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[mikaylathenerd5]

Lights Down Low + YAD Series One Shot

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❤�� Pairing: Roman Reigns × Shiloh Lucero (Black OC)

📌 Summary: Some nights aren’t just about sex. They’re about remembrance. Possession. A promise kept in the dark.

After weeks apart on the road, Roman returns—and he’s not in the mood for small talk. He wants to remind Shiloh exactly who she belongs to. What starts as soft intimacy under the dim glow of their bedroom light turns into something filthier, deeper. Rough hands. Whispers in her ear. A mirror that doesn't lie.

This isn’t just about need—it’s about claiming what’s his.

⚠️ Content Warning: This one-shot contains mature themes and explicit sexual content, including elements of dominance, emotional intensity, and intimate roughness within a consensual relationship. It may feature strong language, possessive behavior, and scenes that explore power dynamics and physical overstimulation. Reader discretion is advised.

💭 A/N: Just a quick heads up—this one’s on the longer side. It’s full of slow tension, layered intimacy, and detailed buildup, so if you’re looking for a quick read, this might not be your vibe (and that’s okay!).

Thank you in advance, loves, for taking the time to read and interact with my work. I appreciate it more than you know. As always, my inbox is open. 🖤

📝 Word Count: ~8.3k

Sometimes love isn’t soft — it’s fire and control, chaos and surrender, wrecking you only to make you whole again.

The air backstage was still hot from it. The match. The wreckage. The return.

Producers barked into headsets, crew ran cables, monitors flickered–none of it touched him. Roman moved through Gorilla like a storm still gathering, his walk slow but sharp, each footstep echoing louder than the last. No words. No nods. Just heat rolling off him in waves.

He hadn’t come back for praise. He came back to remind everyone what power felt like.

And he reminded them. Every last one of them.

But now, he was looking for her.

His shoulders stayed squared, face unreadable as he scanned the hallway just beyond the curtains. He saw her–tucked to the side near production crates, talking to someone. Laughing.

His stride didn’t break, but his jaw did tighten.

Shiloh stood relaxed, curls pulled back, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. She was wearing his hoodie–the old Bloodline one she always stole when he was gone. Her smile was easy, the kind she didn’t give just anyone. She rubbed at the hem absently between her fingers, like she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. Her phone was in her back pocket. She’d checked it earlier. No missed texts.

Naomi had warned her earlier that he might still be in "locked-in mode" after a night like this. That didn’t stop her from hoping he’d be different this time. It had been weeks since they’d last seen each other off-screen. She’d gotten used to the weight of missing him, but not the ache that followed.

Roman knew that laugh. Knew it in his bones. He knew what it sounded like when it was just for him–softer, throatier, laced with something only he ever got to pull from her. When it curled through the dark while her head rested on his chest. This laugh was different. Too bright. Too easy. Shared with someone who hadn’t bled to earn it. And it wasn’t for him. Not this time. Not in this moment.

The guy beside her–some medical staffer from NXT–stood too close. Laughing too freely. His hand brushed her wrist as he said something, and Roman felt it like a slap.

“You always working double duty?” the guy asked with a grin. “Must be exhausting being fine and essential.”

Roman slowed. The noise around him faded into a low, useless hum. Voices buzzed, cameras clicked, crew shouted–but none of it mattered. He moved through the chaos like a storm still rolling, not quite finished.

He caught the scent of sweat in the air, heat clinging to every surface, the faint tang of metal threaded through the adrenaline and motion. But it all blurred beneath the clarity of her. Her voice. Her smile. Her body language. The entire room bled out around her.

Shiloh turned at the shift in energy. She didn’t flinch. But she did brace. Not for what he’d say–he rarely needed words–but for how tightly the air stretched when he was near. That tension meant something. Always had.

Her smile caught at the edges, stalled by the shift in weight in the room–by him. “Hey, babe,” she said, light but cautious. “This is Devin. He’s filling in on PT tonight.”

Devin extended a hand. “Man, wild return out there. You killed it.”

Roman didn’t take the hand.

Didn’t speak. His jaw flexed once, barely visible. That was the only warning the guy would get.

Just looked at him.

He could’ve made a scene. Could’ve snapped back with a threat or shoved the guy without saying a word. But no–not yet. He wanted the silence to speak first. It always did. He held still. Let it simmer.

Devin cleared his throat and stepped back, his hand slowly dropping. The silence stretched. It made the space feel smaller.

Roman shifted his attention to Shiloh. Stepped in. Claimed space like it was his to take. His hand landed low on her back–steady, firm, deliberate.

She went still beneath it.

His fingers flexed once against the fabric, grounding himself in the reality of her body beneath his. Still here. Still his. He’d slept in this hoodie once while she was gone. Told himself it was just comfort. It wasn’t. The last time he touched her like this had ended with her breath hitching in his mouth, hoodie in a heap at their feet.

His voice was quiet, meant only for her. “We’ll talk when we’re alone.”

That was it. No anger. No scene. Just a promise wrapped in restraint.

He didn’t look back to see if she was coming. He never had to.

She hesitated. Just long enough for her heart to trip over itself. Had she smiled too easily? Had she waited too long to call him?

Then she moved. One step after another.

Roman remained rooted, unmoving. Shiloh’s feet carried her forward before her mind could catch up–drawn not by command, but by something quiet and magnetic, something threaded into the silence he left in his wake. Something she didn’t need to name to obey.

The silence between them was louder than the Gorilla’s chaos.

She followed.

In her chest, something heavy loosened. And in his shoulders, something darker settled.

No, this wasn’t over. It hadn’t even started yet.

And when it did, it wouldn’t be loud. It would be quiet. Sharp. The kind of reckoning that didn’t need an audience–only the two of them, standing at the edge of whatever this had become, ready to burn or rebuild. And tonight, he’d decide which.

Because this tension didn’t start in Gorilla. It started a week ago, in a different hotel room, with a different kind of ache.

—One Week Earlier—

The FaceTime connected without delay.

Roman looked drained—but not in a way that dulled him. His dark hair clung to his neck, jaw framed by a full, neatly groomed beard that begged to be kissed. He leaned back on the bed, lips parted, chest rising slow, deliberate.

“You good?” she asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “Missed your voice.”

Shiloh smiled, low and tired. “Missed you too.”

Silence fell between the two. But not empty. The kind of silence that buzzed with heat and memory.

“You wearing it?” he asked.

She angled the camera to show the oversized hoodie draped over her bare legs. His hoodie. “Haven’t taken it off since I got back to the room.”

“Fuck.” His throat worked. “Show me more.”

But she didn’t move right away.

Instead, she let the camera linger. She wanted him to see what he did to her just by asking. Her thighs shifted slightly, muscles tense beneath smooth skin, but she stayed quiet—breathing him in through the screen. The hoodie clung to her like his presence.

Roman adjusted the angle of his phone. One hand dragged slowly over the length of his cock, already thick in his palm. “Don’t make me wait, babygirl.”

The screen tilted again. Her thighs spread gradually, knees drawing up with purpose. She hadn’t worn anything underneath. She never did when she missed him like this. Her fingers skimmed lightly over her inner thighs, teasing herself before finally letting two fingertips brush the slick between her legs.

A sharp inhale slipped from her lips.

She let her fingers press against her clit in slow, purposeful circles—soft and deliberate. The rhythm built with each passing second, syncing with the way Roman's jaw flexed on the screen.

“You already this wet for me?”

A breathy nod. “Been like this just thinking about you.”

“Eyes on me.” His voice dropped, more command than request. “I want you watching every stroke.”

Her breath hitched. “Roman…”

“Look at what you do to me, babygirl.”

He angled the phone so she could see his cock—veins thick, precum shining along the tip as he stroked with slow, punishing control.

Her fingers moved faster now, dipping lower to circle her entrance before easing in. She gasped at the stretch—tight, teasing—then dragged them back up to flick her clit again. The hoodie slid up slightly on her hips, bunched in soft folds that clung to the heat of her skin. Her legs trembled. Her head tilted back, but she forced her gaze to stay locked on the screen.

He looked so good. Too good. Muscle and dominance, wrapped in restraint that was barely holding.

Roman’s breathing deepened. He watched her, hunger simmering low in his gut, the distance between them making everything sharper. No one else gets this. No one else sees her like this.

“You miss how I fill you up?”

“So much,” she whispered, fingers grinding harder now. Her thighs shook, pressure threatening to break.

“Say it.”

“I miss your cock. I miss how deep you fuck me. I miss your voice in my ear when I’m crying from how good it feels.”

His hand clenched around his cock. “You’re so fucking perfect like this. Don’t come yet.”

She whimpered. Her hips lifted off the mattress, trying to chase the orgasm already clawing through her spine. Her other hand moved instinctively to her chest, pinching one nipple through the fabric of his hoodie.

“Not yet,” he growled again.

Her mind blurred—only heat, only the phone screen, only him.

“You’ll come when I say. Not before.”Her body ached for release, every nerve begging to disobey, but her mind clung to his voice—tight, trembling, desperate to please. She bit her lip, whimpering, hips grinding against her fingers with frantic tension, her orgasm trembling just out of reach.

Then finally—“Now. Let me hear it.”

She shattered.

Her moans broke in waves, high and soft, breathless sobs spilling from her lips as she came. Her legs shook. Her back arched. Her fingers never stopped, drawing out every twitch of pleasure as her orgasm flooded through her.

Roman followed with a low groan, the sound deep and rough as he spilled over his hand, jaw tight as his own release overtook him.

After, the silence returned—but this time it was softer. Warmer.

He looked at her. Still hungry, but soft.

“Next time, I want to see my cum shining on those lips.”

She licked hers and smiled. “Yes, Daddy.”

He smirked, voice low. “That’s my good girl.”

The car ride back to the hotel was dead quiet.

Roman’s grip on the steering wheel flexed with every turn, knuckles pale under the passing streetlights. Not rage. Not quite. But something colder. Something harder. The kind of silence that said everything without a single word. If he said her name, he wouldn’t stop. So he didn’t. Just clenched the wheel tighter and let silence bruise his tongue instead.

He could still see it. That moment in Gorilla. That PT’s hand brushing her wrist—his woman. A sharp throb carved down his jaw, heat flaring behind his eyes before he forced it back down. Her laugh too damn sweet for a stranger. Roman hadn’t blinked. Just stared until the guy nearly stumbled over his own greeting.

Smile at her again, motherfucker. See what happens.

Shiloh watched him in profile, heart knocking gently against her ribs. He looked too calm. That kind of calm that meant he wasn’t. Not really. His jaw ticked like it hurt to hold everything in.

“You okay?” she asked, her voice barely more than a breath.

He nodded once. No words.

She reached for his thigh, hoping to ground them—to soften the space between them. Hoping he'd take her hand, squeeze it once like he used to when words felt too heavy. But he didn’t. And the emptiness that followed felt colder than any silence. But his leg shifted subtly out of reach.

Not cruel. Just… closed. Fortressed. And Shiloh had no key for this version of him.

The ache twisted under her ribs. Her fingers curled into the hem of her hoodie—his hoodie. A week ago, she was wearing it during a FaceTime call while her fingers worked between her thighs, and Roman groaned her name.

Now, he hadn’t even looked at her since they left the arena.

The turn signal clicked once. Then again. Roman didn’t glance her way as he spoke.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

Four words. Final. Cold. Sharp enough to cut.

“It wasn’t like that babe,” she whispered. “He was just being nice.”

Roman’s jaw flexed, eyes still on the road. “I don’t care if he was passing you a water bottle. His hand was too fucking close.”

Shiloh looked away, biting her lip. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Her laugh had been too loud. Too easy. She hadn’t meant for it to land wrong, but Roman knew what her real laugh sounded like—the one that curled low in her throat when she was flushed, needy, whispering his name. That laugh was his. This one? He didn’t recognize it.

Fuck, was she trying to make him jealous?

No. She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

A week ago, he had her shaking over FaceTime. Her voice cracked when she begged to come, hoodie halfway off her shoulders, fingers soaked. He’d whispered, That’s my good girl.

“If this is you pissed off,” she murmured, “then just say it.”

He exhaled, slow. “You think I’m pissed?”

“You won’t even look at me.”

Roman finally turned to her, his voice dark. “Because if I do, I’m not gonna be able to hold back.”

Now, she sat next to him in silence, unsure if she still was. Her thigh tensed. She shifted in her seat, biting down on the inside of her cheek as a memory flickered—his voice, low and raspy, telling her she was his. That was only days ago. So why did it feel like a lifetime?

Roman flexed his jaw. His voice had stayed buried long enough. He wanted to say it—I didn’t like him looking at you like that. I wanted to break his fucking hand. But instead, he drove.

Beside him, Shiloh stared out the window. Her reflection flickered in the glass, lips parted like she wanted to speak but didn’t trust the words. He hadn’t let her in yet, not really, and her mind was already turning—Is this punishment? Did I make him feel replaceable?

She swallowed hard, blinking against the sting behind her eyes. The car felt colder than it should’ve. Like his distance was sinking into her skin, crawling under the fabric of her clothes, settling in her chest like ice. Her fingers trembled in her lap, and the ache of it pressed deep into her collarbones—tight, unrelenting.

Say something, please.

Roman looked at her then. Just a flicker, but it was enough. His gaze heavy. His chest rising slower than before.

He didn’t look angry. He looked starved—for her touch, her sounds, the quiet way she used to lean into him like he was the only man in the world. Like she still belonged to him.

They reached the hotel, pulling into the lot with a quiet screech of tires. Roman parked but didn’t move. Just sat there, staring ahead.

“Are you gonna talk to me tonight?”

He finally glanced over, voice low and heavy. “I’m gonna do more than talk.”

She didn’t know if he’d speak again tonight.

But when he did—it wouldn’t be soft.

And she didn’t want it to be.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Roman dropped their bags by the wall. Turned the lock. Still silent.

Shiloh didn’t expect him to speak. Not yet. His mood lingered like static—thick, humming, heavy. She paused just inside the room, breath catching in her throat, shoulders tensing instinctively beneath the weight of his silence. So she didn’t poke the storm. She slipped into the bathroom, peeling off her hoodie and jeans with fingers that shook more than she’d admit.

She reached for one of his shirts—the faded black one with the stretched collar. Her favorite. It still smelled like him. She slipped it over her head, wearing nothing but her panties underneath.

The mirror caught her just as she tugged it on. Hair messy. Eyes rimmed in doubt. Skin flushed in places he hadn’t touched yet.

Maybe this is all we have tonight. Maybe this is how he needs to love me—through control.

She exhaled slowly. Let her fingers drift over the fabric near her thighs. Imagined his hands there instead. Imagined how it felt the last time he gripped her hips so tight she bruised.

She stepped out of the bathroom barefoot, each step slower than the last.

Roman was on the edge of the bed, legs spread, head bowed—but his eyes lifted the second she crossed the threshold. They pinned her in place.

“You remember the rules?” he asked.

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, breathy.

His tone dropped lower. “Say them.”

“Safe word is papaya. Three taps if I can’t speak.”

His eyes dropped to the shirt she wore. His shirt. A flicker of something darker passed over his face.

He nodded. “Good.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. The quiet buzz of the room felt suddenly suffocating.

“You really let some bottom-rung PT put his hands on you?” he murmured. “Let him smile at you like he had a shot in hell?”

Shiloh swallowed hard.

“He knew who I was. Every damn person in that arena knows who I am. But he still tried it.

And Roman felt it in his chest—the sharp, possessive edge of jealousy clawing its way up his throat. That man looked at Shiloh like he had a chance, like Roman wasn’t right there, like he wasn’t the one who made her come undone night after night.” Roman stood slowly. “Still thought he could touch what’s mine.”

Another step. He towered now. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.

“I don’t give a fuck if he was being ‘nice.’ Next time he even thinks about you like that, I’ll remind him who you belong to.”

Shiloh’s breath caught.

Roman tilted his head slightly, the predator in him rising.

“He tried to claim something that wasn’t his. Touched you like he could ever make you moan like I do.”

His words struck like a match to gasoline.

Roman didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

His presence filled the room like smoke—and she was already breathless.

But her thighs pressed together without permission.

And he noticed.

Every inch of him screamed mine.

His voice dropped lower. “Take off that shirt.”

Shiloh’s lips parted. “Why?”

Roman’s gaze burned. “Because I don’t want him on your skin. Only me.”

The silence didn’t ease—it thickened, coiling low in her belly like warning smoke. Shiloh peeled off the oversized shirt, letting it fall soundlessly to the floor. The cool air kissed her skin, raising goosebumps along her thighs and arms. Completely bare now except for her panties, she lowered herself slowly, knees pressing into the plush carpet. Her hands rested on her thighs, posture steady despite the flutter in her chest. She didn’t speak—didn’t need to. But every breath came tight, taut with anticipation.

He didn’t deserve her obedience. But he took it like a man who never questioned what was his.

Roman stood before her, towering, gaze heavy with hunger. His breath moved through his nose in sharp, deliberate exhales, like he was fighting the urge to break. Heat simmered behind his eyes. Possessive. Starved.

He stepped forward. Then again. His shoes flanked her knees. He reached down, threading thick fingers into her curls before tugging her head back, forcing her to look up.

“That PT thought he could stake a claim,” he growled. “Like you weren’t already mine. Like he didn’t know who the fuck I am.”

A flicker passed through Roman’s mind—mine. Not just her body. Her mouth. Her sounds. Her attention. He needed it all.

He told himself it was just about the PT. It wasn’t. It was about every moment he couldn’t hold her. About the sound of her laugh when he wasn’t there to earn it. About the quiet, gnawing thought that maybe—just maybe—she didn’t need him the way he needed her.

Shiloh didn’t flinch. Her lips parted, anticipation and arousal clashing behind her eyes. She could still taste his jealousy in the air—thick, unrelenting.

Roman unzipped his pants, his cock springing free—hard, veined, swollen with need. He slapped the head against her lips, smearing precum across them.

“Open up. I want your throat, not your excuses. You’ve got one job right now. Take me.”

She obeyed.

He didn’t ease in. One hand cupped the back of her head, the other gripping the base of his cock as he fed it into her mouth—slow, deliberate, brutal. Inch by inch until her lips kissed the base. Her throat convulsed, but he held her there. Controlled her breathing. Controlled everything.

His hips moved with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he owned.

“Yeah,” he murmured, low and dark. “There’s that look. Just like that. Let me see that mouth take it.”

She gagged. Her eyes watered. Drool pooled at the corner of her lips. Roman’s stomach clenched—because fuck, nothing in the world looked more his than her on her knees like this, choking on him, eyes wide, mouth ruined for anyone else.

A whimper broke in her throat, but it only made him harder. He moaned above her, hips rolling harder, deeper.

“Sweet-talking another man with the same mouth you begged me with?” he gritted.

She whimpered again, unable to answer, but her submission said everything. Her throat burned, eyes stung—but she needed him to stay in this moment with her. Needed to prove that this mouth was still his home, no matter how bruised it got.

And God, she was soaked. Her pussy clenched around nothing—tight, fluttering—aching from being ignored. She was dripping down her thighs, untouched. Just from his voice. From the rage behind his silence. From the way he took her without question, like she was built for this. Her cunt didn’t care about pride or jealousy—it just wanted to be filled.

She used to taste his apologies in kisses but now she tasted his punishment in every savage thrust. If this is how he forgives—then she’d gladly let him wreck her until she couldn’t speak his name.

“That’s it. Take it. Don’t run.”

Each thrust hit deeper, more ruthless than the last. Roman’s abs tensed, the muscles in his thighs flexing, and his voice grew ragged. A low snarl vibrated through his chest.

“You want me to cum?” His tone was animal. “Hold it. Don’t you move.”

His thighs tensed beneath her, every vein in his forearms bulging as he gripped her skull like a lifeline. Sweat broke at his temple. He was holding back a roar, biting it down in his chest like it’d burn through his ribs.

And she didn’t move. She took every inch like it was penance. Like she owed him this. Like it was the only way to speak the words she couldn’t say.

Roman’s body bucked once—hard—like his nerves had short-circuited. A broken growl escaped his chest, guttural and primal, as heat pulsed from him in waves. His cock throbbed deep in her throat as he spilled into her mouth. He shook from it—every nerve ending tight, every muscle strained. There was no hiding how much he needed this. Needed her.

He held her there, fingers tangled in her curls, breath heaving. He watched as she swallowed, watched her lips seal around him with reverence.

Finally, he dragged his thumb across her lip, catching a stray drop and smearing it across her mouth.

“Good girl. Now wear that shit like lip gloss.”

He slipped his thumb between her lips again, pressing down on her tongue until she choked slightly.

“Keep it warm for me.”

She swallowed again, cheeks flushed, thighs trembling from the effort to stay upright. Her jaw ached, but her heart pounded like a drum.

He exhaled a breath that sounded almost like a warning.

“You’re gonna remember who fucks you like this. You’re gonna feel it tomorrow—in your throat, in your knees, in every fucking step you take.”

“Bed. Now,” he ordered, voice still wrecked.

She stood up, her legs shaking.

Roman didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss her. Just watched her limp to the bed like he hadn’t already decided to break her again.

The room crackled with silence—thick, electric.

Roman dragged her to the edge of the bed, his grip firm and unwavering, like the pull of something ancient—inevitable and solely for her. His hands wrapped around her ankles, spreading her open with unapologetic certainty. Shiloh’s breath caught, thighs trembling beneath the weight of his gaze.

He studied her. Jaw tense. Eyes sharp. Like it was daring him to ruin it.

“You let someone else see you smile like that,” he muttered, voice low and dangerous. “But this? This stays mine.”

He bent down, kissed her inner thigh—one mark, one warning. Another kiss, slower. Then another. Each one closer, deliberate, lingering just long enough to make her squirm. By the time he reached the crease of her thigh, she was already whimpering, breath shallow from the anticipation alone.

One long, slow, filthy drag from her entrance to her clit. It made her eyes flutter. Made her hips buck. Heat shot through her like a lightning strike.

A broken moan spilled from her lips.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear that sweet mouth.”

He licked her again—slower this time. Savoring. Each lick was possession. Slow, consuming. Like feeding a hunger only she could satisfy.

There was no easing in. No asking what she liked. He knew. Mouth hot and open. Tongue greedy. Lips sealing around her clit with a suck that made her toes curl.

Roman groaned into her—deep and guttural. The vibration dragged another cry from her throat. His hands slid up her thighs, thumbs digging into soft flesh, keeping her open. Keeping her his.

“Fuck, I missed this.” His voice was hoarse. Worshipful. “Missed how sweet you taste when you fall apart.”

Her hands clawed the sheets. Her hips jerked. He didn’t let her move. Just pressed her down and buried deeper.

“Stay the fuck still.”

He growled the words as his hands pressed down harder on her thighs, holding her in place like a warning and a vow.

He mouthed at her clit like he was starved for something only she could give—greedy, reverent, and utterly unrelenting. His beard scraped her thighs, just enough to sting—just like earlier, when he'd kissed her rougher, claiming her inch by inch. His breath came hard, hot, uneven—driven by a hunger only she could satisfy.

Two fingers slid in deep. No warning—just a slow, relentless stretch that made her gasp. Heat flared, pressure built, and the wet sound that followed made Roman groan, slickness clinging to him—raw, greedy, unrelenting.

“You’re soaked. You miss me this bad?”

She gasped, voice breaking. Her thighs twitched, a breathy whimper spilling from her lips, but he held her firm—anchored her there like he needed every ounce of her surrender.

“Keep ‘em open. Let me feel how much.”

He curled his fingers and hit that spot. The one that made her spine arch. The one that always broke her first.

“Roman—please—”

“Don’t beg. Just give it to me.”

The pressure hit fast. Her breath caught—a suspended second, the kind before lightning. Her body seized, a choked sob breaking loose as her nerves fired wild. Pleasure surged low and hot, coiling like a fuse just lit.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Right there. I want all of it.”

Her orgasm tore through her—violent, breathtaking. A sob snagged in her throat, her hands gripping the sheets like lifelines as the world tilted, lost to the white-hot rush of release. A cry broke from her throat as her vision blurred and her body flooded his mouth. Wetness coated his lips, and her thighs locked around his head like she could trap the moment in place.

Roman exhaled sharp against her—nearly a growl. His jaw clenched like he was holding back a moan, savoring the taste of her release with hungry precision. His mouth locked on her clit, tongue unrelenting, fingers still grinding into that spot like he wanted to own every nerve.

“There she is. Fuck, look at that mess.”

He licked her through it—like he loved the taste of her unraveling. His hips pressed to the bed—bare, hard, leaking. He rutted once against the sheets, just to relieve the ache. But he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t need to. Watching her fall apart was enough.

He could’ve flipped her over and fucked her raw, right then—shoved all that hunger inside her until they were both breathless. But this? This was better. Watching her shatter just for his mouth? That fed something deeper—something primal. A need to claim. A need to own.

“You hear me, babygirl?” he murmured into her. “You make me so fuckin’ hard when you do that.”

Her chest heaved. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t focus—everything was heat, pulse, and Roman.

“Too much—Roman—too much—”

“No, it’s not. You got more.”

His tongue slowed now—softer, gentler, teasing. The strokes changed. Broader, wetter. He kissed her clit between flicks like he missed her already.

“Come again. One more. Let me see that pretty pussy squirt one more time. You know this pussy was made for me. Made to come on my tongue. Don’t hold back mama. Flood my fucking face.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. Her thighs trembled. Her clit throbbed. Her brain short-circuited—just heat, breath, and Roman, buried between her thighs, devouring her like she was the cure to something in him.

Her body was his—every gasp, every tremor, every wet cry surrendering to the claim he'd already made.

She sobbed the instant his mouth locked on her clit again—pleasure detonating through her in a blinding, hot wave. Her cry tore free, sharp and raw, hips jolting as sensation overtook her. No thoughts. No words. Just Roman. He groaned, jaw tight, devouring her like he’d been waiting his whole life. One ruthless suck, and she shattered—spine arching, body surrendering.

“That’s it. Let go for me.”

She broke.

The second orgasm was brutal—louder, messier, unstoppable. Wetness splashed across his throat, his lips, his cheeks. She squirted again, gushing across his face, her body jerking beneath the wave, thighs shaking.

Roman moaned low—starved—like her taste hit harder the second time, thick with heat and the sound of her sobs. Her release clung to his tongue, every tremor coursing through his body like a fever he didn’t want cured.

“Fuck. Look at you.”

When he finally pulled back, his lips were soaked, his jaw tight, his eyes burning.

He didn’t speak at first. Just hovered over her. Letting her see what she did to him. Letting her feel it.

He needed her to remember this—who unraveled her, who she came for.

He stared down at her like she was holy. Wrecked. Glistening. His. “You look so fucking beautiful like this, mama. Ruined. Just how I like you.”

Then he kissed her—slow, deep, soaking wet—as her breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth, the taste of her still lingering between them.

“You remember who made you feel like that?”

She nodded through tears, lips parted, breath shuddering.

“Say it.”

“You… Ro—Roman.”

He smirked. Wrecked and proud.

“Damn right.”

He brushed her hair back, fingers gentle for the first time tonight. Her chest still heaved, her thighs glistening, but his touch had shifted—no less possessive, only reverent. Like he was grounding her back to earth after dragging her to the edge of heaven.

He didn’t give her time to come down.

His shirt clung to him, soaked through. Pants hung low, cock already hard from tasting her. Still not enough. He tore off the rest of his clothes until there was nothing but skin and the kind of need that made him reckless.

Roman flipped her onto her stomach, no hesitation. This wasn’t just lust. It was days of missing her, needing her, jerking off in silence to memories that didn’t touch the real thing.

He dragged her hips up, spreading her wide.

“Get that ass up, mama,” he ordered, breath sharp. “Don’t make me ask again.”

She moved instantly—arched, obedient, trembling. Her body gave way for him like it had been waiting. He watched, mesmerized, as her folds opened, glistening, stretching to take the thick head of him. She was wet and willing, and he gave her all of it in a single thrust.

The sound that ripped from them was pure ruin.

Tight. Wet. Home.

His jaw clenched. Hips snapped forward. She clenched around him like she missed him, like this was where she was meant to be.

“You know how many nights I jerked off to this pussy?” he rasped. “Backstage. Hotel showers. Fuckin’ planes. I’d see your name pop up and lose it.”

He slammed into her again. And again. Deep. Bruising. Like he was carving the ache out of himself.

“I’d come so hard, pissed I wasn’t inside you.”

She couldn’t answer—couldn’t think. Each thrust knocked sound from her lungs. Her fingers gripped the sheets. Her mind emptied.

Roman bent lower, hand pressing the back of her neck as he yanked her back onto him.

“Every match. Every show. All I wanted was this. You.”

His thoughts blurred behind his eyes, gritted in his teeth—This isn’t just release. It’s reckoning. She was the only thing that made the world fall away.

She whimpered. Tried to meet him halfway. Failed. He had control now—of her body, her breath, the rhythm of her unraveling.

“Don’t run,” he warned. “Take all of it.”

He leaned in close, nose brushing her shoulder. “This pussy’s mine. You feel that?”

Her moan broke open beneath him.

“Bet that clown didn’t even know what he was lookin’ at,” Roman growled, thrusting in so deep her breath hitched. “Thinking he could measure up to me. Like he’s ever made you sound like this.”

She whimpered, dazed, her fingers curling tighter into the sheets.

“He ever try you? Get too bold?” His voice turned to a snarl. “Tell me now or I’ll drag the truth out of you with every stroke.”

His grip on her hip tightened, pace intensifying.

“Feels like fuckin’ heaven,” he muttered, grinding in deeper. “But you’ve got me starvin’ for more. For every sound you make.”

His pace quickened, punishing and desperate. Her cries cracked in the air. His teeth skimmed her throat—close enough to burn.

“I missed how you milk me. Like your body knows mine.”

She sobbed something that wasn’t quite words. Her body fluttered around him, close. Her mind scrambled for control she didn’t have—he had her, body and soul.

“Roman—please—”

“Yeah,” he growled. “Beg me for it.”

“Please, Roman—fuck—don’t stop—”

“I’m not fuckin’ stopping.”

He slammed deeper, fingers bruising her hips. Sweat rolled down his spine. She broke with his name on her lips.

Her orgasm hit hard, seizing her body with a sudden, breathless jolt. Thighs shook. Toes curled. Her moan cracked open from deep in her chest as Roman fucked her through it, merciless and locked in. Her back arched, a cry breaking into his name. She clenched tight around him, pulses rippling, and he growled low—shattered and starving. Pleasure whipped through her, taking over her whole body. Her fingers fisted the sheets like they were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

Roman dropped his head, forehead pressing between her shoulder blades, fighting to keep control. His pulse thundered. His grip on her hips stayed firm, like letting go meant falling apart.

This wasn’t just fucking. It was finding his way back.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed. “You take it so good for me.”

She reached back blindly, and he caught her hand, threading their fingers tight.

He stayed there, buried inside her, both of them trembling.

He didn’t want to pull out.

Not when it felt like she was the only place he made sense.

Roman sat back against the headboard, thick thighs spread, cock heavy against his abs. He pulled her into his lap—skin to skin, her back against his chest, flushed and trembling. Her legs draped over his, wide and vulnerable. Their bodies locked like puzzle pieces. Like instinct.

His arm locked around her waist. The other slid between her thighs.

Two fingers sank into her—slow, deep, deliberate.

“Ride my fingers,” he rasped against her ear. “Let me watch you fall apart.”

Her mouth dropped open. The stretch stole her breath. The mirror stole her shame. Behind her, Roman let out a low grunt—rough, unfiltered—his cock twitching against her spine as he held her tighter, the sight of her split open in his lap undoing every shred of restraint left in him.

She saw it all. His fingers disappearing between her legs, her thighs trembling, her lips parted like she couldn’t breathe without him.

His hand reached down, grabbed hers, and guided it lower.

“Rub it. Make it nastier.”

Shiloh whimpered. Her fingers trembled as they found her clit—sore, swollen, needy. Her other hand gripped his thigh for balance.

The squelch echoed. The filth of it made her wetter.

“You hear that, mama?” Roman’s voice curled around her, thick and low. “That’s how bad you need it.”

Her hips rocked, caught between his fingers and her own touch. Her thighs trembled, soft and slick against his skin.

“Look at yourself, baby.” He nipped at her neck. “You look so good when you’re mine.”

She looked. And saw everything.

Her body moving like sin—hips grinding down, her own fingers circling fast and frantic. Her mouth open. Eyes half-lidded. A moan frozen on her lips. Roman’s jaw tight behind her, eyes pinned to the mirror like he couldn’t look away.

“You know what this does to me?” he growled. “Watching you ride my hand like it’s my dick—this pretty pussy so fuckin’ greedy, suckin’ my fingers like it don’t know the difference.”

Her breath caught. Her head fell back. She moaned, broken and deep. Her hand slipped off her clit for a second—she couldn’t keep up, couldn’t keep still.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Make it messy. I want your cum all over my fingers.”

“You feel that?” he added, grinding his cock against her lower back. “Didn’t even fuck you yet and you got me throbbing.”

She sobbed. Her hips moved like instinct, like hunger. Her body trembling, core tightening, a sweet burn in her thighs.

“I never liked mirrors,” she choked out, barely able to speak, “until I saw what you turned me into in one.”

Roman froze—then groaned, guttural and raw. His grip on her waist flexed tight. His cock kicked hard against her back.

“Fuck. You don’t even know what that does to me,” he said, voice strangled with need. “You say shit like that and expect me to stay calm?”

He buried his face in her neck, inhaling her, like he needed her breath just to survive the moment. Then came the whisper—low, broken, right against her skin. “Every time you move like this, every sound you make… it ruins me.” Then he looked up—into the mirror. Into her.

“You see her?” he muttered, gaze burning. “That filthy, perfect fuckin’ girl—that’s what I fell in love with. Wouldn’t change a thing.”

“Don’t look away. Watch what you’ve become for me.”

She shattered—legs shaking, cries muffled in the heat of his chest. Wetness coated his fingers as her climax took her over, slick dripping down his hand. She could feel it—how soaked his lap had gotten, how it slicked between their thighs. He held her through it, mouth pressed to her shoulder.

“That’s it, babygirl. Just like that.”

But he didn’t stop.

His fingers stayed deep. Still curling. Still working her through it. Still pulling more.

His other hand slid low—pressed against her belly to feel every tremble, every pulse. A thought sparked through her haze: He knows my body better than I do.

And somehow, he still looks at me like I’m brand new.

Roman pulled his fingers out, soaked and glistening. He brought them to her lips, slow and deliberate.

“Open.”

Shiloh’s breath hitched. She obeyed, wrapping her mouth around them, tasting herself—tasting what he did to her.

His groan hit her ear, deep and possessive.

“That’s it. Clean it up, mama. Let that mirror see how good you follow orders. You feel that? That’s how hard you come for me, and I’m not done until I see you ride every inch.”

He shifted her hips forward. Guiding her, slow and steady, knees planted wide.

“Face the mirror. I want you riding me next.” His voice was gravel, soaked in heat. “Want you to see what you do to me when this pussy soaks my dick like that.”

He slid his fingers out, coated and dripping. Gripped the base of his cock and ran it slow between her cheeks.

“Back arched. Legs wide. Just like that,” he murmured, voice like a threat and a promise. “Let that mirror watch you take me—every inch, every bounce. Watch yourself come apart on what’s yours.”

He pressed his cock against her, dragging it slowly between her folds.

“You see that?” he groaned, the sound thick in his throat. “That’s how your pussy welcomes me home. Like you been waitin’ for it. Like you don’t feel right without it.”

His voice deepened, rougher now. “No filters. No act. Just raw, real, mine.”

Roman shifted her forward, guiding her carefully, reverently. Her knees pressed into the mattress, thighs already trembling. His cock slid between her soaked folds, dragging along her heat. Thick. Pulsing. Already slick from her earlier release.

“Back up,” he rasped. “I want you to feel every inch.”

She obeyed, lowering slowly, her breath catching in her throat as he filled her—inch by inch—until her ass met his thighs. Her hands braced on his quads, nails digging in. The stretch stole her breath. Her pussy clenched tight around him, like she was made to take him.

“That’s it, baby,” he groaned, voice strained. “Take it all. You know I belong inside you.”

She started to move, hips grinding in slow, aching circles, eyes fluttering shut. Every roll made his cock drag along that devastating spot inside her. He gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, then slid his hands to her ass—spreading her cheeks wide, watching the way she bounced, the way her slick clung to his length.

“You feel that?” he muttered darkly. “This dick hittin’ too deep, huh? You fuckin’ soaked.”

“So deep,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Please.”

She rode him like she needed him to breathe. Creaming all over him, her arousal soaking down his thighs. The slap of her ass against him was obscene—sticky, wet, relentless. Roman watched every second in the mirror, jaw tight, eyes locked on the hypnotic jiggle of her thick ass, every bounce coaxing a fresh wave of heat low in his gut. The filth between her thighs, how wet and wild she looked taking all of him, made his cock twitch. Every slap of skin echoed against the walls of the hotel room.

His hands twitched where they gripped her, every muscle in his arms straining with the need to lose control—to flip her over, fuck her into the mattress, and mark her all over again. But he didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he let that tension simmer, feeding the ache as he watched her take him like she was made for it.

“That’s it. Bounce for me. Let me see what you do when you want daddy to lose it.”

Roman gritted his teeth, chest heaving as she bounced harder. He slapped her ass—once, then again—watching the ripple and the shine of her slick coating his cock.

“You ridin’ the fuck outta me, Shy. This how bad you missed me?”

“Yes, daddy—fuck—I needed this. Needed you inside me.”

She looked over her shoulder, hair sticking to her face, lips parted. Her thighs trembled from the effort, but her hips didn’t stop moving. She slammed down again, crying out when he bottomed out, her body twitching from the stretch.

“You don’t stop ‘til I break, huh?” he growled. “Greedy little thing.”

Her pace grew frantic—hips rolling, ass clapping, moans spilling into the room. Roman’s grip on her flared with heat, a low groan breaking free as he watched her come undone. Mine, he thought savagely, heart hammering. Watching her lose herself on him—so raw, so messy—wrecked him in ways he didn’t have words for.

She could feel every drag of his cock against her walls, her clit throbbing with every bounce. Sweat clung to her skin, heat flooding her limbs, while the taste of him still lingered faintly on her tongue from earlier. Her vision blurred—every sense overloaded, every nerve ending lit like fire. Her voice broke into gasps, then sobs. She tried to lift off, overwhelmed, but Roman locked his grip.

“Nah. You don’t run. You fuckin’ take it.”

He thrust up into her—sharp, deep, punishing. Her thighs shook. Her hands slipped. Her voice cracked on a scream.

“Play with that pussy—yeah, show me how nasty you can be. Don’t stop ‘til you make a mess for me.”

She obeyed blindly, fingers working her swollen bundle as she rode harder. A raw thought sliced through her haze—He knows every part of me. Every pulse, every twitch.

“Cum again, mama. I wanna feel it. All of it. Soak my fuckin’ dick.”

She shattered. Back arched, body locking, cunt pulsing around him like a vice. Roman’s whole frame tensed. He gritted his teeth, eyes glued to where they connected, a guttural groan tearing loose as he felt her gush around him. His control cracked. Fingers bruising her hips, he fought the instinct to flip her, to chase his own release inside her warmth.

“Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathed, voice shredded. “That’s it. Let daddy feel you fall apart.”

He slammed into her—again, again. She felt it—his cock thickening, his groans faltering. One hand tangled in her hair, the other anchored to her hip.

“You want it inside?” he growled.

“Yes—yes, please—fill me up. I need it, daddy.”

He let go—brutal thrusts, deep and final. A snarl ripped from his chest, his name escaping her lips as he spilled inside. His orgasm gutted him—hot, punishing, endless. Her body jerked beneath the weight of it—claimed, fucked full, her walls fluttering around him as he emptied everything.

“That pussy ruins me,” he murmured against her skin. “Nobody gets you but me.”

Their skin clung together. Her body limp and twitching. His chest heaved behind her, breath hot against her shoulder. He pulled her upright into him, their breaths mingling, his cock still buried deep.

“You feel that?” he whispered, hand gliding down to press the slick between her thighs. “Still fuckin’ leaking. That’s how I know it’s mine.”

She whimpered, overstimulated and full. Her hand gripped his thigh, her head lolling back against him.

“I can’t move,” she whispered, voice hoarse.

“Good,” he rasped, kissing her neck. “I don’t want you to.”

She slumped forward, arms trembling, body giving out. Roman wrapped her tight, chest to her back, refusing to let go. One arm looped around her waist. The other slid between her thighs, feeling the mess they made.

He nuzzled into her shoulder, lips soft.

“Still with me, mama?” he asked, his voice ragged.

She whimpered and nodded, breath shaky. Roman pressed a kiss to her spine, lips lingering.

“Good. ‘Cause I’m not lettin’ go.”

She slumps forward, breath ragged, limbs trembling as the last waves of pleasure slowly fade through her body. Roman doesn’t let her go—his arms tighten around her waist, pulling her close like she’s the only anchor in a storm he can’t weather alone.

“That’s where I belong. Inside you,” he murmurs low, voice thick with something beyond desire. Something fiercely protective.

Their breaths sync, warm skin pressed together, sweat cooling between them. The world outside softens, dissolves, leaving only this shared stillness, heavy and sacred.

Roman shifts carefully, lifting her from his lap and laying her down on the sheets with reverence. His fingers trail slowly along her spine, memorizing every curve and shiver. He reaches for a soft towel and gently wipes the sweat and traces of their connection from her skin—his touch deliberate, tender.

He pulls the blanket over them both, cocooning them in warmth and quiet.

His voice breaks the silence, husky and vulnerable. “You okay?”

Shiloh nods, eyes soft and glossy from the aftermath of everything they just gave each other.

Roman exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair like he’s fighting an internal storm.

“I’m not mad at you, Shy… but seeing that guy with you? It fucked me up. Made me realize how much I don’t want to share you.”

His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “Sometimes I wonder if one day you’ll think I’m too much—too intense, too everything. But damn, I need you to know—even if you do, I’m not going anywhere.”

Shiloh turns her head, searching his eyes with steady warmth. Her fingers find his jaw, tracing its sharp line with gentle certainty.

“You’re the only man I want, Roman. The only one I see. You’re not too much—you’re exactly what I need.”

Her voice is soft but sure, woven with quiet conviction. “I’m not going anywhere either. You’re the one I love.”

Roman’s lips curl into a small, weary smile as the tension drains from his shoulders. He pulls her closer, resting his forehead against hers, grounding them both.

She notices a small bag of her favorite candy on the nightstand. The little things he remembers even when words fail.

“You bought that for me?” she asks, surprise threading through her voice.

He smirks, pride clear in his tone. “Knew you’d need sugar after I drained you.”

He kisses her temple slowly, lingering like he never wants to pull away.

“Next time some punk touches you, I’m gonna knock his teeth out,” he warns softly, protective fire blazing in his eyes.

She leans into him, breath catching, voice barely a whisper filled with certainty. “You’re mine. Don’t ever forget it.”

Roman tightens his arms around her, the promise physical and unbreakable.

They stay like that. Breathing, holding, and grounding each other as the quiet wraps around them like a second skin, sealing their bond deeper than words ever could.

✍🏽 Author Note:

If you made it to the end—whew, thank you. I know this one was long, but I poured so much into it: the tension, the filth, the intimacy, the ache of being wanted that badly. I hope it hit you somewhere soft... or somewhere much lower.

Every comment, reblog, like, and whisper in my inbox means more than I can say. I write from my heart, and the fact that you’re here, reading and feeling with me? That’s everything.

If you want more of Roman × Shiloh (and don’t want to miss a thing), feel free to check out my masterlist and join the taglist—it’s open! I always make sure my taglist besties get updates first.

Up next for this pairing: 💌 Catch & Keep — a one-shot where Roman finally meets Shiloh’s family 🏠 Make This House a Home — domestic softness and deeper emotional connection

That said, I’m likely updating one of my other series first before dropping those—so sit tight, and thank you for your patience.

As always, feel free to scream in the tags, cry in my inbox, or tell me what line did it for you. I love knowing what sticks.

Stay soft. Stay filthy.

Love y'all 🖤✨

[dumbbandpoetic]

INTRODUCING...

GIRL NEXT DOOR!READER who...

☆ just moved to Smallville from Metropolis, and despite moving onto a farm, has no idea how to do her chores, and struggles helplessly with all the lifting. Absolutely does not want to get dirty under any circumstances.

☆ talks to the farm animals instead of doing her chores. She doesn’t think it’s that weird - they’re alive too, so surely they get her!

☆ still isn’t used to living in a farm town, can’t sleep in the silence. She’s used to the bustle of the city and needs noise for her to sleep properly.

☆ is seen as a bimbo city girl by the rest of the school, but has a lot of opinions and a lot of thoughts, all of which she publishes in the school newspaper. That gets people to see her differently.

☆ always carries a journal around. Says it’s for the newspaper but never actually publishes anything she takes notes on. Maybe it’s just for her own personal observations.

☆ is really smart, just maybe not school smart. Falls asleep in class and begs people for notes that they just can’t refuse her.

☆ has no filter at all, says what she means and doesn’t know how to stop it. Usually she knows when she's insulted someone, and feels really bad about it. This no filter also means she can't stop herself from being awkward. Oops!

☆ makes crude jokes that nobody laughs at for a second, because they can’t tell if she’s actually joking or not.

☆ thinks clark is the most interesting person in smallville - not just because he’s her neighbour, but people treat him differently, and she spies him across the fence lifting things that probably shouldn’t be possible for a boy his age…

FARMBOY!CLARK KENT who...

�� doesn’t know how to lie. He tries, but his face gets all red, and he starts stammering like a real idiot. It doesn't work for him.

☆ can’t understand sarcasm unless the tone is really buttered up thick and obvious. Pauses a beat too long before answering it, like he’s trying really hard to get it. Blushes when she laughs at him.

☆ was raised to be a gentleman, and still is. opens doors, pulls out chairs, calls people “ma’am” and “sir” when they first meet, etc. He makes his mother very proud.

☆ used to avoid all his chores until he was asked to do them, then did them quick to have it over with. Now, he does them without being asked, nice and slow, so he can show off to whoever might be watching...

☆ is so scared of his own abilities he’s overly gentle with everything. Opening and closing doors with one finger to avoid slamming them, scared to hold people’s hands. He holds eggs like they’re grenades, terrified he’ll crush them.

☆ reads sci-fi novels and comics to see what people think that aliens and heroes are like. Maybe he’ll base himself on the good ones in the future somewhere. His favourite is definitely Captain America - maybe not quite an alien, but definitely a lot like Clark.

☆ loves nature, avoids stepping on insects and plants. If he does step on a plant he’ll try his best to put it back and revive it - god forbid he should step on an insect, or even a small animal. He cries a little, buries it, has a whole funeral.

☆ really wants to tell someone about his secret. Someone who isn’t his parents, someone who he can talk to about it. With enough pressure, he’ll probably crack.

☆ thought his new neighbour was cute from the second she first knocked on his door, and has his telescope pointed down at her house so he can watch her when she sits on her front porch at night.

credits to enchanthings for the dividers

chapter one will come soon!! as always feel free to leave requests or little things in my inbox, i appreciate everything that comes my way. like and reblog if you enjoy so that this spreads around and i'm motivated enough to keep updating it 😂

[lorelune]

hiii lore!!! for your writing practice game, I come to your inbox with oliver (again ajdhfhdjs) and the hypothetical title of "save it for tomorrow"!

annnd the horny trope of a very.... loud roommate. and lots of sexual tension. reader and oliver can fit into any role here hehe!!

BITTTTI!! thank you... thank you... we WRITE!! ✏️‼️

(minors and ageless blogs DNI // 18+ // roommate oliver vs. roommate reader who needs to get some zzz's)

"oh my g-god, fuck—!"

it's too late for this. way too late.

"'you like that, baby?"

you shove a pillow over your face, praying it keeps out some of the noise. it doesn't do much in the face of the sheer volume of your roommate and his current romp.

"'you want my cock—?"

it's all muffled, sound making it through several inches of drywall and lumber before making it into your ears, but that hardly matters when you share a wall with the very sexually active oliver aiku. and, apparently, he has a thing for screamers (you have learned this against your will).

you grab your phone and grimace at the time— 2:38 AM. you work a morning shift tomorrow; you're unlikely to get any sleep at this point.

they've been at it for hours. oliver and whoever his unnamed fuck of the week, that is. they'd gone out for drinks and ended up crash landing in his bed, probably making a hole in the plaster with the rhythmic banging of the bedframe against the thin wall between your rooms.

you'd been out in the living room when they'd arrived home. oliver had given you a cheeky grin and a wave, and you just fucking knew you wouldn't be sleeping that night.

it doesn't help that oliver— he fucking talks. he runs his mouth, talks filthy, and you can hear almost all of it. his bed and your bed share the wall (it was the most logical configuration alright!!) and that means you're forced to listen to oliver's filthy dirty talk several nights a week.

"more, more, more—!"

"i've got you, sweetheart."

god, you could throw up.

it's the same act that he uses on every fuck of his. holds doors open for them, pays for their meals and drinks (he fucking better, with the salary he has, it was be anti feminist for him to NOT to), and fucks them stupid in his bed while crooning such sweet words.

you know it's a farce. you know oliver runs through girl after girl, guy after guy, and he never keeps one for all that long. never more than a few weeks, and those instances are always out of convenience.

if anything... you're the outlier. it's hard to think about.

oliver lived alone, originally. he has an unused guest room and you needed a place to crash after a bad breakup and friend breakup left you in an bad spot without a stable place to call home. oliver was happy to clear the space out and charge you a meager amount of rent that he forgot to collect half the time. he had no problems going with you to ikea and squabbling in the faux kitchens and bedrooms— like a couple.

and fuck, you'd only met oliver a few times before that.

it's— weird, how pervasive you are in each other's lives at this point, even outside of living together. your social lives are intertwined. you go out with the team more often than not and always have seat or box reserved at oliver's games. oliver knows your best friends and charms them, effortlessly, which is fucking annoying to watch because it works.

the same treatment works less on you.

you see through it quickly. you see that he's a charming to distract from something bigger in himself, that he saves for the sake of some part of him that feels like he has to, and you see that he seeks physical intimacy as an outlet for some larger, nebulous thing that he probably needs therapy to break down. and you may be his roommate—

("but i'm not your goddamn therapist!" you slur, sipping on a lukewarm beer, tipping over on the couch during an early morning following the bar, months ago.

"are you saying i need therapy?"

"i think you deserve it." you swallow, eyeing the rim of the bottle then up to his face. he looks— uniquely earnest. handsome, too, you're drunk enough to be honest about it. "and i don't mean that in the mean way. you deserve to feel good without running from the thing that feels bad and into the things that are fleeting."

oliver had stared at you, then. a little wide eyed. the rest of the memory blurs.)

the wooing treatment doesn't work as well on you, sure, but you're not immune to it. living with oliver means you see sides of him no one else does. oliver makes you coffee on the mornings where you're up at the same time. he texts when you aren't home one time— not nagging, just making sure that you're safe. it's. stupid shit. and unfortunately it does woo you on some level.

"right there— right there, oli!"

what so easily un-woos you, is hearing oliver blow a girl's back out at nearly 3 AM.

you've had it, actually, because if you're exhausted at this morning meeting tomorrow, you're going to catch a murder charge. you shove yourself out of bed, eyes stinging with lack of sleep, and pad outside of your room.

it's a quick jaunt to pause in from of him. the sounds of wet skin slapping against wet skin leak from the apartment. you swear you can smell sex and sweat on the air, even with the door closed.

you raise a fist and bang on oliver's door.

the fucking goes on for another beat, then two, then a third, before stopping.

"please can you be quieter?" you snap, voice dry and grating. "some of us have to sleep."

you hear the girl that he's with scoff. there's— thumping inside. shuffling.

and oliver answers the door.

he looks objectively indecent. only in sweats, the expensive kind that are made to look slutty. they sit low on his hips. you can see the v of them dip beyond the waist band. his stupid fucking happy trail tracks from below his belly button, lower, lower, and the outline of his stupidly large dick is rather distracting.

he clears his throat and your head shoots up.

"see something you like?"

"yes, actually." you cross your arms. "you, not fucking, loudly, this early in the morning. save it for tomorrow."

"it is tomorrow, sweetheart."

you bristle at the nickname. the fucking nerve of this guy!

"you know what i mean," you scoff and, you hate to say it, pout. "i have an early day tomorrow. my ear plugs aren't cutting it."

the girl in his bed, barely visible from your angle, clicks her tongue. "do you fucking mind?"

"i do, actually," you say.

oliver, however, cuts you off, calling back to the girl. "you heard them, sounds like we've been cut off for the evening. how about i buy you a taxi home?"

the girl's jaw drops open. "seriously?"

"yup," oliver pops the 'p' at the end of the word. "come on, let me help grab your clothes.

oliver tilts his head toward you, then, smiling somewhere between devilish and soft. "this will just be a minute, yeah? go lay down, get some sleep. sorry about the noise complaint."

you huff and shake your head. oliver only laughs and winks, before shutting the door gently to, assumedly, help the girl that he just kicked out at 3 AM. based on the sounds, you don't think either of them came. what a man.

you do listen to oliver, though. you wander back to your room, collapse into bed, and curl around the round-eyed plushie oliver has given you shit from owning since day one of your roommate-ship (and yet whenever you end up ill on the living couch, it always ends up in your arms. somehow.) it's a comfortable position and the two of them are being quiet. all you hear are low voices, perhaps his fling is a bit pissed, but that's his problem. he didn't have to kick her out.

you doze, only fully roused when your phone screen lights up. blearily, you grab for it, scrolling to your messages.

[olipop aiku]: Sorry about the noise. She's out for the evening. Lunch tomorrow as an apology? I'll treat.

you don't hesitate when you respond. it's not the first time that he's offered and it's not the first time that you've agreed either.

[you]: you better be

from the other side of the accursed wall, you hear oliver laugh, low and rich in a way that you think, maybe, is only for you.

[struberri]

come and see me || jjk

𓂃˖ ࣪⊹ 09. ruin

series masterlist

it was a saturday night. well, almost midnight. the city outside had finally gone quiet, like it, too, was exhausted from the week. i had just finished binge watching an entire series. i didn't even know if i liked it, but i kept watching because it was easier than thinking.

i lay in bed, eyes closed, arms folded under my pillow. the room was dark except for the faint glow of the moon peeking through the edge of my curtains. not enough to light up the space, just enough to remind me that time was still moving. the air was still. just my heartbeat in my ears and the weight of everything i hadn't said out loud.

i thought about the show. the ending and the way it left things unresolved.

then i thought about work, the pitch that was due next week and the unread emails in my inbox.

and then, like clockwork, jungkook.

he just appeared in my thoughts, without a warning. like a bruise i kept pressing on even though it hurt. he never left me alone. it didn't matter if he wasn't texting. he was still there, stuck under my skin, living in the quiet parts of my brain that i couldn't shut off.

and i was mad at him. god, i was fucking furious.

it had been weeks and still, no clarity.

we weren't dating. he never said we were anything. and yet, we acted like something. we felt like something. we were together so often, talking, touching, fucking. like we belonged to each other.

sometimes i'd try to take a step back. ghost him for a few hours. say i was tired or on my period, or just not in the mood. pretend like i was okay without him. like i had control over any of this. but i didn't. not really because no matter how pissed i was, how emotionally drained i felt, i still wanted him. needed him.

and i hated how pathetic that sounded in my own head.

thank god for jihyo.

she was the only one who saw right through me. she never judged. never told me to get over it or move on. instead, she did the little things like showing up unannounced to drag me to our favorite food stall, or buying me overpriced food, or letting me vent for hours while she nodded and held my hand. she always tried her best to remind me that i deserved better, even if i wasn't ready to believe it yet.

even at work, i was quieter than usual. not that anyone said it out loud, but i saw the way hwasa looked at me. like she was trying to figure out what had dimmed my spark. namjoon asked me once, "you alright?" and i told him i was just tired. that was my excuse for everything lately. "just tired."

but the truth was, i was unraveling slowly. breaking in places no one could see. and the worst part? the only person who could stitch me back together was the one who refused to claim me.

i wanted to feel like i was his. i wanted him to make me his.

but he wouldn't. he never did. and still, i couldn't walk away.

i must've drifted off for a second, lost in my thoughts, when the sharp buzz of my phone snapped me back to reality. it lit up the whole room with that eerie glow, just enough for me to see the time.

02:18 AM

i didn't even need to check who it was.

i already knew.

my body hesitated. i stared at the screen, hand hovering over it. a part of me wanted to ignore it. stay wrapped in my sheets, pretend like i didn't care. pretend like i wasn't waiting for him, even if it was at midnight. even if it was just a text.

but my hands moved before my brain could stop them.

the screen was too bright. i squinted my eyes, lowering the brightness, unlocking my phone. my heart beat a little faster when i opened the chat.

kook:

almost done drinking with the boys. do you wanna hang out right now?

i stared at the message, blinking slowly. then i noticed the date.

december 4th.

jin's birthday.

he had told me about it last week. how the boys were taking him out to some luxury bar downtown. the kind of place with velvet chairs and overpriced drinks and bouncers who judged you by your shoes.

of course he messaged me now. of course it was late. of course it was him.

because even though he said hang out, we both knew it wasn't just that. not at this hour. not with the way he texted me only when the world went quiet.

my thumb hovered over the keyboard, thinking of what the fuck to say that didn't sound too bitter, too eager, too obvious. finally, i just typed it.

y/n:

do you own a watch?

do you know what time it is now?

he opened the message almost instantly. i stared at the screen, waiting.

kook:

yeah it’s 2:23 and i need you rn

i stared at the text and my jaw clenched. of course he needed me. at 2 am. like always.

he has never, not once, come to my place to hang out or fuck. not even just to see me.

it’s always me.

always me going to him.

my fingers hovered over the keyboard before i finally typed it.

y/n:

come and see me for once.

i hit send. he saw the message instantly.

i watched the typing bubble appear.

then disappear.

then come back again.

only to vanish.

seen

no reply. nothing.

just those four cursed letters staring back at me.

i threw my head back on the pillow with a groan.

"i'm so stupid." i muttered to myself. ugh.

and yet, five minutes later, i found myself texting again, fingers moving before my brain could stop them.

y/n:

i'll be there in ten.

because of course i was going. of course i'd be the one driving through the quiet december night just to see him.

just to feel wanted for a few hours. just to ruin myself over someone who wouldn't even call it what it was.

-

his mouth is already on mine by the time the door clicks shut behind me.

he doesn't even say a 'hello', just lips and desperation, like he's been waiting for this all night. like he can't go one more second without touching me.

i'm breathless by the time he pulls me into his bedroom, dragging me backwards by the waistband of my jeans. he walks me straight into the edge of the bed and mutters, "get on."

i climb up without a word, settling onto my back, the room spinning slightly from how fast it's all happening. he follows, crawling over me, gaze dark and unreadable. his hoodie's still on but his fingers are already tugging at mine, lifting my shirt over my head, peeling it off with that same sharp urgency.

"didn't think you'd actually come here." he says lowly, voice rough with something between sarcasm and sincerity. "i was almost sure you'd ghost me again."

"i should've." i mutter, but it's weak. i'm already gasping as he slides his hand down between my legs.

"but you didn't." he smirks, dragging my panties down slowly. "because you want this just as bad as i do."

i glare at him, lips parted, breath hitching the second his fingers part me.

he hums in satisfaction when he feels how wet i am. "fuck. you're soaked. did you touch yourself before you came here?"

i shake my head.

"you lying?"

"...no."

he smiles. it's smug. he leans down, breath warm against my neck. "then let me fix that."

and then he's between my legs.

his mouth is hot. tongue slow and deliberate at first, licking a flat stripe all the way up like he's tasting me for the first time. i squirm, fingers tangled in the sheets, thighs twitching already.

"jungkook-"

he doesn't answer. just groans low in his throat, like he likes how my body's reacting, like he wants to make it worse. his tongue circles my clit now, rhythm sharp and cruel, sucking just enough to make my stomach flip. he drags his tongue down and back up, then presses his mouth hard against me.

i gasp again.

"stay still baby." he murmurs against my skin, voice slurred with lust. "let me taste you properly."

and when i say i try, i mean it.

but it's impossible.

because he keeps going. keeps licking, keeps sucking, keeps teasing the edges of my sanity like he knows exactly how much i can take. my legs shake. my hands grip the pillow beside my head. and he, he's moaning into me like this is his drug. like he's high off the way i taste.

"so fucking sweet." he mutters. "fuck, you don't even get it."

his tongue flicks faster, harsher and i'm squirming again, hips lifting off the bed without permission. he slides one hand up my chest, squeezes my breast and i can feel the drag of his teeth on my clit before he pulls off with a wet pop.

his mouth is swollen, lips shiny. "don't cum yet."

i blink down at him, dizzy. "what?"

"cause i'm not done ruining you yet."

he crawls up my body, kissing my stomach, my ribs, the underside of my breast. then my throat and finally, my lips.

i can taste myself on his tongue.

his voice is barely a whisper when he says, "you want me to fuck you, don't you?"

i nod.

"say it."

"...yes. jungkook. fuck me."

he smirks again, jaw clenched and reaches down between us, lining himself up.

"don't worry, baby." he breathes against my mouth. "i'll give you everything."

he pushes in slow.

but only for a second.

because once he's inside, once he hears the breath i suck through my teeth, sees the way my eyes flutter shut, he doesn't hold back.

his hips slam forward and the force of it knocks the air from my lungs. i gasp, one hand flying to his bicep, the other clawing at his back. he's so deep already. thick, hard, stretching me open like he owns me.

"fuck-" he hisses under his breath. "you feel so fucking good. you always do."

his pace is brutal from the start.

he fucks like he's angry. like he's punishing both of us. the bed creaks under each sharp thrust, headboard tapping against the wall, skin slapping loud and raw in the otherwise quiet room.

his hands grip my thighs, pushing them up, spreading me wide. his eyes flick down to where we're joined. his cock disappearing inside me again and again and he groans deep in his chest.

"look at that." he pants, hips snapping forward. "so fucking wet for me. every time."

i try to say something, anything but all that comes out is a moan.

"yeah?" he mutters, dragging his lips across my jaw. "you missed this?"

i nod frantically, legs trembling. "yes. fuck. yes."

he kisses me hard then, teeth and tongue and spit. he swallows every sound i make, one hand sliding up to squeeze my throat while the other anchors my hips down. the pressure makes my vision blur, the pleasure unbearable.

"tell me whose pussy this is." he growls against my lips.

i choke on my moan. "yours. it's yours."

"say it again."

"yours, jungkook. fuck- it's yours."

his eyes flash, mouth curling into something dark and possessive. he lets out a noise that's somewhere between a groan and a growl, then slams into me harder. faster. deeper.

i cry out, arching into him, the orgasm hitting me like a freight train. sudden and devastating. my legs spasm. my mouth falls open in a silent scream. the kind of orgasm that rips you apart from the inside out.

he doesn't stop. not even when i cum. not even when my body's shaking.

he keeps fucking me through it, watching my face, my eyes, my twitching thighs. keeps thrusting until i'm whimpering from the overstimulation, until i'm grabbing his wrist to ground myself, until it's too much to take.

his hips stutter, just slightly, but i can feel it. the shift. the tension building in his thighs, the way his abs flex tighter, the way his cock throbs deeper inside me with every thrust.

"fuck- fuck, i'm gonna-" he breathes hard against my neck, voice ragged, frayed, like he's unraveling. "gonna cum, baby. fuck. you feel too good-"

he thrusts once. twice. then slams all the way in, grinding deep.

a broken moan leaves his throat as he stills, cock buried to the hilt.

his whole body tenses above mine. shoulders rigid, fingers digging into my waist, jaw clenched so tight i hear the smallest groan break through it. he's cumming hard. pulsing deep inside me, filling me up warm and thick.

"shit-" he mutters, breath hot against my cheek. "fuck- y/n- fuck."

i feel every twitch, every slow roll of his hips as he grinds through it, like he can't stop himself. his mouth finds my jaw again, then my lips, kissing me slowly now, tender in the aftermath.

he doesn't pull out right away.

he stays inside. pressed deep, panting against my mouth like he needs it. needs me.

and still, despite the two of us breathless, soaked in sweat, both fucked half-senseless, he doesn't look done.

not even close.

"that's one." he mutters against my skin. "don't pass out on me yet."

his cock, thick and twitching, still buried deep, my pussy stretched and slick around him. i'm panting, legs trembling around his waist, the aftershock of my first orgasm still pulsing through me.

his grip tightens on my thighs. then, he shifts. without a word, he pulls out slowly, the drag of him making me gasp. he manhandles my legs up, pushing them over his shoulders, folding me open like he owns me, and then, he slams back in.

"fuck-" i cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets.

he moans, deep in his throat, a sound so low it vibrates against my chest. "that's it." he grits out. "open up for me. let me fuck you deeper."

and god, he does.

this angle hits something dangerous inside me. i'm stretched tighter, filled fuller. each thrust punches into the softest part of me, where pain meets pleasure. where moans turn into sobs.

"jungkook-" my voice cracks.

"don't talk." he growls, sweat beading on his temples. "just take it."

his pace is merciless now, hips snapping into mine with sharp, wet slaps. his skin is flushed, muscles flexing above me, jaw clenched like he's trying to hold something back. but i see it in his eyes. he can't.

this isn't just fucking. it's desperation.

his fingers slide between my legs again, thumb circling my clit fast and dirty. his mouth drops to my neck, biting down, sucking until i feel the bruise bloom.

"you don't even know what you do to me." he mutters into my skin. "you've fucked me up. i can't think straight anymore."

i clench tighter around his cock. my moans break apart with each thrust. "fuck- please- d-don't stop."

"yeah?" he snaps, "fuck- y/n, i need you. need this pussy. need you soaked and ruined under me."

i choke on a moan. he's so deep it's unbearable. my whole body's shaking, slick and overstimulated.

his fingers dig into my thighs, holding me wide open as he fucks into me like he's trying to take back every time he told me he didn't feel anything. like he's trying to bury the truth inside me, truth he won't say out loud.

my vision blurs. i'm close again, way too fast. it's building, sharp and hot, spreading like fire from my spine to the tips of my toes.

"jungkook- i can't-"

"yes, you can." his voice is a snarl now. "you're gonna cum again. you hear me?"

i cry out. "i'm gonna- oh my god- fuck-"

and then i'm gone.

it rips through me. a second orgasm so violent i scream his name. my body tenses, legs trembling, and then, i feel it gush out of me, wet and hot and uncontrollable. i squirt all over him, down his stomach, soaking the sheets.

"holy shit-" he curses, watching it happen with wide, hungry eyes. "jesus- y/n-"

he pulls out, jerks his cock with a few rough strokes and then he's coming, hard. thick ropes of cum spill across my stomach, his hips stuttering, abs flexing. he moans low, eyes shut, voice breathless. "fuck- you're perfect- fucking perfect."

the room smells like sex, wet heat, sweat and the faint burn of his cologne clinging to both of your skins. the sheets are ruined, sticky and damp from everything you gave each other. jungkook pulls out of bed with a low groan, still breathless, his abs tight and streaked with his own cum.

you don’t move. just stay there, legs still trembling and slightly spread, watching him walk to the bathroom stark naked. his back is flushed pink, all lean lines and muscle. he returns with a towel, wiping the mess from your stomach first. quiet and gentle, almost like he’s cleaning up after something sacred.

“i should start charging you for laundry service.” he mutters under his breath, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

you roll your eyes, sitting up finally, letting him tug the ruined sheet off the mattress. he moves around the bed, half-focused, shaking out clean linen from his closet. you stand up, naked and silent, just watching him in the dim light. he’s always more serious when doing something with his hands. almost like he’s hiding behind the task.

the clean sheet flutters over the mattress and he smooths it out with his palms, looking up at you only once.

“round three?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

you blink, then scoff, smacking his bare chest with the back of your hand. “you’re insane.”

“and you love it.” he replies, grinning.

you shake your head but you’re smiling too. he climbs back onto the freshly made bed, eyes lidded, expression softer now. he pats the space next to him without saying anything else.

you hesitate, just a second, then crawl in beside him.

the room is quiet. cold air licks at your damp skin under the new sheet. his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you in until your cheek rests on his chest. this, this, doesn’t happen often. not because you don’t want it. but because neither of you ever really knows what to do with it.

still, you stay.

you stay longer than usual.

his fingers trace up and down your spine absently and you lift your head to look at him. he looks back at you. eyes unreadable but soft, like he’s trying to memorize something.

you kiss him.

slow this time. no hunger. just mouths finding each other, lips brushing in soft rhythms. his hand cups your jaw and your fingers rest lightly on his ribs.

no words.

just the quiet sound of lips meeting and parting and the louder rhythm of two hearts racing in sync.

you break the kiss but don’t pull away, letting your forehead rest against his.

-

you’re lying on his chest, your leg tossed over his thigh, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders. one of his hands is in your hair, fingers idly playing with the strands while yours trace invisible patterns on the ink across his chest.

the silence is thick, but not uncomfortable. not at first.

then you speak.

“jungkook?”

he hums, soft and low. like he already knows what’s coming.

you hesitate for a second, but your voice doesn’t waver. “do you love me?”

it’s the most direct question you’ve ever asked him.

he doesn’t answer right away. his fingers pause in your hair, and when you tilt your head up, he’s just staring at the ceiling. not meeting your eyes.

“answer me.” you press, sitting up slightly. “it’s not like we’ve just been fucking around for months, jungkook.” he say sarcastically.

he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “look, y/n… we can’t date.”

you feel your stomach twist. “why?” you demand, your voice rising. “is it someone else? are you seeing someone else? is that why-”

“it’s not that.” he cuts you off sharply. “no. i’m not seeing anyone else.”

you stare at him, your voice trembling now. “so what is it then?”

he doesn’t look at you. just shakes his head once, jaw tight. “yes, i’ve slept with other women before. but not anymore. you’re the only one i’m with right now.”

“then what’s stopping you?” your voice breaks. “why can’t we just- why can’t you try?”

he suddenly sits up, eyes dark. “is fucking me not enough for you, y/n?” he snaps, louder now.

you blink at him, stunned. “what the fuck?”

he scoffs, running a hand through his messy hair, irritated. “i told you what this was from the beginning. i’ve never pretended otherwise.”

you feel the heat rise in your chest, your throat tightening with hurt. “so you’ll sleep with me, spend all this time with me, touch me like that and then pretend none of it means anything?”

his silence answers for him.

“wow.” your voice cracks around the word. your eyes are burning.

“don’t do that.” he mutters, but you’re already sitting up, pulling the sheet with you.

“don’t what, jungkook?” you spit, tears threatening to spill. “don’t ask for the bare fucking minimum? don’t expect the guy who acts like he owns me in bed to actually give a shit outside of it?”

his expression shifts, just slightly, guilt flickering across his face, but he doesn’t say a word.

you stand now, grabbing your clothes with shaking hands. “fuck this. seriously.”

you start pulling your clothes back on. quick, harsh movements, like maybe if you get out fast enough, you won’t fall apart in front of him.

you bend down to grab your panties from the floor, slipping them on without a word, then reach for your jeans.

“y/n.” he calls after you, but you’re already at the door.

you pause at the door, hand on the knob, your back still to him. the room is dead quiet, heavy with everything unsaid.

you don’t look back when you say it. your voice is low, steady, almost cold.

“next time you miss me, don’t fucking text. just sit with it. like i’ve had to.”

then you open the door and leave, not waiting to hear the way his breath catches in his throat.

jungkook watched her walk out without turning back, the soft click of the door echoing louder than it should have in the quiet room.

he sat there. naked, cold, sheets still damp with the heat they shared just moments ago and dropped his face into his hands like a man breaking.

“fuck.” he muttered, barely audible, like it might undo what he’d just done.

this was his punishment. this had always been his punishment. pushing her away, lying to himself, acting like he didn’t care. months of it. months of touching her like she was his and pretending she wasn’t.

he dug his palms harder into his eyes, breathing ragged, trying to erase the image of her walking out.

“fucking idiot.” he hissed under his breath. to himself. always to himself.

-

i quickly got inside my car, slamming the door shut behind me. the leather of the seat felt cold even through my jeans as i sank into it, trembling. my hands were shaking as they gripped the steering wheel, breath shallow, chest tight.

the tears hadn’t stopped, still clinging to my lashes, still burning my eyes. i tilted the rearview mirror down to look at myself and immediately regretted it.

i looked ruined.

lips swollen from kissing him. eyes red and glassy, rimmed with hurt. my nose blotchy.

i looked like a fucking mess.

and that’s when the sob broke out. loud, sudden and painful.

i threw my head back against the seat and slammed my palm against the steering wheel. once, twice, cussing under my breath.

“fuck you, jungkook.”

my voice cracked as i said it again.

“fuck you.”

i hated how much i meant it and didn’t mean it at the same time.

i sat there, breathing uneven, heart aching.

he did this to me and i still fucking loved him.

ya’ll-

tag-list: @nikkinikj @mar-lo-pap @daisiesarepretty7 @sheshya

© struberri 2025

[jinkamuraisqueen]

@karmablacks requested this but i figured some of you guys might want to see it too, that's why i'm posting this here! so here's alan, leo, and ren's casual / pajama fullbody!! ft. kaito.. in his boxer.. (under the cut)

it's actually so fun to play around with their expressions since the range of motions on their face are so many! i personally love to make them blush (by them i mean my husband, jin HAHAHA)

but moving their body parts?? that's pretty hard for me, at least manually (it looks awkward). praying that when i have the time, i can play around some more because currently i'm being beaten by life

[dafpork]

repeating myself here, but for good reason: the Silliness of the dafpork dynamic, however you determine the definition of Silliness, is really so integral to me and i think a big part of what makes them so special and personal. and i think that's a big reason why i was so afraid to post even the most innocuous stuff on main--even if they're not being clingy or cute together in a drawing, even in the comics where they're bickering like children or just being Themselves, there's this undercurrent of love beneath it that feels so comparatively intimate. they can have their moments of Unabashed Earnest, and they stand out much more and feel more special when you have them being dumb together to contrast it with... it's hard to pin down and they're hard to pin down, and that's why i love 'em, y'know? the variations on their dynamic is boundless, and so is their love, and so is their hijinks. they're not easily squeezed into an identifiable little box, and while i think that can trip some people up, i think it works to such a great strength with them. it's why i have trouble doing ask memes or drawing prompts with them (though i should try more!), because Dafpork Is Dafpork--they have minds and emotions and dispositions of their own and this blog functions to just sit back and observe what that all is, rather than force it. and that's how you get such a broad spectrum of Stuff, too; them being cute together, or being obnoxious, whether at each other or with each other, or they're not quite anything at all because the only one who knows what they are is each other. there's just truly so much and i really don't think it can be condensed into a bite sized trope or sweeping label.. and considering Daffy's anarchy and Porky's stubbornness, that feels very fitting. maybe it's a reason as to why it's difficult for some people to get on board with them, but i feel like it's such a great strength, and it's a great motivator to spread their gospel all the more, too! to try and get people to understand! so thank you for reading this, because if you're here then it shows you're curious and want to uncover more about them. me too!

[webbo0]

It's a shame that Stay didn't get more a fandom. What do you love about Henry? I wanna know your thoughts because he absolutely is a special little guy. 🥺

First of all anon thank you for letting me talk about my little guy I'm in love with you now

Spoilers for Stay 2005 in reply below btw

I'll admit it's a lot of projection (mental iwness luv) but also look at him!! I'd dare say this is Ryan Gosling's most wet-cat role (besides Holland March but he's undefeatable). I just love a character in anguish and both him throughout the movie plus him at the end just hurt so good!

I think what captures me the most is the world he's created for himself. The whole movie we think we're seeing Sam's perspective but in reality we know next to nothing about him! Everything is a projection that Henry's come up with and that fascinates me! His own mind is trying so desperately to save himself but a deeper part knows it's useless but still his main perspective is to save himself and UGHHH

ALSO while you could say him being suicidal is a "rationalization" for dying, his mind could just as easily made him terminally ill, or able to predict a freak accident. The fact his mind comes up with being suicidal, combined with the cigarette burns, just makes me wonder about is mental state IRL. We know he has a good relationship with his parents and is in a happy relationship, but imo he must've had a history of mental illness/self destructive thoughts if not actively struggling. Idk I just want a He Survived AU where we get to unpack this! And unpack the survivors guilt!!! He obviously blames himself for the accident + everyone dying ("practicing for hell" "I killed my parents" etc.) And I Wish we could see him have to work past that. Maybe with Sam's help!! Because even though he's not an actual psychiatrist (at least I don't think so) in my He Survives AU Sam helps him while he recovers both physically and emotionally. I'd LOVE to see Henry's dynamic with IRL Sam and have to reconcile the version his mind made up with how he actually is!

Also he's hot af miserable and covered in blood

In conclusion I love self destructive people, wet-cat characters, and I have Ryan Gosling brain-rot already, so the combination of all three has imploded my mind. I am in a chokehold by a character that would listen to Radiohead and think it's deep as fuck

Now if only there was any content about Stay :( I need a 600 page novel about him (I might just write it myself atp)

[restlessmaknae]

Little PSA: I've deleted my Greek gods story with NCT because of Taeil's part, and took him out of my 'wait, it's a fanfic' story and changed his character for a non-related random Mr Kim

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

Part I

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, dead dove: do not eat, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

M I N D T H E T A G S

Part I: Hunt the Hare

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[sweetcalebb]

Zayne's tired and snaps at you ! ⊹ ࣪ ౨ৎ˚₊

wc: 1k

a/n: this was an ask by anon! i accidentally posted it before it was ready </3 but they requested angst and said that they were going thru a rough time. i'm really sorry to hear that :( my DMS/ inbox is always open. but i hope this is okay, and if it's not, pls feel free to let me know thru the comments, my DMs, or thru another ask! 🫶🏻

content: hurt/no comfort, zayne is stressed, slight neglect, themes of insecurity, sad reader </3, also avoidant reader again!! (let me know if u want something else)

––

It'd been a long week. You hadn't talked to Zayne as much as you would've liked—or at all.

You weren't particularly clingy, but you missed him. You missed telling him about your day and the random gossip from work. You missed hearing about his days, too. Missed seeing his lips curl in that micro smile you loved. You missed the way he’d kiss your temple before closing the door. The way his eyes softened when he asked about your day.

So you waited up for him. You sat on the couch, eyes glued to the TV screen playing your favorite show while you passed the time.

You'd been up for hours. And when you finally heard the familiar click of the front door, followed by a quiet creak, your heart nearly leapt in your throat.

You turned the volume down and glanced up at him.

He looked tired, exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. But you tried for a soft smile and a quiet, "Hey."

"Hey."

Low. Clipped.

You swallowed back the rising feeling of rejection.

"How was it tonight?"

Zayne didn't look at you. He loosened his tie and dropped his bag by the door. "Long," he murmured.

You stood up, the words coming out slowly. "I know you're tired.. But can we talk? We haven't really—"

"I'm—I need a moment," he said, finally looking up at you, eyes narrowed and jaw tense. "Let me breathe."

Heat stung your face. Breathe?

What was that supposed to mean? Was he trying to imply that you were... suffocating? That when you tried to speak to him—really talk to him—for the first time this week, it was suffocating?

You hesitated. "Breathe?"

"Yes, breathe."

You let out a quiet breath. "We've barely spoken all week, but I try to talk to you once and all of a sudden I'm—"

"Please," Zayne suddenly exasperated, his voice rising before quickly leveling again.

He looked away, shrugging out the cuff-links of his shirt. "I can't do this right now. So please... just—don't."

He waited a second, like maybe he realized how ugly those words sounded. But if he noticed it, he didn't apologize.

Instead, he shuffled down the hall to your shared bedroom like he hadn't just dug a hole in your chest.

He didn't mean to.

He would never mean to.

It was misplaced anger. But it felt all the same.

I can't deal with you right now.

That's what it sounded like to you.

Tears stung your eyes. You tried to will them back. It wasn't Zayne's fault. He was working late taking care of people—saving lives even. You should he happy.

It wouldn't be fair.

Your chin trembled, eyelids burning and throat frantically working around nothing.

But you didn't cry. Not yet.

Quietly, you started down the hall to your shared bedroom and stopped at the door. You peeked inside, palms sweating at the thought of seeing Zayne again.

But he wasn't there—must've been taking a shower. So hastily, you grabbed a pillow, a blanket, and stumbled back to the living room.

The world began to blur through tears as the floor croaked underneath you. You could hardly see, but you kept walking.

You set your stuff down on the couch. Then, finally, a broken sound tore from your throat. You whimpered, desperately pressing your lips shut to stop the rest from coming, but it was too late.

Was it too much to want to talk to your tired boyfriend?

You sank to the couch, your shoulders shaking with the force of your cries.

He can't handle you.

You're too much.

The cushions dipped under your weight as you shifted, trying to get comfortable, even as everything felt wrong—your skin, your thoughts, your feelings, your very being.

You brought the blanket up to your face and turned to face the cushions, shoulders still shaking with silent sobs.

I can't do this right now.

His words replayed in your mind. Over and over until the ache in your chest burned and your throat throbbed.

The tears subsided after half an hour, but you still lied there, restless—cheeks red and sticky, eyes bloodshot and puffy, lips swollen and raw, breath catching in your throat painfully. You were a mess. A sensitive, snotty mess.

Then, quiet footsteps.

You snuggled deeper into the blankets and shut your eyes. Maybe if you pretended to sleep, you could file this away and shove it deep, deep down.

Pretend it never happened.

"Sweetheart?"

Your heart ached, but you said nothing.

Zayne stepped closer. The floorboards creaked under his feet as he crouched beside the couch.

"Are you asleep?" he whispered.

Still, nothing.

His hand hovered over your shoulder for a second, hand flexing like he was torn between touching you and pulling away. His hand dipped closer, just an inch away, then he stopped.

Silently, he pulled away.

"You don't have to sleep on the couch." He waited a beat. "I can take it."

Again. Nothing.

Zayne sighed, the sound strained. "I… I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry. I lost my composure," he murmured. "I have no right to ask, but can you come back to bed?"

Finally, he reached out again. And for a second, you let him touch you. But everything came rushing back—his tone, his looks, his words.

You pulled away, shifting as close to the cushions as you could, like his touch was something you dreaded.

Zayne swallowed hard, another shaky breath leaving his lips. "I'll respect your space."

He stood up again, but he lingered. Then softly—so soft you almost didn't recognize him—he whispered, "Goodnight."

He waited. Seconds passed, but you didn't say anything. Your lip trembled like you were about to, but you didn't.

Then he was gone again, his footsteps disappearing down the hallway.

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, staining your pillow.

It was stupid. So stupid.

He said sorry. He asked you to come back to bed.

But you let him sit there in his own silence.

Maybe you were too much.

[dumbbandpoetic]

⤷﹐there she goes - chapter 1﹒⟣

girl next door!reader x farmboy!clark kent

Clark’s in the kitchen when someone knocks on their door, eating his breakfast about 2 hours too early. His father had woken him up at the crack of dawn, needing help in the field. And that had lasted all about a minute, leaving Clark exhausted and unable to go back to sleep. Safe to say, he was not happy about being interrupted. But his parents were out in the fields - he was the only one to answer it. So he stood, sluggishly, walking towards the door.

There was a girl there on the other side of the screen. Holding a covered plate.

“Hello!” Her voice was chipper, bright, far too much considering what time it was. But he’d never seen her before, which was weird, because logically, Smallville was… small. He knew everybody in it. And she looked different than the girls who lived here. “You must be Clark!”

That snapped him out of it. How the heck did she know who he was? He’d never seen this girl in his life! She followed it up with her name, but he just barely processed it. He'd seen enough in Smallville to be wary. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, uhm-” Even through the screen door, he could see her red cheeks. “I just moved in across the street yesterday. Your mom came by with a pie, so I thought I’d bring cookies- and she couldn’t stop talking about her son Clark, so I assumed he was you. Sorry.”

He opened the screen, and took the plate of cookies from her. If he was wary, he was still hungry. “It’s fine. I saw you guys moving in the other day. Where from?”

“Metropolis.” She answered quickly, like she was nervous. Or maybe just awkward. Clark knew a thing or two about that.

“Do you want to come in until my mom gets back from the barn? Should only be a few minutes.” Graciously, he stepped aside, and closed the door behind her once she’d entered the house. “Are you going to Smallville High?”

“Yeah, going into senior year. Pretty rough year to transfer into.” Her cheeks were flushed, but he was warming up to her already. There was something easy about her being there.

“I’m in senior too. Maybe when you start out on Monday I can show you around, introduce you to some of my friends.” He offered, shrugging softly and looking up at her. She had the kind of face that looked like it belonged in the big city, not here in Smallville. The kind of face that went on the cover of magazines, not tucked away beneath a hat from the scorching country sun. He could tell she’d have a lot of attention tomorrow at school. Maybe from him too.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” And then a silence settled over them. Not an uncomfortable one, despite the awkward nature of the entire interaction. Somehow it was like a sense of normalcy had set over them. Like they’d known each other forever. Clark’s mom cut through the silence.

“Oh, dear, it’s so lovely to see you.” She hugged the poor girl, squeezing a little too tight. He’d always heard his mother say she wanted a daughter too. “You’ve met Clark?”

“Yes, ma’am, and he’s just offered to show me around school on Monday.” She smiled, tucking strands of hair behind her ear. She seemed to be fine with it.

“Well- how about you and your father come join us for dinner tomorrow night?” Martha offered, glancing at Clark, who nodded. Yeah. He could deal with getting to know her before other people got the chance to.

“That sounds great, Mrs Kent!” There’s a few more polite words exchanged, along the lines of ‘I’ll ask my father’ and ‘Be here at 7:30!’, but Clark isn’t listening anymore. He’s just looking at her. Which is why he cringes when the screen door hits her on the way out.

She definitely wasn’t from Smallville.

credits to strangergraphics-archive for the dividers!

here's chapter one! honestly not so sure how i feel about it, i haven't properly written like this for a while.. i hope it's liked, otherwise feel free to let me know how i can improve it! if you enjoyed, please like, reblog, and drop stuff in my inbox to let me know!! i appreciate everything that comes my way :) love you all!!

[hederasgarden]

The Sun

Summary: After a difficult fight, Clark needs you. Pairing: David!Clark Kent x F!Reader  Word Count: 627 Warning: Mature. Kissing, minor description of blood/injuries and tooth rotting fluff. A/N: This takes place before the events of the movie. There are no spoilers. Thanks to @unearthlys-spam for the inspiration and @ellethespaceunicorn for the beta.

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

It’s late, and your sun-dappled apartment is warm and calm, still carrying the intoxicating scent of fresh-baked cookies, even though you devoured them hours ago. Outside, the city hums along, its noise softened to a low murmur beneath the drone of the TV. You feel drowsy, despite the relatively early hour, and glance at your phone. No missed calls. No texts from Clark. Tonight, he’s meeting with the Justice League, and you know how Guy loves to hear himself talk. It would be a late night for him. 

You yawn and stretch before turning toward the kitchen, only to let out a startled cry.

Clark is on your balcony, bloodied and slumped, his shoulders bowed as if the weight of the world is finally too much to bear. Panic grips your chest as you rush to the door, fumbling with the lock before sliding it open and reaching for him. His breath rattles in his chest, thin and sharp like wind slipping through a crack in the wall.

“Clark,” you whisper, horrified. “What happened?”

He glances up, and despite the blood on his temple and the exhaustion in his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugs upward. For a fleeting moment, a dimple appears.

“You should see the other guy,” he says lightly, but his joking tone doesn’t sit right with you. You frown. “I’m fine; we just had an unexpected visitor that packed quite a wallop.”

“Why didn’t you go to the Fortress?” you ask, brushing your fingers gently across a bruise blooming along his cheekbone. “You need to heal.”

He catches your hand in his, warm and trembling, and lifts his other to cradle the side of your face. The look he gives you is raw and aching. But it’s his next words that knock the air right out of your lungs.

“I needed to see you,” he says quietly. “Just… wanted to see you.”

His shoulders sag as he leans in, forehead resting against yours. You reach up, fingers threading through the thick curls at the nape of his neck. Clark exhales a slow, uneven breath and pulls you closer. 

The minutes slip by. He just breathes. Just holds you.

Worry seeps into your bones. “Clark…” you whisper. 

“I feel better already,” he murmurs against your skin, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s not rushed or hungry, but grounding. Reassuring. When you tilt your face and part your lips, he doesn’t hesitate to deepen the kiss and slips into your warmth.

Eagerly, you guide him back toward the couch with you, and he follows without question, letting you pull him down as you sink into the old, worn leather. Even kneeling on the floor, he’s tall enough to reach you, his lips never leaving yours, his hands steady on your waist.

Kissing Clark is always a revelation, and tonight is no different. Heat pulses through your limbs as your hand glides over his shoulder, feeling for the hidden clasp on his suit. Then a strained sound escapes him that stops you cold. You pull back, heart lurching in alarm.

“You're hurt” you say, your gaze drifting past him to the fading light that signals dusk’s approach. “You need the sun.”

He blinks, then looks at you with a soft smile.

“You’re my sun,” he whispers so earnestly. It’s a line that would sound cheesy from anyone else. But coming from him, it’s the truth, so utterly Clark that you find yourself blinking away unexpected tears. 

“What’s a girl supposed to say to that, huh?” you ask with a watery laugh.

“Nothing,” he replies, pulling you into another kiss. “Just let me love you.”

“I can do that,” you promise. “If you let me take care of you tonight.”

“Alright,” he agrees, kissing you again. “But first, I need a little more time with my sun.”

[hyunjinsmuze]

A/N it’s not letting me reply to my requests but this is a request!!! so if you have any send them to my inbox 💞

You Can Join

warnings: cock warming, oral (fem receiving) a little m x m, use of ‘good girl’

contains: ⛔️smut, threesome, a little fluff

summary: you were only supposed to be seeing your childhood bestfriend and now your involved in a secret you can’t forget

pairing: leeknow x han jisung x reader

words: 3.8k

You used to think summers lasted forever. Long days, scraped knees, and the sound of Changbin’s laugh ringing through the sticky heat like a bell. Back then, he wasn’t a famous rapper with millions of fans chanting his name. He was just Changbin from two streets over, the loud, scrappy kid who could never win at Mario Kart but insisted on rematches until the sun went down.

You didn’t grow up inseparable. It wasn’t like the dramas made it out to be. There were years when you barely talked, middle school drama, new friends, life. But the bond never really broke. You always came back to each other in the end, like bookmarks in a story neither of you had finished reading.

High school was when things started to shift. He got serious about music. You got serious about... well, trying to survive exams and not lose your mind. You cheered him on from the sidelines, sent him stupid memes at 3 a.m., sometimes didn’t talk for weeks but always picked back up like no time had passed.

Then came his debut.

You were proud — like, beyond proud. But it also meant distance. Not emotional, not really. Just time zones, tour schedules, and a version of him you could only see through screens and stage lights. Still, when he did reach out, it was always genuine.

Which brings you to now.

The friendship isn’t deep in the way some childhood friendships are, but it’s solid. It’s honest. He’s one of the few people who’s seen you ugly cry after failing a test and laugh until you snorted cola out your nose. That counts for something.

And the rest of Stray Kids? You’ve met them. Not in a fangirl way, you made that clear from day one. You weren’t there to drool over their visuals. They were Changbin’s people, and slowly, over a handful of get-togethers, they started to become yours, too.

Lee Know was cool, in that slightly intimidating “I’ll-read-you-in-two-seconds” kind of way. He didn’t talk much to you at first, but when he did, it was sharp, not unkind, just observant.

Jisung? He was chaos personified. Hyper, a little awkward, full of jokes. You liked him. He made you feel like you belonged even when you were just sitting quietly on the edge of a group.

You’d hung out with them a few times, movie nights, random meals when Changbin dragged you along, that one beach trip where you fell asleep with sand in your hair and woke up to Jisung drawing something obscene near your ankle with sunscreen.

Still, you were careful. You never overstayed. You knew their world was hectic, private. You never wanted to be that person , the childhood friend trying to milk clout or cling to old memories.

But when Changbin messaged out of the blue, “Hey, I miss your dumb face. Come hang out this weekend?” you said yes without thinking.

Because some bonds don’t need daily maintenance. They just exist. And sometimes, all it takes is a text to remind you that yeah, he still thinks of you as one of his people.

And you? Well. You missed being around people who knew you before.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

It’s quiet when you arrive — too quiet, considering the chaos that usually defines anything involving Stray Kids. You press the buzzer and wait, your reflection staring back at you in the gloss of the dorm’s front entrance glass. The door clicks open and you step inside, greeted by the soft hum of electronics and the faint smell of ramen and cleaning supplies, someone must’ve just cleaned.

You slip your shoes off and glance around. No one's in the hallway. No laughter. No shouting. You frown a little but shrug it off. Changbin did say they might be out. Still, it’s kind of eerie being in their dorm alone, even though it’s not your first time.

Text from Changbin [4:38 PM]:

"Running late — got caught in traffic. Be there in 45ish. You can chill, everyone else is probably out too 🫠 Don’t eat all the snacks."

You snort. Typical.

You wander in further, your steps light on the polished floor. The living room is the same as you remember, slightly messy, with throw blankets half-folded and a weirdly large collection of remotes that no one ever knows how to use. There’s a hoodie draped over the arm of the couch. You recognize it, it’s Jisung’s. You pick it up, giving it a small shake before tossing it neatly onto the back of the chair.

There’s something a little too domestic about it all.

You flop down on the couch and stare up at the ceiling, letting the silence fill your ears. It’s weird. Not uncomfortable exactly, but unfamiliar. Like you’re sitting inside someone else’s life. You scroll your phone for a bit, switch to some random playlist, and then let your eyes close.

For a moment, you think about Changbin again. It’s always a little bittersweet, seeing him now. You’re proud of him, always, but it’s hard not to notice how different his world is from yours. You’re still you — still figuring things out, still living in the spaces between job applications and late-night cravings. Meanwhile, he’s out here living the kind of life people only dream of.

And yet... he still invites you back.

Maybe that means something.

You sit up, stretching your arms over your head. “Okay,” you mumble to no one. “What now?”

Your eyes wander toward the hallway. A faint sound catches your ear, not music, not talking exactly, but something. A soft thud. Maybe a laugh? You tilt your head. Could be someone’s home after all. You hesitate. You’re not the type to snoop, but boredom’s a dangerous thing.

And maybe… maybe you’re curious.

You make your way down the hall quietly, your bare feet making barely a whisper against the floor. The noise comes from upstairs, the door to the second floor is slightly ajar. That’s when you hear it again.

Voices. Low. Male. A laugh — breathy, almost choked. Then something like…

A kiss?

Your stomach twists strangely, and for a second, you think maybe you misheard. You’re halfway up the stairs before your mind really catches up with your body. You're not trying to spy. You just—

Okay. You kind of are.

Curiosity gets the best of you.

You step carefully up onto the second floor, trying not to breathe too loudly. You follow the sound to one of the bedrooms. The door is cracked open, just enough. You peer through the gap.

And freeze.

There’s Lee Know, sitting back against the headboard. Jisung is half in his lap, straddling his thighs, his hands tangled in Lee Know’s shirt. Their mouths are moving together, slow, deep, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. It’s intimate in a way that feels like a secret and a confession all at once.

You suck in a quiet breath, stepping back. The door creaks just a little under your weight.

Jisung jolts first, wide eyes snapping toward the door. You can see the panic rise in his expression, the way his body goes tense and stiff like someone flipped a switch.

Lee Know’s gaze follows a second later, but his reaction is the complete opposite.

Calm. Composed. Maybe even amused.

“Shit,” Jisung breathes, scrambling a little, pulling at the edge of his shirt.

You’re already raising your hands. “I-I didn’t see anything. I swear. I just heard someone and thought— I’m sorry—”

Lee Know’s voice cuts in. Smooth. Unbothered.

“Don’t go.”

You blink.

He shifts slightly, and Jisung stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “Hyung—?”

“If you don’t tell anyone…” Lee Know’s gaze slides back to you. “You can join us.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “W-What?”

His head tilts, dark eyes sharp but unreadable. “I’ve seen how you look at us,” he says casually, like he’s stating the weather. “Especially Jisung.”

Jisung turns red, still trying to process the situation.

You stammer something, probably the beginning of a very weak excuse, but then Lee Know adds, “Come here.”

It’s not a question.

Something about his tone sends a small, electric thrill down your spine. It’s commanding. Teasing. Like he already knows what you’ll choose.

And then he looks to Jisung. “Tell her.”

Jisung licks his lips, eyes flickering nervously between you and Lee Know. “I… We’ve both— kind of— We’ve thought about you. A lot.”

There’s silence. Charged. Breathless.

Your heart is thudding way too fast.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. But you don’t move either.

You’re not leaving.

Not yet.

You should leave.

You should turn around, go downstairs, and pretend you never saw anything.

But you don’t.

You stand there, fingers clenched against your palms, heart racing so fast it drowns out the sound of your own thoughts. Jisung is still flushed, hands halfway tangled in the hem of his shirt, looking between you and Minho like he’s waiting for someone to wake him up.

Minho is steady. Always steady. His gaze stays locked on yours.

“Come here,” he says again, voice lower now, smooth like honey with a dangerous edge.

You step into the room.

Because you’re not pretending you didn’t hear him. You’re not pretending you haven’t thought about it, too — maybe late at night, alone, your thoughts wandering a little too far into dangerous territory. You’ve seen the way Jisung looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. You’ve caught Minho smirking, watching you with those unreadable eyes.

You just never thought they talked about it.

“You’re really not going to tell anyone?” Jisung asks, his voice soft, uncertain.

You shake your head. “I won’t.”

Minho smirks slightly, satisfied. He pats the edge of the bed. “Then sit.”

You do.

Close enough that your knees brush Jisung’s thigh.

He swallows hard.

Minho shifts beside him, draping one arm behind Jisung casually, fingers ghosting over his shoulder. “We’ve thought about you,” he says, the words slow, deliberate. “A lot.”

You exhale slowly, trying to calm your pulse. “Like… thought about…?”

Minho’s eyes flick down your body, then back up, sharp and warm. “Like how you’d sound,” he says, “if we took turns kissing you.”

Jisung lets out a quiet breath, staring at his lap. Minho’s hand moves to his neck, thumb stroking over his pulse.

“Thought about how you’d look,” he continues, “with your head thrown back, mouth open, begging for more.”

Your thighs press together instinctively. He notices. His smirk widens.

“You’ve got no idea how pretty we think you are,” Minho adds, leaning a little closer. “Or how much we talk about you when we’re alone. Isn’t that right, Ji?”

Jisung groans softly, hiding his face for a second. “Hyung…”

“Tell her.”

You glance between them, your skin prickling with heat.

Jisung shifts, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I—I think about you all the time,” he admits, his voice tight. “Like, fuck, it’s bad. The things I’ve imagined doing to you…”

You shiver.

He looks wrecked just saying it, pink-faced, pupils blown wide, lip caught between his teeth. “I’ve— I’ve jerked off thinking about you,” he blurts out, then immediately covers his face again. “Fuck.”

Minho laughs under his breath. “You’re so shy now, but you’re the one who whines when she texts you at night and you can’t touch yourself.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

Jisung squeaks. “Hyung!”

“He gets so desperate,” Minho murmurs, leaning in toward your ear. His breath is hot against your skin. “He’ll send me voice notes begging for permission to touch himself. Just because you posted a photo looking too good.”

You don’t know where to look, everything is heat and tension and the sense that a line has already been crossed, and now there’s no going back.

“What about you?” Minho asks, eyes gleaming. “Have you thought about us?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Both of us?”

You glance at Jisung, then back at him. “Yeah. Both.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Minho leans forward and kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not testing. He kisses you like he’s claiming something, like he’s known you’d taste good and now he’s proving it. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, angling your face exactly the way he wants, tongue sliding against yours, hot and sure.

You whimper into his mouth before you even realize you’re doing it.

When he pulls back, Jisung is staring — eyes blown wide, chest heaving.

Minho tilts his head. “You want to kiss her too?”

Jisung nods, almost desperately.

You don’t even have to move — he leans in and captures your lips in a kiss that’s messier, needier, full of shaky breath and whispered sounds. His hands tremble as they cup your waist, thumbs sliding under your shirt just barely.

When you part, you’re breathless, your mouth kiss-swollen, your head spinning.

Minho’s hand slides down your back, warm and confident. “You want to join us, don’t you?”

You nod.

He smirks, pleased. “Good girl.”

Those two words set something off in you, a shudder deep in your gut. You gasp softly, and Minho clearly notices.

“Oh? You like being called that?”

You bite your lip.

Jisung’s hand moves to yours, fingers lacing together. “Can I touch you more?”

Minho hums. “Only if she says yes.”

You nod again. “Yes.”

Jisung shifts forward and places a kiss just below your jaw, sweet and a little clumsy. His hand slides up under your shirt, not rushing, just exploring — fingers brushing your ribs, then higher.

“You’re so soft,” he whispers. “So perfect.”

Minho watches you like a predator. “I want you to take your shirt off.”

You hesitate only a second before pulling it over your head.

Both boys groan at once.

“Fuck,” Jisung breathes, hands now on your waist. “You’re actually— you’re so hot, I don’t even know what to do—”

“Relax,” Minho says, voice low. “We’ll show her everything. She’ll beg for us by the time we’re done.”

He moves behind you, kissing down the curve of your shoulder, slow and sensual, while Jisung presses soft kisses to your stomach. Your skin is hypersensitive now, every brush of breath or fingertips makes you twitch.

“You still sure about this?” Minho murmurs near your ear.

You nod again, breath hitching. “Yes.”

“Say it,” he says, licking the shell of your ear. “Tell us you want us.”

“I want you,” you whisper. “Both of you.”

Minho smiles against your skin. “Good girl.”

He moves to unhook your bra, and the moment it falls, Jisung lets out a shaky groan.

Minho slides his hand over your chest, slow and possessive. “Next part,” he whispers, fingers grazing over one of your nipples, “we make you ours.”

Minho doesn’t give you time to overthink.

He nudges Jisung back with a quiet, firm “lie down,” and the younger boy obeys instantly, scooting back against the pillows with wide, glassy eyes.

Then Minho turns to you.

“Strip,” he says simply, voice cool, controlled.

You obey, slowly, nervously, but already burning up. You feel their eyes on you as you slide your pants down, then your underwear. By the time you’re bare, Jisung is chewing his lip and Minho is watching you like he already owns you.

“Fuck, she’s gorgeous,” Jisung whispers.

Minho doesn’t smile — not exactly. He’s too focused. But there’s satisfaction in the way he looks at you, like he’s seeing a fantasy finally come to life.

“C’mere,” he says, and you climb onto the bed.

He positions you right between them, Jisung beneath you, hard and panting, and Minho behind, still half-clothed but completely in control.

“You’re going to take us both tonight,” Minho murmurs in your ear. “You want that, baby?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Louder.”

“Yes.”

Minho hums his approval and kisses down your neck, his hands sliding around your waist to grope your chest again, firmer this time, possessive. “You’re already shaking,” he whispers. “And we haven’t even touched you properly.”

Jisung’s hands find your hips, pulling you down over him so you’re straddling his lap. His clothed cock presses against you, desperate and twitching. “C-Can I take mine off?”

But Minho presses his hand flat against your stomach. “Not yet.”

He glances down at Jisung, who’s panting, already bare, his cock twitching in his pants. “You want her mouth first, Ji?”

Jisung’s eyes are huge, pupils blown. “Y-Yes— wait, I mean—”

Minho smirks. “I meant your mouth on her, baby.”

Jisung’s brain visibly short-circuits.

“Oh—fuck, yes. Yes please.”

Minho grips the back of Jisung’s neck and nudges him downward with calm authority. “On your stomach. Face between her legs.”

You lie back, breath caught in your throat, and Jisung slides down the bed like he’s being summoned by gravity, kissing your thighs, trembling with anticipation.

Minho moves behind him, still fully dressed, and leans over to trail kisses down the curve of Jisung’s spine.

“She’s so wet for us already,” he murmurs, and Jisung groans in agreement as he drags his tongue through your folds, slow and reverent.

Your hips jerk.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, fisting the sheets.

Jisung moans against you, messy and needy — tongue swirling over your clit, then dipping inside you with growing urgency. He clutches your thighs, holding you open, face buried in your heat like he can’t get close enough.

Minho watches over his shoulder, one hand gripping Jisung’s hip, the other stroking down his back.

“Good boy,” he says, and leans in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss between Jisung’s shoulder blades. “Just like that. She loves it, doesn’t she?”

You whimper a moaned “yes,” toes curling.

Jisung licks you faster, lips wrapping around your clit now, sucking gently — making obscene little sounds between desperate breaths. Minho kisses along his spine again, trailing down to the small of his back.

“Such a slut for her,” he murmurs, voice dark with heat. “Bet you’ve dreamed of this. Her thighs around your head. My hands on you. All of us like this.”

Jisung groans into you, the vibration making you gasp, your legs shaking.

“You’re gonna make her come, aren’t you?” Minho growls. “Make her gush all over that pretty mouth.”

You’re already close.

Your hips buck against Jisung’s tongue, and Minho strokes the inside of your thigh, watching your face intently.

“Let go, baby,” he whispers. “Come for us.”

You cry out, hips jerking, back arching, one hand tangling in Jisung’s hair as the orgasm crashes over you. He groans into it, licking you through every wave, hands gripping your thighs tight.

When you finally slump back, panting and trembling, Jisung pulls back, lips shiny, chin soaked.

He looks completely wrecked.

Minho leans down and kisses the back of his neck. “That’s my boy.”

Then he turns to you, eyes dark and hungry. “you wanna ride him now baby?” you nod eagerly

“Wanna let him fuck you while I play with you from behind?”

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—please.”

He pulls off jisungs pants kissing his tights as the boy underneath him squirms and whimpers.

Jisung lays flat on his back as minho moved me to straddle jisung.

He grabs a condom and tosses it to Jisung. “Be quick. Don’t get sloppy.”

Jisung fumbles a little but gets it on, and Minho pulls you back just slightly, slipping a hand between your legs.

“Oh, fuck—” you gasp, jerking as his fingers slide through your folds.

“So wet,” he mutters. “She’s dripping for you, Ji. You feel that?”

Jisung nods helplessly, eyes glued to where Minho’s fingers are working you open. “I—fuck, I wanna be inside—”

“Then do it.”

Minho helps guide you down — slowly, inch by inch, and both of you moan when he finally fills you. You’re tight, soaked, your walls fluttering around him as you sink fully onto his cock.

“Shit,” Jisung groans, grabbing your hips like he’ll lose control otherwise.

You brace your hands on his chest, panting.

Then Minho wraps one arm around you, pressing his chest to your back. “You don’t move unless I say so.”

You nod.

His free hand travels down, teasing your clit slowly while Jisung twitches inside you, already close from the buildup.

“Look how pretty you are,” Minho whispers. “Both of you. Fucking beautiful.”

You whimper, trying not to buck your hips. Jisung is moaning, every muscle in his body tense.

“Please,” Jisung gasps. “Please let her move—hyung, I can’t—”

Minho’s fingers pinch your clit lightly, making you jolt. “What do you say?”

“Please,” Jisung groans again. “She feels so good, I’ll go crazy if she doesn’t—fuck—please—”

Minho chuckles. “Alright. Move.”

You rock your hips, slowly at first, rolling them just right so that both of you moan again. Jisung bucks up to meet you, nearly sobbing your name under his breath.

Minho bites your shoulder. “That’s it, baby. Ride him. Make him lose it.”

You do, building rhythm, faster, needier, until you’re both falling apart. Jisung grips your ass, thrusting up to meet you, whimpering with every motion.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m gonna—” he warns, and Minho grabs your hips, slowing you down.

“Let go,” he says. “She can take it.”

Jisung moans your name as he finishes, trembling beneath you.

You’re still panting when Minho slides away from behind you.

“My turn,” he says, pulling his shirt over his head and shoving his pants down.

You stare.

He’s big.

And he knows it, too, the smug look he gives you as he rolls the condom on is enough to make your stomach flip.

He gently moves you off of Jisung and onto your back. “Open for me.”

You spread your legs and Minho moves between them, stroking himself once, twice, before pushing in, slow, deliberate, making you feel every inch.

You both groan.

“Fucking tight,” he mutters, gripping your thighs. “God, you feel like heaven.”

He starts slow, measured, deep strokes that make your toes curl. His hand slips under your leg, pushing your thigh up to get deeper.

“You’re doing so good,” he says. “Taking me so well. You were made for this, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please—faster—”

He obliges, snapping his hips harder, your whole body rocking with the force of it.

Jisung moves beside you, kissing your neck, your collarbone, whispering praise.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes. “So fucking good, so perfect—”

Minho grabs your jaw and turns your face to his. “Eyes on me.”

You moan louder when he starts pounding into you harder, the bed creaking, skin slapping against skin, sweat dripping down his chest. “You love this, don’t you?” he growls. “Being fucked dumb by both of us?”

“Y-Yes—”

He reaches down, fingers circling your clit again, fast and unforgiving. “Then come for me. Come while I fuck this perfect pussy.”

You break.

The orgasm rips through you, sudden and overwhelming, your vision goes white, your body trembling under the force of it.

“Good girl,” Minho groans, thrusting once, twice, then spilling into the condom with a low growl.

You barely register him pulling out, collapsing next to you on the bed.

There’s a long silence.

Just panting.

Sticky skin and tangled limbs.

Then Minho brushes a strand of hair from your face and leans in, kissing your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod weakly, breathless. “Yeah… more than okay.”

Jisung cuddles up against your other side, nuzzling your neck. “That was the best day of my life.”

You laugh, dazed.

Minho smirks. “Guess Changbin’s gonna be real confused when he gets home.”

You all burst into giggles, tangled and happy and sated.

@hwangjoanna @penguins-in-space @sammhisphere

comment if you wanna be added to the tag list

[abbotjack]

Put Him on Speaker

summary : Jack gets home from a long night shift, exhausted and unreadable as always. When Robby calls for a quick update, you decide to test his patience—climbing into his lap and pushing until he breaks.

word count : 1,518

a/n : this is for the one anon in my inbox! a bit shorter than usual, expect something with more substance once finals are over next friday unless I procrastinate studying, then you'll get something sooner

content/warning: explicit sexual content, reader giving oral while jack is on the phone with robby, bratty teasing, silent/dom jack, power dynamics, spit/slick/throatplay mentions, phone call tension, implied punishment sex, language, 18+ only MDNI

It’s a few minutes past 7:00 a.m. when Jack finally walks through the door.

You don’t need to check the time—you know it by the rhythm. The precise click of the deadbolt, the hollow knock of his boot hitting hardwood, then the softer drag of the other. Not a limp. Not pain. Just the quiet, practiced gait of a man who’s used to carrying more than he should. He moves slower after shifts like this—like the night didn’t end, just rearranged itself and followed him home in silence.

You listen from the couch as the weight of him settles into the apartment. Keys hit the counter with a dull clatter. His backpack lands against the back of the kitchen chair, the sound muted but final. Then the crack and hiss of a beer bottle opening, followed by a long, scraped-out breath like it’s been sitting in his lungs since midnight.

You don’t get up.

You’re curled sideways in the corner of the couch, legs bare, the hem of one of his old Penguins shirts skimming the tops of your thighs. The blanket’s twisted somewhere near your feet. You’re scrolling absently through your phone, pretending not to track every move he makes with your breath.

You don’t look at him. “Rough night?”

Jack grunts. The kind that says everything and nothing. “Watched a kid try to clamp off an artery with a fucking Kelly.”

You wince, lips twitching. “Oof.”

“I earned this beer.”

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching on the strain in his jaw. “It’s not even light out. You starting early with the day-drinking and trauma-dumping?”

He snorts, dragging the bottle to his mouth. “Only if you beg me for it.”

You tilt your head, faux-sweet. “Why are you grumpy? I waited up.”

That gets a flicker of softness in his eyes. “You always do.”

You stretch, slow and easy, your shirt riding up your thighs like it has a mind of its own. “I didn’t say I waited nicely.”

His gaze drops. Tracks the length of your legs like a man committing the lines to memory. “Should’ve known.”

You shift, tuck your legs beneath you, chin tipped with interest. “Was it the post-op guy from yesterday?”

Jack rolls his shoulder, still rubbing at the back of his neck like the shift’s clinging to him. “Yeah. McKay was ready to page IR, but Dana stopped her. Mohan flagged the labs hours ago—picked it up before it spiraled. Saved the guy a ton of unnecessary bullshit.”

You smile—just enough to be smug. “So you’re saying Dr. Mohan was right.”

He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m saying she wasn’t wrong.”

Jack crosses the room and drops onto the couch with the kind of full-bodied heaviness that only happens after an overnight in hell. His scrubs are creased, collar damp from scrubbing out, and he smells like antiseptic, cold metal, and the hollow sterility of trauma bay walls. There’s a settled tension in his body, like exhaustion and adrenaline are still playing tug-of-war under his skin.

He leans his head back. Closes his eyes.

The quiet stretches long enough to start sinking in—until his phone buzzes against the armrest.

Jack groans, already bracing. “If that’s Gloria, I swear to Christ—”

He glances at the screen. Jaw flexes. “Robby.”

You raise a brow. “Your work husband calling for pillow talk?”

“He’s covering days,” Jack mutters, already lifting the phone. “Wants to know if the patient made it through the night.”

“You’re off the clock,” you say, sliding easily into his lap. “Can’t it wait?”

He flicks a tired look at you. “Five minutes.”

“You said five minutes last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re gonna regret that.”

He smirks, but it’s faint. Tired. “You always say that.”

Then he answers, voice shifting in an instant—cool, even, professional. Doctor mode.

“Yeah,” he says. His grip finds your hip as you settle in. “Vitals held. He coded once overnight, but charge caught it early.”

You roll your hips. Just enough to make sure he feels it.

His fingers tighten.

“I left instructions. Hourly monitoring,” he says, like nothing’s happening. Like you’re not already winding him up.

You press your lips to the side of his neck. “You’re really gonna do this whole call while pretending you’re not already hard for me?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. His grip answers for him.

“She’s covering now,” Jack adds, voice sharp, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You slide off his lap, slow and sweet, and kneel between his legs.

Jack’s eyes drop to you. His pupils darken.

He mouths: Don’t.

You mouth: You shouldn’t have answered.

You palm him through his scrubs—feel him twitch, thick and eager under your touch. When you tug the waistband down, he falls heavy into your hand, hot and hard and already leaking against your skin.

“No, I’m listening,” Jack says, but his voice hitches, subtle.

You stroke him once—just a tease. Then lean in and lick a slow line along the underside.

“BP held. No fever. No new complaints,” he grits, every word controlled. Distant. Like you’re not kneeling between his knees with spit on your chin and a grin in your eyes.

You hum around him as you take him into your mouth.

Jack’s voice stumbles. “Still stable. Same overnight.”

You suck slow, deep, obscene. Your hand works what your mouth can’t reach. You pop off with a wet sound and a smirk. “Put him on speaker.”

“No.”

“What, scared he’ll hear how good I make you feel?”

Jack doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t answer. Just grips the phone like it’s the only tether he’s got.

You take him deeper—messier, filthier. Your spit coats everything, dripping from your lips, your chin, your fingers curled tight around the base. He twitches on your tongue, every breath he takes more ragged than the last.

“No,” he says into the phone, voice thinning at the edges. “I’m fine. Just—tired.”

You gag around him on purpose, let it echo wet and obscene. Then pull back slowly, deliberately, looking up through your lashes, mouth shiny and wicked.

“Gonna come with him still listening?”

Jack's hand lifts, covering the phone’s speaker. “Shut the fuck up,” he whispers, barely audible, like it’s carved straight from the edge of control. “Keep going and I swear to God—”

But he never finishes the threat—because you don’t stop. You go harder, meaner, your mouth a mess, your hand slick and ruthless at the base. His cock twitches against your tongue, spit coating everything—your lips, your chin, your fingers. Your throat tightens around him, your jaw aching, but you don’t let up.

Jack’s other hand fists the cushion, knuckles bone-white. His chest is rising fast now, breath sharp and uneven, like he’s losing the fight he won’t admit he’s in. Like you're dragging him under, and he’s letting you.

“Yeah,” he bites out. “Just send the labs—I’ll deal with it later.”

He looks down at you, jaw tight, breath shallow, eyes dark with a fury that barely masks how hard he is for you.

“Robby—I’ve gotta call you back.”

“Everything alright?” Robby asks.

Jack’s voice drops an octave. “It will be.”

He hangs up.

Then he looks down at you.

And everything in his face is wrecked.

"You’re in so much fucking trouble.”

You moan around him, smug.

He thrusts once—deep, sudden, overwhelming. You choke, recover, and go harder.

You’re a mess—slurping, gagging, swallowing around him like it’s the only thing you’ve ever been good at. He’s pulsing now, hips twitching, mouth slack.

“Shit—baby—fuck—I’m gonna—”

You suck him deeper. Tighter. He breaks.

His whole body jerks forward. He comes down your throat with a raw, guttural groan. You swallow every last drop.

He breathes like he’s just come up for air, chest rising in sharp, broken pulls. You don’t stop—not until his thigh jerks beneath you and his hand clamps around your wrist, firm and final, forcing you to still.

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. Catch your breath.

Then you crawl back into his lap, smug as hell, lips swollen and slick, like you didn’t just make a mess of him on purpose.

Jack doesn’t speak. Just grabs your chin in one firm hand and drags you into a kiss—slow, punishing, laced with quiet vengeance.

Then, low in your ear, deadly calm: “If he calls back,” he growls, “I’m putting you on speaker. Let him hear how desperate you sound when you’re acting like a fucking brat.”

He shifts beneath you, hand sliding down to grip your waist tight, grounding himself.

“You think you’ve won,” he murmurs, voice dark and steady. “But you’re not even close to finished.”

He leans in, breath searing the shell of your ear. “Get up. Strip. Face down on the couch.”

Your breath stalls. Heart pounds. He hasn’t raised his voice once. Doesn’t need to.

“I let you have your little game,” he murmurs, all quiet. “Now it’s my turn.”

[bangchanwifey]

𐔌  .  bf head canons w jake  !  ୧

not very proofread . read at ur own risk! thanks for all the love recently i love you all sm!! let me know if you have any more requests/ideas my inbox is always open! 💌

contains: bf!sim jaeyun x female!reader

warnings: nsfw, fluff, suggestive content, language, mentions of sex/oral sex, jake being a simp, mdni!!!

-bf!jake who treats you like a princess, never saying no to you and buying you everything you want

-bf!jake who’s utterly obsessed with you and isn’t afraid to hide it

-bf!jake who’s shows you off and posts you frequently because he needs everyone to know you’re his and he’s yours

-bf!jake who will often facetime/call you when you’re apart because he can barely go a day without talking to you

-bf!jake who loves to spoil you even when you tell him it’s too much (it only makes him want to do it more)

-bf!jake who is clingy as hell especially when he hasn’t seen you in a while

-bf!jake who absolutely worships the ground you walk on and would literally do anything for you

-bf!jake who is your number one supporter and has always been by your side no matter what

nsfw warning!!!

-bf!jake who could eat your pussy for hours straight and never get tired of it

-bf!jake who is obsessed with your thighs, ass, tits, etc. and can never keep his hands to himself

-bf!jake who begs you to sit on his face because “he just loves the way you look on top of him”

-bf!jake who whispers the nastiest shit during sex because he knows how much you enjoy it

“my good fucking girl, taking daddy’s cock so well.”

-bf!jake who loves to cover your body with hickies and make you look like your practically ruined

-bf!jake who becomes a complete mess when you’re riding his cock, it’s his favorite thing in the world

“holy shit- baby.. you look so beautiful riding me like this. don’t stop.”

-bf!jake who lowkey gets turned on when you call him daddy even if you’re joking, though he tries to hide it (he’s not good at it)

⇾ MAIN MASTERLIST | ENHYPEN MASTERLIST

[kissandtellus]

hi hii, could u potentially write something with either zayne or caleb where mc is deep DEEP in subspace

love ur writing <3

Caleb and Zayne : Deep Sub-Space<3

Author note: Tysm for the submission. I let my brain go a little wild with this one! Also saw the last line of Zayne’s Drabble on TikTok and he’d SO be someone to say that!

Inbox is open for request! Please help cure my boredom while I’m sick🥹❤️

Oh, Caleb is eating this UP.

You’ve always been his girl. His sweet girl. When that little part of your mind bends and breaks, he’s right there to catch you so you don’t fall. He’s pressing sloppy and firm kisses over your throat and collarbone.

“That’s my girl. Oh, you look so pretty when you cry for me.” They weren’t tears of sadness or pain (even though your knees were next to your ears), they were tears of relief.

Being a talented Hunter, dealing with your heart issues and trying to be a responsible adult. It was far too much for his pretty girl.

His cock was stretching you beyond the limit your poor little pussy wanted. But he knew just what his Pipsqueak needed.

“C-Can’’t! Ca-leb-“

“Yes you can, baby, Caleb’s got’cha. My pretty girl~!”

His balls slapped against your ass with each deep stroke. His teeth found your earlobe. You were still talking, he needed you babbling for him.

And it didn’t take very long. A few strong thrust against your cervix and a trickle of drool dribbled down the corner of your mouth.

“There’s my little girl. Cum for me, let me make you feel good Pip.”

Zayne on the other hand, was a medical professional. And you know what they say, the doctor knows best.

His fingers are in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue as you drool over your chin.

“So dirty. What am I going to do with you?” It was almost not a question. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with you.

He didn’t have you bent over the back of the couch for no reason. It was supposed to be a normal date but you had caught an attitude when he tried to recommend a healthier alternative for your heart.

It only took one smart-mouth remark to have his tie wrapped around your neck and his cock moving ever so deeply inside.

You had lost the ability to speak a while ago. He could see how deep in subspace you were by the cloudy gaze in your eyes. If it was possible, you’d have little hearts for pupils.

Zayne grabbed your chin and turned your head just enough to spit into your mouth he had pulled open.

“I’m going to stuff you so full of my DNA, I will rewrite your ancestry.”