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erosdisaster · 3 days ago

Text

Easy Prey

(Namgyu x f!reader)

Word Count: 1.1K

Warnings: angst, mild violence, (subconscious) fluff

‧ ˚ 🐇 ⁺ 　. 　⊹ ⁺ 　 . 𓏲 🗝 She hit him across the head, taking Namgyu by surprise at her sudden self-defence, as the pain from the hit brought him to grimace and hunch over. The hide and seek game was almost finished. The timer was going to go off. She can do this.

“You’re going to die for that.” He pointed his knife lamely at her with a chuckle.

She kicked his hand thus the knife fell too. Frantic, she scrambled for his weapon, grabbed it, and ran.

The sound of his footsteps coming after her mimicked the sound of her rattled heartbeat throbbing in her ears. Adrenaline pumped through her body while she zig-zagged through open doors. 30 seconds. 30 seconds. His maniacal laugh hurt her head, as she made a turn she was sure was confusing enough for him that he would have to slow down, in which he’d come around the corner and she’d frighten him with the knife.

Except he turned the corner and just ran into her, sending both to the ground. He landed on his stomach, while she ended up sideways. Namgyu’s vulnerable state provoked her to quickly crawl onto his back and try to hold him down. “Don’t move, Namgyu, or I’ll-”

“Who the hell do you think you are, huh!?” He grabbed her shoulder and threw her down to the ground as he scrambled on his knees to move atop her but she crawled back. He grabbed her foot and tried pulling her down, but she swiped the knife near his face as he jumped back to avoid getting slashed.

20 seconds. 20 seconds.

“G-get back!” She pointed the knife at him, clasped between her two hands.

“Or what? You think you’re gonna stab me? You?” He laughed.

“I’ll try. I will.”

“Hand it over, 248.” He put his hand out and gestured as though he was casually asking for a crayon back.

A moment of not getting what he wanted passed before he leapt toward her, like a lion suddenly leaping on its prey. Already prepared for a sudden reaction, she rolled to the side, and he frustratingly crawled to where she was though she kicked him painfully in the face.

“Fuck! (Ssibal!)”

She turned to get up on her feet yet he quickly followed, pulling her back by her jacket. She turned and swiped the knife at his arm, and the contact cut past his clothes and into his skin. He yelled in affliction, as his distraction allowed her to push him onto the ground. Without a second's thought, she ran to his vulnerable position of lying on the floor and straddled his torso.

He held his arm in pain and with a scared and anguished expression looked up at her. His face twisted into pure fear when she swiftly lifted the knife above her head, ready to finish this wrestle for their lives.

But the sound of the timer went off. It was over.

As if she were jolted from a trance she looked into his eyes and saw the fear in them, the human being they belonged to. The speaker congratulated each player but she couldn’t hear any of it, there was only the sound of him and her panting for their lives and the intimacy between their shared relief.

A tear or two built in the corner of her eye, as she lowered her arms slowly, holding the knife near her chest. She was dawned with the heavy realisation of what she could have done and what the game had pushed her already to do. “I’m-” she gripped the knife tightly as her shaking hands were acknowledged by his eyes, the shakiness being a symptom of the adrenaline come down. “I’m sorry.” She whispered, as when she blinked a tear trailed down her cheek.

He was overwhelmed from having felt like he had seen his death mere seconds before it happened, to then having this twisted show of humanity that he felt the brunt of through the eye contact, her visceral ‘sorry’, and her tears. She had said his name before, too. Fuck. That threw him off.

Where’d his high go? Had the adrenaline been sucked out of him in a sobering second of surrender? Was he already dead? He felt like he was laying there lifeless, like everything in him laid there to rest. Nothing felt good anymore. There was no buzz. There was only pain, a sticky feeling, a metallic smell, and a harsh coldness underneath him. He felt too weak and in pain to even get angry or frustrated or feel anything that led up to before that timer went off.

“It’s okay.” He was breathless and on autopilot as he flickered his eyes from her face to his bloodied knife in her shaky hands. “I passed.” Was he crying? He laid his head back on the floor, looked up at the ceiling above him and scrunched his eyes closed, both because of his pain and to hide whatever mess was happening. He heard a clank from afar as he let his head fall to the left side, where the noise sounded from, and opened to see where she had thrown the knife.

She shifted off him and onto the ground by his side, exhaustion weighing down her bones as she collapsed her head across his stomach, too tired to think of the blood on his shirt as she proceeded to rest there. Her head lightly went up and down from his inhaling, and she zeroed in on the comfort it brought her before she passed out. He was neither any less exhausted to protest, in fact he found comfort in not lying alone on this floor that numerous laid on for the last time. It was a reminder that he wasn’t dead, just exhausted.

He cried silently on that floor. His tears billowed like they came from an endless stream and his throat swelled as he tried swallowing them down but couldn’t. He felt like he’d choke if he kept trying to suppress them. It only helped him to close his eyes and peacefully caress her hair, particularly swiping away what stuck to her sweaty temple. He wasn’t to remember this lapse of his; the intimate act he mindlessly performed that expressed his deep need for soothing. Neither of the two would ever speak on what the moment revealed in the other; the shared look of flinching realisation as though everything was all made clear, of what had and will become of them in this place—of their mortality and their cruelty.

Namgyu groaned, as the sound of the pink guard’s boots was his last notice of the world before he passed out.

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velvetghoul · 1 day ago

Text

His Favorite

✦ oneshot

Reader x Thanos | 18+ MDNI

cw: yandere behavior, obsession, power imbalance, implied violence, emotional manipulation, forced affection, psychological tension, thanos being one of the frontmen, explicit stuff, dominance/submission undertones, manipulation, obsession, dubcon undertones, rough sex, drugs

⸻

The room is sterile. Cold. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You’re the last player to finish the penultimate round. Blood still dries on your clothes from the previous game, your breath ragged. The doors click shut behind you. You expect the staff. Guards in red. Instructions.

But instead, you hear his voice. Smooth. Deep. Dangerous. “You survived again, little one.”

The lights shift. A shadow lengthens into the center of the room. His towering figure enters. His mask is gone.

Thanos.

The man the others whispered about. The one who never speaks during the games. The one who decides who advances. Who disappears.

“You always make it so thrilling.” His tone is velvet—obsidian wrapped in silk. His eyes drink you in like wine. “But… I have to admit,” he pauses, taking slow, deliberate steps toward you, “I’ve been bending the rules for you.”

You freeze. Heart racing.

“What the fuck do you mean?” You stand straighter, baring your teeth like a cornered dog. He only smiles.

“You shouldn’t have made it past the second game. You were limping. And yet, the sniper didn’t fire.” He shrugs. “Funny, that.”

Your blood chills. “You manipulated the game?”

“For you?” Thanos kneels before you like a priest before a shrine, hand gently reaching for your chin. “I changed it.”

You try to slap his hand away, but he catches your wrist midair. Effortlessly.

“Don’t.” His voice tightens, not with anger—but hunger. “You have no idea what it does to me when you fight like that.”

He stands again, towering over you. His massive fingers trace your jaw—possessive, reverent. “I’ve watched you. Not just in the games. I know what calms you. What scares you. What makes you shiver when you think no one’s looking.” He leans closer, voice low. “You’re perfect.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” He grins, wicked and wide. “But I’ll be insane for you.”

You start to back away, but the doors lock behind you. The room darkens further—only the soft blue light from the surveillance monitors flickering in the background.

“You win the final game tomorrow. I’ll make sure of it.” His hand presses to your chest, directly over your heart. “And when you do… we leave. Together.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “And if I don’t want that?”

Thanos blinks slowly, then exhales through his nose. “Then I’ll have no choice but to keep the game going until you do.”

He turns to leave, stopping only once to glance back at you. “You’re not just a player anymore.” He smiles, fond and unhinged. “You’re mine.”

You win.

Or rather—he lets you win. The last game’s a blur. Maybe it was real. Maybe the guards were aiming just off.

Doesn’t matter. The confetti falls, the credits roll, and the next thing you know—You’re in silk.

In a private suite somewhere underground. One wall is a screen of flickering footage: cameras still showing the arenas, the empty dorm, the blood-stained tug-of-war platform. All ghosts now.

The bed is massive. The door is locked. And he is here. Sitting in a velvet chair by the window like a god surveying his domain. Still wearing all black. No mask. And watching you.

“You’ve barely touched your food,” he says, voice low and amused. “Is it not to your taste, little winner?”

You lounge back against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing with a silver spoon. “I don’t eat anything from captors, dictators, or obsessed rich psychos.” You smile, saccharine. “Call it a quirk.”

Thanos chuckles. “So sharp. Even now. I love it.”

“Oh, I know you do,” you purr, dragging your tongue slowly along the spoon just to fuck with him. “I bet you get off on it. Thinking you’ve tamed a little wolf.”

He tilts his head. “You think I want to tame you?”

“No.” You set the spoon down. Rise from the bed slowly. “You want to break me. But here’s the thing…” You cross the floor, hips swaying. Your voice drops. “I don’t break, darling. I bite.”

You stop right in front of him. He doesn’t flinch. Just stares—intense. Almost reverent.

You straddle his lap without warning. And that’s the first time he hesitates. “You really think you’re in control here,” you whisper, trailing your finger down his chest, over the matte black fabric. “But if you were…” You lean close, brushing your lips near his ear. “You wouldn’t be so hard right now.”

He grabs your hips—tight. Possessive. “You’re playing with fire.”

You grin. “Good. I like the heat.”

He growls and in a flash he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the floor with one hand beside your head and the other pressing into your thigh.

“You want to provoke me?” he breathes, voice low and wrecked. “You think this is a game?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Well… you’re the one who built a giant murder playground just to flirt with me, babe. So yeah. I think it’s a game.”

His hand trails up your leg, possessive and rough, but your eyes don’t leave his.

“You could kill me right now,” you whisper.

He leans down. His lips brush your cheek, jaw, throat.

“I could.” His voice shakes. With restraint. “But I’d rather keep you right here.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Tied to my bed.” Down your throat. “Moaning my name.” Over your collarbone. “Begging to come.”

You let him kiss. You let him. You shudder—just enough to give him what he wants. And then you press your lips to his ear and whisper: “I’ll scream your name.” Your hand grabs his wrist, guiding it lower. “But only when you’ve earned it.”

And you bite his ear. Hard. He moans like you shot him.

You’re still under him. Back on the cold, polished floor. His knee presses between your thighs like it belongs there. His palm is sprawled across your ribs. His breath, calm—but shaking at the edges.

You don’t move.

Because something in his face shifts.

You see his chest rise, and then his hand reaches up—slow, deliberate and curls around the cross chain hanging from his neck. Silver. Sharp. Worn from his constant touch.

He doesn’t speak. He just watches you as he slides his thumb behind the cross and… presses something. A quiet click. Your eyes narrow. And then you realize—there’s a compartment. Hidden in the back of the cross.

You blink. “That’s a rosary,” you murmur.

He hums. “It was.”

With two fingers, he slides out a single red pill tucked inside. Tiny. Sealed away like some holy relic.

His eyes don’t leave yours. Not even when he places it on his tongue and swallows it dry.

“What the hell is that?” you ask, a slow grin blooming across your lips.

He leans in—his slicked-back hair casting shadows down his forehead, eyes glinting like obsidian under firelight.

“This,” he breathes, lips brushing your cheek, “lets me focus.”

A pause. You feel his thigh press harder between yours. His hand comes up, not to your throat, but your mouth. His thumb drags over your bottom lip, possessive and slow.

“Not to go soft. Not to feel guilt.” He pushes it into your mouth, letting you taste him. “But to make sure I feel every second of you.”

You suck his thumb into your mouth like you own it.

He shudders. “Good girl,” he growls, eyes going wild.

You pull back, licking your lips.

“Does God know what you do with that chain?” Your voice is a whisper. Velvet-wrapped venom. “Does He watch when you come with your hands around my throat?”

His grip slams your wrists above your head. And now he’s grinning. Manic. Almost reverent. “God gave you to me,” he whispers. “He made you sharp. Wicked. Defiant.”

The cross swings between you both. It hits your chest—light. Cold. Final.

“And I’ll worship you the only way I know how.”

His mouth claims your neck. His hand drags between your thighs.

And you laugh—low, sultry, daring.

“Then pray, baby,” you purr, breathless. “On your fucking knees.”

The room stinks of tension. You’re already stripped of control—or so he thinks. His fingers press into your jaw. His thigh’s back between your legs. His voice, thick and curling like smoke.

“You think I want you because you’re strong?” he growls. “I want you because I can break you.”

You bark a laugh—sharp. “Break me?”

“You’re just a little bitch in silk and spite.” His hand slides under your shirt. “I made you win. I made you mine. You’d be rotting in the dorms without me.”

You don’t flinch. You look up at him—eyes dark, lips curled—and whisper: “Then maybe you should’ve killed me.”

And before he can speak, you grab the chain around his neck. The silver cross. That sacred fucking charm he’s always touching when he’s thinking of you. When he’s watching you on the monitors. When he’s fisting himself in the dark.

You wrap your fingers in it. And yank.

It snaps like cheap thread.

His breath catches. Eyes wide. The moment holds—long, sacred—before you toss the chain over your shoulder like garbage.

Clink. Clatter. Colorful pills rain across the floor.

“You son of a bitch,” you sneer, voice full of venom and honey. “You really do keep God in your jewelry.”

He lunges. Not controlled anymore.

Not clever. Feral. He crashes into you. His hands pin your wrists down, his mouth all teeth and heat and rage.

“You fucking brat.”

You grin into his kiss. “That’s the only way I come, baby.”

His hips slam into yours. Not even grinding. Just pressure. Control. His breath is ragged. He’s not playing anymore.

“You don’t want to be loved,” he growls into your neck. “You want to be conquered.”

“I want to be earned.”

His hand shoots under your thigh, lifting it high, open. His other presses into your throat—not choking. Claiming.

“You don’t need God,” he snarls, breath hot, chainless neck exposed. “You need me.”

You lick the sweat from his upper lip and purr: “I need you to shut the fuck up and put that filthy mouth between my legs.”

He moans and you feel it. The snap. The loss of whatever restraint he had left. His teeth hit your collarbone.

His hand fists your hair. His voice is shaking with reverence and filth. “You’re not my prize,” he mutters as he drags you down to the bed. “You’re my religion.”

And when he sinks to his knees and throws your leg over his shoulder? You feel his breath over your heat. His teeth just barely scrape.

And then his eyes lift, wild and ruined and shining.

“Say amen, bitch.”

You barely get one word out. Because he devours you.

His mouth is hot, tongue thick and relentless as he laps and sucks like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. He moans into you, loud, filthy, almost sobbing with the pressure he’s holding in. Your back arches, fingers gripping his slicked hair, dragging his face closer—like you want to drown him.

“Fuck—Thanos—” You gasp, thighs twitching.

“Louder,” he growls against you. He slaps your thigh once—hard, sharp. “Louder.” He shoves two fingers inside you, curling them just right while his mouth latches back on your clit like punishment and prayer combined.

You cry out, legs clenching. And then he slows.

Not stops. Just—slows.

His tongue softer now. Fingers still, holding you open. He lifts his face just enough to look at you. Lips slick, jaw tight, hair messy now, no longer slicked back, just feral.

And his eyes? Fucking wild.

“I could keep you like this,” he whispers. “Make you beg every morning before you get out of bed. Before you eat. Before you breathe.”

You pant—drenched, fucked already by just his mouth—and yet you still smirk. “You gonna talk all night or make me cum again, preacher boy?”

He snaps. His hand slaps the side of your ass hard enough to make you jolt, and then he dives back down—tongue flicking, thrusting his fingers faster, moaning like he’s fucking possessed.

You feel the knot in your stomach snap—twice, three times, maybe more, your back arching off the bed, hands in his hair, eyes rolling. He doesn’t stop.

You shove at his forehead. “Stop—fuck—I can’t—”

He pins your hips down, growling into you, lapping up everything you give like it’s communion wine.

And then—He finally pulls back. Panting.

Mouth soaked. Eyes glassy.

He crawls up over your trembling body, dragging himself slowly up your skin like he’s claiming it. He presses his forehead to yours. Breath hot. Fingers trembling.

“I’ve never believed in heaven,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I think I just tasted it.”

You grin, breathless, lips brushing his. “You’re still going to hell, baby.”

He chuckles—shaky. Unhinged. Still half-hard.

And then—“Good,” he whispers. “As long as you’re coming with me.”

You’re still trembling.

Your skin’s slick with sweat, your thighs twitching from aftershocks, and he’s above you now—eyes wild, mouth wrecked, hair falling loose over his forehead. His slicked control is gone. All that’s left is the man beneath the mask.

And he’s starving.

He palms himself through his pants, hard, throbbing. Still trembling from the taste of you on his tongue.

“You said amen,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Now I want your fucking hallelujah.”

His pants hit the floor with a sound like surrender. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pulling your legs apart again, dragging your hips down to meet him. He slides the blunt head of his cock through your folds, slow, teasing, just to hear the whimper that slips from your throat.

“Look at me,” he growls.

You do. And holy fuck—His pupils are blown. His jaw is tight. His arms flex around you like he’s holding a storm inside his body. He slides in, slow, deep and stretching you inch by inch until you moan beneath him, mouth open, legs already shaking again.

You claw at his back. “You feel that?” you whisper.

He thrusts in harder—rough. You gasp.

“I feel everything,” he snarls. “I’ve waited through blood and bodies and games for this. I’ve watched you. Touched myself to the sound of your voice through a monitor. And now…”

He slams into you. Once. Twice. The rhythm starts.

Unforgiving. Deep. Worshipful.

You cry out, and he moans like you punched him in the stomach.

“You take me so good, fuck—so good, baby,” he pants, one hand gripping your thigh, the other slipping under your back to pull you tighter against him. “You were made for me. You were built for this.” His rhythm turns frantic, hips snapping, sweat dripping from his chest onto yours. The slap of skin is loud, filthy, obscene.

And then suddenly—He slows. Again.

His lips graze your cheek. “Do I hurt you?”

You nod. Then smile.

“Good.”

And that does it. He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head with one hand, the other fisting in your hair as he fucks into you harder, growling curses and praises against your throat.

“Mine—fuck—say it.”

You gasp. “Fuck you.”

“I want to hear you.”

“Thanos—fuck—!”

He groans like he’s dying, hips stuttering, losing rhythm. You feel him shake, feel him break.

But he doesn’t stop. He buries his face into your neck, whispering things that sound like prayers.

“Gonna fill you. Gonna stay inside. Gonna make you forget everyone else.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Then do it, you fucking coward.”

His body locks. He cries out your name—hoarse, desperate—and cums inside you, pulsing thick and deep, his hips still grinding through it like he’s trying to brand your soul with it.

You both shake. You both moan. And when it’s done, he collapses over you, still inside—his arms shaking, lips pressing into your neck over and over like he’s begging you not to disappear.

You whisper into his hair: “Still think you’re in control?”

He chuckles—wrecked. Raw. And then says softly: “No..”

The moment he cums, it’s like a spell breaks.

One second, he’s grinding into you, panting your name through clenched teeth, his body flexed over yours like a cage.

And then—Silence. No more snarling. No more filthy words. Just… breath. Shallow. Fragile. Human. He stays buried inside you, chest pressed to yours, arms shaking as he props himself up just barely, his forehead resting against yours, lips ghosting over your temple like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to kiss you now.

You feel it. The shift.

“Thanos,” you breathe, voice hoarse, body twitching with aftershocks.

He doesn’t answer. Just lets out a choked sound—barely a laugh, barely a sob—and collapses beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. “I didn’t mean to be rough,” he whispers, voice soft, softer than you’ve ever heard him. “I just—fuck—I lose myself when I touch you.”

You blink, stunned, still catching your breath. His hand trembles as he strokes your hair, fingers threading through the damp strands with reverence, almost guilt. You roll onto your side, still pressed together. He cups your cheek with one large hand and presses the softest kiss to your nose. Then your jaw. Then your lips.

“I didn’t scare you… did I?” he murmurs, eyes wide. Vulnerable.

You almost laugh—but something in his face stops you. That same man who growled “say amen, bitch” is now pulling the sheets over your legs, brushing your skin like it’s breakable, staring at your body like he doesn’t deserve to see it.

You grin—soft, cocky. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

He winces—genuinely. “I’m sorry. I just… I keep splitting. Every time I touch you, it’s like I’m two people. One who wants to ruin you. And one who wants to ask if you ate dinner.”

Your heart stutters. He pulls you closer. His nose nudges your shoulder, lips dragging down your neck in a slow, aching line. “I want to take care of you,” he whispers, voice trembling. “Not just like this. Not just in sex. I want to wake you up with breakfast. Put band-aids on your blisters. Hold your hair when you’re sick.”

His voice cracks. “I don’t know how to be soft with anyone but you.”

You stare at him. Eyes wide. And then you whisper: “Then keep trying.”

He nods. Kisses your collarbone. Your shoulder. Your wrist. “I will,” he promises, voice breaking into a smile. “I swear I will.” He pulls your hand to his lips and kisses each fingertip, whispering your name like a vow between each one.

And when you finally fall asleep in his arms, his breath is warm on your cheek, and you feel it—That fragile, obsessive heart of his, still pounding like he’s afraid to let it stop.

The sun filters in through narrow blinds—dust in gold beams over your thighs. You stretch slowly in the sheets, arching like a spoiled cat, sore and satisfied. You feel him behind you, chest to your back, breath warm on your neck.

Thanos is still here.

You feel the weight of his arm around your waist, the careful way his thumb strokes your skin like he’s trying to memorize you through touch.

You smile to yourself. He’s trying to be soft. Still pretending to be the man you let hold you after wrecking you. So you test him.

“You know,” you murmur lazily, voice thick with sleep and sin, “the guard who helped me dress after the second game—he was cute.”

You feel the breath hitch behind you.

“Oh?” Thanos says, too casual. Too calm.

You stretch again, arching your ass into him. “Yeah,” you purr. “He had this shy thing going. I bet he’d beg real pretty.”

The silence shifts. The thumb at your waist pauses.

The grip tightens. His hand snaps up to grab your wrist. Hard.

You yelp—just a little—and hiss through your teeth as his fingers dig into your skin. “Thanos,” you warn.

And just like that—The beast vanishes. His eyes go wide. Panic. He lets go immediately, sitting back on his knees, looking down at you like you just slapped him.

“I—fuck—I didn’t mean to—”

His voice is wrecked, breaking in the middle. “I just—don’t talk about them. Not like that. Don’t…”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking to your wrist like it’s already bruising.

His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you again—but doesn’t dare.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I just—I hate the thought of someone else seeing you. Touching you. I—I lose it.”

You sit up slowly, watching the way his shoulders are tensed, hands in his lap, jaw clenched like he’s holding back from begging. You hold your wrist up between you—still red, but barely—and arch a brow.

He flinches. “I’d never hurt you,” he says again, softer now. “You know that, right?”

You crawl across the sheets slowly, stopping between his legs, placing your palm against his bare chest—warm and tight with guilt.

You look up at him, lips brushing his. “You want to keep me?” you whisper. “Then don’t flinch.”

His breath hitches.

“I like when you break a little. I like when you snap.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and his hands ghost your hips, still afraid to touch too tight.

“I’ll stop teasing when you stop pretending you’re not obsessed,” you murmur.

And then—You bite his jaw, slow and sharp. His whole body trembles under you.

“I am obsessed,” he whispers. “I’d burn the whole world if you smiled while I did it.”

You grin against his throat. “There’s my monster.”

And when he grabs your hips again? This time, he doesn’t stop himself.

You’re on top.

The sheets are still twisted from the night before. The air tastes like dried sweat and slick heat, and you’re sinking down on him slow, taking your time, watching him fall apart beneath you.

His hands are on your thighs—light. Like he’s still trying to be gentle. His mouth is open, panting, eyes glassy with need. “Fuck—please,” he gasps, watching the way you rock your hips.

You smirk, rolling your body slow, grinding your heat into his pelvic bone with cruel rhythm.

“I thought you were a god,” you whisper, dragging your nails over his chest. “Why’re you begging like a mortal?”

His hands tighten. You see the snap before it happens. And then—he does. He grabs your hips hard, fingers digging into your skin like a man possessed, and slams up into you.

Once. Twice. Rough. You hiss—but don’t stop. You grind harder, teeth clenched, eyes locked on his.

“Gonna fuck the attitude out of me?” you snarl, nails dragging down his neck. “Do it, then.”

He snarls like a beast—grabs your throat, not choking but holding.

“I’ll ruin you,” he growls, thrusting up hard enough to make the bed shake. “I’ll fucking break you if you don’t shut that pretty mouth.”

You moan—high and sharp. But deep inside, behind the fluttering walls and the wet heat and the haze of arousal—

You’re thinking. You’re watching.

Because this man is losing control in your hands. And loving it. And hating it. And wanting to own you so badly he could snap your neck just to feel you clench.

You ride him through it, even as his teeth graze your collarbone, even as he grips your ass like he’s branding it, even as his voice breaks into something vile and holy.

“Mine,” he moans, hips jerking. “Fucking mine—always—forever—”

He cums hard, whole body seizing under you, hands trembling, mouth open in a silent shout. You stay on him. Until the tremors stop. Until the possessive grip fades into a soft, clumsy hold.

Until he slumps back into the mattress, silent.

His eyes flutter closed, chest rising under yours, and he murmurs your name like a confession he can’t take back.

You slide off him slowly, body aching.

You lay beside him. He shifts automatically, head on your chest, arm heavy across your stomach, legs tangled with yours like he can’t bear to let go.

And you? You lie there in the dim, early morning quiet. Drawing lazy circles on his spine. The blood is still pounding in your ears. Your throat is sore. Your hips bruised. And he’s asleep. So peaceful. So fucking soft now.

You stare at the ceiling. And somewhere deep inside you, buried under the sweat and the ache and the afterglow—

Is the truth. One day you might have to kill him.

Because a love this dangerous never ends clean. And if he ever decides he’d rather destroy you than lose you?

You’ll smile.

And you’ll slit his throat before he can say your name again.

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

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