, legs tightening around your hips like she’s trying to keep you inside forever.

You brace one arm behind her back and fuck into her — deep, steady, mean. No softness. Just the sound of your hips slamming into hers, wet and filthy and real.

She moans into your neck, biting to muffle it, and you feel her walls clench around you.

You kiss her again, devouring her moans, your fingers still holding her jaw as you rut into her like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

She whimpers — actually whimpers — and that’s when you know.

She’s close.

So you stop.

Dead still.

Her head jerks back in shock. “What—”

You smile. “You don’t get to come yet.”

She groans, hips rolling, trying to chase the friction.

You pull out halfway and slam back in, slow and punishing.

Her voice breaks.

“Please.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Say it again.”

She stares, defiant.

You pull out. All the way.

“No—fuck, fine—please. Don’t stop.”

You lean in close, breath against her lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

And then you give her what she begged for.

You pound into her, this time faster, deeper — all frustration and heat and all the things she stirred up the second she walked into your life again. You watch her come undone — nails scraping your skin, body trembling, voice cracking into gasps and moans she can’t hide anymore.

When she breaks, it’s messy.

Loud.

Raw.

Her head drops to your shoulder, and she curses your name like it hurts.

You hold her through it. Fuck her through it.

And when you finally let yourself go — when you come inside her so deep you swear you forget your own name — it’s like everything goes still.

Like the world narrows to the two of you in this alley. Tangled. Sweaty. Shaking.

You stay there, forehead pressed to hers, breath mixing in the sticky air.

Neither of you says a word for a long time.

You’re still buried deep inside her when her breath starts to steady. Her grip on your back loosens, legs falling slightly from around your waist, but you don’t move. You’re not done.

Not even close.

You lean in, voice a low rasp against her ear. “Don’t think that was it.”

She shivers. “No?”

You draw your hips back slowly — not out, just enough for her to feel the drag — and then slam forward, sharp and brutal, knocking a gasp out of her.

Her hands scramble against your shoulders. “F–fuck—”

“Keep up,” you growl, catching both her wrists and pinning them above her head again. She’s slick, trembling, stretched to her limit, but her expression is wild now — open and needy, every bit of her screaming yes even if her mouth won’t.

You move again. Harder. A brutal rhythm, each thrust landing with obscene sound. Her body jerks with the force, head falling back against the wall, mouth parted in shock as you fuck her like you’re trying to break her in.

And maybe you are.

Her cuffs dangle forgotten near your feet. Her badge is still clipped to her shirt — barely hanging on — and you can feel the heat of her through every point of contact.

You press your forehead to hers. “You’re mine right now.”

She moans, voice cracking. “Then take me.”

You do.

You grab one of her thighs and lift it again, angling her just right, and drive in deeper — punishing, relentless. She cries out, loud, raw, fingers clenching your forearm as her entire body bucks into yours.

“I missed this,” you mutter against her jaw. “You ruined me back then. And now you’re gonna pay for it.”

“Then shut up,” she snarls between gasps. “And fucking ruin me.”

You slam into her so hard she knocks the back of her head against the brick. Her eyes roll back, a stuttered curse flying from her lips, and you catch her by the waist before she can slump.

You flip her around again.

Face-first to the wall.

No warning.

She yelps — surprised — but arches her back, grinding her ass against your cock with a filthy little whimper like she was hoping you’d do this.

“Look at you,” you whisper, grabbing her hip. “Dripping down your legs and still begging for it.”

“Shut up,” she pants.

You spank her. Once. Sharp.

She gasps.

“Say please.”

“No.”

Another spank. This time harder.

Her breath shudders. Her thighs are slick. Her hands press flat to the brick like she needs it to stay upright.

“Say it.”

“…Please.”

You thrust back into her like a threat.

She screams.

You fuck her with everything you’ve been holding back — anger, memory, lust, the years between you crashing into a single vicious rhythm. Her moans are ragged, desperate, punched out of her with every slam of your hips. You snake a hand around to rub her clit and she jolts like you hit a nerve.

“Gonna come again?” you growl.

“Yes—yes—don’t stop—”

But you do stop.

She wails, slamming her hips back against you, trying to chase it.

You grab her by the hair and pull her upright, flush to your chest, your cock still buried inside her.

“Not yet.”

She’s sobbing with frustration — breathless, furious, soaked — and fuck if she doesn’t sound more turned on than ever.

“I hate you,” she pants.

You lick the shell of her ear. “No, you don’t.”

She laughs — broken, wrecked — and slams herself back onto your cock anyway.

You bite her shoulder and fuck her from behind, hand between her legs, working her clit with ruthless precision.

“Now,” you whisper. “Now you can come.”

And when she does—

She screams.

You hold her through it, riding her out while she clenches around you, shaking so hard you have to pin her against the wall just to keep her standing.

But you’re still hard.

And you’re not done.

Not until you’ve made sure she can’t walk out of this alley the same girl she was when she came in.

You slam your hips up into her, and the sound she makes is damn near broken. Her nails dig into your shoulders, then drag across your back as if she’s trying to mark you, but you barely register the sting. All you can focus on is the heat of her, the grip of her cunt, the way her voice cracks each time you hit just right.

You're fucking her like your sanity depends on it. Because maybe it does.

Her head falls back against the wall with a dull knock, and you lean in, lips grazing her jaw as you thrust harder, rougher. She’s soaking around you—wet, tight, relentless—and her breathless little gasps are nothing like the smug control she had earlier. You’ve got her unraveling now, squirming, writhing, clutching at you like she doesn’t know where the ground went.

“Eli—fuck—too deep—”

“Take it.”

You grit it out against her throat, biting down just below her ear. She whimpers, legs tightening around your waist, and your rhythm doesn’t falter. Not for a second. You’re inside her so deep it feels like there’s nothing else, no outside world, no heat, no alley—just this. Just her. Just the way she opens up around you like she was built for it.

She tries to grind her hips against you, tries to ride your cock even though you're the one in control now, but you pin her tighter to the wall with a savage snap of your hips that makes her cry out.

“You started this,” you growl. “You wanted my attention? You got it.”

Ningning moans, eyes fluttering open just long enough to meet yours—and god, there’s fire in them. Wild. Desperate. Beautiful. “Then don’t fucking stop,” she pants.

You don’t.

Your thrusts turn ruthless—deep, punishing, hungry. Her nails are leaving lines down your back, her legs are trembling around your waist, and her moans have turned hoarse, like she’s losing her voice with every pulse of your cock inside her.

You feel the way her body starts to lock up, how her pussy flutters around you like she’s on the edge again. But this time you don’t give her permission.

This time, you pull out.

She gasps, eyes wide, like you just yanked air from her lungs.

“What—? Eli, no—”

You flip her around before she can protest, her chest smacking against the rough wall, hands scrambling to steady herself. Your hand snakes into her hair, not cruelly, but firm—anchoring her in place as your other hand guides yourself back in from behind. She sobs out your name, high-pitched and cracked, and you bury yourself in her again with one brutal thrust.

She screams.

Not from pain—from need. From shock. From sheer fucking want.

Your hand slides down her spine, pressing between her shoulder blades as you fuck her into the bricks, her cheek scraping slightly against the surface as she whines, helpless now, wrecked.

You lean in close, lips to her ear. “You made such a big deal about control earlier,” you breathe. “Thought you’d tease me a little, play the cop, make me squirm. But look at you now.”

She whimpers as your hand slips down, finds her clit, and circles it once. She almost crumples.

“You gonna come like this?” you ask. “Pinned, fucked stupid, dripping down your legs?”

She can’t speak. Just nods.

You spank her once—sharply, fast—watching the way her ass jiggles, the sound echoing off the alley walls. She gasps.

“You don’t get to come yet,” you whisper.

“Eli—”

“You’ll come when I tell you.”

She trembles.

You fuck her harder.

Each thrust is brutal now, no pretense left. Just bodies colliding. Just hips slamming. Just need. You feel her start to shake again, her walls clenching around you, her legs almost giving out.

She’s babbling now. “Please—fuck—please, let me—let me—”

You twist your fist in her hair and yank her back just enough to whisper, “Now.”

She comes like an explosion—loud, desperate, like her body’s folding in on itself. She clenches so hard around you it rips the orgasm from you too. You groan as you slam into her one last time and spill inside, filling her with every pulse, every twitch, until your whole body is pressed against hers and you’re both shaking.

Silence hits.

Just panting.

Heavy breathing, sweat dripping, the slow cooling of fevered skin.

You don’t let go of her right away.

You keep her there—against the wall, against your chest, arms around her waist now instead of her throat or hair. Her body sags against yours, boneless and quiet.

Then she laughs.

Soft. Wrecked. Beautiful.

“You’re fucking insane,” she whispers.

You press your lips to the nape of her neck. “You started it.”

Her giggle’s lazy now. Content. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Guess I did.”

She leans back into you, breathing slowing, head resting against your shoulder now.

You don’t remember sliding down the wall. Just the way her body went soft against yours — like the fight had finally drained out of her, or maybe you’d both left the last of it in the air between you. Your knees give a little, and the next thing you know, you’re both on the ground, tangled in each other and sweat and the faint smell of city grime.

She’s half in your lap, legs still hooked loosely around you, head against your shoulder. Her cap is gone. Her shirt’s riding up, bra strap twisted. Your jeans are unzipped, your boxers sticky. Her thighs are a mess between them.

No one says anything for a while.

Just breath. Wind. The faint buzz of traffic somewhere distant. The world still exists out there — people living lives, eating dinners, watching dramas, never knowing two idiots just fucked each other half-conscious in the back corner of Gangnam.

Eventually, she shifts. Not much. Just a slow drag of her fingers along your arm, brushing past the edge of your sleeve like she’s testing if you’re real.

You let her.

Then you clear your throat. “You okay?”

She huffs a breath against your collarbone. “...Guess.”

“You were the one who cuffed me and dragged me into an alley.”

“And you liked it.”

You don't answer. Because yeah — you fucking did.

But there’s something quieter now, in the space between you. The adrenaline’s gone. The bravado too. She’s not the playful cop anymore. You’re not the half-lost, hoodie-clad boy wondering what the hell is going on.

You’re just… two people. With a long, messy, beautiful history stitched somewhere between the sweat and bruises.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that,” she murmurs.

“What?”

“All of it.” She swallows. “You. This.”

You look at her. Really look. There’s no smirk now. No sunglasses. No teasing voice. Just a girl with wrecked makeup and tangled hair, breathing slow in your arms, like she’s not sure what comes next.

“I still can’t believe it’s you,” you say.

Her lips twitch. “Then say my name.”

You hesitate.

And then, gently: “Ning.”

She closes her eyes. Just for a second. And when she opens them again, there’s something unguarded in her face. Something almost soft.

“God,” she mutters. “It really is you.”

You lean your head back against the wall. “Why didn’t you tell me right away?”

“Because I didn’t know if I wanted to.”

You look down.

She shrugs one bare shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything. I didn’t come back for closure or a grand reunion or some epic scene. I saw you. I was in a car—on my way somewhere I didn’t want to go—and I saw your face on the street like it hadn’t been ten years. And I thought... fuck it. Just once. Just one time.”

Her voice cracks a little on the last part. She catches it quick, breathes through it. But you notice.

And it sits in your chest like a stone.

“Ning…” you start, but she cuts you off.

“You didn’t write,” she says. Not angry. Just… honest. “After I moved. After that summer. You didn’t call. Didn’t try. And yeah, I know we were basically kids. But still.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“I thought you hated me,” you admit.

“I did.” She looks up at you. “But only because you stopped being the one thing I thought was real.”

Your stomach knots.

She sits up slowly, tugs at her shirt, fixes it absently. Not shy. Not modest. Just trying to breathe.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says finally, gesturing between you. “And I’m not asking for a label or an apology or a second chance. I just… I needed to see if you were still you.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But you reach out anyway. Not with words — with your hand. You tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture’s awkward, a little clumsy, but she leans into it all the same.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

She nods. “Me too.”

Then, quietly: “Did you really not recognize me?”

You shake your head. “Not at first. But… I think some part of me did. Deep down.”

She exhales. “That’s something.”

You sit there together a while longer, legs tangled, bodies cooling. At some point, you pull your hoodie off and give it to her. She slips it on without a word, pulls the sleeves over her hands. The smell of sweat and sex and summer wraps around her like a second skin.

When she speaks again, her voice is almost sheepish. “I don’t really have anywhere to be tonight.”

You glance sideways. “That a question or a statement?”

“Bit of both.”

You hesitate. Then: “You want to come back with me?”

She raises a brow. “That a question or a statement?”

You smirk. “Bit of both.”

Her laugh is softer now. Real.

“Yeah,” she says after a pause. “I’d like that.”

You both stand, a little sore, a little slow. She adjusts the hoodie, and you zip your jeans. She takes your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And as you leave the alley — her beside you, not behind or ahead — you realize the night hasn’t cooled much.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe, just maybe, this isn’t over yet.

Not even close.

-------

Author’s Note: This started as a one-shot, but… I thought of leaving an open ending in case you like it. If this hits 1,000 notes, I’ll write the continuation. Thanks for reading!

[kuiofficial]

May I request one where the Saja Boys noticed how male reader didn’t show any interest in them, so they decided to try to make him a fan, and somehow along the way the five of them wanted male reader to belong to them. Also is it possible for this one to be a mix of angst and smut?

I can try! It might not have too much angst though, cause Its a little bit hard to add in angst!

Fan Boy

Saja boys x male reader

Angst + smut? MINORS DNI

⚠️ warnings: mention of sa, sh, and all the other depressing stuff. And smut of course.

A/N: Hey guys im back from the break! I know it was a little longer than expected, hope you can forgive me!

A (h/c) haired male was sitting on the sidewalk of a busy street, crying softly into his sleeves. Suddenly he heard music playing from somewhere in the city center. Getting up from the sidewalk still sniffling, he wiped his tears making his way to the center. When he reached the center, he saw 5 boys performing a dance while music played in the background. Him being the confused one he was asked the person next to him, an older woman, what was going on.

Instead of the woman responding to him, she flashed him a glare. "You're interrupting me! I'm trying to watch them, and not you." She said to him, causing his brows to furrow slightly. Instead of asking another person, he just watched the people perform. It was almost like his worries disappeared, but even so it wasn't like the people who were practically screaming out their lungs.

When the song came to a stop, and the boys disappeared in a pink smoke. Everyone started clapping, but not him. He wasn't sure what to think about the song, so instead of clapping he just awkwardly left the area. When he was walking back to his house, he took an alleyway as a shortcut. Un(fortunate)ly for him, he ran into the 5 guys from earlier. On instinct the boys tried to charm you, which caused y/n to cringe at their attempts. This shocked them, and y/n took the chance to run home.

-this is a draft because im tired and lazy rn lol